So far as the audience was concerned, he’s as meritorious a master of ceremonies anyone ever saw. A prodigious batsman with the princely touch, he’s nonchalant, where many would hurry; and, utterly regardless, where many would defend. His effortless presence denoted just one thing: computerised efficiency, something that could, at times, fail. A legend in his own right, his regal presence could attract attention, even from a distance. The seventh batsman in the world, and the second from the West Indies, to have scored over 8,000 runs in Tests, this man was a veritable genius.
His identity: Sir Isaac Vivian Alexander Richards. The prodigious batsman with the Emperor’s name — the monarch of batting.
Richards’ batting was based on sheer power and awesome eyesight. His footwork was almost perfect. He was balletic in his movements, though he’s heavy torsoed. Blessed with wrists that had enormous strength, Richards performed well against all opposition, on every kind of wicket. His batting record is phenomenal. It envelops within it many a dazzling display of exquisite batsmanship — more so, in the minds of the cognoscenti.
What made Richards stand apart from other outstanding batsmen was his abundant talent, which was as natural as the beautiful sun-baked beaches of his native island of Antigua. One would, at times, feel that Richards had too much talent. It was something that gave him more than an element of impetuosity as well. Call it a fairy-tale, if you’d like, because Richards started his life in a bar, as a waiter, before he was transformed into a great batsman — one who could hold his glittering luminosity in any company.
Antigua’s first citizen, Richards is a phenomenon. He could have become Prime Minister of his native island, if he wanted. This was a paradox for someone who made a ‘nervous’ Test debut, in India, against the likes of Erapalli Prasanna, Bhagwat Chandrasekhar, Srinivas Venkataraghavan, and Bishen Bedi — India’s greatest spin bowlers ever. From there, Richards came a long way that was entirely his by right. His stroke-play, in the process, developed from the ferocity of his early days to the outstanding.
What’s more, his mere presence at the wicket was orchestrated representation of power-play — it was something out of this world. It called for amazed admiration. More than anything else, Richards had been the most to benefit from one-day cricket, where the law of his power was so colourfully relevant. Such was the wonderful make-up of this man that he could change the fortunes of a game with his broadsword of a bat, anytime; a well-anticipated catch; or, ‘grabbing’ a wicket at a crucial stage with his casual, but clever, off-spinners.
Television, and other media, also gave Richards comprehensive status vis-à-vis spectator interest, not to speak of exclusivity — a clear advantage, which Sir Don Bradman, or Walter Hammond, never had. No wonder, Richards was so much of a rage to the cameraman who would instinctively work up for a shot to posterity as much as a cricket writer who would fancy of waxing eloquent, on a dream innings from the master, calypso-style.
Captaincy, to Richards, like so many greats before and after him, was a sort of baptism of fire. From two perspectives: one, he took over the mantle from Clive Lloyd, the most successful of captains; and, two, amidst expectations of invincibility from his country’s crowds. He proved to be equal to the task — without being quite as good with his man-management skills. Because, he’s Richards? Not really.
As John Arlott, the Voice of Cricket, once explained, “There is a patrician arch to his nose; and, unquenchable flash of joy in his smile; an almost languorous air of relaxation, in all but the most urgent of his movements. He has not been arrogant in success, which could prove as insurance against depression when, even the greatest have found at times, the roads about the crease are not always paved with fours and sixers.”
This was Richards’ image. It will stand the test of time. In Arlott’s words, again, “He [Richards] will ripple down the pitch to drive a spinner through mid-on or mid-off; rock onto the back-foot and, with a twist of the forearms, force explosively through the covers. He will play slow bowling, fine as gossamer past slip; or, hook a bouncer with such force as almost swings him off his feet… Then, he will throw his bat like a sabre which leaves third man floundering.”
There won’t be another like him — again.
— First published in The Observer
