JUDGE

ROBIN SMITH   1963-2025

Since the untimely demise of Robin Smith last week, I have been frequently asked by friends whether I knew him. In fact, the Smith brothers, Chris and Robin, arrived at Hampshire the year after I left, so no, I never met him, but I know plenty of former colleagues who did. The brothers came to Hampshire at the behest of Barry Richards, one of the county’s undisputed ‘greats’, who had seen them grow up and develop as cricketers in their native Durban and much as Chris was admired and promoted as a county cricketer, there was no doubt in anybody’s mind that the younger brother, prodigiously gifted, would in time make his mark on the international game. And so it proved. Robin played in 62 Tests for his adopted country, England, and finished with a very respectable batting average of 43.67 - in an era when frankly England were not very good - taking on with courage and skill all that the fearsome fast bowlers from Australia and West Indies could hurl at him. His record stands for itself.

That square cut. The sound of bat on ball was likened to a rifle shot.

But of course, it is not so much his feats with bat that the eulogies and obituaries are focussing on – though these are given respectful mention – but the trials and tribulations that beset him once his career had come to an end. My recent book, Cricket’s Black Dog, seems to have touched a nerve with several commentators because it examines the shocking incidences of depression and suicide amongst professional cricketers, and the recent deaths of Graham Thorpe and now Robin Smith have sparked a lot of soul-searching. Thorpe of course took his own life and currently we have no information of the cause of Smith’s death, so it is unwise to speculate, but his struggles with alcoholism and depression have been well documented, not least by himself.

Smith at the home of Hampshire cricket in Southampton. (Yes, the ground was as rickety and dilapidated as it looks.)

The uncomfortable fact is that Smith was a lost soul once his career had come to an end. Whilst he was playing, engaged in something he loved and was rather good at, something he was born to do, he was happy and felt fulfilled. He later admitted that he was not quite so self-confident as his public demeanour proclaimed – he had donned a mask for his audience – and nothing prepared him for the bleak landscape he stumbled upon when he retired. He wrote a book which he entitled Judge (that was his nickname on account of his wavy blond hair that resembled a judge’s wig but one cannot avoid the hint at an analogy of moral judgement), he wrote, “When the bubble bursts as a professional sportsman, if you haven’t prepared for life after, you’re in serious trouble.” He was spot-on there.

He missed the banter and camaraderie of the dressing room, the structure of the daily life of a professional cricketer and no doubt the acclamation of the cheering crowd after a fine innings. Cricket was what defined him; now he was just a former cricketer, and the world is full of them. He drifted, becoming a bit of a recluse. He took solace in alcohol, draining bottles of vodka in one go. One day, he picked up his daughter from school and, drunk as he was, he drove over the kerb. Frightened, she asked to get out. Later, he was pulled over by the police and breathalysed. For a second, the cop paused and blinked as he read the dial. If the alcohol in your blood stream registers 0.3, you should be unconscious. If it registers 0.4, you should be in a coma. Any higher, you should be dead. Smith’s reading was 0.4. Undeniably, he was in a bad way.

His life was rapidly falling apart. Various business ventures had failed, he was running up large debts, his wife had left him, his daughter was ashamed of him, and the dark mantle of depression had wrapped itself around his world. He planned to take his own life but stepped back from the brink when a woman leapt to her death from the very apartment block where he was living. He resolved to clean up his act. With the help of his brother and his many friends from his Hampshire and England days, he tried to dry out and put his life back together again.

With only fitful success, it would seem. From time to time, he fell off the waggon – “once an alcoholic, always an alcoholic”, he wryly commented – and depression stalked him daily. As a fellow sufferer once said to me, “You have to be constantly on your guard. You might think you’re out of the woods but there is always another forest over the horizon.” Despite the optimistic tone with which Smith finishes his book, word on the Hampshire grapevine was that he was not free of his demons.

During the recent Perth Test, there was a convivial get-together in one of the city’s eateries of former Hampshire players: Barry Richards, Mark Nicholas, Paul Terry, Chris and Robin Smith. Barry texted me shortly after the news broke of Robin’s death two days after the little party, saying that Robin had seemed to be in the best of spirits, happy to be in the company of old friends. I found myself wondering whether Smith had put on his ‘mask’, something that all depressives do as a sort of safety armour, all the while intending to end it, to rid himself finally of the constant internal turmoil. His brother Chris, contacting us all on our former cricketers’ WhatsApp group, thanked us for our expressions of sympathy and said that the most likely cause of death was ‘organ failure’, but of course, he and the family will have to await the coroner’s report following the post-mortem. Alcoholic poisoning or suicide… you could say that one begets the other but, in any case, what a tragic waste.

Smith in his Hampshire colours.

Robin Smith’s two greatest mates were former Hampshire colleagues, the West Indian Malcolm Marshall and the Australian Shane Warne. All three were greatly admired and respected for their deeds on the field of play. All three were greatly loved on the county and international circuit, by both friend and foe alike. And now, all three have left us prematurely.

Sic transit gloria mundi.