Whispering death

It is midsummer, and England are playing the West Indies at cricket. The teams have completed a three-Test series, which England won 2-0, and they are now playing five matches of 50 overs a side, a form of the game that suits the big-hitting Caribbean batsmen. You would have thought that West Indian supporters would be flocking to the ground, yet they are staying away in their thousands.

At Lord’s, Trent Bridge and Edgbaston, which staged the Test matches, the West Indian supporters could have arrived on a decent-sized bus. Returning to Lord’s last week, for a one-day game against Middlesex, played in excellent weather, you could count the black faces on the fingers of four hands. Sadly, West Indians born in this country have given up on the game that meant so much to their parents and grandparents.

There was a time when you couldn’t keep them away. V.S. Naipaul, attending the Lord’s Test of 1963, wrote a wonderful essay inspired by eavesdropping on the conversations of the West Indian supporters. In 1975, when West Indies won the World Cup final there, hundreds of their followers ran on to the outfield before the game was over, and it took minutes of confusion before the match could run its natural course.

In the 1970s and 1980s, when West Indies were cocks of the walk, English grounds were full of their supporters. They knew their cricket, too. These were not simply big-event attenders. They liked to engage you in the history and folklore of the game, and would relish good banter. In short, they were good folk to spend a day with.

Alas, those days have gone, never to return. For a younger generation brought up in our cities football is their game of choice.