debut: 2/16/17
37,607 runs
Searching for Inshan Ali
Back in the mid-1970s to mid-1990s, whenever the West Indies were playing, a standard feature of the landscape was everyone’s radio tuned to the cricket match. Every passing vehicle blared live commentary. Lots of folks, mainly men, walked around with transistor radios plastered to their ears, and would immediately respond to any request for the latest score. Replies such as, “Two fifty for three, Richards on 88, we are in the driving seat,” were standard fare. However, the high quality broadcasts were more than a source of commentary, as audiences were constantly updated on all manner of subjects in between the action.“We would like to say a special hello to the former West Indies Test bowler, Inshan Ali. Sadly, we heard that he is very ill in hospital and is unable to attend this Test match. We understand that he still maintains a keen interest in the game and he watches every ball of every match on the telecast, or, as in this instance, is listening on the radio,” the commentator had a distinctive Trinidadian accent.
Inshan Ali was a pint -sized (not that he grew much taller) school boy from the tiny village of Preysal when he first caught the attention of the public. As a back of the left- arm (unorthodox) googly and chinaman bowler, he rose to prominence in the Trinidad and Tobago Wes Hall Youth League. At the age of 16, he made his first-class debut in the Annual North-South match, representing the latter team. His arrival in the national squad soon after, was heralded as that of another mystery spinner from the Hummingbird Isle, in the mould of Sonny Ramadhin, as he was already an exponent of the art of disguising the spin on the ball. In his territorial debut, he snared five for 32 off the Windward Islands. “We are looking for Inshan Ali’s home,” Gerry explained, as the car pulled away from the curb.“I know where he lives, I’ll show you,” the driver and another passenger answered in unison, as if they had rehearsed, as we proceeded east, away from the harsh sun.The name adorning the village’s cricket ground reminds visitors of the favoured son – the Inshan Ali Recreation Ground. The driver stopped midway up a slight slope, in front of a white bungalow. It was 5:25 pm.A man and a woman were sitting on a bench at the side of the house. We introduced ourselves, explaining our quest. The man, who bore a worried look, was Asgar, Inshan’s father, and the woman was Zolita, one of his sisters, who brought us up to date on Inshan’s status. Her brother, a cigarette smoker, had fallen ill in January, and was being treated for throat cancer. A few weeks prior, he had been transferred to the San Fernando General Hospital. Most weekends, they brought him home to look at his club, Ready Mix Preysal in action.
Gerry was shaking my shoulder, “Wake up, wake up, we have arrived.” I groggily stumbled from the bus. I rubbed my eyes, 6:45 pm.The San Fernando General Hospital loomed in the moonlight. Our destination was Ward Eight on the second floor. Cautioned by the guard on the ground floor that it was past visiting hours, we returned to the entrance to procure a special pass, which was kindly provided. All the lights were on in the building.“There he is,” Gerry whispered. There was a small television set on a table at the foot of the bed where Ali was curled up, sound asleep; his trademark shock of hair, now grey, still very much there.Ali’s skin was very dark and his visage was that of a very aged person. We introduced ourselves, and there was an immediate sparkle in his eyes. The subject was cricket. He extended his hand. Despite the ravages of his illness, his large palm and unusually long fingers presented a very firm grip. He couldn’t speak, his vocal chords having been removed, but readily grasped the extended notepad to answer my questions. The nurse came in. We had to leave. One final quick question.“Will we ever see another Inshan Ali?” He smiled broadly and shook his head vigorously from side to side. A rasping sound escaped from the back of his throat, “Noooo, nooo.”
We thanked for his time and wished him well. He smiled warmly as he waved goodbye.We stopped at a roadside bar, where I placed an order, “Two Caribs please.” We sipped the beer in silence, lost in our own thoughts.
Back in the mid-1970s to mid-1990s, whenever the West Indies were playing, a standard feature of the landscape was everyone’s radio tuned to the cricket match. Every passing vehicle blared live commentary. Lots of folks, mainly men, walked around with transistor radios plastered to their ears, and would immediately respond to any request for the latest score. Replies such as, “Two fifty for three, Richards on 88, we are in the driving seat,” were standard fare. However, the high quality broadcasts were more than a source of commentary, as audiences were constantly updated on all manner of subjects in between the action.“We would like to say a special hello to the former West Indies Test bowler, Inshan Ali. Sadly, we heard that he is very ill in hospital and is unable to attend this Test match. We understand that he still maintains a keen interest in the game and he watches every ball of every match on the telecast, or, as in this instance, is listening on the radio,” the commentator had a distinctive Trinidadian accent.
Inshan Ali was a pint -sized (not that he grew much taller) school boy from the tiny village of Preysal when he first caught the attention of the public. As a back of the left- arm (unorthodox) googly and chinaman bowler, he rose to prominence in the Trinidad and Tobago Wes Hall Youth League. At the age of 16, he made his first-class debut in the Annual North-South match, representing the latter team. His arrival in the national squad soon after, was heralded as that of another mystery spinner from the Hummingbird Isle, in the mould of Sonny Ramadhin, as he was already an exponent of the art of disguising the spin on the ball. In his territorial debut, he snared five for 32 off the Windward Islands. “We are looking for Inshan Ali’s home,” Gerry explained, as the car pulled away from the curb.“I know where he lives, I’ll show you,” the driver and another passenger answered in unison, as if they had rehearsed, as we proceeded east, away from the harsh sun.The name adorning the village’s cricket ground reminds visitors of the favoured son – the Inshan Ali Recreation Ground. The driver stopped midway up a slight slope, in front of a white bungalow. It was 5:25 pm.A man and a woman were sitting on a bench at the side of the house. We introduced ourselves, explaining our quest. The man, who bore a worried look, was Asgar, Inshan’s father, and the woman was Zolita, one of his sisters, who brought us up to date on Inshan’s status. Her brother, a cigarette smoker, had fallen ill in January, and was being treated for throat cancer. A few weeks prior, he had been transferred to the San Fernando General Hospital. Most weekends, they brought him home to look at his club, Ready Mix Preysal in action.
Gerry was shaking my shoulder, “Wake up, wake up, we have arrived.” I groggily stumbled from the bus. I rubbed my eyes, 6:45 pm.The San Fernando General Hospital loomed in the moonlight. Our destination was Ward Eight on the second floor. Cautioned by the guard on the ground floor that it was past visiting hours, we returned to the entrance to procure a special pass, which was kindly provided. All the lights were on in the building.“There he is,” Gerry whispered. There was a small television set on a table at the foot of the bed where Ali was curled up, sound asleep; his trademark shock of hair, now grey, still very much there.Ali’s skin was very dark and his visage was that of a very aged person. We introduced ourselves, and there was an immediate sparkle in his eyes. The subject was cricket. He extended his hand. Despite the ravages of his illness, his large palm and unusually long fingers presented a very firm grip. He couldn’t speak, his vocal chords having been removed, but readily grasped the extended notepad to answer my questions. The nurse came in. We had to leave. One final quick question.“Will we ever see another Inshan Ali?” He smiled broadly and shook his head vigorously from side to side. A rasping sound escaped from the back of his throat, “Noooo, nooo.”
We thanked for his time and wished him well. He smiled warmly as he waved goodbye.We stopped at a roadside bar, where I placed an order, “Two Caribs please.” We sipped the beer in silence, lost in our own thoughts.
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