Hooper's Greatest Innings Ever

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 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 anyn umber 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 - expect that genius finds it hard to graft.

The set-backs and the long periods when achievement did not match the expectional talent (had the promise been less, perhaps the criticism would have been lower-keyed) led to an increasing stream of criticism which must have become hard for the young man to bear. Despite his many achievements and growing contribution to the West Indian team as a steadily improving slow bowler and peerless slip catcher, the criticism has focused exclusively on his batting failures. (And there is merit in that. I think Hooper will end up taking over 10 Test wickets.

But it is true that one doesn't spend much time describing Mozart's literary efforts or Derek Walcott's paintings. Carl Hooper is a batman). Even on those occasions when he has done reasonably well with the bat the success has been belittled as too little too late. At times the voices raised against him have become a chorus which seemed to endanger his place on the team. Even Tony Cozier, most knowledgeable of cricket commentators, has been strangely perverse in emphasizing Hooper's failures, down-grading Hooper's successes, and making the case more often than not why he should be dropped. For a young man, as I say, it must have been hard to bear.

The anti-Hooper campaign has always seemed to me utterly misguided. You do not lightly cast aside genius when you are lucky enough to have discovered it. The selectors must have sensed that. Certainly Richie Richardson knew it: is it my imagination or has Richardson over the last few difficult months for Hooper made a point of putting an arm around the young man's shoulders whenever the opportunity arises? At least Hooper will have known that his captain's confidence in him is secure.

Those who have been prepared to drop Hooper should remember the story of Frank Worrell and the English batsman Tom Graveney. I think it was in 1963 the West Indies were touring England. Two days before the first Test the captain Frank Worrell came into the dressing room where the West Indian team were relaxing after a work-out. He had a bottle of champagne in his hand and with a smile he invited the team to join him in a drink. A couple of the boys, mystified, asked him why the celebration on what was only the eve of the first Test. With a broad grin Frank Worrell explained: "The jack-asses! They leave out their best man - Tom Graveney not in the side!"

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, a 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 repertoire 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 band 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 realized 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 indrawn 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 cadences of the crowd's expressive voice the awe his batting was generating and the pure delight he was giving. What more could any sportsman, craftsman, artist desire? He was lifting his audience along on his wave of glory - you could hear and feel it. He knows that 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.

* Ian McDonald is a well-known Caribbean columnist. This column first appeared in Guyana's Stabroek News.