The greatness of Scott Hastings as a rugby player was mirrored by his substantial presence off the field.
It was impossible not to appreciate Hastings, who has died aged 61, as a centre of pace, power and dexterous skill. His personality, too, was accurately reflected in public appearances or in television commentary.
However, his true value was enhanced on personal acquaintance, however slight. If one didn’t like Scott Hastings, then one simply had not met him.
The last time I met him was during this year’s Six Nations when he was appearing with his brother, Gavin, at the Royal Concert Hall in Glasgow.
He bounded into the dressing room with all the restraint of a particularly energetic Tigger, demanding answers to his questions about my welfare and that of my family.
There was a particular poignancy in this as Hastings was undergoing draining treatment for his cancer and was still grieving from the suicide of his beloved wife, Jenny, who drowned in her favorite wild swimming spot.
Scott Hastings has died at the age of 61 following a four-year battle with cancer
He was open, if brief, on his troubles. He talked publicly on how he had to manage his energy as the cancer treatments became more brutal. His grief was deep but could not and would not be fully articulated, at least outside his trusted circle.
He went on stage and entertained the audience with his humour, insight and his sibling sparring. He then disappeared into the night with his brother, leaving us with the message that he was so excited to be doing the commentary on the match against England that weekend.
There is a joie de vivre that is innocent, perhaps even frivolous. Hastings’ appreciation of life was obvious, indeed contagious, but it was held in defiance of brutal realities, not in ignorance of them.
If he saw any unfairness in the hand he had been dealt, he left that unsaid, preferring to concentrate on the goodness that had been bestowed on him.
The most beneficent of these gifts was his family. He was a true partner to Jenny. He could not fully appreciate the pain of her mental illness but was determined to try to understand it and to walk with her through the storm.
Their physical bond was broken when Jenny went missing in Wardle Bay in September 2024. Hastings later spoke of how he visited the spot every day.
‘She had an amazing connection for people and probably concentrated on other people’s health rather than her own,’ he said.
This altruism, of course, was shared by her husband. He had been diagnosed with non-Hodgkins Lymphoma in 2022. He appeared to be free of the cancer but it returned.
This did not diminish his charity efforts, particularly his role in My Name’5 Doddie, the organisation formed to find a cure for motor neurone disease that claimed his pal, Doddie Weir.
He was immensely proud of his children Corey and Kerry-Anne, a hockey internationalist. His family life — one that embraced the wider Hastings clan — was sincere, loving and full of fun.
The wider world knew him first as a player, then as a commentator. His gifts on the field were recognised throughout his life. He earned 65 caps for Scotland over 11 years (a record at that time), represented the British & Irish Lions on 12 occasions on two tours and played 13 games for the Barbarians.
Hastings made 65 appearances for Scotland during a career which spanned 11 years
A Watsonian, he also played for Edinburgh. He started with Scottish Schoolboys and progressed quickly to the full international side and subsequently to the Lions and Barbarians.
He made his debut on the same day as his brother in a win over France in 1986.
He was on a successful Lions tour, won a Premiership with Watsonians, and importantly in his eyes, a Melrose Sevens.
His greatest moment for this observer, though, occurred in the Grand Slam match against England at Murrayfield in 1990. It is difficult now to state just how big this clash was and how it was hyped up to such an extent that it threatened to leave its moorings and drift away.
Hastings’ role was crucial in a brutally tough match as he countered the immense presence of the fine English midfield and the marauding back row.
He was simply the hero when Rory Underwood, the quicksilver English winger, broke away to break Scottish hearts, apparently. Hastings cut him down just short of the line. A great victory was achieved.
His Scotland career was a time of growing up and then achieving a definite, if hardly quiet, maturity.
He told me in a Scottish Daily Mail interview in 2023: ‘A month after my 21st birthday, I was playing for Scotland. I was the most imbecilic, immature lad going. I would party to all times. I look back and say: “What a bloody idiot”.
‘I was a loose cannon. But you learn to live with that. That is all part and parcel of growing up. I was a young pup.’
He was involved in incidents with flying tomatoes at official functions, the precise details of which are mercifully lost in the fog of time. He was an enthusiastic rugby tourist, with all that entails.
‘Going away on tour has given me some of the happiest times of my life,’ he said in the same interview. ‘There was an innocence to it all.
‘There were no mobile phones or cameras following you around. You are just playing rugby and having a good time with your mates.’
He played alongside his brother Gavin at international level and for the British and Irish Lions
‘It was battle,’ he emphasised of the victorious and celebrated 1989 tour to Australia. But it was friendship, too. Lions tours formed unlikely alliances: Finlay Calder and Brian Moore, Peter Wright and Will Carling.
‘There could be hatred going into the tour but that dissolved in this bond of unity and friendship,’ he said. ‘You looked at players from England and realised they were playing the game for the same reasons you were.
‘You got to know their character, sharing a room, going through tortuous training and amazing victories. That communality brings you together.’
This was the aspect of rugby that he sought to promote in his post-playing career. He was a missionary for the game.
His television commentary was imbued with a mastery of the rules and sparkled with the insight of one who was simply an elite player. But there was no snobbery, no sense of exclusion.
He had a love of the game and wanted to share it. This was formed in childhood, His father played for Watsonians and his four sons followed him in the school’s colours.
‘It was a joyous childhood, full of love and laughter. And some tremendous fights,’ he said of rumbles in the back garden.
This passion followed him on to bigger fields in matches played out before the world. But Hastings retained that childish passion, that early belief that rugby was a game to be enjoyed.
In his spectacular career, he was only a professional for about a year and a half as amateurism ended at the top end of the game in the mid-nineties.
He was clear-eyed enough to know that he made sacrifices in business and in family life to achieve his sporting dreams. ‘I sometimes do reflect on that,’ he said. But he was not one for mournful remembrance or warming the pot of regret.
Even in his most desperate times, he found consolation in others. This was no breezily optimistic stance. He knew the scale of his disease and the demands it made on his body and his spirit.
But when treatment caused his hair to fall out, he remarked that it made people approach him and he was able to tell the truth about chemotherapy.
Hastings tragically lost his beloved wife Jenny to suicide in 2024
This could be briefly summarised as: ‘It’s tough but you come through it.’ He said: ‘You never know, this message can help people down the line.’
It may be said that he suffered from cancer but was not a victim of it, in that his attitude was to accept the diagnosis but not be bound by it.
He pointed out that the disease had offered lessons. ‘I like that idea of slowing down sometimes, putting the brake on,’ he said a year after diagnosis.
‘I want to focus a little bit more on me and my family. My family need my support. I know I can get excitable… ideas and creativity.
‘I know I want to be active. But I don’t have to go out and exercise every day. I can go out and exercise every other day. I don’t put unnecessary pressure on myself.
‘What pressure do I need to put myself under by continually attending events? Do I have to send out a social media tweet to keep relevant?’
This education was refined by regular walks in the Botanic Gardens in Edinburgh where he practised his individual style of mindfulness.
He was a vibrant presence as a player, he seemed to come fully alive with a mic in his hand or in front of an audience. But the truth is that he was always a powerful character, particularly when he did not have to perform in words or deeds.
He will be missed by those of us he brushed against in his stride through life. The pain of his intimates, though, will seem unbearable.
They may be consoled that there are those whom they will never know but who were touched by Scott Hastings and are grateful for that experience, however fleeting.
