JUSTIN LANGER: Deaths of Adam Hunter and Troy Selwood highlight the struggles of life after professional sport

Legendary New York Yankees baseballer Joe DiMaggio once said about retirement: “I would give anything to be 25 again; to be putting on those Yankee pinstripes and running out on to the field to play ball. I’d give up all my trophies and rewards just to compete again. The one thing that I loved and now miss the most is the competition.”

Another sporting icon, Greg Chappell, told a group of us one night that: “If we think we are living in the real world as professional cricketers, then we are kidding ourselves. This life you are presently living is a fairytale, just wait until it’s all over. It will be then, and only then, that you will understand the real world. Enjoy every minute of it while you can.”

When I was still playing, my Mum would often ask me when I was going to get a “real job”.

Her gentle prodding became a running joke within our family. Here I was, being treated like royalty, travelling around the world, staying in the best hotels and playing my favourite sport for a living.

I was living my dream life and job. Yet Mum thought I should be wearing a suit, or a pair of steel-capped boots, and getting a “real job”.

My offices back then were the best playing fields in the world, where the stadiums were generally full, and the atmosphere made you feel like a rock star.

My body was in the best physical shape it would ever be in, and I was basically being paid to keep it that way. The rest of my time was spent mastering my art.

Doctors, physiotherapists, massage therapists, coaches, sports psychologists, managers, adoring fans, a healthy pay cheque and mentors were only a phone call away. Everything we ever needed was on hand.

Apart from the material benefits and the adulation, the competition — and the feeling that I was doing something important — was an extraordinary emotion.

When you are a warrior, as professional sportspeople are, the fight, and the addiction of winning, can leave a void when your time is up.

It’s very hard replicating the addiction of playing.

The fight — going eye to eye, toe to toe, skill to skill with an opponent is invigorating. Winning a championship, wearing the coveted cap or uniform, scoring a century or the kicking the winning goal is addictive.

DiMaggio’s words would speak to a lot of retired athletes, as they would for those who retire from any profession they love

There is no denying there are pressures and sacrifices made by professionals.

These burdens are too much to bear for some, and when you are living in that bubble; the critics, the expectations, the fear of failure, the pressure, the injuries and the time away from your loved ones, tempt you to believe that retirement is a form of nirvana.

My personal experience is — while it would have been nice being at home more with my family and friends, living less time in a suitcase, hearing fewer voices of the critics, or your crying body — I now know the grass of retirement certainly wasn’t greener.

Sport, as in life, teaches us that we can experience exhilarating highs and suffocating lows. Learning how to deal with these can be one of our greatest tests.

For some, retirement and new fields are paradise. For others it can be like swimming in an ocean of rolling, dumping, waves.

These sentiments have been triggered by the tragic deaths of Adam Hunter and Troy Selwood this week.

While I have no inside information about the circumstances of their passing, my mind turns only to the anguish their family and friends must be experiencing today.

Joel Selwood is a friend, and the Selwood family a closely connected friend of the West Coast Eagles Football Club.

Hunter was a past premiership team member, a gun player, and a man who is remembered fondly by those who knew him.

Last year ex-Fremantle Docker Cam McCarthy and English cricketer Graham Thorpe followed similarly tragic demises.

Each case has its own history and context, but they are public reminders of the tightrope between life’s preciousness and its challenges.

Adam said in an interview with The West Australian seven years ago that: “It (retirement) left a massive hole, and trying to chase that feeling again is very hard to replicate. It took a bit of time to recognise that’s what I was feeling because football was all I knew. I hadn’t experienced life away from it and I didn’t have much direction.”

Re-iterating the point, I don’t know Adam’s or Troy’s circumstances, but his message back then may be making sense to you. It certainly made sense to me.

Their deaths at such a young age, reminds us about the importance of being able to adapt to new circumstances, whilst finding a purpose within them.

Often adjusting to life after retirement creates challenges that anyone in any profession may identify with.

Imagine a seasoned executive who has spent decades navigating corporate corridors, making critical decisions that shaped entire industries. Suddenly, retirement arrives, and with it comes an unexpected void.

The daily rhythm of strategic meetings, urgent communications, and influential interactions vanishes, replaced by an unsettling silence. Phones stop ringing, emails dwindle, and invitations to important gatherings become rare. This isn’t just a professional transition — it’s an existential recalibration.

Politicians who once commanded national attention, now watching from the sidelines as new leaders emerge.

It whispers to parents when their children move out of home, to artists whose styles have fallen out of fashion, and to professionals navigating technological shifts that render their expertise obsolete.

Journalists who see their names on a column, and a headline they are proud of, may know the feeling.

When individuals experience significant life changes, the common thread is a profound sense of disconnection from one’s former sense of purpose.

We as humans are fundamentally social creatures who derive substantial meaning from our roles and relationships.

Our identities are often deeply intertwined with our professional personas, social standings, and perceived contributions.

When these external validations diminish, we’re forced to confront a raw, unfiltered version of ourselves—a journey that can be simultaneously terrifying but also transformative.

To transform from one chapter to the next, we must remember that ‘we are not our jobs’, while recognising that this separation from the label of what we do, can be easier said than done.

A friend told me to be careful of this state of mind of “irrelevance” and “loneliness” when I retired from playing Test cricket, warning me that the phone would stop ringing and the invitations would stop coming when I stopped being a “famous” cricketer.

Although I would consider myself to be one of the lucky ones, retirement from the fairytale existence of professional sport did spark a reality check and at times this was very hard.

My first invitation to coach nearly knocked the breath out of me when I was told what I would be paid and what I would be doing.

Coming from the top of my game as a player, to the rookie ranks as a coach, gave my ego a hit.

Bruised as I was back then, looking back I now know that I had to start again and serve an apprenticeship in my new field.

Taking that early hit was not only necessary but it paid dividends in the end when I turned my laser attention to mastering my new art.

Skills developed in my past life were transferable to my next. Disciple, focus, concentration, communication, dealing with pressure, building relationships, creating successful cultures, and high performance all formed the foundations for my next pursuit.

When I stopped coaching Australia, I felt the same as I did when I finished playing. But leading into the next phase of my life, I again found my absorbed proficiencies were able to add value in new fields and to different groups of people.

Through retiring from one profession, I have learned that hard as it can be, opportunities to reinvent your life will be presented.

Being ready and willing to open those invitations and accept them with a curious and willing sense of purpose, may help in navigating through the choppy waters of change.

In the meantime, while you are in your current role, enjoy it for what it is. It won’t last forever, nothing does.

When change does come, it may help to remember how you were able to conquer previous challenges and adapt those strategies to ensure your next chapter is as fun as your last.

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