By GHK Lall- By any standards, 89 has to count as a good score. When the atmosphere is muggy, and the environment is hostile, 89 is a great stay at the wicket. Sir Garfield St Aubyn Sobers had the innings of his life. Opening bowler, first slip fielder, middle order batter, and successful leader. A larger-than-life figure. On and off the field. Garry Sobers was he. When the sweet thwack of the willow on leather echoed through the shortwave radio, I knew that the red orb left the tarmac at bullet train speed. To seek rest in some cow pasture in the forlorn hope of being allowed to enjoy a little respite, some peace and rest.
Sir Garfield was the terror of bowlers. Once he was in the middle, they could tie the field in a muddle, and it didn’t matter: the middle of a straight bat showing who was master of the situation, owner of the field of battle. Talk about Maradona and Messi of Argentina, or Edson and Socrates of Brazil, and the West Indies had Sir Garry and Sir Frank, Rohan and Kallicharran, and Andy and Wesley. This region has had its share of legends, and Garry Sobers was right there among them. Lords and Wisden, the meccas of that throne of kings, that sceptered isle.
From Bourda to Bridgetown. Bombay to Brisbane, Garry Sobers lit the fields afire. Many a time, it was from the Pavilion End. Many more times, it was from the batsman’s end. The pigeon-toed crawl that broke into a whir of arms, a blur of knees and ankles.
The nonchalant walk to the wicket in times of peril, that languid athletic slouch that disguised grim determination and warrior ethos. Thou shalt not prevail today. West Indies with its back to the wall. The clouds hanging ominously overhead.
Sir John Arlott, sizzling like lightning from the safety of the BBC box. Now, that was cricket. Wicked cricket. Lovely cricket. And Garry Sobers was the king of any wicket. A performer of outstanding exploits with bat and ball before many a crowd.
Those were the days my friends. When men were men. They then lived like them when the day was done. Hoisted tumblers while reminiscing about many a John Snow bouncer, or an Alan Davidson swinger. They also reported for work, another duel in the sun, the next day. None of this fancy stuff about gyms and vitamins, when a number of laps in stifling heat would get the blood going.
Though chilly temps and Bengali curries, amid outback firebrands and myopic umpires, around jeering crowds and cheering hero-worshippers, there was Sobers like an old gladiator of the Roman arena. Strutting his stuff. Flashing his bat. And sending the stumps of Sir Geoffrey Boycott cartwheeling across the bleak moors of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle’s Yorkshire.
Sobers was a man who dared the odds. At time, I felt that he dared the gods. There was no limit to his talent. He would bend his back to deliver a searing yorker. Bend his bat to send another whizzer straight back past the opposing flamethrower, but only faster. A test of wits that was more a test of wills. Who wants to win more! Who is willing to lay all on the line and die for it! I regret that a lengthy timeout has been called on those attributes that made West Indies cricket great, that made it feared and respected. What we have now are the mythologies that are based on the brawn and blood of honest toil.
Garfield St Aubyn Sobers was a champion among champions. Arise, Sir Garfield! Ascend and take honoured place among the other great stars that light up the cricketing sky. It was my privilege to listen, to watch, and to read of this cricketing grandmaster in that glorious era when West Indies cricket stood at the pinnacle and ruled the world. Thanks for the timeless grandeur. The unforgettable moments that will always be incomparable. Rest easy, take guard, new wicket, Sir Garry.
