Sir Garfield Sobers dies at 89.

 Sir Garfield Sobers dies at 89.

On a summer's morning in England, there was never a sweeter sound than that of the bat so handsomely brandished by Sir Garfield Sobers. Sobers was, and will always remain, one of West Indies greatest cricketing all rounders.  For two decades, predominantly the lively and eventful 1960s, Sobers dominated world cricket, a giant colossus of the game he so decorated and festooned with his individual virtuoso command performances, a mightily skilful batsman, bowler, fielder and everyman for all occasions. 

Yesterday Sir Garfield Sobers, or Garry Sobers as he was affectionately referred to in the highest echelons of the game, sadly died at the age of 89. Metaphorically, he left the field of action to another thunderous round of applause but this time only the heavens could hear the acclaim. Sobers was a masterful batsman, the complete article, a man who once he took up residence at the crease, spent an excessive amount of time just admiring the spectacular scenery of the English countryside. 

He played most of his club cricket at Nottinghamshire and once he'd set his sights on an innings, the eye was sharp and focussed, concentration set in stone and his batting was rather like a hearty breakfast. He gorged himself on a feast of steadily accumulated runs before launching himself into half centuries and centuries. The shots were like cannon fire, blasted into warm English May, June and July skies, cloudless and blue and directed in the general location of the local high streets outside Trent Bridge.

Sobers was somehow destined to be a leader of the pack, a natural sportsman and athlete, a man of lavish gifts on both the club and international scene. By the time his commanding genius had begun to fade there was another conveyor belt of West Indian talent ready to take over from Sobers. There was Clive Lloyd, known as the Panther, a lithe, long striding, tall, powerful figure who would be appointed as captain of the West Indies. There was Alvin Kalicharran, Rohan Kanhai, Gordon Greenidge, the remarkably incomparable Sir Viv Richards, the bowling  artillery of Malcolm Marshall, Andy Roberts, Joel Garner and Michael Holding. 

But Sobers will always be remembered for one unforgettable Sunday afternoon towards the end of the 1960s. The John Player League was like a soothing, gentle meandering stream or brook gurgling through the heart of England's cricketing soul. It was made up of all the counties within the County Championship, starting at lunchtime with perhaps a Ploughmans Lunch with a pint followed by tea and sandwiches in the pavilion. 

In the eyes of cricketing purists it was more or less an extension of the County Championship infrastructure, a frivolous distraction for those who believed it didn't really matter in the bigger picture. But on one sunlit afternoon over the August Bank Holiday weekend in Swansea, Sobers presided over his kingdom. Walking out once again for Nottinghamshire against Glamorgan, the legendary West Indian came bounding out to bat with that distinctive air of majestic imperialism. The home crowd must have known there was something special in the air but they had no idea they were about to witness history in the making. 

On came Glamorgan leg spinner Malcolm Nash, a bowler of spirit, infinite cunning and splendid skullduggery up his sleeve. The first ball delivered by Nash was of the usual variety; slow, deceitful, but full of waspish intent. It was both straightforward and perfectly normal but Sobers had other ideas. Spotting the opportunity to make hay in the sun and add his name to the illustrious history books, Sobers launched a lofted hook that hit the highest altitude. He heaved his shoulders at the ball, swung his bat for all its worth and sent the ball soaring into outer space. The ball sailed high over the local chapel roofs and for the first six of five more sixes. 

Nash then, rolled down towards the crease with another dolly of a ball, all wristy unpredictability and no less well intentioned and honourable. Now Sobers danced down the wicket as if in the local ballroom, spinning crystal ball on the ceiling. This time, Sobers sent the ball flying with yet another shot of imperious disdain. His arms now met the ball in perfect unison with the general trajectory of the ball, the bat smashing the red ball high over the Welsh valleys towards some distant cathedral with stained glass windows that may well have been cracked such was the ferocity of Sobers second six. 

Sobers next series of sixes were spiced with controversy. After one ball from Nash, Sobers just swotting the ball dismissively high over third man, spotted a Nottinghamshire fielder stationed on the boundary ropes and ready to catch the West Indian's latest missile. And so third man leapt high into the air, jumping heroically before thrusting out a hand and attempting manfully to catch the ball. This he did but hadn't done enough to grasp the ball inside the ropes and took the catch illegally. It was another six. 

The final ball of the Nash over was fraught with fun and danger, risk but carefully calculated strategy. Once again Sobers just let go, hooking joyfully and sending the wildest bludgeoning hit that once again cleared all the rose bushes, hawthorn and dahlias of a local residents garden. This was the final ball of an over and this time the ball headed towards the high street in Swansea. The BBC TV cameras, who were privileged enough to be at the match that day, showed the full extent of what had happened. 

Suddenly, the ball was seen dipping over the gabled roofs of terraced houses and then travelling higher and higher towards a set of traffic lights. The story goes that a red ball hit one of the corporation buses casually humming down a road, bounced on the top of the roof of the bus before gently dropping like a stone next to, quite possibly, a fishmongers shop or a busy bakery selling well sealed loaves of Mothers Pride bread. 

For Gary Sobers the epic accomplishments of scoring 365 against Pakistan in 1958 were constantly replenished with yet greater feats of batting. Sobers was bold, uninhibited, buccaneering, swashbuckling, fearless, full of raw savagery and lethal aggression. There was something almost warlike and blissfully belligerent about Sobers cricket, a wanton disregard of convention, a player who quite literally threw the kitchen sink at every ball bowled at him. 

But then tragedy overshadowed his private life. Driving back from a match with a close friend one evening, Sobers car crashed fatally and his passenger was instantly killed. Never really recovering from this harrowing trauma, Sobers continued to pile up the runs and taking the catches but was deeply traumatised and became an alcoholic for a while. He did turn out for both Nottinghamshire and the West Indies but was not the same man. 

After a glittering career at the very pinnacle of cricket's Olympian heights, Sobers moved into his well earned ambassadorial role, frequently gracing the charity dinners and awards ceremonies that a vast majority knew he'd thoroughly deserved. Sobers was very much the embodiment of West Indian cricket, both revered and honoured by every club secretary, chairman and woman, former player and cricketing dignitary around the world of cricket. 

It might have been thought that Sobers, on careful reflection and with a wistful nod to a nostalgic past, might have considered fellow Nottinghamshire players such as New Zealand fast bowling legend Richard Hadlee or the delightful Derek Randall a man who loped across the ground from cover with legs that went on forever. 

And Trent Bridge will always fondly recall the great Harold Larwood, the man who had created havoc with his destructively dangerous bowling for England on that infamous Bodyline Tour of the 1930s. But Sir Garfield Sobers will never be forgotten because his cricket spanned the whole emotional gamut. Sobers had everything including that suave air of debonair distinction. We may never see his like again, a gentleman to his fingertips.