Graham Cunningham on seven short days in a sunless, sombre summer

Seven short days in sunless, sombre summer

More than enough time to devastate a loving family.

Nowhere near enough to imagine how those left behind can handle what has gone and what comes next.

Rewind to last Saturday.

Two old pals sit upsides colleague Brough Scott in the back-row corner of a narrow Sandown media room preparing to cover a single race – the Coral-Eclipse.

Lame jokes from one about this being a typically short shift for BBC correspondents, that familiar deep chuckle in return as said correspondent gets the coffees in.

Some predictable ‘here we go again’ chat as a familiar deputation scene plays out on a greasy home turn at faraway Haydock.

Regular banter about Southgate’s men and City Of Troy and, all the while, an A4 pad fills up with scribbled notes relating to how to imbue the Beeb’s upcoming Olympic swimming coverage with that compelling blend of facts, passion and fun.

“How important is it to you that we try and put the British swimmer’s chances into perspective?

“And tell me this, would you prefer to hear that assessment as soon as we come on air or a bit later in the piece?”

That’s the thing about the good ones. It all sounds effortless on the big day, but the preparatory paddling is what separates elegant broadcasting swans from the rest of us gabbling geese.

A sense of disbelief

But what prepares anyone for what played out in suburban Hertfordshire this week?

Like millions of ageing males grown used to repressing the deep stuff, I thought dealing with the death of ageing parents had armed me with some strange protective coat of numbness.

Turns out it hasn’t. Not by a long chalk.

My better half returns from Wednesday morning errands and we exchange familiar “have you heard?” platitudes about news of three innocent women being murdered in their family home.

Then the phone beeps with news that the victims of a triple crossbow killing are the wife and daughters of someone who has helped voice a rich soundtrack to most of our sporting lives.

Incredulity comes first – and I am talking genuine and utter disbelief – followed by a remote, futile fury and scrambled recollections of a springtime conversation about trying to think the best of people.

And then, as the world turns over the next 48 hours, thoughts career wildly between the day-to-day doings of what Phil Bull called “the great triviality” and the desolate plight of three innocent women and a husband and daughter left behind.

Clinging to normality

Nick Luck, closer to this than most as a fellow dad to three daughters, calls but is closer to speechless than I’ve ever heard him.

And Brough, pondering the right tone for a piece in The Times, rings just before the clans gather for a minute’s silence at Newmarket and Donny to reflect on Saturday’s Sandown chinwag.

The world’s sharpest octogenarian has seen it all in the saddle and through multiple Injured Jockeys’ Fund roles spanning six decades, but the bitter contrast between the fate of riders who sign up for mortal danger as part of the job and others who have it inflicted on them is hard for him to process.

But the racing world turns again and, as it does, we cling to the familiar for whatever it’s worth.

Bollocks, I knew Whistlejacket was better than he looked at Royal Ascot. Why did I let that 3lb penalty put me off Giavellotto against the venerable yet vulnerable Hamish? And this Porta Fortuna keeps showing that some modern-day stars are a lot tougher (and better) than many of us give them credit for.

Still the phone hums with messages from all parts of the parish.

A couple of colleagues who know him well ask whether they should contact him. I reply that I’ve already done so. He replied one minute later.

Grizzled northern pals who met him while on the razzle after Haydock night meetings many moons ago get in touch to ask about a sparky southern lad who took time out to make them feel like they owned the voices that really mattered.

And all of it sets me thinking about the bloke who used to follow those post-Haydock nights by setting the Cunningham Towers spare room sleep-in bar at a level that even Rip Van Luck found difficult to match in later years.

Quietness falls

I think about the little jolt of pride whenever he takes the time to say: “I did enjoy that line you came out with the other day, GC.”

My addled mind recalls a guttural roar exploding from the mosh pits as he exhorted the Cheltenham hordes to “look at this Joe Mac” as the 1998 Festival banker came there swinging only to be outbattled by Alexander Banquet in the Champion Bumper.

I click on a recent Windsor replay for the umpteenth time and smile once more at a cleverly named Bated Breath filly trained by Marcus Tregoning being called home with a full throated “QUIETNESS” followed by two seconds of studied silence and then, in pitch perfect sotto voce: “Just home.”

Heading dangerously towards Maudlinville, I hark back to being let loose on the racecourse for Timeform and The Sporting Life newspaper (Google it, kids) in the early 1990s when a rugged front runner named in honour of his Mum was storming down Southwell’s Fibresand sprint track.

The love of life and family that blazed from Paddy and Judy Hunt back in those heady Broadstairs Beauty days makes it easy to understand how their son turned out.

I’m not the first to feel that, under normal circumstances, the avid Hammers fan would have adored watching England’s run to the Euro 2024 final with Declan Rice at the heart of things.

And I doubt I’m the only one to follow that notion by thinking “he’s still with us, for fuck’s sake.”

One step at a time

It’s a little before five on a brisk Friday afternoon as a tipsy crowd begins to sway gently away from a cloudy, chilly Knavesmire.

A young female busker belts out Sweet Caroline and I Will Survive to a lengthening taxi queue.

Luck watches Validated bolt up at Newmarket after being flagged up heavily by his RTV co-host and responds by saying “when Martin Dixon says ‘I fancy this strong,’ take note.”

And five minutes later, in a chance meeting on the forecourt of a petrol station bordering the A64, Martin’s brother Chris takes a deep breath and recalls a message received just after the death of his dad Brian in 2017.

“John didn’t know our Mum well,” he says. “But it was typical of him that he sent flowers and a card that read: ‘Just keep putting one foot in front of the other.’”

Following the advice you offer to others in times of strife is never easy but, once the time is right, John Hunt may be ready to put one foot in front of the other and walk back to his sporting family.

None of us can walk in his shoes. But all of us can walk with him in a small way. And hope that out of deep darkness cometh light.