THERE WAS A HUSH! Pollard had just hit a six and the Bajan total looked miniscule.
I was not at Kensington Oval the other night when the Caucasian streaker graced the Mecca with a five-minute undressed rehearsal, but the story was related to me by a blackguard. There is no doubt that two things triggered the entertaining display, added spice to the cricket and gave Barbados worldwide publicity.
The lady friend told me that the lad had imbibed copiously on the local brew and was feeling the sweet effects of the ambrosia. He was in seventh heaven.
“I bet you,” he slurred, “that I could run faster than those fellows in the middle. For a Kingdom, I would bare all to display.”
“You drunk,” said a neighbouring lad, “and if you do that you will offend Bajan sensitivities; and to besides, we losing. You may delight the Trini posse ’cause they accustomed to that sort of thing, but we don’t do that in Bubadus.”
“Lef the youngster,” said a lady, anxious to view Caucasian exposure and so forth.
“I’ll put a Grantley on that,” said the lad’s Caucasian friend. He was in sixth heaven.
“And I another,” said a similarly intoxicated countryman.
“Then you’re on,” declared the young lad; and to the amazement of the nearby patrons he started to strip.
Away went shirt and slippers and pants and, lastly, underpants. With a jump of Olympian proportions, he scaled the intervening security fence and in two twos was on the field of play. It was at the end of the over and the combatants were changing positions. No one noticed at first, by which time the streaker was half-way across the Mecca, heading straight for the umpire, perhaps to appeal for a decision.
“How’s that!” shouted the player at short leg, flabbergasted by the spectre.
“Get him out!” shouted the umpire.
Meanwhile Kensington was in an uproar. The applause, bigger than any so far, echoed in the air. It was louder than for any six thundered.
Word went out to the security guards.
“There is a streaker, naked as hell and supposed to be dangling all.”
“Woman or man?” asked one security guard. “If a man, I ain’t in that.”
“Woman, man or moffrey, your job is to get him and to hold on to him by whatever means so that he does not escape, then hand him over to the authorities.”
To the jeers and the obvious disappointment of the Trini posse, the streaker was captured with disdain and scorn. Both he and the security guards were dribbling and out of breath. The young inebriated creature was removed unceremoniously from the Mecca.
That night the streaker had a bad dream.
“That escapade of yours will land you one month at Dodds, young man,” said a stern authority.
“This is Bubadus and we only allow streaking at Crop Over or where there is a nearby lamp post.
Your crime, according to law, equates you to one who has committed bigamy.
“You are a disgrace to God-fearing Bubadians although you seem to have pleased those in the posse stand.
Even now they may be awaiting an evaluation report on your sexual proclivities, and time to be spent up there may be increased.
“You may go for now, but before you go please pay the court 10 000 Bubadus dollars or 5 000 US dollars or whatever sterling or yen you have.”
Now sober, the lad began to remonstrate with the officers escorting him to St Philip.
“All I did was to run across the playing field without my underpants; nothing was showing. It is not like I brought in a container of cocaine or killed somebody.”
• Harry Russell is a banker. Email [email protected]
