Cricket with the legends and cavorting Caribbean style

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.