Innings of a genius
---A tribute to Carl Hooper
by Ian McDonald
Stabroek News
March 18, 2001
I have been dismayed at the strength of the opposition in some
quarters to Carl Hooper's appointment as Captain of the West Indies. I
was particularly shocked at the irrational virulence of Michael
Holding's opposition. I have high admiration not only for Holding's
greatness as a cricketer but also for his intelligence and shrewdness
as a student of the game. He could have expressed his opposition to
Hooper as captain in measured terms and his views would have been
received with respect. But for a West Indian cricketing personality of
Holding's stature to go off the rails in the way he has undermines the
team he loves, confuses and demotivates the very youngsters he hopes
to nurture, divides us when we should be coming together and all in
all does great harm to West Indian cricket.
I myself believe that Carl Hooper has given enough proof that he has
matured as a man and as a cricketer and well deserves the honour of
leading the West Indies. But I understand that his chequered history
of leaving the team in the lurch more than once makes an opposite view
arguable.
However, what cannot be doubted by anyone - Michael Holding himself
does not hesitate to admit it - is the sheer genius of Hooper's
batting at its best. It must be everyone's hope - even Holding's hope
as he tries not to watch? - that in the course of the series against
South Africa Hooper will rise above the huge pressures on him as the
new leader and find it possible to display in full flower one of the
greatest batting talents the game has ever known.
Some years ago I wrote an article celebrating Hooper's genius as a
batsman. I reproduce it here as tribute to the new Captain.
I have always said, and now can happily say again, that Carl Hooper
is a cricketing genius. Years ago I wrote the following:
"I remember, in 1956, not long after arriving in Guyana to work
and live, I went to Bourda and saw for the first time a young batsman
play an innings of such assured and peculiar brilliance that though he
did not stay long on that occasion I knew what I had seen marked the
batsman down as a genius in the art of batting. That night I wrote my
father in Trinidad that I had that day seen "the best batsman in
the world". That young batsman's name was Rohan Kanhai and I
never had any cause to change my opinion after that first glorious
sight of perhaps the most marvellous batsman cricket has yet produced.
About 30 years later - as I get older my memory for precise dating
grows less assured but can recapture still the glory of the actual
play - I had a second, very similar experience. I was at Bourda and
for the first time I was watching young Carl Hooper bat. Again I felt
the frisson that tells you that you are in the presence of something
exceptional. (A.E. Housman wrote that he recognised true poetry when
the hair rose on the nape of his neck as he read). I went home,
certain about what I had seen, and wrote a letter, this time to that
great man, wonderful player, and most astute of cricket connoisseurs,
Jeffrey Stollmeyer, and reported that I had seen a young who would one
day join the band of heroes. This young batsman had all the time in
the world to play his shots. The bowler bowled and it seemed young
Hooper might have wandered off to pluck a flower or kiss a pretty girl
in the crowd and come back to hit the ball gloriously for four past
cover point. And he had the power, the smooth power. And he had the
presence. Here indeed was a hero in the making."
(Before I go on, I might perhaps add that one other time I have seen
a young batsman and written about him in similar terms - this time to
Tony Cozier a year ago about Shivnarine Chanderpaul. We shall see if
glory touches him also as his career unfolds).
At the beginning all went more than well with young Hooper. He soon
became one of the great young West Indians - in 1987, for instance,
dominating the regional Youth series as it had never been dominated
before and is unlikely ever to be dominated again. When he entered
upon his first-class career in the regional competition he at once
scored a century which he himself remembers with particular delight
and which made him a hero in the eyes of the knowledgeable
cricket-lovers at Kensington. Very soon, as if by royal right, he was
called to Test cricket and in his second match, in India in 1988, in
the natural order of things he scored a century. It all seemed
effortless and ordained. One could sit back and admire and not worry
too much any longer about our middle order batting. In due course he
would enter the kingdom where only the likes of the three W's and
Sobers and Lloyd and Kanhai and Richards reign.
We all know what happened then. His career entered a strange and
bewildering doldrums from which he has struggled to emerge. In his
batting there have been any number of inexplicable failures. It is not
that he has lacked temperament - many times he has played a crucial
role at nerve-tingling times: witness only his acclaimed 134 in the
third Test in Pakistan in 1989 and, of course, his role in the famous
tied International at Bourda a few weeks ago. And it certainly is not
that there is any fundamental flaw in his technique - the technical
apparatus of his batting is superb. And his brilliant talent has been
acknowledged even by his most stubborn detractors.
It has seemed more a matter of carelessness and lack of
concentration. And perhaps there was in it an element of mounting
over-anxiety to please, to make amends to those who kept the faith in
him. He must prove at once, or very early in an innings that he was
the masterly batsman everyone expected him to be. And when he failed,
again, so the next time it was even more important to prove his talent
quickly and dramatically. So do young men, overawed by adulation, put
pressure on themselves to perform at some supreme, impossible pitch.
He should have grafted more and longer - except that genius finds it
hard to graft.
So let us come to the occasion when Carl Hooper at last, surely, put
even the most tenacious of doubters to flight. Sadly, we in Guyana
were not able to watch his great innings of 178 not out at the Antigua
Recreation Ground. The failure of the television transmission was a
serious deprivation. But still it was music to the ears to listen with
growing satisfaction as Hooper's innings unfolded from its first
careful and even tentative beginnings to assured mastery as he
gathered confidence to dominating brilliance as his genius flowered.
How full the heart felt for the young man who has had to endure so
long a travail and bear such a burden of carping criticism! How good
it was to hear the commentators' unstinted praise and acknowledgment
of an extraordinary talent now finding full expression: a pull shot
worthy of the great Richards, a straight drive with something of the
power of Greenidge and the elegance of Dujon, a late cut whose
original was Frank Worrell's patent, a most delicate leg glance which
one remembered from the repetoire of Jeffrey Stollmeyer, a square
drive which Lawrence Rowe might have fashioned. All of these great
names were invoked. Here at last was Hooper mentioned in company he
deserved.
Of course he impressed his own brand of genius on the stroke-making
and the commentators tried their best to measure it. But they found it
hard. It was said of Frank Woolley that in one over there might be an
exquisite off-drive, followed by a perfect cut, then an effortless
leg-glide. In the next over, and the next, the same sort of thing
happened. And soon the superlatives became repetitive. Now one felt
that the commentators were having that sort of trouble with Hooper. So
they called in aid our great men to compare.
After a while, though, my ear became attuned to something heard
through the commentary which I might not have perceived if I had been
viewing the innings on television. I might have missed it in the
excitement of watching. I realised that the descriptions and the
comments were not all there was to hear. There was something much
more, something which put me more subtly, more richly, in touch with
the true spirit of that great innings. In the end, one did not need
the commentary to sense that something special was unfolding. Before
the stroke's description one could hear the gasp of the crowd, the
in-drawn breath of sudden, high admiration and the drawn-out "aaah"
of deep satisfaction which are the most heart-felt tribute any
audience ever gives to any artist. They are the best measure of the
triumph of genius. The commentator's, or the critic's, subsequent
praise can only fall short of such spontaneous tribute.
Not long ago I read a passage in the autobiography of the sculptor
Eric Gill:
"And while I am thus writing about the beauty and impressiveness
of technical prowess I cannot, for it made an immense difference to my
mind, omit the famous name of Ranjitsinhji. Even now, when I want to
have a quiet wallow in the thought of something wholly delightful and
perfect, I think of Ranji on the county ground at Hove .... There were
many minor stars, each with his special and beloved technique, but
nothing on earth could approach the special quality of Ranji's batting
and fielding .... I only place it on record that such craftsmanship
and grace entered into my very soul."
I never saw Ranjitsinhji but I felt I knew what Eric Gill meant
because I had seen Frank Worrell and I had seen Rohan Kanhai. And now,
I think, the commentators, seeing Hooper's innings, sensed the feeling
too.
When Hooper was well launched and beginning to exult in the freedom
his exceptional gifts at last allowed him, one could sense through the
candences of the crowd's expressive voice the awe his batting was
generating and the pure delight he was giving. What more could an y
sportsman, craftsman, artist desire? He was lifting his audience along
on his wave of glory - you could hear and feel it. He knows what the
feeling is like now for the first time - the unreserved blessing of a
home crowd. He knows what heroes feel like. I hope he has got the
unforgettable taste of it and that he will yearn to savour more. That
is the spur. Forget statistics. That feeling is fame's true spur. May
it drive him on the rest of a long career which will bless us all and
honour the game.