Clive Lloyd: 50 years of indelible service to West Indies cricket

By Zaheer E. Clarke

Written December 15, 2016
Published December 19, 2016, in The Western Mirror

For 50 years, Clive Lloyd has given indelible and selfless service to West Indies and world cricket.  He is a legend in the game of cricket, both inside and beyond the boundary.

Clive Lloyd has given indelible and selfless service to West Indies and world cricket for over 50 years.
© Getty Images

Several years ago, as a youngster growing up, eager to learn about the exploits and history of West Indies cricket, my dad handed me a book published in 1983. The book was written by Henderson Dalrymple and titled “50 Great West Indian Test Cricketers”. Dalrymple, a West Indian-born English-based journalist, had written for the Yorkshire Post, the New Musical Express and several black publications in the United Kingdom. Though Dalrymple authored and co-authored books on Reggae and Bob Marley – as if I needed more motivation – four words on the front cover of this book on West Indian cricketers would ensure I opened it, and read it, cover to cover. Those four words were “Foreword by Clive Lloyd”.

 

Last week Tuesday marked the 50th anniversary of Clive Hubert Lloyd’s debut for West Indies on December 13, 1966. Like his cousin, another West Indian great, Lancelot “Lance” Gibbs, Lloyd was a true West Indian from birth – twice over – being the product of a Barbadian mother and a Guyanese father. Nevertheless, it was Lloyd who would become the towering image of West Indian pride, fervour and unity, and its greatest captain. Like Sir Frank Worrell, another great West Indian captain and statesman before him, Lloyd understood how important winning on the cricket field was to the Caribbean people and his role in achieving the same.

Usain Bolt and Bob Marley at the Yankee Stadium

By Zaheer E. Clarke

(Published August 31, 2015)

Typical subway travel surrounded by very hard-core Yankees fans

“Let’s go, Brian! Let’s go!” was shouted repeatedly by Brian’s drunk friends as they jeered him for not offering his seat to any of the ladies who were standing in the packed #4 subway train. He eventually yielded, I guess to peer pressure and adopted a gentlemanlike behaviour. His friends broke out in celebrations at his newfound nobility while the passengers on the train erupted in laughter at the series of events. While holding my four-year-old daughter, who was sleeping, I flashed a smile. That’s how my night ended as I boarded the train and left “The House That Jeter Built” (Not Babe Ruth): The (New) Yankee Stadium. How the night transpired prior was quite something else.

After a bus, and a few trains through the New York Subway system, both above and underground, I came through the exit, and before me was the humongous sign “Yankee Stadium”. My mother-in-law, an avid baseball fan, like myself, purchased tickets for my entire family and me to attend. Did I say I love my mother-in-law? “I love my mother-in-law.” As we entered Gate 6, went through the punctilious security checkpoints, which I imagined was as a result of New York’s greatest tragedy, 9-11, I beheld a sea of Yankees’ fans, standing and seated before me, of over 43,000, from touching distance to the field in front to the super-high upper decks above. I was in awe.