In January 1958, Gerry Alexander, a wicket-keeper from Jamaica, became captain of the West Indies cricket team. The decision was not universally applauded.
Alexander was white, and a campaign for a black captain stoked by the fiery Marxist intellectual, CLR James, was gaining traction.
The islands of the Caribbean were chafing. Self-determination was in the air. In 1958, the year Alexander was made captain, Jamaican independence was only four years away, while Barbados gained hers in 1966.
For how much longer could the West Indies be captained by a white skipper when there were authoritative, gifted and much-loved black candidates around, people asked?
In his first Test as skipper, against Pakistan at the Kensington Oval in Bridgetown, Barbados, Alexander batted at 10, with only the spin-bowler, Alf Valentine, to follow. Luminaries such as Clyde Walcott and Everton Weekes, two-thirds of the trinity known as the “Three W’s”, were well ahead of him in the order, as was a gifted young polymath called Garry Sobers.
A peculiar, lopsided and ultimately drawn Test couldn’t diminish the impression that Alexander didn’t deserve his place in the side. If he did deserve his place in the side, he certainly didn’t deserve to be captain.
Despite James’ campaign for a black captain and the whispering behind cupped hands, Alexander contrived to be oblivious to the hullabaloo. He captained the West Indies in four series and 18 Tests in all, including challenging away assignments in India and Pakistan, where the Windies played on matting wickets.
One of the reasons why the selectors plumped for him was that Frank Worrell, the captaincy favourite of many, was studying at Manchester University and was unavailable. It was a West Indian tradition to make a white amateur captain. Some saw no reason to change – in fact, were hostile to change and dug in their heels.
By the 1960/61 tour of Australia, however, continuing with a white skipper was widely held to be untenable. Worrell had finished his studies. It was acknowledged that Alexander had been a stop gap. Weekes and Walcott had moved on. New blood was needed.
I like to think that Alexander stepped aside with dignity in keeping with his upstanding character but we can’t be exactly sure. Worrell took over the captaincy amidst widespread rejoicing. Justice had not only done for James and his readers in The Nation, the Trinidadian newspaper which he edited, but for thousands across the Caribbean.
Alexander tucked into Worrell’s slipstream as vice-captain on the tour Down Under. With a young, gifted, mercurial side, with players like Sobers, Basil Butcher, Rohan Kanhai and Lance Gibbs in their ranks, Worrell’s men set off for Australia, some by ship. Others flew by plane, with correspondingly high hopes.
On the eve of the first Test in Brisbane, Don Bradman, the chairman of the Australian board but really everything cricket in Australia, asked Richie Benaud, the home skipper, if he could have a few words with his side. Benaud was not one to disagree with a presence as sharp and ubiquitous as “Braddles”, and stood back to watch.
Bradman said that he saw the series against Worrell’s men as an opportunity for the home side – and cricket generally – to distance itself from some of the stodgy stuff played in previous series. He hoped Benaud and his men, with the coming young stroke-maker, Norm O’Neill in their midst, would lead the way.
The visitors were themselves full of exciting young talent, so the series could be one of the most captivating to happen on Australian soil for many a year. And, Bradman added impishly by way of a concluding flourish, “I will make sure that the selectors look favourably on those who take my hopes for attacking cricket in the series to heart.”
Worrell was already 35 when he was awarded the West Indies captaincy. He had played in nearly 40 Test matches by the time the eagerly-awaited opening Test in Brisbane wound round. Worrell had studied and lived abroad. He was a man of the world, able to balance discipline with discretion. He was not only admired and followed – he was adored.
When Rohan Kanhai fell for 15 with the total on 65 for three batting first in Brisbane, Sobers joined his captain. Despite the fact that Worrell and Sobers had been born in the Barbados parish of St Michael 12 years apart, the similarities were less marked than the differences.
Worrell, an elegant right-hander, was the senior statesman. Sobers, by contrast, was a swashbuckling young left-hander, a true Pirate of the Caribbean. He’d made his Test debut against England in Jamaica as an 18 year-old. At Kingston four years later, he scored 365 not out against Pakistan, at that stage the world’s highest Test score.
He was in poor form in the approach to the Tests. But Bradman, sprite-like and busy, like something out of a Midsummer Night’s Dream, had a word of encouragement, telling him that he would find form when it mattered. Maybe it would find him?
Whether he found form or form found him, Sobers and Worrell put on 174 in 174 minutes for the fourth wicket, Sobers scoring 132 of them with 84 runs in boundaries.
Benaud was concerned to read in one of the newspaper previews that his leg-spin and sliders had the hex over the young Sobers – a bad sign. Sometimes the ball sizzled off Sobers’ bat so quickly that he could hardly get his hands out of the way in time. All he could do with them, in fact, was clap. For the Aussies, fielding was a perilous business.
Australia replied to the West Indies’ 453 with 505, the much-vaunted O’Neill scoring 181. Both teams followed what Bradman had hoped would be the spirit of the series in scoring quickly. Worrell’s men had scored at an impressive four-and-a-half runs to the over, while Benaud’s team, while not quite as barnstorming, chugged merrily along at a healthy 3.9. With Australia holding a 52-run lead, the stage was set for an enthralling Test.
The West Indies couldn’t repeat their first innings heroics in their second dig, with Sobers only making 14. They jerry-built 284 thanks to a second fifty in the match to Worrell and a fifty to Kanhai, a forty from Solomon and a thirty from opener, Conrad Hunte. Nine down overnight, they were bowled out shortly after the start on the final morning.
Alan Davidson, the left-arm quick who had broken the pinkie of his bowling hand on the eve of the Test but played nonetheless, was the star of the show. He took six for 87 to add to his five pegs in the West Indies first and he wasn’t quite finished with the visitors just yet.
So, how did the match lie? With their 52-run first innings lead, Australia needed 233 runs batting last to win the opener. They had almost the entire day. It wasn’t a doddle but neither was it beyond their capabilities.
No-one deemed it important that the outfield hadn’t been mowed in a while. This was Queensland, and the moisture content was high. Grass grew at a fair clip. Such details would be important as the sun set on a scintillating day’s cricket.
Davidson was soon back in the thick of things. Batting at seven he strode to the wicket with the total on an awkward 57 for five, Les Favell having just gone for seven.
With the total on 92, “Slasher” Mackay lost his wicket. Australia were six wickets down. Davidson was joined by his skipper, Benaud.
Still six down at tea, time was running out if the home side wanted to gate crash a win. Bradman peeked into the player’s enclosure to ask the Aussie skipper how he saw it. Benaud replied that although it was a tough ask, he and Davidson would make a stab at victory. “Very pleased to hear it,” replied the Don.
After tea, the two scrimped and scraped past the hundred; the 150 came up and the 200. It was agonising, exciting, agonisingly exciting. To watch or not?
Waiting to bat, the Aussie ‘keeper, Wally Grout, steadily smoked his way through a packet of Rothmans, according to author Gideon Haigh in his fine book, The Summer Game. Mackay, back in the hut, couldn’t watch a ball. Even the radio commentators had difficulty in watching. A couple of hours earlier, one of them got on a plane bound for Sydney, convinced that the game would peter out into a draw.
With the 200 coming up, Australia needed 33 to win. Their skipper was still there, as good as his word to “Braddles” in the player’s enclosure at tea-time. Davidson and his broken little finger were having the match of their lives.
Worrell took the second new ball with the total on 206 for six. Wes Hall conceded eight runs in his first over with the fresh nut and Sobers went for an expensive nine in the following. These were almost the all-over overs. Or were they? If so, Hall certainly didn’t believe it. He regained his length and discipline – and went for only one run in his second over with the new ball.
After the batsmen had taken a single apiece after the first two balls of Sobers final over, the penultimate over of the match, Benaud dabbed short to the leg-side and called for the run. Solomon swooped as Davidson, the non-striker, dashed for his ground.
He didn’t make it, out for 80, Solomon scoring a direct hit. In the player’s enclosure Grout, light-headed from smoking a packet of Rothmans, barked at those within earshot:
“Where are my fucking gloves?”
As he stood up he realised that in the drama he he’d been sitting on them.
Grout scrambled a single towards the end of Sobers’ over and Benaud played out a dot off the last. With the shadows falling, press photographer, Ron Lovitt, wondered when he should shoot his last frame of film. Six runs were needed, Hall had eight balls. Grout was on strike. All eyes met in the middle, except for those keen souls who looked for the score – and realised that the Gabba’s manual scoreboard had frozen.
Hall thundered a lifter into Grout’s ribs off the first ball of the final over and Benaud was down at his end before Grout had time to register what was happening. By some miracle, he gathered his wits and scampered for the non-striker’s end without being run out, his cap balancing – only just – on his head.
Nursing his sore ribs, Grout watched from the non-striker’s end as Hall bounced Benaud. The ball kissed Benaud’s glove and the skipper trudged off to reflect on the wisdom of attempting the hook at such a delicate stage of the match. Happy, but nearing exhaustion, Hall hardly celebrated, his big hands on his hips.
So where was the match? Eight down, five runs needed by Australia, two wickets needed by the West Indies. This was no time for the scoreboard to freeze.
New man in was Ian Meckiff, the fast-bowler. He was no O’Neill, but as bowler hee was constitutionally optimistic about his batting. They ran a bye off Meckiff’s first ball, a chaotic scrambled single that could have seen the new batter run out by half the length of the pitch – except that Hall missed the stumps with his overarm shy from close.
Four were needed from four.
With a conspicuous lack of elegance, Grout bunted a pitched-up delivery from Hall up into the air on the leg-side where it hung for an eternity. It was too far away from Alexander for the wicket-keeper to reach it; in his follow-through, Hall changed direction and made a grab for it, not noticing that Kanhai was attempting to catch the thing too. They almost collided. The catch was spilled. A run was taken.
This was too exciting for words, too exciting for numbers, too exciting for all concerned. The scoreboard remained frozen. The umpires needed to concentrate carefully.
Off the sixth ball of Hall’s eight ball over, Meckiff hoiked the ball into the leg-side deep, Hunte haring after it. The batsmen crossed, a four was signalled but the ball stuck in the thick boundary glass like a cherry on a birthday cake.
Realising that the signalled four would be overturned because the ball hadn’t reached the boundary, Grout scrambled for a third run, sprinting for the striker’s end. The ball beat him to it. It was an immaculate throw from Hunte, cooly and cleanly collected by Alexander, who broke the stumps with the chain-smoking ‘keeper out of his ground while looking directly into the sun. Had Grout made his ground, Australia would have won.
It was pandemonium. The big freeze in the scoreboard continued, so no-one knew quite where the match stood. At this point the scores were officially tied – 232 apiece – with the Aussies needing a run for victory. Hall needed one wicket. There were two balls left. Last man in, Lindsay Kline, was on strike.
Shortly before he reached the top of his thirty-four pace run, Worrell reminded Hall with friendly seriousness that a no-ball would jeopardise his chances of returning to Barbados, so he’d better be careful. Hall charged in, mindful as to where his feet landed. The ball swerved marginally down leg; Kline, a left-hander, stabbed out his bat and called for a mad run, hesitating for a fateful instant; Meckiff obliged and dashed towards him.
Patrolling at square-leg, Solomon pounced on a shot that produced a thin, reedy sound, you can actually hear it on the replays. Solomon had run out Davidson already and fancied his chances of repeating the trick. He disappointed neither himself, not Worrall nor his teammates, scoring a direct hit with a scrambling Meckiff out of his ground.
It was a dramatic end to an incredible Test but what was the score? The scoreboard was of no help. The players were confused. Did they celebrate or commiserate? It took some time for the cloud of confusion to clear and everyone to work out that neither side had won but neither had lost. It was that rarest of results – a tie.
Seated at deep long-off, photographer Lovitt captured the action with his last exposure – some say slide – of film. If you look carefully today you can see the leg-stump at the striker’s end at a slight angle to the vertical, the bails having been knocked off the stumps by the force and accuracy of Solomon’s throw.
There are six West Indians in the frame, including Worrall, who has backed up at the non-striker’s end, and Alexander, in his oversized gloves, who has not managed to reach the broken stumps because he’s been standing so far back to Hall.
Jumping over the broken wickets in delight, appealing to the square-leg umpire for all he’s worth, is Solomon. Both he and a teammate who is standing alongside the stumps facing the camera, have their hands high as they plead with the cricket Gods.
Col Hoy, the square-leg umpire, said the decision wasn’t difficult to make; Meckiff, his bat in his fully out-stretched left hand, was run-out by a “quick-to-raise-the-finger-for” margin.
Lovitt’s photo became justifiably famous, not only for what it represented but how it represented the drama in the fading Queensland light. Cool verticals (the upright players, the stumps, the picket fence on the boundary) are thrust against long horizontals (the shadows, the crease) and do so in a frame of grand and excruciating drama.
Over time, the photograph came to stand for not only the first tied Test, but for cricket itself, an image which generates the universal from the particular. Come here, the photograph seemed to be saying, and have a look at an illustration of cricket’s latent good.
Such good, like a tied Test, appears only in singular conditions. Attacking cricket must be played by two respectful captains of two respectful sides; fortunes must fluctuate over five days, with all results still possible at tea-time on the fifth. After a thoughtful chivvy-up on the eve of the Test, studious “Braddles” must hover over the outcome of every ball. Change must be in the air, a kind of “it-can’t-go-on-like-this” recognition.
So memorable did the Test become that Benaud said many years afterwards that although the actual audience couldn’t have been more than 4000 – many of them standing – the crowd has swelled subsequently to about 60 000. The comment stands as part for whole, the Test for the series. Tens of thousands saw the series live but many tens of thousands wanted to see it live. As the Test’s stature grew, so people’s imaginations grew with it.
For those comforted by such things, the five-Test series swung hither and thither: Aussie won the second Test at the MSC by seven wickets, while Worrell’s men won the third at Sydney by 222 runs thanks, in part, to another century by Sobers.
One-all with two to play remained one-all with one to play, with a draw in the fourth in Adelaide. The teams went into the fifth Test back at the MCG with the series still in the balance. Here, in a Test of hectically shifting fortunes, the Australians prevailed by two wickets, to take the series 2-1.
Afterwards the West Indies were awarded a ticker-tape parade down Collins Street in central Melbourne. White chauffeurs drove the players in 12 dinky little convertibles draped with twin ribbons of bunting between windshield and bonnet. So entranced was Melbourne that men, women and children, came out in their tens of thousands at a time when the “Whites Australia” immigration policy still was enshrined in law. Worrell wore a fabulous white suit. According to Haigh’s book, the players had to take time before the mayoral reception to dab lipstick from their lips, chins and shirt-collars and make themselves respectable.
Although Worrall was past his prime as a Test batsman by the time of the tour, he had already scored eight of his nine Test centuries, the tour raised his profile and status, a vindication for James and his activism. Yet Worrall made up for his declining powers with wisdom. He had gravitas and an unflappable air.
On tour he insisted that players needed to be in their rooms by 10pm. He didn’t mind what they did behind closed doors, but that was the rule. He also banned the playing of card games, arguing that they were bad for a player’s eyes. Perhaps the edict was self-directed. Worrell’s eyes weren’t what they were in 1960. In banning the playing of cards he was really talking about himself.
Benaud, who couldn’t resist trying to hook Hall in the fading light in Brisbane, was similarly feted. The dapper little Bradman was pleased at the timeliness of his intervention on the eve of the first Test, a Test Lovitt did his bit to make famous.
The tour was a high point for Alexander’s career, the man who had to step aside for the march of time and history. He only scored one Test century and this he did in the West Indies’ win at Sydney.
From batting at number 10 in his debut Test as captain against Pakistan, he transformed himself into a batsman who headed the West Indian averages in Australia from the next-best Kanhai. As Worrell’s vice-captain, Alexander was obedient. For him, Worrell’s large presence didn’t cast a shadow. It gave him light.