Remembering Bob Woolmer — Mr Cricket

After the passage of so much time, it’s interesting to see how the mind processes assorted memories. What do I actually remember of March 17, 2007? I had arrived in Jamaica a week earlier having been told that Sabina Park boasted a raucous and intimidating atmosphere. But there had been little evidence of that when West Indies beat Pakistan in their opening match. Maybe it was because the expectations from the home side were so low, but there was nothing that day that made the hairs stand on end.

Then the Irish invasion happened. The fans had been loud enough during the dramatic tie against Zimbabwe in their opening match, but it went up several levels when they played Pakistan on St. Patrick’s Day. I remember the Rednex’ Cotton Eye Joe blaring from the stadium PA system, and the random strains of Fields of Athenry and Molly Malone from an Irish contingent whose throats were well lubricated by Red Stripe and Appleton. As morning gave way to afternoon and then the long shadows, the noise inside the ground only grew. A team of part-timers led by an Australian who sold fabrics for a living were playing the game of their lives, and Pakistan seemed to wilt in the Sabina Park cauldron.

Fittingly, it was Trent Johnston, the captain of that ragtag bunch, that finished it off with a mighty six over long-on. The Irish David had felled a giant, and thousands of delirious fans made impromptu plans to head up to Ocho Rios to party the night away.

Those of us with deadlines to meet made our way to the press conferences. I’d attended many of Bob Woolmer’s media interactions over the previous two years, with India and Pakistan having played six Tests and 11 ODIs on either side of the border in a time of relative peace and goodwill. Woolmer had always been a charming and engaging man. His answers were often funny or sarcastic, but he could also explain the nuances of the game more lucidly than most.

That evening though, he just looked beaten. He answered questions with his usual courtesy, but it looked like the inner flame had gone out. I remember telling a friend that there was no way he would survive the hysterical reaction that Pakistan’s exit would cause back home. It didn’t look like he wanted to stay in the job either.

For me, the day didn’t end there. Just as Pakistan’s last rites for the tournament were being administered, news had filtered through from Trinidad that Bangladesh had upset India. In the space of a few hours, two past winners had been pushed to the exit. Pakistan had already fallen through the trap door. India held on till Sri Lanka loosened their grip a week later.

For the ‘nationalist’ brigade in both India and Pakistan, these failures were the perfect opportunity to question the value of having foreign coaches. Greg Chappell’s tenure with India had gone sour after a promising first year, while Woolmer’s authority over the side was never quite the same after the Oval-forfeit fiasco. That neither man was to blame for often shoddy administration and cavalier attitudes to professionalism from certain key players was conveniently overlooked.

After a full bouquet of deadlines, some radio work and a couple of hours inside a bar with celebrating Irish fans, it was well into the wee hours when I went to sleep. Andrew Miller, who was covering an Australia game in St Kitts and Nevis, woke me up in the morning. Instead of the usual pleasantries, he just told me that I’d better make my way to the University Hospital as soon as I could. Woolmer had apparently been taken ill during the night. The news wasn’t good.

The rest of the day just passed as though in some trance. After a couple of hours of waiting near the hospital, it was confirmed that Woolmer had sadly passed away. I then had the awful task of calling up Chappell in Port of Spain, and asking for a reaction. I felt like an idiot. He sounded like he could cry.

I recall eating a quick lunch with Shamya Dasgupta and a couple of other Indian journalists. Whatever Jamaican special we had ordered, it tasted like cardboard in my mouth. Already, the rumour mill was in overdrive, with many ‘sources’ claiming the death was suspicious.

The next few days were farcical. Journalists who had mostly only ever covered meaningless games of sport were suddenly asked to report on a possible homicide. The Jamaican Police, rather than trying to quell the rumours, merely poured gallons of fire on it every day. A botched autopsy report didn’t help, and many news outlets barely stopped short of calling the Pakistan team match-fixers and murderers.

Everyone was competing with the other for a ‘scoop’ of some sort. By then, I had succumbed to an eye infection and was walking around with an eye patch. When in Jamaica, do you best Pirates of the Caribbean impression. The dodgy eyesight didn’t stop me and an American reporter for the Associated Press from sneaking up the fire escape at the Pegasus Hotel to try and access the floor where Woolmer’s room had been. Some delusional Hercule Poirot-Miss Marple fantasy had convinced us the police might be hiding something. The stupidity of trying to gain access to a cordoned-off crime scene wasn’t apparent at the time.

Fortunately, we were thwarted halfway through our misadventure. I left for Guyana a couple of days later, and that was that. Goodbye, alleged crime. Hello, cricket. Those who watched from far away have often labelled it the worst of World Cups. For me, it was my first and an incredible adventure. Heroes were met, friends were made, and there were enough experiences to savour for two lifetimes. But even 15 years on, Woolmer’s death casts the longest of shadows.

I’ve often wondered if there would have been such lingering sadness if the man who died had been less popular than Woolmer. Wherever he had gone and played and coached, he was both respected and adored. This was a man who truly loved the game, Mr. Cricket long before Michael Hussey became a household name.

One thing Chappell told me in the aftermath has stayed with me to this day. “In the light of this tragic event, I think we need to take pause and make sure that we don’t get too stressed about what is after all only a game.”

An even more pithy assessment had come from a dreadlocked gentleman who wandered up to our table at lunch. Once he had figured out what had happened, he said: “Maybe he take it to heart? Even da biggest team can lose to a little team, man. It a game, and da ball round.”