 Ground of Grounds! Symbol of a once great Cricket Empire! I dreamt of the day that I would fulfil a childhood dream and set my eyes on the mighty Bourda. Now well into my sixth decade of earthly existence, I finally had the privilege of gazing upon Bourda. I shivered as I remembered the languid grace of Lance Gibbs—an off-spinner of such purity that only with the 15 degrees capitulation of the ICC has he now been surpassed. Remember 1965? Gibbs 6 for 29; Australia crushed under his mesmerising guile. Numbers 2, 3, 4 and 5 falling to the Master Spinner.
My mind raced to thoughts of Clive Lloyd, prowling panther-like in the covers. The vicious hook shot of Roy Fredericks contrasted with the patient prodding of Leonard Baichan. And can we forget the most technically astute right-hander in our cricket history, the irrepressible Baboolal [Rohan Kanhai] (no disrespect to the Master Blaster who no doubt is the most destructive right-hander to have played the true sport of kings)? What about Basil Butcher and Joe Solomon; even Colin Croft of much more recent vintage? Is there still memory of the little man with the unruly hair and the unbuttoned shirt? Acclaimed as “Killer Kalli” for his destruction of Dennis “the Menace” Lillee.
Bourda was the stage where these giants played their part in the pantheon of West Indian cricket. The symphony of bat and ball rising and reaching a crescendo at this coliseum when the turtle destroyed the hare as Chanders took a mere 69 balls to blast an Australian bowling attack into oblivion. The man without knowledge as to why he is called “Tiger” truly roared on that day and Bourda rocked in rapture as it acknowledged a modern-day icon of cricket obstinacy and mercurialness.
Bourda, sweet inimitable Bourda, the cricketing Olympus where George Headley took the English apart in 1930 with a century in each innings. Sixty-four years later, the Prince of Port of Spain, Brian Charles Lara strode unto the hallowed ground of Bourda and had his audience singing his praise as he destroyed England with a masterful 167.
Of course, we suffered also at Bourda before Fire descended in Babylon. In 1973, Walker and Hammond crushed our spirits with a 10-wicket victory over a team with five Guyanese (Kanhai, Fredericks, Kallicharran, Lloyd and Gibbs).
Of all our Test-playing adversaries, we saved the best for our former colonial master, England, who suffered the most at our hands at Bourda, losing four times and only winning once. Yes, at Bourda, we trampled their aspirations and made mockery of their historical claim to cricketing supremacy.
Even politics was part of the myth and mystery of Bourda. It was in 1981 at Bourda that we played one for Mandela as we rejected England’s Robin Jackman for his links with apartheid South Africa.
With these thoughts swirling, expectations rose as I strode purposefully down the fresh looking Shiv Chanderpaul Drive, only to turn the corner and be confronted with an image that has remained indelibly imprinted in my mind.
The faded sign of the Rohan Kanhai Stand.
Crumbling fences, crushed under the foreboding gaze of the mighty Amazon.
What madness is this?
What has led to the demise of such a proud cricketing venue? Is it the developing world mentality where we quickly forget the past when provided with a new future? Is Bourda a casualty of the rise of Providence Ground? Do we honour a past cricketing icon and a present cricketing demigod in the presence of a decaying and dying cricketing venue? Does our past mean nothing to us? Are we satisfied that we have transformed a mecca of cricket into a graveyard of past glories?
Madness!
It is all that resonates through my mind. This must be madness. I must have been transferred into an alternate world where love for our heritage is fleeting and the reverence for our cricketing ancestors is but lip service. My soul trembled as I gazed on the dying arena felled by human parsimoniousness. How I mourn your slow asphyxiation by human callousness. My celebratory aria composed as I anticipated my first encounter with Bourda was quickly transformed into a eulogy. The only words that resonated within were those of the immortal Shelley.
My name is Ozymandias, King of Kings:
Look on my works, ye mighty, and despair!
Nothing beside remains. Round the decay
Of that colossal wreck, boundless and bare,
The lone and level sands stretch far away.
Yesterday Ozymandias, today Bourda, beware your fate. History and tradition mean nothing as our lands are slowly being strangled by a generation of barbarians who trample our proud memories into the ground. To borrow and transform the cry of David Rudder, Rally! Rally! Rally ’round Bourda.
Dr. Rajendra Ramlogan is Professor of Commercial and Environmental Law in the Department of Management Studies. He has published numerous articles and authored several books including Sustainable Development: Towards a Judicial Interpretation; Judicial Review in the Commonwealth Caribbean; and The Developing World and the Environment: Making the Case for Effective Protection of the Global Environment. |
