West Indies, cricket, the 1970s and great players.

West Indies, cricket, the 1970s and great players.

The arrival of the West Indies cricket team to British shores takes the mind back, as it  invariably does on such occasions to the 1970s when Grease was the world, Saturday Night Fever sent to box office takings to record breaking, phenomenal heights and Gerd Muller scored a cracking goal bring the World Cup back to West Germany in the 1974 World Cup Final against an unfortunate Holland.

But for most of the 1970s world cricket was dominated by the West Indies in a way that no country had so thoroughly reigned supreme for such a remarkable length of a time. In fact a heavy sigh was heard every time a West Indies cricket team clattered their way down the pavilion steps of Lord's, Trent Bridge, Headingley, Old Trafford and last but not least the Oval where a gas holder continues to provide the quirkiest of architectural backdrops.

The West Indies were indeed the governors, commanders in chief, the model of loose limbed athleticism, full of feline flexibility, a powerful presence on the field, superb fielders, quick witted, intelligent in their field placings, lethal bowlers and colossal run scorers. They possessed the finest batsmen, the happiest of cricketers and  just a pleasure to watch.

As a team the West Indies, led by the indomitably influential Clive Lloyd, would psychologically terrorise their opponents the Caribbean crusaders would revel in their supremacy. Lloyd, affectionately and rightly nicknamed as 'The Panther', would stretch out those long, loping legs and prowl in the undergrowth of  deep mid wicket or cover just waiting for the most inviting of catches to drop gently into those safe and secure hands.

And yet the West Indies were much more than a bunch of superior cricketers who played some of the most superlative cricket the world had ever seen. During the 1970s their players were blessed, hard wired, wondrously gifted, a team of naturalness, instinctive brilliance in any position of a cricket pitch and full of admirable adaptability when things were going slightly wrong which was rare.

The West Indies were never programmed or manufactured, mechanised or contrived. They were carefully created, prodigiously creative, shaped into a harmonious unit, sculpted by the best chisel and moulded to perfection. They played and still do- but not quite to the same extent- some of the most charming, educated and refined cricket in the world.

The trouble is though that the cricket that the West Indies used to give us is not nearly as spectacular or flamboyant as the 1970s incarnation and the reasons may be too numerous to mention. They tell us that the kids no longer bat and bowl on those luxurious Caribbean beaches, the desire to hit a cricket ball or catch a cricket ball no longer as passionate as it used to be and the familiar hook for six or four into an Antiguan bar is no longer the norm. Maybe West Indian cricket has just vanished into some temporary oblivion but could be back one day. We must hope it will.

Back in the misty 1970s the West Indies were just irresistible, unplayable, at times impossibly talented. They had players such as Alvin Kalicharran, Rohan Kanhai and then players of cleverness, subtlety, majesty and cricketing brutality. Openers such as Gordon Greenidge were followed closely by Roy Fredericks  and then the extraordinary Viv Richards left most of the neutrals stupefied, dazzled and totally enchanted by cricket of the highest and most aristocratic rank.

Indeed it was Viv Richards who left us gasping for adjectives, superlatives, adverbs and pronouns. Richards portrayed the game in vivid strokes of genius and beauty. He would begin a day's play at Lords shirt fluttering nervously as if blissfully aware that a huge and imposing bat would smash the ball as hard as he could, lofting the ball into the skies with both vicious intent and fearsome ferocity. Richards, of course seemed, to have a rapier or bludgeon rather than a bat and the ball seemed to take an almost relentless punishment while Richards was at the crease.

Wearing that lovely maroon cap with the West Indian crest permanently etched onto the front of the cap, Richards would set about his task with all the seriousness and conviction of a man whose day at the office would be businesslike and pragmatic. Once set in for the day Richards would prepare his assault on any opposition bowling attack with the methodical meticulousness of a Rommel or Montgomery.

Alongside Greenidge, Richards would unfurl his full armoury of strokes that were meant to be punishing and indeed very punitive at times. But they were strokes of gold, silver and bronze, of steel and magnesium, explosive chemicals and combustible elements that simply blew his opponents away.  Richards had destructive hooks, devastating pulls for four, pleasing glances of his back feet, a player of shrewdness, craftsmanship, an almost cricket spinner's deceit and deception, a cricketer of boldness and bravura, of flashing drives, square cutting beautifully over helpless fielders on the boundary and third man.

So it is that we return to the present day of West Indies cricket. The present day conflict at Headingley has resulted in convincing victory for the West Indies with one to play for the series. England will now hopefully limber up for their Ashes battle royale with Australia during the winter in buoyant spirits. But we will miss the lilting rhythms of the steel drums at the Oval or Headingley.

We will miss the throbbing, tropical heartbeat of a West Indian crowd, drumming insistently and cheerfully, always in the best of all moods regardless of the British weather. Above all we will miss the 1970s West Indies cricket team because they treated sport with both care and tender affection. Maybe that's what John Arlott may have meant when he referred to the fact that we take sport too seriously and life too lightly or maybe that's something I might have overheard.