I don’t like cricket. I love it.
Sometimes in a love affair you have to be tested to realize what you have. Sometimes you have to face a future without that love to cherish the present.
A few years into my West Indies career I am dropped, and the funds dry up just as the runs had before. Back in Kingston, back from the spotlight, back on the hustle and the worry.
Lucas is a family, and a family looks after its own. A beautiful lady named Miss Cook sees that a youngster needs help, and she finds me a job with the Port Authority down by the docks. She’s passed away now, and I’m sorry every day, because a woman like Miss Cook makes a heartless world a softer place, and a woman like Miss Cook changes a young man in ways she’ll never know.
So I have this job, and to get through downtown Kingston in rush-hour traffic means you have to ride the bus extra early. When I reach the office I am still half-asleep, bag in hand with kit in to practise afterwards, but no chance to practise until the real day is done.
I sit there on my first day, quiet office rather than warm and noisy streets outside, a computer screen and keyboard in front of me. As I look around and wonder a trolley arrives with some big, big files. You hope they’re not for you. They are for you. My job is to go through each one and input page after page of data. No thrills, no spills, no changes of pace and no chat from anyone about anything.
I’m a sleepy man even after a long lie-in. Getting up before dawn I’m barely awake enough to move my data fingers. The head starts to nod. The eyelids are dropping like the shutters on Mr Lecky’s store. The pile of files stays the same.
I ask where the bathroom is, go into the stuffy smelly cubicle and have to take five on the toilet seat. ‘I jus’ wan’ a likkle five . . .’
Morning blurs into afternoon. Day turns into day. No batting, no off spin, no catching, no competition. Just those files, never getting smaller, going only to be replaced by identical ones with all the same numbers in a slightly different order.
I begin to obsess about my lunch break. Kevin Murray works at the nearby sports shop, Sports and Games, walking distance two minutes. Lunchtime I am straight over there. I won’t even eat lunch in the cafeteria, because I’m a youngster surrounded by some big women, and the men are even bigger and even more intimidating. I’m the only youngster in the office, and stern looks and words are all around. To kill an hour at Sports and Games, to talk cricket with Kevin Murray, to just chill and relax, is all I have to look forward to. Occasionally they will let me off work a little earlier to get to cricket practice. It becomes the light that I must gravitate towards, the porthole in a ship that’s going down.
The mornings are the hardest. Giving yourself an hour to get there. The bus ram and jam-pack. Travelling with your little bag of kit in case training can be squeezed in afterwards. Dreading the day before you.
I’ll never forget the moment. There is a tour to Australia going on, and the chat on the bus is all about it. I’m not on the tour but I am on the bus. The promise comes naturally: ‘Whenever I get the chance to get back on the team, I’m going to take it. If the chance doesn’t come, I will make it. When I walk out of this office, I’m never walking back in.’
And so it begins. Climbing back up the hills. Scoring the runs in first-class cricket. Making my selection a must-do decision rather than an option.
There will be no turning back. The love affair burn afresh, and the passion is rising.
People call me a gun for hire. Sixteen franchises in nine different countries across five continents.
People call me a mercenary. A year that goes Pakistan Super League in February, Indian Premier League in April and May, Caribbean Premier League from June to July, NatWest Blast in England in August, maybe some Ram Slam in South Africa or Bangladesh Premier League in November and into the Big Bash in Australia to end it all.
If I’m a gun for hire, I’m a man who loves each assignment. If I’m a mercenary I grew up amid sporting conflict and I take pleasure in every fresh battle I spark.
People think it’s all about the cold cash. When you’re on the road for 10 months, jumping from team to team, it’s more about the confusion.
You step into a new franchise, the first thing you try to do is to get the names of your new team-mates right. And more often than not, I don’t get the names right. I have to wait until the players put their shirts on, then I can take a sneaky look and get it. Trouble is, only their surname appears across the shoulders. So it makes me a very formal man – ‘Good to meet you, Badrinath.’ Whispers from my right: ‘His first name is Subramaniam.’ Gayle: ‘Er . . .’
Forget that first name. Even the surname can be hard to pronounce in the IPL or Bangladesh Premier League, and I’m not good at names in the first place. Never was. I will let everyone know at the start so no one gets offended. ‘So just bear wit’ me, yeah? Don’ take it personal. I might give you a nickname instead, oh-kay?’
But nicknames. I might give them one, but they’ll already have another. So just when I’ve worked out they’re called James, I find out they’re never called James. They’re called Sniffer or Trigger or Rhino or something just so impossible to guess.
Some people rely on a fall-back. ‘Hello mate.’ I’m more of a bro man. I’ll call everyone bro. Ten bros in a room. ‘What’s up bro?’ Fifteen bros in a room. So now you know; if I call you bro, I’ve probably forgotten your name, or failed to ever hold it in the first place. That’s how I’ll do it.
One country one day, another the next. From hotel to hotel, never under your own steam. Go out at night and you can forget the name of the hotel you’re staying in, so you become reliant on the driver of the car laid on to take you places. His name you don’t forget. You go down to breakfast and give the room number from your last hotel. Sign a bill at reception and give another number again. ‘Jus’ check the name. Only one Chris Gayle.’
You travel light. You have to, because every team has a different kit. For a Jamaican man who likes to look different it is the one time to accept that you will look as someone else chooses. The RCB kit works for me. What’s not to like about a gold helmet for the gold standard? If it doesn’t, you take it for the team. You alone cannot say, ‘Lissen mi, change this. It’s not my colour.’ Don’t stress about the colour scheme and don’t stress about the accessories. A word to your sponsor and they will make sure a set of pads arrives in time with the right shade at the right hotel.
World Boss travel business class or first class. World Boss travel easy: two bags, one with bats, one with clothes. No iPad or laptop, sometimes not even a belt in the trousers. When so many days are airports, too many hours are lost to queues. A phone for chat and Twitter and Instagram, a head for the simple things.
Arrive in a new hotel room. Jump the bed first. Is it a comfy one? Check your bathroom. TV on. Check your view.
Check your menu. With the attention I get even in the lobby I am king of the T20 regime and I am also king of the room service scene. I’ve eaten more club sandwiches than any other living man. I’ve signed more chits than an Indian government clerk. I can tip a man in 12 different currencies.
I’ll do a lot of sleeping, especially during the day. If you want to hit the nightclubs, you need your sleep. And everyone knows not to call me early mornings. Never wake me up.
Down come the blinds. No light can come in. This is my comfortable cave, this is my safe retreat. Under the floodlights at night I dazzle. In the daylight I sleep it off and wait for the next surge to arrive.
Club sandwiches and water, pancakes and hot chocolate. Six Machine runs on simple fuel. When runs are scored Hennessy adds fire to the sparks.
I’m not a caffeine man, but in franchise cricket I sink an energy drink before I bat. Make sure there is always a drink for me ready to go. All the time. It will give you a buzz, really. That aggressive mood, put you on red alert. You might think it a problem if your wicket falls early and you have all that energy to burn. So put it back into supporting the guys. Put it into the watching and the working the nuances.
Because I am playing cricket rather than riding buses. I’m talking to team-mates rather than scary older ladies in a cruel canteen. I’m seeing the wide wide world rather than the inside of a toilet cubicle door.
I have my memories of the affair and I have my keep-sakes, a shirt from every team I’ve played for, in every season. It’s quite a collection, even if sometimes when I have guests they’ll borrow one, take it and be gone, or people will ask for one to raise funds, so I’ll give one away for their charity.
World Boss loves to see his world. Bangladesh, great people. South Africa, much love back. Every franchise I represent, I’ve never had a hiccup with anyone. Whatever you want they will try to get. If they can’t get it they will try again. I have to thank each and every one, and because you get taken care of, you want to deliver for them as well.
I’m looking forward to playing on around the world, however long until I say when. Keep touring the T20 universe. Keep building franchises. Keep shining, and keep entertaining. And have fun at the same time.
Call me a mercenary if you like. But that’s a lot of love for a man supposed not to care.
You take special times in unexpected places. You celebrate the cricket and you let the cricket carry you to experiences that the kid from Rollington Town never knew were out there, let alone ever within reach.
I was supposed to play for Somerset a few years ago, only for a situation with the West Indies Cricket Board to intervene. A contract had to be cancelled, but the personal commitment remained even as the legal one had to be torn up. ‘Lissen mi, I owe you guys, so whenever I get the chance to play for Somerset again, I’ll just be ready.’
So when after the IPL 2015 I had a slot for a few matches, it was an easy choice. Not even any big negotiations, just, ‘I owe you, I’ll come and play for you.’
Four games in the NatWest Blast lined up. I told them I would be in London, and they said that’s fine, just find your way to the ground. So straight to London, straight to parties. Let them know the World Boss is in town. When’s the game? No problem, no time for net sessions, still no problem. Where is it? Essex? Cool, I won’t come to Taunton, I’ll meet you there.
Except there’s a lot of sex around London. Essex. Middlesex. Sussex.
I called on my friend Donovan Miller, who knows about a town called Chelmsford. He took me out there to avoid all the other ’sex on offer. We reached it a little early, but that gave me time to see my new team-mates come in and meet and greet each and every one. ‘Hey bro . . . All good bro? . . . ’Scuse me bro – what’s that bro called? Cheers bro.’
Into the field for a few throw-downs, and a bat in my hand for the first time since wheels landed at Heathrow. I started hitting a few balls, hitting a few balls, trusting the Six Machine magic had come with me in the single kit bag.
Into the field, me into the slots at first slip, Marcus Trescothick keeping wicket. West Country born, raised in the chill winds of the English summertime. He looked at me and shook his head. ‘Cold, isn’t it?’
Gloves and pads on him, thick sweater. Thoughts – ‘Is he serious? This is my first game, and he’s telling the man from Jamaica that he’s cold? How would I feel at first slip here?’ Words under my breath, ‘Lissen mi, batsman, just don’t nick anything, okay? If you nick anything to me it’s a waste of time. So nick it to the man wearing two pairs of gloves, yeah?’
They set us 176. Back out there with Trescothick, both with gloves on this time. The usual look-and-see start, ignoring the first five deliveries, dabbing a single off the sixth, yet I couldn’t middle the ball. Just couldn’t get my timing right. Two overs, three overs, and it still wasn’t there. Eighteen deliveries and I was only on six. Trescothick then got out for 20. Okay. Time for World Boss to conquer new kingdoms.
‘Lissen, you been in this situation before. Don’ panic Chris, jus’ keep batting on, an’ you can mek it up back down at the end.’
And then one over, I hit one through the covers and it went for four. Hit another one, and then things started to flow. Getting a feel for the wicket, getting a feel for the bowling. Shaun Tait bowling flat-out fast, Graham Napier more cunning, but everything suddenly boom boom.
I started to hit a few balls out of the park. Three sixes, four sixes, five. Six sixes for the Six Machine, a little poetry for the opening-night crowd. Closing in on the total, closing the door on them. I tried to finish with another six, only to be caught for 92, but with only 13 needed off 10 balls the bros squeezed us home.
The mood had been established. The rhythm was in place.
Back to London, out to party again. ‘Guys, I know it’s a long drive, so I’ll come down to Somerset the day before the game.’ The coach, Matthew Maynard, understood my thoughts and what works for me. ‘Okay, whatever you say big man. Just keep us posted.’
Out west the night before. Finding my feet, finding out what time the game started. Finding the ground. Meeting some executives, meeting the CEO, meeting the fans.
And the fans were something special. Autographs, photographs, fist-bumps. It was just unbelievable – I signed for an hour, then more, then kept signing. Into the dressing-room with the players, forming those bonds, learning those names. ‘Your name Tregs? You tell me what this guy Peter Trego looks like? What you say? That’s you one and same? Apologies, bro . . .’
New friends, new surroundings, new words on the lips. Scrumpy pumpy, a bar order and a vibe and an education roll into one.
Kent up next. They batted beautifully under West Country rays, the opener Daniel Bell-Drummond 51, the finisher Sam Northeast 114, hammering us all over the park, beatin’ it, beatin’ it. 227 to chase down, a serious task ahead of us.
I opened out a little slow again. The team started slower. 22 for two and going down the gurgler.
Then the magic began to flow. Three long and handsome sixes in eight balls, up with the run rate, up to a half-century off 29 balls.
Time to get to know my surroundings. A six into the River Tone, and another, and another with my new friend the swimmer stripping off to fetch it. Over in that direction, St James’s churchyard, and a peppering of the gravestones with some more high and mighty blows. Ghosts and duppies, graves and marble, white leather and rebounds. So that’s the Sir Ian Botham Stand that one bounced out of, and those flats with windows in danger are Pegasus Court, and those hills in the distance that the next one nearly reached are the Quantocks, or are they the Blackdowns, or are they the Brendons?
To my century off 45 balls. But wickets kept falling even as we were chasing chasing, and I couldn’t get on strike, and with two balls to go we needed 10, and the bowler came up with a brilliant delivery right on my toes. A six to finish it and take me to 151, but in a losing cause. Those supporters singing on the scrumpy and cheering every ball gone over the stands left to applaud and wonder at the numbers – 150 off 62 balls, 10 fours and 15 sixes. And even Kent could enjoy the entertainment, their coach, Jimmy Adams, inviting me into the dressing-room. Everybody taking selfies, a photograph with the entire team, laughing, ‘Well done big man . . .’ Pretty cool, pretty cool.
And it continued. 89 not out from 45 balls against Hampshire, eight sixes sent sailing, a win sealed from the last of them with two and a half overs still to run.
Not everything came off. Spinner Danny Briggs was bowling, and the guy bowled a good over, so as he came on for his next one, I said to the wicketkeeper, ‘Yeah man, this over gonna go for runs.’
‘You want a bet, big man?’
‘Yeah, and if I don’t do it, I give you a bat.’
‘How many you taking me for?’
‘Three sixes. Maybe more.’
And I didn’t get the job done. I got one. So I gave him a bat after the game, because I am a man who fulfils his bets.
‘Thanks man. I’m going to frame this one . . .’
One more game to go, and the English summer rain washed it out. Left high and dry on 328 runs from three innings, two not outs, so an average to match my total. And a strike rate of 192, meaning off every ball I faced, I scored an average of almost two runs.
All pleasure, all part of a job that can never feel like a job.
The hospitality in Somerset, the fans, the nights in Taunton’s bars and clubs. This is why a man plays cricket, this is why a World Boss travels the world.
Everywhere I go, the high fives and tall drinks. When I first heard about scrumpy I imagined it as the Somerset version of a Jamaican fruit punch. Then all I heard was how dangerous it was, followed by how many someone had ordered for me. All smiles and winks – ‘I’d love to see you try two of these, mate!’
Then the quieter times and the bigger compliments. An old boy coming over for a pat on the arm and a shake his head. ‘Now sir, I’ve seen Viv Richards, but I’d never seen you. I’d seen Viv, but Chris, you’re different. Just unbelievable. Watching cricket for fifty years, I’ve ever seen anything like this.’
On an’ on. I get to know my team-mates and I grow to love their company. Tregs is Peter Trego and then when I’m in the groove he’s Tregs once again, and it’s his benefit year and he’s got a benefit match going on against South Devon, would I fancy coming along? Not to play, just to be around and have some fun and sign some bats and glad some hands.
Of course! On the sideline, a little watery sun, drinking some rum and Coke. Toasting the Port Authority office, tweeting the rum, tweeting the good times. Chatting with the fans, them buying me rum and Cokes, me buying them beers.
And then for some reason, against the promises and the logic, with the mood and atmosphere, they say they want me to put on the pads and go out to bat.
‘What? A lot of rum go down . . .’
They insist. So I borrow some pads, put them over my jeans, leather jacket, black cap turned backwards.
Out I go, and I can’t even see the ball. I’m trying to hit a six for the crowd, and it’s like playing with the cap pulled over my eyes, or with an invisible ball. Swing, edge. Swing, miss. Swing – what’s that, I’m at the non-striker’s end?
I drop my phone going for a quick single which is a very slow single. I drop my guard and trust my new friends and new surroundings entirely.
Yuh cyaan keep a good man down.
I call a kid on and ask for a different bat. Maybe it’s the bat. It must be the bat, because eventually I do hit a six, over the rope, over the fence, into the road. Junior Senior playing on the PA, arms in the air like it’s my triple century. ‘Everybody, move your feet and feel united . . .’
Another, all muscle and fumes on the rum. Bowing to the crowd. Snatches of shocked conversations blowing in from the crowd in front of the Portaloos at long leg: ‘Is that really Chris Gayle playing for South Devon?’
Eventually I have to come to my own rescue and come off, yet the night goes on. At some point I even sign for the season. South Devon’s club secretary, Ian Shepherd, comes up to me and hands me a pen and a piece of paper. ‘World Boss, you’ve got to sign for us. Now.’ So I scribble on the paper, which turns out to be a Devon League registration form, and suddenly there’s another franchise to add to the list, this time one in the Devon Cricket League ‘B’ Division side.
For the record, my new team finished that season seventh in that league. Let me tell you, we’re not finished. Chudleigh CC, we’re coming for you. Ipplepen, watch your back. Plymstock, Gaylestock com’ fi blow yuh away!
You don’t need a noisy nightclub to find fun. My life has been measured out in cricket pavilions, and in this one I’m even serving behind the bar, even serving their real ales once the barman shows me the pull. A great day and great night, a lot of happy people. ‘Hey Chris, you can stay down here if you want . . .’
New lands, new experiences. A spot of golf, Tregs bringing the outfits Jamaican-style – black plus-fours with yellow, black and red flashes, matching cap, knee-high white socks. I lean on the same line as Muhammad Ali when he was once asked if he was any good at the game. ‘I’m the best. I just haven’t played yet.’ Although there seems to be a lot of walking in golf, and that may be a flaw they want to look at.
A spot of shopping in Selfridges, a bumping-into with David Beckham. ‘Yo Becks!’ We take a picture together, just strolling without any harassment, just walking cool and collected. Easy-going, the big man Beckham. A very cool five minutes. For both of us.
A man travels and a man learns. A man says something and he learns from the reaction who he can trust and who he cannot.
So it is at the Big Bash in January 2016, when I’m playing for Melbourne Renegades against Hobart Hurricanes. I’m out and Channel 10’s reporter Mel McLaughlin comes over to ask me about my dismissal.
Now T20 is different. It’s not Test cricket. It’s chilled and fun and let’s do things different. So when Mel asks me that question I stay in the T20 mind, and answer informal and fun . . . and this is certainly different.
‘I wanted to come and have an interview with you as well – that’s the reason I’m here, to see your eyes for the first time. Hopefully we win this game and we can have a drink after.’ A pause and a grin. ‘Don’t blush, baby . . .’
I meant it as a joke. I meant it as a little fun. I didn’t mean to be disrespectful and I didn’t mean it to be taken serious. Channel 10’s commentary team could be heard laughing in the background, and even their own official Twitter account joined in: ‘Gayle to Mel: “Hopefully we can win this and have a drink after. Don’t blush baby” #smooth.’
But someone up above them clearly decided to step in, and a throwaway comment in a fun format escalates and blows up and within hours it has turned into a major international incident.
Suddenly I’m the number one thing trending on Twitter worldwide. Kim Kardashian is nowhere. Headlines and news reports and outrage and uh-oh . . .
I tried to phone Mel that same day. Because of everything that was going on, I wanted to apologize in person. It didn’t happen; I couldn’t get hold of her. But when we had been at the ground I got the impression it was no big deal for her. No one in the stadium complained. No one at the franchise complained. Mel then asked everyone to move on. Except some wouldn’t.
It all came down upon me. Ex-cricketers and former team-mates bringing things up, making comments to the media, saying things they had never said to my face. Some parts of the media throwing petrol on the flames, chasing me round airports, accusing me of things I’ve never done and would never do. Everyting all outburst.
People I thought I could trust, suddenly turning into cartoon characters. Andrew Flintoff, tweeting it out: ‘Big fan of @henrygayle but made himself look a bit of a chop there.’ This coming from a man who admitted he took Viagra during a Test match. Freddie Flintstone, a young boy like you taking Viagra? Don’t lecture me. The only chop Freddie knows is when he used to bowl short to me and I would chop him past backward point for four.
Then it was former Aussie opener Chris Rogers, acting more like Roger Rabbit, claiming I’d led young players astray when we’d played together at Sydney Thunder. Chris Rogers, how can you claim that when it was you and me at the bar most nights? I’m not a snitch, but I’ve heard from your own mouth what you’ve done. Next time you want to open your mouth, maybe chew on a carrot instead.
Ian Chappell, calling for me to be banned worldwide. Ian Chappell, a man who was once convicted of unlawful assault in the West Indies for punching a cricket official. Ian Chappell, how can you ban the Universe Boss? You’d have to ban cricket itself.
I was just being my usual joyful self, giving a compliment. I’ve given bigger compliments to other reporters many times, and no one complained and no one used me for a punchbag.
So I learned from it. I learned when big players in the Big Bash were happy to back me in private but not in public, while a real friend supports you both ways. I learned when players who claimed they had my back said they had no opportunity to go public with their support, even as their Twitter and Instagram accounts sat quiet and cold. I learned when accusations started flying and suddenly those same friends were nowhere to be seen. I learned that some commentators could be fakes to my face, and I learned how my name could be hijacked by people to get their story highlighted, to bang their drum, to sell newspapers and to build their audience figures. I learned all right.
Don’t hate me just because I’m not what you want me to be. Don’t hate me because I’m not who you are. I am me and I am honest. I stand by my friends and my friends stand by me.
Too many people were scared to speak out. Too many people were happy to see these things happen to me. But it didn’t break me, only built me. I’ve spent my life fighting through tough situations, and I will always pull through, whether you help me or not.
Breathe, an’ let the stress an’ anger go. Sometimes it’s hard to take your own advice. Sometime it’s hard to stay with your philosophy, when the stress and anger swirl around your head and you feel like you can’t escape.
And so. If you’re the man making money out of your Don’t Blush Baby T-shirts and merchandise and everything else you can rattle off to feed the fans, don’t forget to pay a percentage to the Chris Gayle Foundation, so some good can come out of all this.
Just don’t stand around waiting for me to blush. It hasn’t happened since the shy boy became a man. Baby.
This office is not a quiet one. This working environment hum and come alive all hours, all days.
500,000 followers on Instagram. Climbing towards three million on Twitter.
You share the love, you share the pleasure. Sometimes something just pops up in my head, and I have to communicate. It gets me in trouble, but that’s the thinking in the moment – just blast it out, just talk what is on my mind at that particular time.
I’m a weirdo. You cyaan know me. The moods come down and I’m a different person, and when I get in those moods I can be on Twitter for a couple of hours, talking to fans, speaking my weirdo mind.
If some of them are out of place you put them back in their place. If they’re rude I’ll be rude. It doesn’t matter who, I’ll say what I feel. Whoever or wherever, at any particular time. That’s the person I am, and you just have to accept it.
And yet. As a man grow older he learns to curb certain things, let other things slide other days. They used to say don’t drink and dial. Now they should say don’t sip and social media. When you’re drinking, put the smartphone down, because that’s when you’re going to get yourself in trouble.
But oh! When I’m on it, when I’m on the booze, I’ll blast out Twitter even more. Blast it out, some more cheeky ways.
Sometime you’re trying to tweet and you can’t even spell the word. Why are my fingers not working? Phone up close to your nose. They will know what I’m talking about. They will get the point still. Now the autocorrect messes you up. Why is it talking about ducking? Oh yeah . . .
Now what? I’ve never seen this word before. Can I argue with autocorrect? Maybe it knows what word I actually want. Why are the letters in the wrong order?
I’m aware of what I’m doing, but I still feel like doing it. It’s a release for that side of my personality, and without a release a man explodes. And there are worse ways of checking that pressure than popping out a tweet.
Sometimes it’s a little something you can give back. Most people you tweet, you make their day. You give them a tweet, they’ll cherish that tweet for the rest of their year. ‘Oh, Chris Gayle tweet me!’
I like a picture on Instagram. ‘Oh my God! I cyaan believe it!’ Just a tweet to someone. Coming from you it’s just a little chat, like being back in the George Headley Stand at Sabina Park, running jokes, a little tease. And then you retweet somebody, and they tell the entire country. ‘Chris Gayle liked my picture!’
On Instagram I will ‘like’ a lot of pictures. I will ‘like’ pictures of different women, because sometimes you will get a reply that says, ‘You make my day, you make my day.’ Everybody has feelings. And when those likes are coming from a superstar, maybe it does something different. Maybe one or two will feel good within themselves, more confident inside, more confident with how they look outside.
Maybe not. But if it works for one or two in three million, at least I’m not being those big men and big women in the Port Authority canteen. At least I’m talking to all, and I’m talking on each and everyone’s level.
Because the love is still there. And with the passion comes the performance.
The 2015 World Cup, Canberra, Australia. Thunderclouds around the Manuka Oval, and question marks about my commitment and class.
It is 20 innings since my last one-day century, with only one score of 50 or more in that time. Across my seven previous ODI innings this year I am averaging 15. A Six Machine is not a machine that produces only one or two batches at a time. A score is needed, and the clouds must clear.
Drizzle in the air, bright colour on my bat; stripes of red, green and yellow on my grip to bring a little Jamaican rhythm to the middle of the Aussie nowhere. With defeat to Ireland in our first match and a little pride won back against Pakistan we need another win against Zimbabwe to kick on, except Dwayne Smith is bowled second ball for a duck, and then to my first there is a huge appeal for lbw, and everything stops except the thud, thud, thud of my revamp heart.
Umpire Davis. Not out. Maybe he heard an inside edge.
I didn’t.
Zimbabwe refer it. Now we’ll see.
No inside edge.
‘Oh, you gotta be kidding me – not now, not first over . . .’
Hawkeye replays on the big screen. I watch. Thud, thud, thud.
The ball is hitting, but only the top half of the bails. Umpire’s call. Not out.
If it had been given first and I’d referred it, I would have been gone. Still gone. And so I say, ‘Oh-kay, I’m riding this luck today, I’m gonna make the best use of it.’
A slow wicket, and it’s a huge outfield. Bigger than Lord’s, bigger than the Gabba, bigger than Newlands in Cape Town and bigger than Sabina Park. I take my time and make the adjustments. My first six doesn’t come until the 11th over, but that time has not been wasted. I have worked out the bowlers, how they’re using it, how they’re being used.
And once they’re in my half I decide I’m going to go. Start getting it, getting it, start clearing the boundary. Except the boundary is so big, I’m having to time it so sweet and add a little muscle. Most of the sixes look like they’re going out of the ground, only to drop into the red plastic seats or scatter the boozers and dancers on the aisles.
Still it is tactical. The off-spinner Sikandar Raza is bowling well, and will go for just 45 runs off his 10 overs, so I don’t bother with him, just a little milking, only the occasional boundary. I know they have a left-arm spinner, Sean Williams, to work through, and the way they calculate their bowling attack is to load more spinners coming up in the back end, so I say I’ll stick around, but still be attacking at the right time.
And so it is. Forty per cent of the deliveries I face will end as dot balls. It will still be the fastest ever landmark score in World Cup history. Never a slogger, always a thinker. Yuh cyaan read me.
100 off 105 balls. Steady.
35 to 40 overs, and now I’m really picking it. Six Machine is firing. Balls are flying all over the park.
150 off 126. Now we’re cooking. Bowlers wearing scars, bowlers not meeting captain’s eyes.
Two of the spinners, Williams and Tafadzwa Kamungozi, are turning the ball into me. In the 44th and 45th overs, I send them for 21 apiece. In that time I move from 151 to 193, our total from 258 to 300.
I knew that no one had ever hit a double century in the World Cup. I knew that because there had only been four double centuries in 50-over cricket, and I knew that because I don’t like cricket, I love it.
I got to the 200 with a big drive through cover for four. A big smile on my face, helmet off, down onto my knees, arms out wide, helmet in my right hand, big old bat hanging out of my left. Not over-celebrated, but enjoyable.
200, off 138 deliveries. So the second 100 off 33 balls. Commentators yelling it. ‘He went berserk!’
Sixteen sixes, 215 runs. I got out on the last delivery, trying to make it 17. I could live with it, only grins on my face. For once the mask had slipped. That’s the thing about love. Sometime you’ve got to let it show.
Wisdom took me there. Wisdom from experience. When you have a run of low scores like that, there’s always one big innings coming. The magic will return, and when it does, you have to make it big. Cash those chips in. Make it count. Make up for what you’ve missed in all those other innings.
Not all are so wise. The president of the West Indies Cricket Board had retweeted something during that previous match against Pakistan.
‘Gayle goes . . . Can’t buy a run. Let’s give him a retirement package!’
That goes to show what you have to deal with as a cricketer for the West Indies. That goes to show that a man needs a philosophy. Breathe, an’ let the anger go.
At 138 balls, it was the fastest ever ODI 200. Twenty-eight times someone has hit a Test triple century. That one I know first-hand too. At this point now, only six times has someone hit a one-day double hundred.
Only two men have a Test triple century and an ODI double century. Only one man has a Test triple century, an ODI double century and a T20 international century.
Six Machine. World Boss. Universe Boss.