Cameron Duodu: LETTER FROM THE NORTH
Who knows cricket who only cricket knows? This question, penned by the late West Indian writer CLR James, would not have made any sense to me when I first went to live in Britain in 1983.
On previous sojourns in England, friends had tried to get me interested in cricket. A classmate of mine, Kwasi Frempong, used to rave on about the West Indian “fast bowlers”.
But in Ghana, unless one went to a posh school like Achimota or Mfantsipim, one never came near leather and willow. So I just shrugged and watched football.
And then the summer of 1984 arrived. Living alone in Clapham Common, I soon discovered a pub that served lager of a type that a West African could drink without thinking he was imbibing tepid water mixed with overheated straw: draught Stella Artois.
Now, none of the English lunch-time boozers took the slightest notice of me. Until the West Indian cricketers arrived and began to do things to the English team.
Gradually, the English television watchers turned commentators-at-large and tried to draw me into their conversation.
“That was a nasty one from Holding, wouldn’t you say?”
“Ugh! He’s gone and did it again! You guys don’t have no pity, do you?”
“Poor Gower! Bloody well near tore his head off!”
“Beautiful stroke from Greenidge. And he sick an’ all.”
That Marshall guy is a fucking murderer, he is!”
And so it went on. I grunted with feigned interest and smiled a knowing smile which said: “Hey, I am too cool to engage amateurs like you in any serious discussion on such an important matter.”
Anyway, on the afternoon the West Indies thrashed England at the Oval, three guys who had never said a word to me in six months, bought me a pint each. And the landlord learned to call me Cameron instead of “Uyou” or whatever he used to mumble when he was calling me.
I said to myself, as the Germans do when a truth dawns on them: “Ah, so!”
This cricket thing was no joke, eh? I had never existed in my local until West Indies cricket came to a screen near me. Ah, so!
Since then, I’ve followed the West Indies everywhere I can – to Arundel, in the lush English countryside; to the opulent Oppenheimer grounds at Midrand; to Lords on a cool afternoon; to Port Elizabeth where a sighting of dolphins was an unexpected bonus; to the Oval in London with drums beating; and to Durban and some delicious prawns. And I certainly want to go and see them in Antigua and to pay my respects personally to Viv Richards and Curtley Ambrose.
To those of my readers who were cheesed off because you were never sure whether they would arrive in time for their current tests, please take my advice: lay off these guys!
These are real stars, men. If they were Australians or Britons or South Africans or New Zealanders, they would be financially secure the moment they played one test match.
But the West Indies cricket board appears to treat them like kids who would be happy to go for the ride, simply because they had been honoured enough to be asked to play for the West Indies.
This is a board that is so bloody minded that it annoyed Desmond Haynes badly enough for him to try to sue it for non-selection! Ever heard such nonsense? Yet it happened.
Haynes had apparently been pushed aside, just because he’d played a match or two too many in South Africa or somewhere, and had not arrived in camp early enough.
So, even though this was at a time when Gordon Greenidge had retired from the best firm of openers on the planet, and Haynes was sorely needed to take the new boys in hand and try to make great openers of them, the board told him to eff orf.
This is the same board that ignored the great Richards like a bad egg the moment the maestro put down his bat. Indeed, West Indies cricket is good in spite of the board, not because of it.
I am so glad that through their players association, headed by the cool giant, Courtney Walsh, they’ve managed to secure the financial deal they deserve, which made the tour happen after all.
I hope the contretemps has taught the West Indies board that there can be no board without players. To pretend that Brian Lara is just anybody is just stupid.
Let them go and read the life histories of Marilyn Monroe or Errol Flynn. They were a pain, yes. But they made money for those who could handle them.
I hope the performance of the West Indies team will make those in South Africa who are sceptical about affirmative action ask themselves: “Why don’t we have our own black stars when the West Indies, with a population of only about six million, has produced the likes of Richards, Lara and Ambrose?
“Would such players ever have emerged under apartheid in South Africa, when we know what happened to Basil d’Oliveira?”
The answer to this question must convince all but the bone-headed that South Africa cannot wait for “natural” processes to produce its black cricketers. A lot of money, time and effort must be put in, as a special exercise, to pry the talent out.
And if you think that’s special pleading, that’s precisely what it is. You don’t cut off the head of a tree and expect it to produce foliage like every other tree. You begin to look for tiny branches sprouting at the sides, low down, and nurture them.
Shosholoza!