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       Sylvester Clarke

      Anyone who knew Sylvester Clarke knows there never were truer words spoken than his entry in the Cricketers’ Who’s Who, next to the section entitled ‘Relaxations’. It comprised precisely two words: ‘music’ and ‘parties’.

      You’ll understand, then, why although on the field I rated a meeting with the Surrey and Barbados monster-quickie several places behind sitting naked in a bucket of wasps, I looked forward to the après-cricket with this guy more than almost anyone else.

      On one occasion, things might even have got a shade out of hand, although, in my defence I only ever had the interests of my team-mates at heart. The place was Weston-super-Mare; the event, a county championship match between Somerset and Surrey in the early 1980s; and the result, carnage. The pitch at Weston used to be lively at the best of times. Sylvester Clarke, menacing and almost perversely keen on his work, represented the worst of times. We had won the toss and fielded first on day one. Day two meant us against the Beast on a flyer. Enter Vic Marks, my wily Somerset team-mate with a cunning plan.

      ‘Beef,’ chuckled Vic. ‘Any chance of you having a little drink with Sylvers tonight?’

      Thus a convivial pint in the sponsor’s tent wandered into a second, a third meandered into a fourth, and by then Botham and Clarke were in love with each other and the world. ‘I know,’ piped up someone whose voice sounded strangely like Vic’s, ‘What about a drinking contest, lads? Somerset v Surrey, Beefy against Sylvers?’

      And so my double-vodka and rum was matched by his double-rum and vodka. My half-pint of gin and campari was matched by his half-pint of campari and gin until by the time we got back to the hotel the only thing holding us up were the fumes we kept breathing into each other’s faces. Kids, do not try this at home. In fact, do not try it at all. The last thing I recall was the sight of probably the most fearsome fast bowler alive, dead to the world laid out unconscious on the pool table and snoring like a walrus.

      The next time I saw him I passed him on my way out to bat. He didn’t look well, and he sounded worse.

      ‘Beefie, mahn … Beefie, mahn. What have you done to me … Beefie Mahn?’

      ‘All in a night’s work,’ I told him.

      No idea what happened in the game. By then, the result was incidental.

      Even from a safe distance, for those of us who enjoyed watching great, fiery fast bowling, watching Clarke bowl was a terrifying experience. What struck you was the ambling, rolling gait of around seven paces with which he sauntered to the crease, like a Western gunslinger walking through the doors of the saloon, come to fill some varmint full of lead. The gunshot came from absolutely nowhere. One arm up, the other driven by a right shoulder that seemed about twice the size of his left, through the delivery before you could blink. And the resulting high-climbing missile was almost always unerringly straight. He was simply a terrific bowler; in his day, I believe, the quickest in the world. In any other era, he would have strolled into the West Indies team. It was just his misfortune to be operating at the same time as Malcolm Marshall, Joel Garner, Andy Roberts, Michael Holding and Colin Croft.

      But in county cricket Sylvers was something else, so much so that every time Surrey played at the Oval there were two games in progress simultaneously. The first when Sylvers was not bowling, when the flat, pacey but even-bouncing decks prepared by Harry Brind looked absolutely jam-packed with runs. The other, when Sylvester came on to bowl. Be afraid. Be very afraid.

      For a guy who inspired so much apprehension and caused so many niggling injuries to flare up on the eve of a trip to Surrey, mainly in batsmen I seem to recall, the wave of sadness that washed over the game when Sylvester died stupidly young indicated in just how much affection the Bajan was held. For lovers of cricket in Barbados particularly, to lose Sylvers and Malcolm Marshall in such a short space of time must have been difficult to bear.

       Brian Close

      Another prize nutter. Is it me, or what? Don’t answer that. It is something of a minor miracle, in fact, that my career lasted beyond my first few matches under Brian Close’s captaincy. It was not that he didn’t think I could play. As time progressed, he convinced me that I could achieve anything I set my mind to. No, the problem was his bloody driving.

      I’ve faced the fastest, most hostile bowlers in world cricket, with helmets and without, on minefields as well as shirtfronts. But I never knew what cold fear was until I slipped into the passenger seat of Close’s car.

      As young players taking our first steps at Somerset under Brian, and being taught everything we knew by him, guys like myself, Viv Richards, Vic Marks and Peter Roebuck would travel to the ends of the earth for him. The only problem was his preferred mode of transport.

      Behind the wheel of whichever beaten-up old banger he was scaring to death at the time, Close’s performances were legendary. On one occasion he picked up a motor from the garage where it had undergone major surgery, turned left, smacked into the back of a van, went around the next roundabout and drove it straight back in for repair again.

      I will never forget my first experience of Close’s unique driving style; the first thing that hit you was his need for speed. Come shine or rain, day or night, crystal-clear visibility or pea-soup fog, to him all driving conditions were perfect for cruising at around 100 mph. The next thing you noticed was the open flask of scalding hot coffee pirouetting on the central console. Then there were the beef sandwiches made for him by his wife Vivian, which, while steering the car with his knees and with seemingly little regard for what was happening on the other side of the windscreen, he would open up with both hands to make sure the meat content was acceptably high. And finally, to complete this nightmarish scene, he had a copy of The Sporting Life, folded in half on his lap, from which I swear he was studying the form as he drove along.

      ‘Do you want me to drive?’ I would ask, hopefully. His reply every time? ‘No, lad. Driving helps me relax.’

      People who didn’t know Closey used to recount the stories of his exploits in the field in tones of hushed amazement. Those of us who knew him took no persuading whatsoever to believe every single word.

      His speciality as a fielder was to use himself as a human shield. He reasoned that a cricket ball couldn’t possibly hurt you because it wasn’t on you long enough. And he lived and nearly died by that principle in suicide positions all round the bat, particularly at the shortest of short square leg. Once, fielding in that spot, the ball rebounded from his forehead towards second slip.

      ‘Catch it!’ he shouted.

      After the ball was taken, his team-mates raced towards the stricken Closey to make sure he was okay.

      ‘I’m fine,’ he assured

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