04 September, 2000

First crack out of the box, apologies for the break in this diary. As the saying goes, circumstances beyond our control....

Regular service, however, resumes herewith.

As I write this, I am watching the final rites being performed over the corpse of West Indian cricket. Brian Lara, who has just walked out to the crease after the Windies lost two wickets in two overs, could still prove me wrong. But somehow, watching his body language as he walks to the wicket (contrast his 'dear God, will this misery never end?' air with the arrogant swagger of a Viv Richards walking in even with the board reading 0/2), I don't think we are in for anything special, today.

England, at this point in time, seems well on course for its first series victory over the West Indies in 31 years. Thirtyone years? Good grief, that is a whole generation, from birth to adulthood, that hasn't seen England triumphant over the men in the maroon caps!

Until recently, there was a feeling that the Windies could not be beaten. I guess that is still true -- watching the ongoing series, you realise that the West Indies have, over the past two years or so, been defeating themselves, rather than being beaten by the opposition.

Sherwin Campbell's dismissal this morning, on the last day of the final Test, is the best examplar of what I am talking about. Here is the Windies, fighting for pride and honour. Needing to do something special, to score 374 in the final innings, to save a series.

Ball pitches outside off. Sherwin Campbell clinically guides it, at waist height, to second slip. Graeme Hick muffs the kind of catch schoolboys would be sent to bed without supper for dropping. Next ball, same line, shorter still. Campbell stands in place, and guides the ball to the same fielder. A touch higher, making it a mite easier. Hick finally latches on.

That tells the story of a side whose collective mind is not in it any more.

It is, too, the saddest possible requiem for two of the greatest characters in contemporary cricket. Two fast bowlers who have consistently defied time and age, survived numerous cricketing obituaries, and stretched the limits of the possible as, between them, they accumulated 888 Test wickets, bowled a mind-boggling 2000 Test maidens, single-handedly carried the attack while younger, supposedly faster, bowlers struggled.

The mind's eye constantly replays this visual from yesterday's telecast. The last English wicket has fallen. Michael Atherton is walking off, last man out for a century that single-handedly puts England on the winning track. The crowd applauds.

And then there is this one instant of hush, as the celebrating home crowd realise that an era has ended.

As one, their gaze shifts from Atherton, walking into the pavilion with bat upraised. Their eyes turn to a giant of a man, standing still in mid-pitch.

There is no one near him. His mates stand around, but at a respectful distance, allowing him that last moment in the middle of a cricket field.

And so Curtley Ambrose stood. A monarch, proud and tall, surveying a realm over which he was the undisputed master.

Spectator after spectator turned his gaze from the pavilion steps, to the lonely giant in mid-pitch. One by one, they rose to their feet. There was a moment of silence. And then, the applause crashed and thundered around the ground.

Slowly, languidly, Curtley lifted those giant arms skywards, acknowledging the applause.

Slowly, imperceptibly, a tear escaped that iron control, and trickled down those granite features.

Curtley Ambrose was crying.

But was it for the end of one of the most glorious careers in contemporary cricket? Or was he mourning the death of West Indies cricket?

Curtley Ambrose has, time and again, defied attempts to put him out to pasture, and bowled with a ferocity that would have been incredible in a man half his age. The fuel for those deeds was pride -- pride in himself, and in his country.

He wore the maroon cap like a crown, did Curtley. I wonder what that proud heart must have felt, as he realised that his reign was finally over. And that he had to leave his kingdom in the care of pygmies?

Spare a thought, guys, for that gentle giant. He deserved better, much better, than to break his heart in a losing cause.

Mail Cricket Editor