Dear Editor,
In alphabetical order I have seen the following at Bourda, at different times representing, and some even leading, West Indies Cricket Teams.
● Basil Butcher
● Stephen Camacho
● Shivnarine Chanderpaul
● Robert Christiani
● Roy Fredericks
● Lance Gibbs
● Roger Harper
● Carl Hooper
● Alvin Kallicharran
● Rohan Kanhai
● Clive Lloyd
● Ivor Mendonca
● Bruce Pairaudeau
● Milton Pydanna
● Ramnaresh Sarwan
● Joe Solomon
● John Trim
I refer to Test Cricket match – usually played over five days – a period which truly ‘tested’ physical and mental stamina, which demanded creativity and offered opportunity to display identifiable style and individual elegance, which roused poetic description both from on-the-spot commentators and next day’s press reporters.
It was called a gentleman’s game, though belied by ruthlessly hostile fast bowling, the likes of which have not since been matched. And despite the strategy and tactics of the opposing side there was the brilliant counter-production of centuries, some of which broke records of concentration of both players and spectators.
There was not yet the boisterous cacophony of crowds unfamiliar with the more intricate issues of the game. Nor yet the need for colourful brazen gyrations of youthful theatricals, intended to compensate for the
prophetic ‘minimal’ performance at the crease; or celebrate the ‘maximums’ (formerly sixes) of the more successful ‘batters’ (neutralising the gender issue).
But for the large printed names on colourful uniforms, individual personality became hidden by armoured helmets, worn for protection from so much innocuous bowling – mostly from a minimum of five to a maximum of ten overs.
In the milieu there are no longer good or bad umpires, replaced as they are by anonymous video assistance – counterpart for effective decision-making – an almost robotic element that might lead to the eventual elimination of human involvement – leg bye?
Spectators (?) are indeed what they are called. They see the game, while herd instinct make them cheer or react otherwise.
Those who would have read enough would be reminded of gladiators albeit in a modernised coliseum, faltering after ‘limited’ exchanges of swipes (or slogs), leaving no memories to cherish. Instead, in the case of the West Indies (men) just another requiem to failure.
The flags and other symbols the spectators wave, make it abundantly clear whom they support – high or low – not surprisingly sometimes without reason. In the final analysis it has become more than sport (as indeed has and other games.) It is now a commercial exercise in well organised self-gratification. It is an experience no longer articulated; just numbers which are calculated.
Fortunately Shiv Chanderpaul and his immeasurable career have preceded these days of castrated ‘bat and ball’, so that he can be identified to his own and other communities as one to be emulated, and consequently honoured by no less than the University of the West Indies.
The occasion leaves one to ponder to what extent his achievements have been officially recognised in his own country and how; that is apart from the earlier identification of Shiv Chanderpaul Drive.
Further reflection about Clive Lloyd’s Drive and Lance Gibbs Street leaves one to bemoan the decay of the stands in their names, along with that of Rohan Kanhai all once proud memories at the former Bourda Sward – in its day rated as one of five best Test Match Grounds in the cricketing world. This is part of our legacy that could not be recorded amply on Facebook.
Unfortunately, its deliberate replacement – the sterility of the Providence Stadium, East Bank Demerara – does not, could not ever match the history of greatness inscribed at Bourda.
The ground that has given birth to the aforementioned great players, amongst whom have been memorable leaders and members of the most illustrious teams in West Indies cricket history, should be, and must remain the one unanimous celebration in our national history.
The players, the spectators, readers and the nation all deserve this.
Yours faithfully,
E.B. John
