Mai'khi C'NiaAND IT came to pass that the 'calypso cricketers', the same Windies, also known as the Worst Indies, journeyed to the land Down Under, to challenge for the trophy named after a knight named Frank, the son of Worrell. And they were likened unto a flock of lambs, docile and tentative, venturing into the domain of a ferocious dingo. Yea, their timing was utterly detrimental for the Tasmanian devil was licking wounds sustained in a brawl with a pitbull from the Mother Country, and was in need of a mark on which to dump its chagrin.
Those were the days when the Windies were the whipping boys of every 'Johnny-Come-Lately' in international cricket, and the people of the lands of the Caribbean Sea suffered unending heartbreak, for their beloved team gave new meaning to the adage 'once a man twice a boy'. Verily, they progressed from infancy to all-conquering standard bearers, and art now simply horrendous ... sharing the sandbox with the minnows of the fraternity, and displaying a god-awful brand of cricket.
HABIT OF LOSING
Dearly beloved, the calypso cricketers have acquired a habit of losing and hath fashioned it into a universe all their own. Observe ye how they repeatedly snatch defeat from the arms of victory and constantly stretch the loyalty of e'en their most unshakeable supporters with ineptitude, which is as mind-boggling as it is atrocious.
Now there was a certain commentator named Mikey, known as the Rolls Royce to some and the Whispering Death to others, former terror of batsmen and a man who possessed authentic credentials as an expert of the game. The same Mike declared to all creation that the World Champions of Cricket would make mincemeat of the calypso-cricketers on their home turf. Yea, Mike the oracle foresaw a whitewash Down Under, for the team from the Caribbean lacked quality and was unimpressive in their capabilities. And it became evident that Mike had set his goat mouth on the tourists, for they were chewed up a spat out by the much vaunted Aussies, who broke nary a sweat in romping to a two nil lead in the three-game series.
ALL EYES ON LARA
Dearly beloved, all eyes were upon Brian Charles, the Prince of Port-of-Spain, record breaker extraordinaire, biggest bat in the modern game, and WINDIES trump card. But Brian Charles had a modest start of the series, exacerbated by some debilitating umpiring, and whenever the 'big man' falters the WINDIES art dismal. Verily I say unto thee, Brian Charles is the true Atlas, for Headley hath not such neophytes alongside him, as do Brian Charles in this day.
And it came to pass that Brian Charles recognizing that the situation was ripe for his special vintage, stamped his class upon the
proceedings, putting the Aussie bowling to the sword, and in the process waltzed to the number one position in test runs scored, dethroning a son of Tasmania who was deferential in relinquishing his record to the Caribbean batting maestro. But his exploits were of naught, for the Aussies prevailed, casting the WINDIES asunder like dust blowing on the outback, and vindicating the predictions of the Rolls Royce.
Hear oh Jamdown; let not thy prejudices belittle the enormity of Brian Charles, for he hath earned unto himself a prominence that is superior to e'en Sir Don, who is a Bradman. But enjoin thine hearts in adulation and proclaim this day that Brian Charles is truly the monarch of the cricketing kingdom, and know ye that our generation art truly blessed to have beheld his poetry in motion at the crease, and to witness a legend in his own lifetime. Selah.
