There is something incredibly poignant about the raft of #putoutyourbats pictures on Twitter. As well as being a show of solidarity – proof of a cricket community – something about the single bats, in particular, are a reminder of the loneliness and fragility of batting. It was a  tweet from Sachin Tendulkar that really got me: “My bat when I was 25. RIP Phil. #putoutyourbats”. The battered bat in the picture bore testament to the hardness of a cricket ball, and to think that Tendulkar played for a further 15 years… It is just so unutterably tragic. And it’s said that cricket is a batsman’s game…

It is. It should continue to be thought of as such. This was a freakishly rare accident. Cricket has never been safer. It is safe enough. Dangerous enough, too, because cricket without fast bowling – without aggression, bouncers, and the element of fear – would not be cricket. It’s all part of the game, just as death is part of life. If that sounds harsh, it is because it ignores the most important aspect of cricket: the cricketers.

Cricket shouldn’t change, but cricketers: how can we stay the same? The hurdles to overcome are psychological. Oddly enough, the hurdles will probably be greater for fast bowlers. Fear of killing is worse than fear of being killed, I suspect. I haven’t once considered giving up batting. Equally, I intend to continue batting in a cap. I have been proud of the fact I have never batted in a helmet, but pride has rarely seemed so foolish now. Nothing has changed, however. Wickets in Cambridgeshire will remain slow and low. Bowlers at club level won’t bowl any quicker. I’ve never felt in physical danger before. If anything, I hope this horrific incident will make me watch the ball – respect the inherent danger of batting – even more.

Not for the first time I am glad not to be a bowler. Any bowler, let alone Sean Abbott. I can’t begin to imagine just how wretched he feels, and I wouldn’t blame him for never wanting to bowl another ball. How do you not feel guilty? How do you tell yourself that the possibility of a repeat is next to impossible? How do you regain a trust in (and love of) cricket? Next week’s Australia-India Test must be in doubt. Australian players will need time to grieve. Playing cricket will be part of that process, but not yet.

RIP Phil Hughes; Long Live Cricket.

Wales have just hung on for a valiant point in Belgium. Scotland beat Ireland on Friday night in front of a raucous Parkhead crowd. In between, at Wembley, England … were England. How has it become so meaningless? Has football changed, or have I?

Friendlies have long since failed to capture the imagination, and now, thanks in part to UEFA’s decision to increase the European Championships to a 24-team competition, England’s  qualifying campaign – aided by a piss-weak group – has taken on the form of a procession.

Maybe it’s a funeral procession. Perhaps Wayne Rooney, who collected his 100th cap on Saturday, has been unfortunate in being in it from the start. Thinking back, Rooney’s broken metatarsal in Portugal could be the moment the England team died.

Euro 2004 was the England of Gary Neville, Ashley Cole, Sol Campbell, Steven Gerrard, Frank Lampard, Paul Scholes, David Beckham and Michael Owen. Already a decent side, but with Rooney it was something else. Rooney and England, for all the hype of the Golden Generation in 2006, have failed to engender such raw excitement since then. When Rooney limped out of that quarter-final in Portugal, hope limped off too. Rooney has returned to action, rarely, if ever, reaching the heights of that debut tournament; hope has been all but lost.

Think about it. What, really – Theo Walcott’s hat-trick in Croatia aside – has happened since 2004? I would say there hasn’t been much to shout about, but anyone subjected to 606 would know the folly in that. Even the penalty shoot-outs, compared to the gut-wrenching drama of 1990 and 1996, have lacked any sense that England were unlucky or were somehow deserving of more. Owen Hargreaves deserved some sympathy in 2006, but the rest? And in 2012, nobody could argue that England’s dire showing wasn’t worthy of the contempt of Andrea Pirlo’s panenka penalty. The thrashing by Germany in 2010 was equally ignominious.

The cold truth is that England haven’t a hope of winning a trophy. Even colder is the truth that it is not a surprise. Why should it be, when the Premier League and Champions League remain so dominant? Come on, who didn’t see the international break as an intrusion to the domestic season? It is no shock that England’s descent into permanent mediocrity has coincided with the arrival of the mega-rich to the Premier League.

Why, when so much money is being made, should anyone with any power give a shit about the national team? A Russian owner? A French manager? An Ivorian midfielder? A Portuguese agent? An Australian media mogul? Barclay’s? Sepp Blatter? David Cameron?

It should come as no surprise that the FA, even if they wanted to, can do nothing but sweet FA against the forces of deregulation. Everything else is cheaper to import – why not footballers? Everything else has been de-nationalised – why not football? It’s a world in which profit is king – the costs of which can be pointed out or, more likely, picked up by us fans. Money talks, and we’re feeding it lines. Money says we don’t care about the national team enough to stop shelling out for Sky TV. Or season tickets, or replica shirts. You get what you pay for, says Money. And Democracy backs it up. We – or at least enough of those who could be bothered – voted for this neoliberal bunch. Against this, the national team doesn’t stand a chance.

Part of me isn’t that bothered. The rational part of me that supports football rather than a team. The part of me that recoils from some of the “Ten German Bombers” singing, flag-waving nationalism that I’ve encountered following England. The part of me which is no longer seven years old, waking up to find a note from my dad saying that Gary Lineker had scored a hat-trick against Poland. Hey, we all grow up, and it’s unrealistic to expect to still feel the same way about something as childish as football.

What about today’s kids, though? My friends Colin and Ryan took their respective sons to Wembley on Saturday. Neither were born in 2004. Will they know comparable drama to Italia 90 and Euro 96? The thrill of Owen’s goal against Argentina, or Rooney’s explosion onto the world stage? Will the Scotland game on Tuesday mean anything like what those fixtures used to? I hope so. After such a great World Cup, international football should be important. The Premier League owes a debt to Gazza’s tears and England’s heartbreak at Italia 90. Time to start paying it back.