I CRY FOR YOU, West Indies Cricket.
I grieve as I watch the legacy of great men squandered – those valiant heroes of pitch and outfield whose heads were as cool and strategic as their hands were safe; whose direction with ball was consistent and menacing; whose mastery with bat saw record books rewritten time and again.
Our heroes in white rose, taking our collective spirit to the mountain top with them. We walked tall with them all over the cricketing world.
We beat our former masters at their own game.
I sorrow when I reflect on the glory days and realise we have learnt nothing from our past success.
As we sat there surveying the vanquished who had come from the four corners of the earth to challenge us, those charged with charting the way lost sight of the vision.
Right before their eyes it floated away and disappeared, leaving them dazed but somehow not fazed enough to search for it.
A few sages made suggestions… to no avail. Generation Next stood waiting for the baton. The pass was fumbled. The baton dropped.
Generation Next was set adrift to make its own way. Gone was the fervor, the passion, the pride.
Their place was taken by the golden orb of reward – reward for good and bad, high and low… and most often, the no-show.
Still, the custodians of the remnants of our pride continue to go through empty motions from their high place, while we peer through the window, battered, broken, bewildered and helpless.
We watch frozen as the ship sinks. We are dumbfounded that the custodian crew makes no effort to escape.
They are prepared to go down with the ship – not because they’re brave but because they are either oblivious to the demise or panic-stricken.
I weep for you, West Indies Cricket, when after the latest thrashing your captain promises to go back to the drawing board… but there is never any ink in the pen.
The fans suggest, the fans despair – no more hands in the air. Now they protest with their feet and row upon row of empty seats in the stands of multimillion dollar stadia.
I shed tears because I feel deeply the loss of the pride and passion that for so long was an integral part of the West Indian existence.
That which propelled us to victory upon victory has totally eluded Generation Next and their custodians.
They cannot feel, for they are numbed by the reward we have bestowed upon them, the reward for bad, and low… and more than ever, the no-show.
RONNIE CARRINGTON