6.10pm

	Adam Gilchrist and the weather dashed Sri Lanka's chances in the World Cup final © Getty Images

The final minutes of the match descended into chaos and confusion and Australia were finally announced champions in near darkness, after having celebrated their victory a couple of overs earlier.

Though no one, including the ICC media manager who was present in the press box, knows yet what exactly happened in the middle, it appears that the umpires offered the Sri Lankan batsmen the light in the 33rd over, which they accepted, sparking off wild celebrations among the Australians. The stumps were broken too, signaling the end of play. But the umpires, who had stayed on in the middle, conferred and interrupted the victory huddle and soon it became apparent that the play had not been called off.

Soon, the Sri Lankan batsmen emerged from the dressing-room and play resumed even thought the light faded further. It took a couple of nondescript overs for the Australians to finally seal victory and though they were deserving winners, there was an anti-climatic feel to the end. The Australians had been robbed off a feeling of spontaneity. But it was that sort of a World Cup.

6 pm - McGrath strikes

He has done it. It wasn’t off the last ball, and he might have an over left if Ponting decides to give him an eighth. It’s almost twilight now, cameras are flashing in the stands and the Aussies are singing Land Down Under in unison.

5.50 pm - Watch out for McGrath's last burst

The cup is all but Australia’s now and next over could be McGrath’s last in international cricket. He hasn’t taken a wicket so far, but he ended his Test career with a wicket and nothing should be ruled out.

5.40 pm - Light fades on Sri Lanka's run chase

A cool evening breeze is wafting across the ground and Chamara Silva has just crafted two fours off Bracken, but bulbs have already come on in the 3Ws stand, and the light is receding fast. Shaun Tait is rifling them in from the Joel Garner end, and there is no telling how long this can last. The Sri Lankans would not be appealing for bad light for sure.

5.25 pm - Gloomy skies worsen Sri Lanka's position

The rain’s gone, and the players are back on the field, but the overs have been slashed and the target revised. Sri Lanka, who needed about 10 per over before going off now need an almost hopeless 12. Aussie front-benchers are on their feet now, and the sound of drums has receded. Sri Lanka were behind already, and their supporters must now reflect on the injustice of nature: did the Australians need any additional assistance? Mahela Jayawardene has just been trapped lbw and Sri Lankan hopes are receding by the ball.

5.00 pm - It looks bleak for Sri Lanka

Alas, it is beginning to drizzle though it’s not heavy but persistent. Sri Lanka are way behind in the D/L calculations and it will be a tragedy if the match were to end that way. The last World Cup knock-out match between these two teams, in the semi-final in 2003, was decided by D/L, with Sri Lanka way behind the target. There is an hour left before the scheduled close of the play which can be extended by an half an hour. It all looks bleak at the moment. The umpires are staying on and saw-dust has been poured near the crease but the pitch is getting wet and the decision will have to be taken soon.

4.15 pm - Sangakkara mesmerises and gives hope to Lanka

In a day full of thrilling stroke-play, three of the most gorgeous were executed by Sangakkara, off successive balls, off that old miser Glenn McGrath. The first was a ballet-like shimmy down the wicket, a melodious executing of the lofted drive, not brutal, but a stroke played with a rhythmic flow; the next was outside off, and carved, between cover and extra cover with timing and precision; McGrath followed up with a short ball, and Sangakarra swivelled and pulled it swiftly behind midwicket. Between Gilchrist and Sangakkara, we have seen the full range already. Gilchrist, all bat-speed and power, Sangakkara all grace and wrist.The chant – Sri Lanka, Sri Lanka – is beginning to get deafening now.

4.00 pm - Fumbling Aussies

Are the Australian fielders feeling the nerves of the big stage? Not even half-way into the Sri Lankan chase and there have been four blips on the field. Two in Shaun Tait’s third over – first Brad Hogg failed to back up to a throw from Michael Clarke and conceded a overthrow and off the next ball, Shane Watson dropped Sangakkara's mistimed uppercut at third man. It was Hogg again, who fired in throw wide off McGrath at the bowler’s end and Sangakkara desperately short of the crease, and Michael Clarke let a ball slip through his hands at point to allow a single. The world champions crumbling? Hardly.

3.40 pm - Mixed sounds from the crowd

	Sri Lankan fans use drums and conches to cheer their side while Australian ones use their hands and mouths © AFP

Different sounds are beginning to be heard around the stands now. The Australian fans are using their hands and their mouths. There is a rhythmic build-up to every ball as the fans cheer with synchronised clapping and whistling. And they can be easily spotted with their yellow jerseys, or as a group in the southern part of the east stand without any. The ROW supporters are sprinkled all over, and they emanate various sounds. Sri Lanka's fours are greeted with thumping of drums from one part of the ground, blow of conches from another, and a loud roar of cheer from all over. The first Australian misfield was hailed by a triumphantly approving noise, only to be bettered next ball when Kumar Sangakkarra was dropped by Shane Watson at the third-man boundary. The sun is out in full glory as Glenn McGrath starts his spell from the Malcolm Marshall end.

3.20 pm - Tait's amazing run-up

The sun’s hiding again, and Nathan Bracken starts with a cool breeze blowing across. Upul Tharanga flashes the first ball over cover for four. The ground has been almost full today, but the empty seats are in the 3W's stand. They belong to the sponsors of this mega-tournament. Most of them Indian corporates, and many of them have decided to cut their loss. Shaun Tait serves up a crunching bouncer to Tharanga. It’s amazing how he generates such pace off a languid, almost halting run-up. The over ends with a loud but futile leg-before appeal.

3.00 pm - Give it up for the World Cup volunteers

	Sri Lanka were undone by Australia's power-hitting and looked hapless on the field © Getty Images

World Cup volunteers, who have worked tirelessly behind the scenes, some of them abhorring the regulations that have squeezed the fun out of the World Cup, are on a parade around the ground now. And movingly, they are getting a standing ovation from the spectators. Despite the officiousness of it all, the World Cup has been an incident-free event, and the volunteers have played huge part in it. The innings break is over almost as soon as it started.

2.57 pm - Hapless Lanka

An absolute shocker that sums up Sri Lanka's performance on the field. Fernando, who has already bowled a no-ball and a wide in the final over of the innings, manages to fire one in at Michael Clarke's feet. Clarke barely manages to squeeze it out, and the ball loops back to Fernando off the ground. Andrew Symonds, meanwhile, has charged down the wicket and Fernando merely has to roll the ball back to the stumps to run him out. But he fumbles, trips and misses the stumps. The ball rolls down to mid off and the batsmen squeeze out a single. Sri Lanka have been run ragged by an awesome display of power-hitting.

2.50 pm - 300 in 38 overs?

A wicket at last for Lasith Malinga, and the first big roar goes up from the ROW (Rest of the World) fans. The ball was full and swinging and Watson went to sweep, Australia have promoted big-shot men ahead and Michael Hussey must be wondering what it might take for him to get a hit. Australia are unlikely to get to 300 now. But who knows?

	No stopping Gili at Barbados © Getty Images

2.10pm - Whose side are you on?

Australia vs The World, one banner in the East Stand reads. Which of course sums up the sentiments at the ground today. The Barmy Army are there, and it’s not hard to guess who they are supporting. I sat next to a Barbadian lady in the bus in the morning. Who was she backing, I asked? I needn’t have. She pointed to her T-shirt. It was Sri Lankan. “No more Aussie, Aussie, Aussie, oi, oi, oi”, she said. The Aussies have been at it since the match began. For the most, they have only gasps: a bump ball caught at cover, a high ball falling between the fielders, a mis-hit from Hayden, a couple of muffled appeals from Murali.... at this rate, Australia could keep in tact their record of scoring 300 every time they have batted first: 84 from nine overs. Eminently possible.

1.40pm - Gilchrist hurts Sri Lanka
Gilchrist brings up his first hundred in a World Cup final by lifting Malinga over his head for four. It is the fastest hundred in a World Cup final. He has been breathtakingly brutal, smoking fours and sixes almost at will. Hayden has joined the party too, hoisting Malinga for a straight six. They have now become the second most prolific opening pair in one-day cricket, beating Gordon Greenidge and Desmond Haynes, who have a stand named after them. Only Sachin Tendulkar and Sourav Ganguly stand ahead of them, but this pair has delivered when it has mattered the most. In the last World Cup final, they put up 105 from 15 overs.

1.20pm - One almighty blast
The shot of the day, so far. The previous ball, Gilchrist has just blasted Fernando, who is back in firing line after Tillakaratne Dilshan was hit for two straight sixes, for a six over long off. Fernando keeps this one full, almost a yorker on leg stump, but Gilchrist’s bat has enough momentum to squeeze is past the bowler. It screams down to the boundary. Gilchrist’s brilliance is hustling Sri Lanka in to sloppiness. Wides and misfields are beginning to creep in. Hayden looks like he's batting on another planet, still edging.

1.05pm - Fernando's fatal drop?
Has Sri Lanka’s chance come and gone? Dilhara Fernando, who has been bowling round the wicket from the first ball after having been warned twice for transgressing in to the business area of the pitch in the semi-final against New Zealand, drops a caught and bowled chance from Gilchrist. It was hit firmly, but should have been taken. Gilchrist responds by hitting his next three balls for 4, 4, and 6. Fernando has now gone for 29 from three overs. Gilchrist has taken 23 off 13 balls. A couple of overs later, he brings up his third successive half-century in World Cup finals. Sri Lanka have spin from both ends now. Murali's doesn't like bowling to left handers. His third ball to Gilchrist was a doosra, and a wide.

	Adam Gilchrist might have had an average tournament but arrived on the big stage © Getty Images

12.50pm - Malinga 1 Hayden 0
Even bullies don’t like it hot. Matthew Hayden, who has spanked three hundreds in the tournament so far, has been kept honest by Lasith Malinga, who is one of the true wonders of cricket. He hasn’t gone full pelt so far, hitting only the mid-80s, but has been fast enough to keep Hayden pinned to his crease. From 15 balls from Malinga, Hayden has managed merely a single. Malinga’s first spell reads: 4-1-6-0.

12.25pm - Gilchrist sets the tone
Adam Gilchrist, who hasn’t set this World Cup afire, begins the offensive with a four and six in Vaas’s second over. The six is a typical Gilchrist effort: pick the length early, meet the ball on the up and hoist over long-on. It’s caught by an Australian fan in the front rows and he holds the ball up triumphantly. Cue for Kumar Sangakarra to move up to the stumps. It’s only the eighth ball in Vaas’s spell.

12:15pm - Match on
The match is on. Chaminda Vaas’s first ball is greeted with a cacophonous roar. He is on target. Aussie fans rise to their feet as Adam Gilchrist opens the scoring with single. So who will the shorter match suit more? Viv Richards, still majestic, still fit, and still magnetic, was around a while ago. What do you think will happen, he asked, before volunteering the answer: Australians might lose a few early wickets.

	Patience is a virtue © Getty Images

11.45am - An appropriate end?
Good news. The rain has stopped, the sun is beginning to break through and the covers are coming off. Andy Atkinson, ICC’s pitch consultant is out there in the middle supervising the operation and the Sri Lankans are out warming up. It is clear now that the final will be a truncated affair. But while we await an announcement, here’s a thought: is it perhaps not an appropriate end to a unfulfilling World Cup?

11.30am - Forget the match, what about the flights?
The rain is beginning to get worrying. It’s a stiff, constant stream now. There isn’t a trace of blue in the sky now, and a haze is developing around the ground. The wind from the south-east, which had been blowing the clouds away, has ceased. There is a stifling stillness around now.

The giant screen is playing highlights and a band is playing. But spectators are beginning to get restless. Those without umbrellas on the front rows are beginning to filter out and journalist have started speculating how many overs we might lose today. Some are getting worried about their flights if the match gets carried over to tomorrow.

	Andrew Miller sits alongside Angus Fraser in the media centre © Cricinfo Ltd

10.30am - Hitting the roof
The new media box at the Kensington Oval is among best in the world. It has all the facilities and a great view. And it’s open. But there has been a major problem. When the sun starts get a bit benevolent towards the afternoon. At about 3pm, laptops start burning, at 4pm, they melt.

Many journalists have been seen retreating to airconditioned confines of the media centre and couple of levels below. But there is another problem with that. You have watch the match on TV there. It’s the same as staying back in Mumbai, London or wherever.

The organisers have come up with a novel solution. They have erected, makeshift roofs over our head. Actually, roof is stretching it. It’s a thin piece of wood mounted on a shaky frame. It’s painted green. And it’s low to ensure it doesn’t block the view of chaps sitting in the row behind. It has already served a purpose today by protecting the laptops from the drizzle.

But thank god Joel Garner hasn’t taken to cricket reporting. Our very own Andrew Miller already has a bump on his head. That’s him in the hat in the photograph. Crouching next to him is the former England medium-pacer Angus Fraser, who is the chief cricket correspondent for the London based Independent.

	Australia batting but is that bad for Sri Lanka? © Getty Images

10.05am - Good toss to lose?
Australia have chosen to bat. That’s been their gameplan through the World Cup and they have the confidence to stick to it. The sun came out briefly. Now it’s gone behind again. In fact, it has begun to drizzle again. The covers are coming on. It’s a good toss to lose for Sri Lanka. The conditions in the morning will suit them.

The track they are using today is different from on the one West Indies played England. That was a belter. The rain has got heavier. It is no longer a drizzle. Did the toss come a few minutes too early for Australia?

10am - Unorthodoxy and mystery
It already feels like a final. It’s the one everyone wanted. Australia haven’t look like losing. Why, they haven’t looked like losing more than six wickets. But there is an air of expectation in the air. If any team can beat them it’s Sri Lanka. They have one thing that none of Australia’s opponents have had so far. They have unorthodoxy and mystery.

As South Africa demonstrated so abysmally, you can’t beat Australia at their own game. Sri Lanka will try to distract them. They have the skills and a joie de vivre the other teams have lacked. Only they can redeem this wretched World Cup.

	A rainy start to proceedings © Getty Images

The roads leading the Kensington Oval are choked. Bands are already playing. Fans are there from everywhere. Some have even come from the other parts of the Caribbean. A Hindi song is playing a local bar and two locals are dancing. I am puzzled. My colleague Rahul Bhattacharya,
who has spent in year in Guyana clears it for me: it is a Guyanese scene, he says. Bars are already open. And beer’s already flowing.

Yellow and green is everywhere. A large posse of Australian fans have just alighted from a cruise liner. The West Stand, the temporary one which will demolished after the World Cup, is sea of Australian colours. A huge roar goes up when it is announced that Ricky Ponting has won the toss. The Sri Lankan fans are hopelessly outnumbered. But needn’t worry.

Everyone else in the ground are backing them. They are the home team today.

9:40am - Hot and sticky
Woke up to a drizzle today. It would have been unimaginable last week when the sky matched the colour of the water and the sun shone as brightly as it does in the Australian summer in Melbourne. Today, it felt like London. But it rained here last morning too. Locals say it will not last. And it will get hot. It’s sticky already.

But will it affect the decision at toss? The Australians like to bat first. And they have scored more that 300 every time they have batted first in the World Cup. But the conditions are heavy and both teams have a left-arm swing bowler with the new ball. The pitch here was thought not conducive for Chaminda Vaas. But it might be different now.

	Collie Smith (right) along with West Indies left-arm spinner Alf Valentine © Locksley Comrie

O'Neil Gordon Smith, Collie to those that knew and loved him, has been dead nearly 50 years yet you wouldn't know it if you listened to Locksley Comrie talk about him. Comrie moved to one of the poorest neighbourhoods in Jamaica when he was six years old, though back then Trenchtown wasn't the byword for gang violence that it has become today. He grew up idolising Collie, and like his idol, he was head boy at the school in Boys' Town. In later years, he headed Jamaica's football association, and was also president of his neighbourhood club, the same institution that once boasted of players like Collie and Sir Frank Worrell.

Comrie doesn't go back to the area as much as he'd like these days. When he does, it's often for the wrong reasons. "A lot of my old friends have been killed in the area," he tells you. "Earlier today, I was watching a football game on TV, and you could see a helicopter circling overhead. There's a fear of violence, and that violence is a fact of life in Trenchtown now. Growing up, it was never like that. Boys’ Town was one of the most successful institutions in the Caribbean, and dare I say it, the most unique in the world."

Father Hugh Sherlock, who founded the club, died in 1998, and part of the neighbourhood's soul went with him. For cricket aficionados, it's enough to know that Boys’ Town was Worrell's last club. After Collie's tragic death in a car crash in England in 1959, Worrell, a Barbados native who had moved to Jamaica, came to Boys’ Town to play as a way of honouring the memory of his departed colleague. Boys’ Town won the Cup for the first time in 1960, and Comrie says with a grin: "It was also because we started getting a fair deal from the umpires."

Comrie's own cricket career ended when he went to England to study in the early 1960s, but he put off his departure by a year just so that he could play alongside Worrell. "You just played beyond yourself," he tells you. "When he first promoted me from the senior side, I didn't really want it because I would have been captain of the junior team. And in the first five games, I didn't get to bat or bowl because we were so strong.

The first time I batted was at No.10. Sir Frank gave me his bat and gloves. I felt such an energy then that I could have batted for 10 days

"The first time I batted was at No.10. Sir Frank gave me his bat and gloves. I felt such an energy then that I could have batted for 10 days. I made the second-highest score and we won the game. The next match we played, he gave me his pads. Whenever I'd look at the pavilion, he'd be watching. It gave you strength. He was the first to stand up and cheer if you played a good shot. You couldn't get out. It was his last match before leaving for Australia, and he let me keep his bat."

What was it like playing alongside someone who was so much more than just a cricketer? "I sometimes want to think it was a dream," says Comrie, "to play with him, to sit beside him. He was a remarkable human being."

As special as Worrell was, it's Collie that has been the abiding obsession. [Read Siddhartha Vaidyanathan's Never Another Like Collie] "He was the living embodiment of Christ," he tells you, though a Muslim himself. I look away embarrassed as I see the glint of a tear in his eye. "He was very humble, and yet attracted attention wherever he
went. He reached out to people. Right from the time I first watched him, I used to keep a scrapbook. And each time Collie came back from tours, he'd bring me clippings."

He shows me some, from a huge file that he has carried with him. Some of the clippings are yellow with age, and you're half afraid to even touch them. Some of the articles deal with Trenchtown and its problems, but the rest are all about Collie and what West Indies cricket lost forever when a car driven by Sir Garfield Sobers crashed in Staffordshire in 1959.

	The Boys' Town junior and senior sides. Sir Frank Worrell (sitting middle, Senior Cup) came to play for Boys' Town after Collie Smith died in 1959 © Locksley Comrie

It dismays Comrie that "Ninety per cent of Jamaicans no longer know about him". "The road named after him, Collie Smith Drive, is known for its shooting and fighting and death. It leads straight to a cemetery. What happens on that road has no connection whatsoever to the man he was."

The same Trenchtown that gave the world Collie Smith, Bob Marley, Peter Tosh and many others is now a no-go zone. "Bob Marley wrote five songs about Trenchtown," Comrie tells you with a smile. "He just put music to the way people talked there. When he sang: Then we would cook cornmeal porridge, Of which I'll share with you; My feet is my only carriage, So
I've got to push on through, he was talking about our lives.

"And there was Jimmy Tucker [the tenor]. Listening to him was like going to the Metropolitan opera. He was singing in languages he didn't even know. Even now, when I listen to him, I can close my eyes and picture Trenchtown as it was 50 years ago."

It was a different world then.

	Joseph 'Reds' Perriera © Cricinfo

In this age of high-speed internet, teleconferences and live streaming, it's not that difficult to put a face to words. There are rarely any 'faceless' voices. Yet, when some of us were growing up and being indoctrinated into the faith of our fathers, voices were all we had to follow the cricket in faraway lands like the West Indies and Australia.

The ABC's Jim Maxwell was always distinctive, the harbinger of cheery Ashes news after the nightmares of the mid-1980s, and there was hardly a cricket fan around who didn't recognise the smooth tone and Caribbean lilt that has been Tony Cozier's stock-in-trade for half a century.

All those years ago, the man who played Rae to his Stollmeyer was Joseph 'Reds' Perriera, a Guyanese who now lives in St Lucia. Reds watched his first Test matches against India in 1953, and remembers the visitors being "a very good fielding side". "[Chandrasekhar] Gadkari was outstanding, and there was also the batting of [Vijay] Hazare and ML Apte."

The Indian connection doesn't end there. Nearly two decades later, he went on air for the first time when Ajit Wadekar's side triumphed against the odds in 1971. "I watched [Sir Len] Hutton, you know, and I can tell you that Sunny [Gavaskar] was in that class as a batsman. [Dilip] Sardesai had an excellent tour as well."

We chat under an unrelenting sun in the press box at the Kensington Oval, a place filled with memories for someone whose association with West Indies cricket goes back to the days of the three Ws, who have the main stand named after them. "I was lucky to watch a little of them," says Reds. "[Frank] Worrell was all finesse and elegance, and he had an extra string to his bow with his medium-pace bowling. He was also by far our most astute captain, a magnificent leader of men.

"[Everton] Weekes was light on his feet and he hit the ball hard. [Clyde] Walcott could really send the ball a long way and he played some shots off the back foot that you rarely see anymore. In a lot of ways, Weekes and Walcott intimidated teams like [Viv] Richards would in later years."

Was Richards the best then? He smiles. "It's hard to say. They were all such fine players. You could argue that Garry Sobers, even without his four types of bowling, was the best of them all, as a batsman alone. Mind you, [Rohan] Kanhai was pretty close. It doesn't help that the numbers don't stack up with him. He got out in the 90s a lot.

"But Kanhai could pick the ball out of the spinner's hand. Sobers picked it off the pitch. Both he and Richards had phenomenal eyesight, and when it started to go, they struggled more than those with better techniques."

Apart from Gavaskar, Reds rates Greg Chappell ['such a beautiful player to watch'] and Martin Crowe ['again, very easy on the eye'] as the finest visiting batsmen he's seen. "[Geoffrey] Boycott was too slow, and didn't have the range of shots that Sunny did."

As we talk, Daren Powell is putting together a superb spell of accurate and hostile seam bowling. For Reds, it brings back more than the odd snapshot from the past. "They were all such great bowlers," he says, "and yet each so different. [Joel] Garner and [Colin] Croft were exceptional with the old ball, [Michael] Holding was quick and straight, and [Andy] Roberts was a great thinker. [Malcolm] Marshall couldn't even establish
himself in the side till Croft went to South Africa."

What about those two, I ask, pointing to the Hall and Griffith stand. Again, he smiles. "My father paid for me to cross over on a boat to Trinidad in 1956 so that I could watch the selection trials," he says. "I watched Hall for the first time then. He was quick, but all over the place. As for Griffith, there'll always be a cloud over his career because of the allegations that he bent his arm. But for sheer pace, I think Roy Gilchrist was right up there."

Reds, who covered the 1975 World Cup final with Cozier - 'It was such a different game then,' he says with a laugh - did the last of his 145 Tests two years ago in Trinidad. 'They've done most things right today," he says wistfully, staring down at the field. "It's such a pity that it's too late to be of any use.

"When I look back, I'm glad that I was born when I was, fortunate to watch the players that I did." The most vivid memory? Late on the fourth evening at the Adelaide Oval on Australia Day, 14 years ago. "I still remember Craig McDermott turning one off his pads late on. Desmond Haynes got down just in time at forward square leg. He got a hand to it, stopped it. If not." West Indies won by a run, and then went to Perth where they annihilated the Australians in seven sessions to clinch the series 2-1.

"These players care more about their contracts and what they can get out of the game," he says sadly. "They're not bothered about what they put in."

Reds certainly put in, and thousands of us still recall his eloquence with great fondness. For the sake of men like him, you can only hope that West Indies cricket turns a corner, and sooner rather than later.

	Poster of a Blue Waters film 'Hit for a six' © Cricinfo

Last night, I achieved the dubious distinction of walking the red carpet at the international premiere of a feature film in Bermuda shorts, a situation I tried to explain as an attempt to achieve parity with the superior sex by showing a bit of skin. There was no rush of cameras, though, and I slunk off to the far corner to nurse my pineapple juice.

Truth be told, I made a fool of myself. It is no excuse that I thought it was a media-only preview. I didn’t read the invite.

And let me get a bit real too. It was the premiere of a feature film alright, though the ‘international’ part is overstating a bit. The occasion, though, was special: the premiere of Barbados’s first full-length feature film. And it was hardly a surprise that it was on cricket and titled Hit for Six!

The Barbados film industry is only four years old and it had, till last night, to its credit three feature films, all of which were shot in video format on budgets of less than US $500,000. The country has only two proper theatres and the premiere was being held at Olympus Theatre, the country’s sole multiplex with six screens.

Hit for Six was thus a breakthrough for it was filmed on celluloid and cost US $770,000. Written, directed and produced by Alison Saunders-Franklyn, a Barbadian/Trinidadian who has acquired a reputation in corporate and television programming, the film assembled local talents from stage and amateurs.

It held promise because films made with passion, creative honesty and hunger can be extremely rewarding. A few years ago, on the recommendation of a friend, I went to watch the then unknown City of God, a Brazilian film made with little-known actors, and came back spellbound. It went on become a cult film and win an Oscar.

The movie started about 20 minutes behind schedule after we had been entertained by an advertisement for a local cricket fest that played in a loop. A friend accompanying me reckoned it might have played 56 times. Apparently, the wait was for the main actor, Andrew Pilgrim, considered the country’s leading stage actor. Pilgrim was said to have
practiced cricket for three months in preparing for the role of Alex Nelson, a talented but, out-of-favour batsman fighting to regain his place and honour.

The film never went beyond amateurish. It had the feel of a home video, the lead actor looked too old for even a middle-aged cricketer, the plot was too simplistic and full of clichés. It picked up a bit towards the middle when the relationship between Nelson and his father, a former Test player whose career had ended in controversy, and who had, for large part of his life, hadn’t acknowledged Nelson as his son, started to develop. But it wound up towards a predictable end. Honest intentions are not always enough.

	'This was Caribbean cricket, fantasy style, with the tide washing in every over or so to smooth down the wicket .... and a crowd of thousands huddled round the action or parked in the shallows at midwicket'. © Getty Images

What do cricket writers do when there's no cricket to watch? Play cricket of course! For two days in Antigua, as the World Cup merry-go-round paused for breath, that was how the international media contingent passed their time, recharging their batteries by testing their distinctly average skills in a variety of typically Caribbean scenarios. It might be remiss to point out, but it would be far from inaccurate, that more of the region's unique flavour has been on display in these past 48 hours than has been permitted to shine through in a month of ICC-sanctioned shenanigans.

Everything about the Caribbean cricket experience owes itself to the unique accessibility of the players, men who have stepped off the field and straight back into the bosom of the culture that created them; everything about the ICC cricket experience, on the other hand, has been designed to erect barriers between them and us - massive great exclusion zones outside all of the grounds, colour-coded security clearance levels and extensive (excessive) checks at the entrances to the stadia. It wasn't always thus, and maybe it need not be again. Because the men who made the game great in these islands are as aghast at what has unfolded as the rest of us.

"We've had too many restrictions placed on us as Caribbean people," said the greatest of all Antiguans, Sir Vivian Richards, as the media gathered to take part in a six-hitting competition organised by one of the tournament's sponsors, Johnnie Walker. "We are unique people. We are different from Europeans and South Africans and Australians. We are different in terms of our living style and our vibrant way of life. I just believe that someone has held us by the throat and said 'no, I don't want you to shout anymore'."

Richards made his declaration at the Stanford Ground next to VC Bird Airport, an opulent and extraordinarily beautiful private ground fit to rival that of Nicky Oppenheimer or the Duke of Norfolk. The lush manicured bowling green of an outfield may be somewhat at odds with that traditional Caribbean experience, but when last year this ground was Antigua's venue for the Stanford 2020 competition, the stands teemed as the imaginations of the local people were captured as emphatically as the World Cup has managed to alienate them again.

I arrived early for the event, and instantly found myself dumping my laptop at the boundary's edge as a towering heave swirled towards me from a distant fellow in a maroon cap. Naturally I grassed the chance, leaving a sizeable divot in the pitch as I went down like the proverbial, but undeterred I held my ground for further offerings, eventually calling it quits with a dismal tally of one catch out of five, not to mention several dozen hits that sailed clean over my head.

The assailant, as I'd by now worked out, was Kenny Benjamin, who'd been happily roped in to spend his afternoon swinging the willow and working the bowling machine that would soon be feeding us media types nice loopy half-volleys to punt over the infield. As we milled around in the middle with a couple of his mates - Curtly Ambrose and Richie Richardson to be precise - the atmosphere could hardly have been less corporate or more welcoming. Inevitably, talk turned to the tournament of which these men have been made a very peripheral part, and the verdict was unanimous. "It's been a joke, man", was one of the most succinct appraisals.

In due course, it was time for the journalists to sign our legal waivers and don our pads (including, tediously, a helmet), and swing the bat for charity. Richards, with Ambrose keeping wicket, demonstrated how it should be done by clunking three clean cover-drives and a brace of clips off the toes; Cricinfo fared less well - two straight driven fours and a couple of miscues over the covers that rolled backwards after pitching. Still, a tally of US$200 was worse than a slap in the face with an Ambrose bouncer.

Twenty-four hours later, and we cricket loons were back for more punishment, this time down on the beach at a bar called Sun Haven, for a match between the Antiguan Legends and the assembled international media. This was Caribbean cricket, fantasy style, with the tide washing in every over or so to smooth down the wicket, a rabid chattering DJ calling the play in a boisterous faux-English accent in between bursts of Soca music, and a crowd of thousands (well, more than Bangladesh v New Zealand at any rate) huddled round the action or parked in the shallows at midwicket.

The details are immaterial but worthy of record. Cricinfo's correspondent took the new ball (to a very pertinent heckle of "excuse me, but I thought we were meant to be watching famous people") but grabbed three wickets, including one with the very first ball of the match (heckle that!). Richie Richardson was blindingly caught on the 45 by a young Indian journalist, while Sir Viv, prowling around his territory like a benevolent panther, smacked sixes for fun to post an imposing 140 in 15 overs. The media XI (or XVII to be precise) came close but no cigar, thanks in part to a host of run-outs caused by the ball being swept back into play by the tide.

The beauty of the event was its utter simplicity. A handful of specially printed T-shirts were as far as the corporate side dared to encroach, while legend and bystander alike were equally tickled by the little incidents that made the day, such as the drunk fielder on a motorboat out to sea, who toppled overboard - beer still in hand - as he reached out to catch one of Viv's many sixes. And afterwards, as the entire entourage retired to the bar, there was the sight of a latecomer, Ambrose, unloading the boot of his car as he and Richardson prepared the stage for their band, Dread and the Baldhead, as the party reached long into the night.

For all the talk of regenerating cricket in the Caribbean through the appointment of brand-new stadia and the transformation of the region's last-minute culture, accessibility and intimacy are the things that keep the game alive over here. Hardly a day goes by without another regret being added to the list of woes of this tournament, but if those of us out here working can be allowed so much fun on our days off, why-oh-why hasn't that same courtesy been extended, day-in-day-out, to the paying public? God knows, the Caribbean people are willing enough to party.

	Finally, some Caribbean spirit turned up in Guyana...shame West Indies didn't © AFP

With a little admission about ticket prices and another message to fans to bring in the noise, even the ICC seem to have acknowledged fears expressed beforehand about the tournament, a situation superbly captured by Paul Harris in his Sunday Stabroek cartoon.

It has the World Cup CEO, Chris Dehring in a butler suit, presenting on a platter the CWC 2007: “Exactly how would you like it Sir…Not spicy… Not exuberant … Not…???” The man at the table is Malcolm Speed, wearing a Rasta hat with dreads, fish and plantain chips on the table before him, a bongo with Rally Roun’ De West Indies sitting beside him. “Oh! Lighten up will you, Chris ‘ol chap…?”

Indeed spontaneity and intimacy has been sacrificed. Take for example, the thing about musical instruments. Persons can carry conch shells, shak shaks and other instruments into the stadium with permission from the Local Organising Committee, we’re told. Persons can, but no normal person will. Few souls can have the same clinical approach to taking a musical instrument to the cricket as applying for a home loan. Iceboxes must have to be of a certain size. In Trinidad I was allowed to take in a bottle but only if I took off the cap. Meanwhile, given the rates, it ought be illegal to call those stalls selling food and drink Concessions as proud yellow banners do. And so on.

Many criticisms about this tournament have been made, as a brief visit to The Surfer will show, and most are very good ones.

Cancellations following the ousting of India and Pakistan hasn’t helped the mood. The entertainment has gone underattended. The historic Demerara Cricket Club, home to Lance Gibbs and Clive Lloyd, has set up a Legend’s Village with nightly exhibits and events; at nearby Independence Park, the mayor of Georgetown has organised another fete; an exhibition of cricket paintings by an artist of great repute is on, so is an excellent Jazz festival, there’s a lecture here, a signing session there, and all of them are basking in the spotlight of a 40-watt bulb.

All I can is that it was a relief to see some life out there today, some fun. For the first time in the Super Eights the stadium was near to packed. Among the things that Providence has over its atmospheric wooden predecessor, Bourda, is a grass mound. It was packed and liming and from the back of it was a view of a sugarcane field: it felt at least in some measure Caribbean.

No, The Buggles weren’t in town, but strange things were happening
on Guyana’s airwaves as I drove to the stadium. Stephen, my driver who was
in his early 20s, had switched on the radio almost as soon as I got in,
and much of our conversation centred about what West Indies needed to do
to stay alive in the competition. Even as Colin Croft and friends nattered
on about the conditions, Stephen fretted about the toss. The sky above was
slate-grey and the sun couldn’t be glimpsed. “You don’t want to be facing
dat Malinga in dem conditions, man,” he told me, tapping on the steering
wheel with his knuckles as the commentary team built up to the toss.

His anxiety was palpable. “Dat Daren Powell be de only man bowlin’ well,”
he told me. “He got good pace. We have a guy like Malinga … Fidel Edwards,
but he no have the accuracy.” I recalled the press conference on Saturday
and the searching questions that Croft had asked Brian Lara about the
tactics and team composition against New Zealand, criticism that had been
echoed by Michael Holding. What did Stephen think of Lara, and the former
greats slating him?

Caught between two stools, Stephen chose to do the splits. “Croft from
here [Guyana], man,” he said quietly, “but Lara great player. If he mek
runs, we win.” As we talked, the expert voices floating through the car
speakers engaged in analysis of their own. Croft isn’t an easy man to
silence, but a few seconds later, the station announcer managed to do just
that.

With a serious-sounding voice, he spoke of how the cricket talk was
“light-hearted chat” before the game began in half an hour. He then went
on to say that they were going back to the original programming, the
Mahakali religious group and their chants. The toss? Clearly not as
important as some bhajans about Hanuman.

Stephen swore out loud, and I felt like accompanying him. The stadium was
in sight, but now I wouldn’t know what had happened at the toss till I’d
walked through the security checks and into the media enclosure. As for my
driver, he’d have to fret and fume for half an hour before the religious
chants that he didn’t know or care for gave way to the highpoint of his
day. Karl Marx spoke of religion being the masses’ opium at a time when
organised sport was a distant dream. Had he been alive today, with a
once-great cricketing entity’s pride at stake, he might have revised his
views.

	The sign says it all for an Indian supporter © Getty Images

What's worse than travelling 7000 miles to watch a match for which your team has failed to qualify? Answer: Travelling 7000 miles to watch the grass grow for five hours on a sodden outfield, in a match for which your team has failed to qualify.

That was the fate that befell several hundred Indian spectators at Antigua today. They had booked in anticipation of watching their team take on Australia in a pivotal Super Eights showdown. Instead it was the groundstaff versus the elements in the biggest mismatch of the tournament to date.

"We've flown 36 hours to get here, and the delay is not acceptable," Sudhil, one of a party of 50-odd ex-pats living and working in Dubai, said. "We're Indian supporters and we're absolutely disappointed. We are cheering the Australians because we have no other choice.”

Having coughed up roughly US$8000 for their 11-day package tour, he and his floral-shirted contemporaries were to be found up in the rafters of the Northern Stand, in some of the most plumb and priciest seats available. "We were always going to come because we'd paid up long in advance," Sudhil said, "but the news coming back from India is that there have been a lot of cancellations."

As the delay dragged on, several of the spectators in the box seats could be found looking longingly towards the paddling pool at midwicket. "We'd rather be in the party stand than sit here and wait," Faisal, an Indian who at least had an alternative allegiance to fall back on thanks to his Bangladeshi wife, said. "We even came here early because we were thinking the game would start on time. But at least this isn't happening in India - if this ground had 50,000 or 75,000 fans, it would be chaos in here!"

Instead the chaos was confined, unsurprisingly, to the party stand and its paddling pool, which had been over-run by Aussies, beach-balls and inflatable kangaroos. "They’re nice facilities, but they're clearly under-prepared, judging by the amount of wet cement we got on our feet the other day," Davo from Canberra, one of a posse of five Boony Armyites with moustaches to match, said. "I don't know how they can build a brand-new stadium and not get the drainage right."

Even so, the stadium itself met with the approval of most who had entered it. "It's unreal, I've never been to a better place," Dan Read from New South Wales said. "It's even got a pool. Beauty. You can't beat that. It must be frustrating for the people in these stands, but this is the party stand, and there's definitely a party going on here."

It was a party at a price, however, with a US$50 cover charge on top of the original US$90 for the ticket. "I suppose it's alright," James from Bendigo shrugged, "although it's a real shame there's no cricket. We've travelled hundreds of thousands of kilometres to get here. I took a 35-hr flight, via Canada. I've been saving for three years. I sold me car. I spent all me money. We've come here to watch cricket and we're just getting nothing."

	Nathan Bracken stops for a photo before play © AFP

"Any other ground in the world, even Wandsdale Reserve, would have had a game on by now," Davo said as the groundstaff continued on their forlorn mission. "It's been sunny all day, but I guess they'll have learned from this that you have to employ more than one ripped-up mattress to mop up an entire outfield.

"They simply haven't planned enough. This is a great place to be a fan, but looking back on it, I cannot see any justification to hold a World Cup here again. It's all well and good for the lucky few of us who happen to be at the stage of our lives that we can make it here, but for everyone else … Well, look at those empty grandstands.
It tells a story."

Even the neutrals weren't having the best of times. Katy Cooke, the secretary of England's Barmy Army and a ubiquitous presence on overseas tours, was lying on the grass on the opposite flank of the ground. She had chartered a 3am flight from the Barmies' base in Barbados to get her group of supporters out for this game, and they were going to have to fly back that evening regardless of any play. To make matters worse, she was also co-ordinating the trip for India's version, the Bharat Army.

"This is so frustrating," she said. "The Indians aren't really interested anymore, the English were never really that interested anyway - they'll just watch anyone. But now we have to sit here all day, with no pass-outs, no permission to bring anything into the ground, no transport to get us away again, and nothing to go and do. I suppose it's a nice stadium, but it's not West Indian. We could be anywhere."

The Bharat Army's package, which costs roughly £4000 (approx US$8000), involves four day-trips to Antigua and a cruise between Barbados and St Lucia, which takes in the remaining Super Eight games as well as the semi-final and final. "They are all pretty miserable," Cooke said. "It was too late to cancel their holiday and they don't really want to watch cricket any more. They just want to go home."

The mood back in Barbados, the cricketing capital of the Caribbean, was scarcely any more jovial if the Barmy Army's experience was to be believed. "The locals are gutted by what's happening," Cooke said. "They can't afford to go to the matches and even if they could, they can't just go in for an hour and go back to work, because no-one's allowed pass-outs.

"They can't take in any food. They can't take any musical instruments," she said, a state of affairs which is about to be tested when the Barmy Army trumpeter, Bill Cooper, arrives in the Caribbean next week. "The whole party atmosphere, the whole point of cricket in the West Indies has been taken away and completely sanitised. But hey, at least the sun is shining and I'm lying on the grass. It could be worse I suppose."

By the time we exit the press box after an ultimately thrilling first game
at Guyana's new stadium, it's almost nine. Time enough to head home for a
quick bite and a shower before going to The Blue Iguana, a spacious
pub where a five-year-old El Dorado rum, mixed with coconut water, costs
less than 200 Guyanese dollars (1 US$) and it also has a number of
worse-for-wear pool tables to choose from.

There's also the music, chutney and dance-hall hits blaring from the
speakers. And as we settle down at the bar, one of the first persons I see
is Gareth Flusk, who played for Easterns and Transvaal before switching to
doing commentary for the South African Broadcasting Corporation. We'd met
a few months earlier in South Africa, and we laugh about his T-shirt which
makes no secret of his Johannesburg loyalties. "Cape Town has mountains,
we have taste," it says.

I'm more curious about his time at Easterns now that I've come across
Adrian Birrell, the Ireland coach. Birrell spent 16 years in the Eastern Cape as player and
coach before journeying to Ireland seven years ago. Gareth played under
him before he was succeeded by Kepler Wessels, and has nothing but good
things to say about a man who has worked wonders with the Irish.

"He's a very professional, dedicated sort," he tells me. "Loves his job,
and gets on with it without any fuss. He was great to work with." It
tallies with my own impression of a man who comes running back to complete
an interview after he'd had to leave in a hurry for a team meeting. And
unlike some coaches who bask in the public gaze, Birrell is most happy in
the background, letting Trent Johnston and his boys bask in the glory of
what they've achieved.

He also won't be coaching again after this tournament, and Gareth agrees
that it'll be a loss, not only for the Irish. Losses, though, are not on
the South African mind on Wednesday night, after Robin Peterson's late
slash to third man allows them to survive a devastating burst from Lasith
Malinga. Gareth played with Peterson, and reckons that it couldn't have
happened to a nicer bloke.

I wouldn't disagree. We met on the eve of the Kanpur Test in 2004, and
became acquainted when he asked to borrow biographies of Diego Maradona
and Garrincha, the Brazilian football genius who subsequently drank
himself to death.

The day the tour ended, the South Africans had to pack and leave in a
hurry and I was doubtful as to whether I'd get my books back. But just as
we were wrapping up in the press box, Gerald de Kock, then the media
manager, came in with a plastic bag that he handed over. It had both my
books and two South African training shirts. They're a bit on the large
side, but I cherish them nonetheless.

It can't be easy to be a fringe player, even less so a left-arm spinner in
a team obsessed with pace. And no matter how many more last-gasp wins he
pulls off, you sense that Peterson, a limited bowler at best, will never
leave the periphery for the circle of light. He'll continue to be a great
bloke though, and perhaps nothing else matters as much.

	People went to watch Jonty Rhodes just for his fielding © Getty Images

There are places I remember all my life, though some have changed, sang the Beatles in the days when one-day cricket was restricted to a Gillette Cup and little else. And I can certainly recall where I was on March 8, 1992. I should have been at home, waiting for a call from my first love, but once a cricket-crazy cousin came round with news that a small video store was pulling down illegal images of the game, there was never any thought of love or other demons.

We scampered over in time for the start of Pakistan's run chase, and there were no prizes for guessing which team had the support of the majority crammed into the poky little room. Having just come back into the international fold, South Africa were suddenly everyone's second team, and a whole generation of young people was trying to field like Jonty Rhodes. The results, if the sprains, cuts and bandages were anything to go by, weren't always favourable.

When it happened, it was time for snacks, and our attention wasn't where it
should have been. It was only when we heard a few people swearing out loud
that we turned to the screen. The replay told us what we'd missed. For the
rest of the afternoon, people talked of little else. Jonty became a hero who
transcended continents, and when South Africa played at the Brabourne
Stadium a year later, a couple of people I knew went just to watch him. They
got their money's worth in the form of five catches, a couple of them
stunning.

All these years later, the dressing-room balcony was the first place I
turned to when Herschelle Gibbs did a passable imitation of Superman Rhodes.
When not a roving ambassador for Standard Bank, Jonty earns his rand by
grooming the present generation of South African fielders and in AB de
Villiers, Ashwell Prince and the like, he has excellent talent to work with.

Gibbs though has that flair for the dramatic that set Jonty apart. As soon
as I saw him run toward the stumps, I edged forward in my seat in
anticipation of what might happen. It was stunning to watch and will live
long in the memory, but there's nothing quite like the first time. That
first love went the way of most others, but whenever I think of Inzamam in
super slow-mo and Jonty frozen in mid-air, I can almost kid myself that I'm
18 again. And as John and Paul warbled, I'll never lose affection for
people and things that went before, I know I'll often stop and think about
them .

	The one thing you don't want to hear when you arrive at a venue on the eve of a game is construction noises, the sound of cement mixers and power-drills © Getty Images

The Guyana National Stadium at Providence is about a half-hour ride from the centre of Georgetown, and it springs up over the horizon suddenly, a bit like a mushroom emerging from the earth. The Buddy's International Hotel, where many of the media are staying, is right next door, and those with a particularly fanciful imagination might even compare the two constructions to two UFOs that have landed in the middle of nowhere.

The one thing you don't want to hear when you arrive at a venue on the eve of a game is construction noises, the sound of cement mixers and power-drills, but the recent rain has meant that work on the stadium isn't quite complete. It's a situation that horrifies some, but for those of us from countries where the chalta-hai (It happens) approach is
commonplace, it's hardly an eye-opener.

The one thing you can say is that it's a beautiful ground, with a lush green outfield and three magnificent stands. But the prettiest part of it is undoubted the grassy mound, perhaps modelled on the old Hill in Sydney and the similar patch of grass at Adelaide. For those looking to party, it will undoubtedly be the place to be, especially if the sun comes out and the beer starts to flow.

South Africa grumbled about the quality of the practice pitches, but there
was the hint of a smile around Tom Moody's lips when he was asked about
the pitch to be used for the game. Shaved as bald as Kojak and the colour
of sand, it could easily have been transported from the Premadasa in
Colombo.

Away from the middle where Andy Atkinson, the ICC’s pitch expert, keeps an eye on last-minute trims and rolls, the TV crew are busy gearing up for the start of the fortnight
in Guyana. Kilometres of thick cables criss-cross the outer perimeter of
the ground, and the control room is a maze of monitors and wires. Outside
though, you don't quite feel the buzz that was there in Jamaica, where
most people you ran into would take time off to talk about Chris Gayle's
lack of runs and Dwayne Bravo's slower delivery.

In other ways though, I'm relieved to be a sea and more away from the land
of reggae. But as Duran Duran sang in Ordinary World, Still I
can't escape the ghost of.. The minute someone realises that you were
in Jamaica, the inevitable questions follow about Bob Woolmer's death and
its aftermath. As South African journalist Neil Manthorp, wrote recently in one of
his columns, "the impression that some news gatherers would happily throw
their mother under a train in pursuit of the story has returned".

The urge to snap comes to the fore mainly when folk ask for the gory
details. Having no appetite for such things, you want to shut the images
out of your mind, and remember instead a man who was never short of time
or a word for journalists that approached him. What will stick in my mind
the most is a night at the hotel bar in Colombo, not long after he took
over as Pakistan coach. We chatted for over two hours - "Who are you
calling ordinary?" he asked with mock anger when I suggested that his not
being a 'great' had perhaps helped him to understand his players'
insecurities better - and I'll never forget the story he told me of doing
the laundry for the township boys in Cape Town.

"They needed clean kits to play," he said simply. It didn't even strike
him as odd, the idea that a former international should gather up dirty
clothes and wash them for a group of underprivileged boys, many of whom
wouldn't even go very far in the game. He was that sort of man, and while
others have come up with far more touching and personal tributes, I'll
always remember that near-messianic zeal. Many coach, but how many do the
laundry?

	An unexpectedly bird's eye view of Antigua. The bright lights in the centre of the picture are the Sir Vivian Richards stadium © Andrew Miller

A lot of your life on tour is spent at airports. A lot more of it if you happen to be in the West Indies. It's not so much that they are inefficient in the Caribbean, it's just … well, where's the hurry? If it takes 90 minutes to check in your bags, well, that's no problem, 30 minutes per customer is pretty good when you think about it. And if your flight doesn't leave for a good hour after the scheduled departure time, you can but kick back and relax, and accept that that was nothing more than a basis for negotiation anyway. As for my baggage, it hasn't yet gone missing, although I'm assured that's only a matter of time.

Having said all that, however, I don't believe I'll ever experience a flight quite like the one I took last evening. It lasted barely half an hour but it'll live with me for a lifetime. And that, I suppose, is what it's all about out here. If you take the rough with the smooth and the mundane with the extraordinary, you'll end up with an enriching experience one way or the other.

It's fair to say that my last few hours in St Kitts had been ever so slightly tedious. It's a pretty sleepy airport at the very best of times, and 8 o'clock in the evening on a Monday night certainly isn't the best of times. Everything was shut, including the brain of the girl behind the LIAT check-in desk, and despite arriving alarmingly early by my usual standards, I was soon shunted to the back of the queue when it transpired I hadn't paid my Airport Facilities Tax: US$30 for the right to perch for an hour on an unspectacular plastic seat.

By the time I had waded towards security clearance I was in danger of feeling a bit grumpy. My mood wasn't helped by the chapter I was reading in Harry Thompson's side-splitting book, Penguins Stopped Play, the tale of a village cricket team that sets out to play a match on every continent of the globe (Antarctica included). The account of the team's arrival in Barbados via Miami was laced with so many anecdotes of airport half-wittery, I was feeling rage on the author's behalf, not least when the X-Ray operator reached into my laptop bag and pulled out a forgotten can of deodorant that I'd stashed away in case of a press-box air-conditioning emergency.

"You can't take this on board," barked scanner-man, brandishing my offending can. To be honest, it was hardly my most cherished possession. The brand-name was "Hombre", I'd bought it for a pittance in the local supermarket, only to discover that the reek it omitted was every bit as bad as the reek it was intended to replace. Did I want to smell like a badger or a pimp upon arrival in Antigua? A tough choice. Either way, this latest hold-up meant I was a devout last in the boarding-of-the-plane stakes.

And that's when it hit me - this plane is rather full. I had climbed on board a bog-standard LIAT twin-prop with barely room for 70 passengers, and I was indisputably the 71st. My seat, 8C, was apologetically filled by a large Texan who clearly had little or no interest in a certain cricket match the following morning, but there seemed to be no getting out of this one. I trudged back down the steps, resigned to the fact that the World Cup airport curse had struck with a vengeance.

But then, after a hasty conference, the stewardess's voice piped up: "Would you object to travelling in the cockpit?"

Come again?

	The runway at Antigua Airport looms into view © Andrew Miller

"Would you object to travelling in the …" Yes, that's what I'd thought she'd said. My inner child was doing handstands already. So up I trooped, into the cramped interior where there seemed to be no room to swing a parachute, let alone anywhere to sit. The pilots smiled benignly, as if this happened all the time, and gestured that I should unclip a fold-down bench on the wall to my right. Down it clicked, snapping into place on the floor, whereupon the stewardess appeared over my shoulder, gave me my own personal safety briefing (complete with a gesture to the escape hatch in the roof) then slammed the cabin-door shut to provide me with a back-rest. Result!

A whole new world opened up to me as we taxied out of the terminal with the twinkling lights of Basseterre swinging past the window. Flying, I can now exclusively reveal, seems to be an exercise in switch-flicking and note-taking. As air-traffic control burbled over the intercom, the first officer scribbled down co-ordinates on what appeared to be a sheet of hotel notepaper, while the pilot ran through his checks while pulling out more stops than the King's College organist.

And then we were off, launched into the ether off a deceptively short run, and blackness enveloped the cabin. The miniscule scale of St Kitts immediately became apparent from a peek through the windows, the faint blinking lights framing the tiny island in all of its distinctive bill-hooked shape. Still the switch-flicking continued though, for no sooner had we reached full height than it was time to prepare for the landing.

Antigua had been visible from the moment we completed our ascent, a bright splodge in the windscreen that grew closer and more defined with every passing minute. It was framed on either side by two more glinting jewels of the Caribbean - Barbuda to the left and Montserrat to the right, many of whose lights remained extinguished after that terrible volcanic eruption in 1995. After no more than 20 minutes, we were buzzing over St John's Harbour, then banking to the left where the landing strip of VC Bird Airport was clearly dotted out beneath us. Nothing stood out so prominently, however, than the new Sir Vivian Richards stadium to the south, whose blazing new floodlights seemed to be both the brightest and the highest point in the island.

A loud intercom warning burped out at us as the runway plummeted into view. "Three hundred!" said the automated voice as more switches were flicked and the engine noise increased to an agitated whine. "Two hundred!" as flaps were engaged and controls held steady. "One hundred!" as the end of the runway disappeared beneath the nose of the plane. "Fifty! Ten! One!" Bump. It was all over in an instant and within seconds we'd taxied to a standstill. The pilots, who had shown no interest in formality and were known merely as "William" and "Adrienne", shrugged sweetly as I extended my hand and bumbled off in bewilderment at this latest chapter of my tour.

But at the end of it all I couldn't help wondering. What on earth had they found so offensive about my can of "Hombre"? It can only have been the odour. It certainly wasn't the security risk.

	Clive Lloyd, Guyana's most succesful cricketer, brought the World Cup home to the West ndies in 1975 and 1979 © The Cricketer International

I leave Kingston at dawn on March 25, a hugely important day in the nation’s history. Exactly 200 years earlier, the British parliament in London had passed a law abolishing slave trade in the empire. Those who have watched Amistad and read books on the slavers will perhaps be aware that over 20 million were transported from Africa to the Americas, often in harrowing conditions. Though it would be another three decades before the slaves in Jamaica were granted their freedom, it’s nevertheless a red-letter day for a small island that gave the world icons of black consciousness like Marcus Garvey, Bob Marley and Peter Tosh.

On one of the four flights that I take to get to Guyana, the in-flight magazine has an interesting article on Olaudah Equiano, the first “slave novelist”. The Interesting Narrative and Other Writings was published in London in 1789, and was for two centuries regarded as one of the definitive works on the slave trade. It traced Olaudah’s life from his birth in Nigeria to his transformation as an English gentleman, via the Caribbean, Virginia and even participation in the Seven Years War.

Though of a fantastical nature, it was an iconic work, and it was only less than a decade ago that its veracity was doubted. Professor Vincent Carretta published a book that picked out anomalies in Olaudah’s writing before attempting to establish that he was born in Carolina and had never been to Africa. It generated heated debate, but perhaps it’s best to regard The Interesting Narrative as a fictionalised account of a world that was horribly wrong.

Barbados, where I touch down midway through my journey, may be little more than a big city, but has produced more great cricketers than regions ten times its size. A banner that welcomes you to the airport has the faces of the three Ws – Everton Weekes, Frank Worrell and Clyde Walcott – and Garfield Sobers, and the new-look Kensington Oval is visible even from the air as you’re about to land.

For more than half a century, it was a veritable Colisseum where West Indies never lost, a venue whose history, tradition and atmosphere appeared to intimidate visiting teams. Even as recently as 1999, it was the venue for Brian Lara’s magnificent 153 not out, the defining innings of his career which humbled Steve Waugh’s Australians in an unforgettable Test.

By contrast, the Bourda in Guyana produced few memorable Test matches, with most being remembered for placid pitches and tropical rain. When you touch down at Cheddi Jagan Airport though, you’re quickly reminded that this is a country that has contributed immeasurably to the fabric of West Indies cricket despite being the geographical odd-man-out. Rohan Kanhai, who matched Sobers stroke for stroke in his pomp, smiles down at you from a poster that urges people to protect children from AIDS, and alongside is a banner of a man who led West Indies to its greatest cricketing conquests.

With so much focus on the players of Indian origin that Guyana has produced – Shivnarine Chanderpaul and Ramnaresh Sarwan are cornerstones of the current set-up – it’s easy to forget that Clive Hubert Lloyd was born in these parts, as was Lance Gibbs, the world’s highest wicket-taker till Dennis Lillee breezed past at the MCG just over a quarter century ago.

Inside the arrivals area, you glimpse a poster of Alvin Kallicharan, another West Indian great whose legacy was soured by his decision to tour South Africa with the likes of Lawrence Rowe in the early 1980s. A brilliant strokeful left-hander who played 66 Tests, Kallicharan is best remembered in India for leading an enfeebled team in 1978-79. West Indies lost 2-0 despite Kallicharan himself scoring over 500 runs, but the likes of Malcolm Denzil Marshall would have their retribution in the years to come.

It’s nearly midnight by the time we step outside. The road to Georgetown is a narrow one, and reminds me of the north of Kerala. Even the vegetation appears to be the same, except that there are fewer huge swaying palms by the side of the road. You still get a sense of a very green country, and the little houses by the side of the road are certainly prettier than some of the concrete eyesores that have disfigured Kerala’s scenery in recent times.

There’s even the odd timber mill as you approach Georgetown – again reminiscent of Malabar – and the streets start to look a little seedier as you near the docks. This isn’t a prosperous place – one US dollar will get you 200 of its Guyanese equivalents – but the Indian influence appears to be everywhere, from the billboards and hoardings to the re-runs of Ramayan on TV. A pity then that India’s cricketers couldn’t be bothered to make it this far.

	Lawrence 'Yagga' Rowe at Sabina Park © Dileep Premachandran

It will forever be a source of embarrassment to me that I didn't recognise him. We were sitting in the lobby at the Jamaica Pegasus, typing in the details of Inzamam-ul-Haq's retirement press conference, when someone came and sat down on the leather chair across from me. Still lean and with a face that hadn't been ravaged by time, there was something about him that caught my attention. As I turned back to my work, my friend spoke to him: "Such a shame about Bob, isn't it?" The man shook his head ruefully. "We played together, you know. When I was at Derbyshire."

I perked up when I heard that, but still couldn't identify him. When he
got up to speak to someone else, I quickly leaned over and asked my friend
who it was. "Lawrence Rowe" was the answer. I swore quietly, but my friend
assuaged the sense of shame somewhat when he said: "I didn't recognise him
either at first. Someone told me."

Lawrence Rowe. Viv Richards' hero. My hero's hero, and too good an
opportunity to miss. When he came back to his seat, I got up and went
over. I asked him if he would be prepared to chat sometime, fully
expecting a demand for dollars or a snub of some sort. Too many years on
the beat and too many idols with feet of clay does that to you. Rowe only
smiled. "I'd love to," he said. "Maybe sometime during the game tomorrow?
I'll be at the ground doing some analysis for a local station."

On Monday afternoon, once Zimbabwe had recovered to post 202, I set about
looking for him. The volunteers in the press box didn't know where he was,
but offered to find him for me. I sent down a note with my name and
organisation on it, asking what time he'd like to meet. Half an hour
later, the volunteer returned. "Mr Rowe will come up and see you at 4
o'clock," she said.

Five minutes before the hour, he was there. His arrival caused more than a
few whispers. In these parts, he's as close as you get to royalty. Back in
2004, when Jamaicans chose their five cricketers of the century, he was
one of two batsmen chosen alongside Michael Holding, Courtney Walsh and
Jeffrey Dujon. The other? George Headley.

Mention Headley, and he laughs. "Back in 1972, after I made all those runs
on my debut, do you know who they were comparing me to? Headley and
Bradman. Imagine that. Headley and Bradman!"

Those that watched him, including Spencer, who drives me around town,
still swear by him and his ability to play shots to every corner of Sabina
Park. The pull and the hook were two Rowe specials. "See that building
over there?" he says, pointing to a construction quite a few yards away
from the stadium. "I once hooked Chris Old as far as that."

By the time he led a rebel side to South Africa in 1983, his career was
over and the political heat generated by the tour made it impossible for
him to live in Jamaica. He moved to Miami, where he runs a small business.
In many ways though, Sabina Park is home, the hallowed turf where he made
three of his seven centuries while averaging 113.4 in four Tests. "It's a
very special place," he says, looking out of the plate glass window as
Dwayne Bravo pulls the ball over midwicket for six. "Whenever I played
against a touring side here, I seemed to make a hundred, whether it was
for Jamaica or the West Indies."

More than 35 years have passed since he scored 214 and 100 not out on his
debut against New Zealand. The images though are emblazoned in the memory.
"What do I remember most? Well, I'd come out to knock up before the toss,
and the bat fell out of my hand. So I just went back and sat in the
pavilion. Then Garry [Sobers] came in and told me that we were batting,
and that I'd go in at No.3."

He pauses, and gestures towards the Kingston club Stand. "See those
benches there? That's where we sat in those days. But it was right next to
a stand, and everyone was so enthusiastic about me playing that they
couldn't stop talking to me. Finally, Garry had to come out and tell them,
'Look, the boy has to concentrate. Don't disturb him.' When Joey Carew was
out, I went in. The first ball I faced went off the middle of the bat, and
I knew . I knew I was in for a big one."

We talk about his eye problems, the injuries and the grass allergy that so
blighted a career that lasted only 30 Tests. The numbers aren't
exceptional, 2043 runs at 43.55, though unlike today's 50-plus men, he had
no popgun attacks to play against. Why then is he so adored? "There was no
shot in the cricket manual that I couldn't play," he tells you. "Even 30
years later, some come up to me and say that I was the best they've ever
seen."

From someone else, you'd dismiss it as delusions of grandeur, but by all
accounts, Rowe was ineffably special. When he was a young man, Richards
sprayed Yagga - Rowe's nickname - on his backyard fence. That's all the
proof I need. Who cares about numbers?

	Little Scotland - The kilts make an entry in St Kitts © Cricinfo Ltd

Scotland, famously, have never qualified from the group stages of any of their innumerable football World Cup campaigns, and if their first day of action in cricket's big fandango is anything to go by, a similar pattern is set to be repeated in the coming fortnight. Massive yet heroic failure is the nation's stock-in-trade in any given sporting event - and their fans are contentedly resigned to their fate.

"Scotland don't go to many World Cups in any sport these days, but a trip to the Caribbean for two weeks … it's a tough choice." Martin Brown, an investment manager from Edinburgh, puts the dilemma in a nutshell as he stands beneath the scoreboard at midwicket, watching the inevitable unfold before his eyes.

A muffed caught-behind from Colin Smith prompts a chorus of "are you English in disguise?" as the wheels begin to come off a spirited bowling display. Martin, however, is already adamant he has the reason for the impending demise. "They did drop their best player last night, so it's probably what you'd expect."

The cause celebre in this man's eyes is the otherwise unassuming figure of Neil McCallum. "He's one of the best middle-order batsmen, he's the best fielder in the team, and having played 21 or 24 consecutive games, he was sensationally dropped last night," adds Martin, warming to his rant. "It's a big blow for him. He's a top guy and the fans are disappointed."

Are the fans also personal friends of his? "No, we just met him when we got out here," comes the response, to loud guffaws. Such is the close-knit nature of this peculiar sporting odyssey. Sat up high in the Southern Stand, for instance, are Sean Stewart and his girlfriend, Diane Anderson, who have got to know Scotland's No. 3, Ryan Watson, on account of his family staying in the same hotel in Frigate Bay.

"I'm just sitting here drinking punch and not really paying attention!" admits Diane, who had "no say whatsoever" when her other half announced their holiday plans for this year. "Neither of us had been to the Caribbean before so we figured we'd kill two birds with one stone," adds Sean, whose previous Scottish sports-watching habits had been confined to television. Such is the unique lure of cricket. Islands as idyllic as St Kitts have special powers to convert the uninitiated.

Not that everyone in Navy Blue is entirely new to the sport, however. "We're here to promote the Fat Bearded Bastards Cricket Club," announces Chris Sayer, an ample hirsute solicitor from Edinburgh, whose offices are but a five-minute stroll from Scotland's HQ at the Grange. "Our aim is to roll back the tides of fashion, and encourage everyone to grow beards and put on weight." Judging by the damage he and his cronies inflicted on an unsuspecting member of the press corps on Monday night, his mission is well underway. "The Scots order whisky chasers with everything," lamented the ailing scribe while wilting during final practice on Tuesday afternoon.

Even so, there is a serious undertone to Chris's efforts to spread the word. "It's a crucial time for Scottish cricket," he adds. "They've got to continue to develop to justify their fragile financing. If they don't get the financing, that'll be the end of the resurgence. And they've had some great success in recent years, beating many of the Associates, and some of the better counties as well."

All the same, such complex issues are far from the thoughts of the majority of the Scottish fans in the ground. Never before has any Caribbean island been over-run by many kilts and ginger wigs, half of whose wearers are sure, come midnight, to be found upside-down in the fountains of Independence Square, burbling gently to themselves and passers-by. "We're so red it's unbelievable," chant the inebriated clans on the hill, slow-roasting in the heat of the midday sun. Inevitable defeat matters not a jot. It's the manner of the meltdown that counts.

	The new stadium in St Kitts has been built on time and on budget © Andrew Miller

On many levels, the story of St Kitts is the most uplifting of a myriad of tales to have emerged from the chaotic preparations for this World Cup. It is the story of how a land the size of an English county town rose above its humble status to claim a share of the biggest prize of all. While the big dogs squabbled and were left floundering to be finished on time, St Kitts merely enlisted the help of another of the world's underdogs, Taiwan, and delivered a delightful 8000-seater stadium from scratch, on time and on budget.

It's a tale with all the ingredients for a classic feelgood movie, although the happy ending will have to remain on hold for a little while longer. On Wednesday, the World Champions, Australia, take on Scotland in opening match of Group A, and only then will we see quite what this remarkable little island has to offer. The initial impressions are encouraging if a touch confusing, for cricket is not a game inscribed on this nation's soul.

Not once in the history of West Indian cricket has a native of St Kitts represented the Test team (though Joey Benjamin, born in Christ Church in 1961, did turn out for England in 1994). Nevis, the island's twin that rises high through the mist, 6km to the south, has had a fractionally better return with a total of five - including Keith Arthurton, Stuart Williams and Runako Morton, whose exploits in a losing cause in New Zealand last year earned him a plot of land from the government and the misplaced assumption that he had arrived as an international cricketer. He did not make this World Cup party.

The tale of St Kitts is a tale of achievement but also of neglect. West Indian cricket was a phenomenon that bypassed this tiny island (and tiny is the operative word - by the last count the combined population of St Kitts and Nevis was 39,618, which is less than the capacity of the newly-reconstructed Gabba). In the island's National Museum, the names of every carnival queen since 1972 have been printed out on a central display (and there's an interesting array of porcelain bed-pans as well), but cricket is very much an afterthought.

In fact, a temporary exhibition has had to be set up in a separate room - a selection of photos, mostly borrowed from nearby Antigua, and a lone West Indies shirt (from their ignominious 1996 World Cup campaign, of all the moments in history to forget). The cheery curator thanks me for popping in and urges me to "spread the word", which I am only too glad to do, although I remain baffled by her opening gambit. "So where are you from," she asks. "China/Japan?"

Cricketing hotbeds they are not, and yet, the assumption is revealing, for St Kitts' best friends, since independence from Britain in 1983, are all from the Far East. The Basseterre Fisheries Complex, on the seafront near the port, was built with a substantial donation from Tokyo (which may or may not have been connected to the island's subsequent backing of Japan's bid to overturn the whaling ban). As for Taiwan's influence, that has already been amply documented.

The point is, the arrival of the Cricket World Cup in St Kitts does not feel like a case of regeneration, as the ICC and the West Indian Cricket Board would have us believe. It is more a case of conception - the planting of a seed where nothing previously has existed. "I did wonder if they would ever get it done,” said Chris Dehring, the tournament organiser, when he first saw the area of scrubland in the centre of Basseterre which was being proposed as the new home of St Kitts cricket. Unlike the rest of the World Cup project, this was one arena he did not need to worry about.

How many of the locals, however, will be taking part in the cricket carnival? Indirectly, of course, it affects them all. The capital, Basseterre, is a beautiful Creole market-town, decked out in pastille colours and equipped with all the amenities a one-horse town could need. A clock-tower, a church, a two-pump Shell Garage positioned right on the high street. Now added to that mix is string upon string of flags and banners proclaiming the arrival of the World Cup, although with the cheapest of seats on Warner Park's grassy banks costing upwards of US$80, few of the locals are expected at any of the matches.

Is the Caribbean ready for this event? That's the question being asked all across the region as the minutes tick down to zero hour, but in St Kitts, they are as ready as they'll ever be. The roundabout outside Robert Bradshaw Airport is still undergoing some last-minute restructuring, while the gravel-pit that passes for Warner Park's carpark could do with a bit of sprucing up. But the pitch is in place and the teams are ensconced in the newly completed Marriott Hotel, one of the finest of its ilk in the Caribbean. This is one little island that's ready for its big adventure.

	Viv Richards may be the king of West Indies, but he couldn't get an invite to the World Cup opening ceremony © Getty Images

The flight from St Maarten in the Netherlands Antilles to Antigua was among the shortest I’ve ever taken, and the azure blue waters that wash the island with a beach for every day of the year came into view within half an hour of taking off. With Air France having managed to leave one of my bags behind in Paris, the first few minutes on the island that spawned one of cricket’s most iconic heroes weren’t pleasant ones.

“First time in Antigua?” asked the woman at immigration. I said yes, adding that it meant a lot to me to finally be on his island. Growing up a brown boy in the UK of the early 1980s, that swagger, the success and those red-yellow-and-green wristbands meant everything to me. There were others too, like the magnificent Michael Holding and Liverpool legend John Barnes (with roots in Jamaica), but if you ever needed one good reason to not be ashamed of your colour, it was him.

The CARICOM visa went through without a hitch and by the time I crossed over to the check-in counter for the flight to Kingston, his image was ubiquitous. He was everywhere, like Chè in Kerala’s Marxist strongholds – on the cover of tourist information pamphlets, on posters adorning little souvenir shops, and on the book and DVD shelves. Then again, how many islands can boast that Isaac Vivian Alexander Richards was born there?

As I waited in the queue to check in, one of the baggage handlers came and plonked a golf bag next to me. When I turned back to see who it was that could be traveling to Jamaica with clubs, it was the man himself, as regal as ever in white shirt and grey trousers. I hesitantly reached out my hand and mentioned the fact that I had interviewed him in Colombo during the 2002 Champions Trophy. He obviously didn’t remember, but the “Good to see you again” wasn’t the cursory one you get from most celebrities.

In fact, as you watched the king in his own environment, what struck you most was his rootedness and humility. Everyone from baggage handler to check-in clerk was acknowledged, there was back and forth banter, and sometimes a vigorous handshake. When we walked into the terminal, the first place I checked out was the book shop. Obviously, the autobiography was there. I picked it up and took it over, and he scrawled out his signature. The young man running the store then played him some of the lilting Calypso tunes used to promote this World Cup, but when he was offered the CD, he declined politely, saying that he’d prefer to pick it up on his way back.

All was not right in the Richards world though. It was an appalling oversight that the greatest batsman that most of us will ever see wasn’t invited to the opening ceremony in his own backyard. He didn’t criticise anyone in so many words, but the sense of hurt was palpable. Whoever’s responsible, and somebody must have been, should do the decent thing and resign, for having organised cricket’s equivalent of Braveheart without William Wallace.

The pain of missing out was undoubtedly exacerbated by the fact that it was Jamaica that hosted the showpiece occasion. In the book, Richards talks of his special bond with the island, and how he rated his 36-ball 61 against India [first Test, 1983] as the most memorable innings he ever played. “Jamaica in particular created the same sort of sporting atmosphere I had experienced when I watched England play football at Wembley or Liverpool at Anfield. I had always felt their love for me, and for years I tried hard – maybe too hard – to thank them for their support and to fulfil what they felt about me.”

But rather than gripe about what’s now in the past, he preferred to talk about what West Indies needed to do to bring back the halcyon years. “This is a massive opportunity,” he said. “If the team does well here, it’ll give the game a much-needed boost.” The opposite doesn’t even bear thinking about, in a region where most young men seem to walk around imitating their idols from the NBA – baggy shorts, impossibly loose T-shirts and all.

He laughed when you asked him about the difference between them and now. The first World Cup in 1975 barely spanned three weeks. This one will encompass seven. “I suppose they want to give exposure to some of the lesser teams,” he said, perhaps forgetting that the likes of East Africa and Canada were around in the ’70s as well.

“Australia are wobbling a little, aren’t they,” he said. “England aren’t even considered a very good one-day team. And New Zealand beat them too. Quite a few teams have a chance.” Back in his day, that was never the case, with West Indies first and then daylight.

The bookstore clerk then put on a DVD with footage from those glory years. “Does this bring back memories?” he asked with a grin. “Makes me feel old, man” was the reply. In the eyes of many though, he, like Peter Pan, will never grow old. And despite the slight from those that should have known better, he’ll forever be the king.