England’s celebrations of a Test series victory over the West Indies overshadowed the departure of one of the best bowlers of all time Matthew Engel Monday was the day. England captain Nasser Hussain lifted the long-forgotten Wisden Trophy; the crowd ran on the field, chanting happily; Jimmy Adams, the vanquished captain, was gracious; and Lord MacLaurin, a member of the Raymond Illingworth school of letting-everyone- know-who-fathered-victory-and-ensuring-
defeat-is-an-orphan, was more visible than usual.
It was Saturday morning when expectation hardened to near certainty. The moment can even be timed exactly: 11.43am. That was when Brian Lara was again bewildered by Craig White (a sentence one could not have anticipated writing a few weeks ago). The Sun has been running a Wisdenometer, similar to the swingometer used on pre- computer election nights. At that point, it crashed towards England with the crunching certainty of the moment Michael Portillo lost or Labour gained Hove. The fourth day of the Test (and that’s an unexpected form of words too these days) was a linking passage between the catharsis of Saturday and the triumph on Monday. It was a day of ovations, after a summer of them. The biggest came in Curtly Ambrose’s last over in Test match cricket. But it was nothing to do with Ambrose: he was just the feed as Mike Atherton reached his century. As the crowd erupted, Ambrose stood impassively. He produced two more unmemorable deliveries then moved, on tender legs, towards the outfield and then cricketing history. You could almost see him creak. What a way to go. Six and a half years ago in Port of Spain, Ambrose blew away the aspirations of Athers, the tyro England captain, with one of the most devastating bowling bursts of all time. England were out for 46 – and defeat was such an orphan that even the team manager, MJK Smith, failed to support Atherton at his mournful media conference. Now Ambrose, and Courtney Walsh with him, has had to learn the truth that eagles can’t soar when they are surrounded by turkeys. When Atherton was last man out (a few minutes after we had looked up all the carried-bat stats) the West Indians let him have his moment. The fast bowlers held back. Then it was their turn. Ambrose says he will never play Test cricket again. There is limited pleasure in a forthcoming tour of Australia in which West Indies will regard avoiding a 5-0 whitewash as their prime objective. Walsh is carrying on, because he is that sort, and because the virgin, mist-shrouded peak of 500 Test wickets is only 17 away. But even he cannot expect to bowl in a major match in England again. So they both had their moment in the September sunshine. Walsh grinned and waved; Ambrose was more sombre. But they punched each other’s fists, embraced and squabbled for a second about who would go first: “After you, Courtney.” “No, after you, Curtly.” Walsh won that round, and sent Ambrose in. And that was that. If we are ever going to see a great West Indian fast bowler tormenting our brave boys again, it is not obvious who, when or how. The mysterious factory that produced them all is shuttered and silent. There was a time when the line seemed endless, and it infiltrated batsmen’s nightmares like the row of Banquo’s crowned descendants haunting Macbeth. In the 1980s, supply so far exceeded demand that such players as Sylvester Clarke, Wayne Daniel, Ezra Moseley and Winston Davis, who would all have passed 100 Tests for most other countries, hardly got a game. For the last time, we saw Ambrose stamp the ground, then lope in threateningly like a mutant killer giraffe. To the end, he provided living proof that precision bombing from a great height is possible. Perhaps the RAF should engage him as a consultant.
Andy Roberts was perhaps the most ferocious of all the West Indians; Malcolm Marshall the most technically perfect; Michael Holding the most artistic; Walsh the most durable. But to the very end Ambrose was the most infallibly unhittable of them all. He got no wicket on Sunday and so the wicket of Marcus Trescothick on Saturday was when his mum’s famous bell rang for the 405th and final time. He will be remembered with affection by his team-mates, a shudder by opponents and awe by all who saw him. But for a man with such expressive features, he was remarkably inscrutable.
Courtney was courtly; to strangers – especially scribblers – Curtly preferred to be curt. Even on Sunday he chose to keep his thoughts to himself, living up to the anecdote about the time he overheard a journalist ask Viv Richards whether Curtly was feeling fit or not. “You want to know about Curtly, you talk to Curtly,” he growled.
“OK, Curtly. How are you feeling?” “Curtly talks to no one,” he replied.