A Eulogy for Malcolm Marshall
Many years ago, my mother suggested to me, in reference to a splendid school-teacher who had died, that in life one came across only a few truly special people
Mark Nicholas
21-Aug-2015
Many years ago, my mother suggested to me, in reference to a
splendid school-teacher who had died, that in life one came
across only a few truly special people. Lots of good'uns she
said, plenty of fabulous folk, but only a few who are special.
Malcolm Marshall, conclusively, was one of those - one of those
special people. Not so much because he was so extraordinarily
good at cricket, but because of the way in which he applied the
various gifts, cricket amongst them, which were given to him.
Malcolm was no waster - not of time, not of talent - nor a
shirker of any situation or challenge which confronted him.
He maintained excellence without arrogance, earned respect
without ever assuming it, and displayed confidence and
self-assurance within his immense humility.
For as long as perhaps the last two months, maybe more maybe
less, he knew, deep down I think, that the game was up. But he
was damned if he would let us know. He was such a stubborn
fellow. It was as if he was more concerned about the suffering of
those around him, those few intensely close friends kept by this
very private man, than about the suffering he was going through
himself. The qualities of thoughtfulness and caring, of courage
and bravery - and didn't he so often show that in his play - were
among his finest. For all the flamboyance and bravado as a
sportsman, Malcolm was not one to over-dramatize off the field.
He said things as they were and he resolved that his dreadful
illness would be his own problem and as it escalated he would not
panic others with its potential end.
For everyone who lives here, on this magical island, the name of
Malcolm Marshall is synomomous with the style of the place: with
the game of cricket in its purest calypso form, but also in its
more modern professional form; with fun and sun; with the good
and simple living that is typical here; and with the honesty and
generosity of spirit that characterizes the people of Barbados.
It is clear to a visitor his loss has stunned his nation.
And yet, most fascinatingly, amazingly really, his loss has
echoed all around the world, volley upon volley of shock stabbing
at friends and fans wherever the game is treasured. The internet,
for example, is jammed with messages and memories and telephone
lines have been on heat. Among the first calls I received were
from Shaun Pollock, in Natal, South Africa, who attributes so
much of his success to Malcolm; from Barry Richards, the great
South African batsman, living now in Australia; from Martin
Crowe, who called him "the finest opponent of them all - furious
but fair and fantastic value in the bar"; and Ian Botham, busy on
his final walk raising millions of pounds for Leukaemia Research,
who for once found himself virtually unable to speak, so sad was
he not to say goodbye to "the skinny wimp from the Windies" as he
loved to call him.
It was funny to watch opponents greet Macho. The greats, his
peers, relished the moment with hand-slapping glee and then they
all tore the life out of each other on the pitch. The less good
used to whisper among themselves if he was late, as he often was
incidentally - wouldn't you be with Connie at home ! - saying "no
sign of Macho today ? phew !" Then, when he arrived, wrapped in
gold chains and fancy clothes - and boy did he dress snappy or
what - their faces would fall. Ray East and David Acfield, the
Essex county spinners, and terrified tail-enders, used to wait by
his car and offer to carry his bags to the dressing room. "Why ?"
asked Malcolm, when it first happened. "Well, Mr Marshall, we
thought you might consider a couple of half volleys and if
they're are nice and straight we promise to miss them !"
It is an amazing phenomena of his short life that opponents
everywhere, from Barbados to Bombay, from Sydney to Southampton,
loved him so. Let's face it, he was a lethal bowler - that
skidding bouncer homed in on its target like a Scud missile - and
a brilliantly, skillful bowler capable of all kinds of swing and
cut and subtle changes of pace. But, of course, he was revered
after play when he drank his beloved brandies, when his sharp
mind chewed the cud of the game and when he boasted his batting
exploits - how he rejoiced in batting !
He loved talking cricket, he knew it so well and people listened
to his strong opinion, his deep insight and his remarkable
ability to explore the game's present and future with uncanny
foresight. He had time for everyone after play, in the mornings
before play too, when he would share the secrets of his success
equally with anyone, friend or foe. Pollock, Lance Kulsener,
Dominic Cork and Chris Cairns are among those who lapped at his
advice. Imran Khan, who calls Malcolm the greatest of all fast
bowlers, learned the leg-cutter from him. Malcolm, in turn, had
learnt it from Dennis Lillee. Theirs was the Fast Bowlers Union
and how he loved to share the nuances and stories of the spoils
with all-comers.
So far then, we have a universally loved and respected character
who is unselfish and warm, and a man of supreme skill.
But we mustn't forget his sense of humour, the extravagant plans
for each batsman and those often hysterical, detailed field
settings.
And then he would turn up his collar and swagger away, job
done clinically yet with such flair. That swagger, the swaying of
the hips, the brim of the sunhat tilted forwards, the collar
pointing to the sky were all a result of his adoration of Sir
Garfield Sobers, whose hundred against New Zealand at the
Kensington Oval in 1972 was the definitive moment in the
thirteen-year old Malcolm's dream to reach the top. He wanted to
BE Sobers. "Come on Sobey, come and have a bowl", Clive Lloyd
would sometimes say years later and in would stroll this languid,
almost liquid cricketer, immaculate every inch of the way even
when dripping with the sweat of his efforts.
Not much got the old boy's back up, though you didn't dare meddle
with his cricket case or nick a T-shirt from his wardrobe -
blimey, you would have thought an atomic bomb had gone off if he
found anything out of place, so neat and tidy were clothes and
kit. And he didn't like sloppiness from cricketers, or from
people in general in fact and certainly didn't suffer
indifference from anyone; and he couldn't stand bad manners. Oh,
and he liked to get his own way, but then don't we all. And you
know why these things frustrated him ?
Because he cared. He cared about standards, about commitment to
the chosen cause, about quality in all things. Joel Garner once
said that "Malcolm's real strength is that he never gives less
than 100 per cent for any team in which he plays or is involved."
Even to the end, before his operation, he would be bowling in the
nets, inswing and outswing, appeals and exasperation, smiles and
scowls and so much joy.
That's Macho for me. A man of joy and delight in all he did and
in others around him. The endless chatter, that laughter with his
head thrown skywards, those dancing happy eyes and that welcoming
ripper of a smile. And the unbridled enthusiasm for a determined
march on all the challenges of life - didn't matter what they
were, simple things even such as a round of golf, a hand of
backgammon, a night on the town - all met with relish and hope.
He is gone now and of course we're sad. We're heartbroken. But he
is a man we MUST celebrate for he gave life all that he had and
from him came an unforgettable warmth and always a sense of
direction. The Hampshire captain of the Sixties, Colin
Ingleby-Mackenzie, said last week "We can only assume the great
Maestro in the sky was short of a class all-rounder." Not only
does the Maestro in the sky have with him a great all-rounder,
but in Malcolm he has the greatest enthusiasm for the game I have
known. They will probably be having a party together right now,
as we must in time, in his honour. Let's be honest, he'd hate us
not to smile from within each time we think of him - the Marshall
Memory really is one to treasure.
Malcolm always referred to himself as "a lucky man". Well, we're
the lucky ones, to have known him. What a privilege it has been.