There was Hughes' evident likeability: in a sport renowned for dressing room bitchiness, even his teammates didn't have a bad word to say about him.
And there was a sense of a talent that hadn't fully flowered but still might have done. Despite being the youngest player to score a century in both innings of a test match, he never quite cemented his place in the Australian team, instead becoming one of those perpetual fringe players, the last name to be added to the team sheet and the first to be deleted from it.
The reaction was a manifestation of celebrity culture which draws the public into a wish fulfilment fantasy that they actually have a relationship with these famous figures and the phenomenon that many people yearn to participate in collective expressions of emotion.
We all remember the reaction to Diana Spencer-Windsor's death, but this isn't a new phenomenon. When silent movie heartthrob Rudolph Valentino died of peritonitis in 1926, young people as far away as Paris committed suicide and there was a near-riot in New York as 100,000 mourners jostled for a last glimpse of the Great Lover.
While it might seem callous to question the motives and emotional depth of those who mourn celebrities - and often, therefore, a carefully curated persona rather than the real person - there's an air of artificiality about the whole exercise. With the media sentimentalising and sanctifying for all its worth, there's even a hint of the stage-managed griefathons with which dynastic dictatorships mark the changing of the guard.
And when these episodes of mass mourning coincide with the death of a friend, it's hard to suppress the feeling that society lacks a sense of proportion with regard to death.
My GP died last month. On the basis of some obscure tradition that men of the cloth shouldn't pay for medical treatment, David looked after my parents for decades without ever charging them a cent, even though they were Anglicans and he was a lapsed Catholic. Endowed with a generous spirit and a social conscience, David was a good man in every sense. Pius, who died this week, was more of a loveable rogue.
Born and raised in Switzerland, Pius pitched up in New Zealand four decades ago and became a well-known figure in the Wellington hospitality industry, initially as head waiter at Des Britten's ground-breaking restaurant, The Coachman.
At the wake his ex-partner recalled having the Brittens to dinner. The red wine she poured into the casserole was selected at random from Pius' wine collection, thus he was appalled to spot an empty bottle of Chateau Margaux on the kitchen bench. (After a waiter knocked over a bottle of 1797 Margaux at a dinner in New York, insurers paid out $225,000.)
The casserole was a success. Britten quizzed his hostess over the ingredients; she owned up to the bottle of Margaux.
"A fabulous wine," said Britten. "We have a few bottles at the restaurant."
A thoughtful silence ensued.
For family and friends of David and Pius, things really won't be quite the same again.
