How the men's ODI World Cup was born

Fifty years ago, there wasn't much for Britain to smile about. After a pair of general elections, the three-day week, electricity rationing and a state of emergency in Northern Ireland, 1974 had offered few glimmers of hope to 1975. Unemployment reached record levels, the fashion designer and punk-rock impresario Malcolm McLaren dubbed the youth "a generation of the dispossessed", while Margaret Thatcher, soon to become leader of the Conservatives, felt people had to regain "confidence in Britain and ourselves".

The low-key announcement of the first men's cricket World Cup did little to lift spirits. Several journalists called it the Prudential Cup, while another griped: "It has been referred to as the 'World-without-South-Africa Cup'. For it to be a genuine World Cup, the matches would have to be of five days' duration, and played under Test match Laws."

When Ben Brocklehurst, chair of The Cricketer magazine, had proposed a tournament in 1969, he met a muted response - despite the blessing of Gubby Allen and Don Bradman. MCC wondered whether the English public would be interested in, say, West Indies v Australia; Brocklehurst's modest financial projections, meanwhile, were dismissed as outlandish. There seemed to be pushback against the very idea of modernisation. Derrick Robins put forward a Test tournament - not unlike the World Test Championship - in 1971, but the powers that be were unreceptive. The disastrous triangular Test tournament hosted by England in 1912 (also involving Australia and South Africa) had been rain-ruined, one-sided and a financial failure, and was still held as proof that such concepts didn't work. Even so, in 1972 the ICC commissioned the Test and County Cricket Board to explore the possibility of a global competition.

The world, and the game, were changing. Cricket needed cash: the counties had lost a combined £156,000 in 1970; globally, the game's financial health was no better. The 1966 football World Cup had been a money-spinner which galvanised the nation - and since 1972 the (bilateral) Prudential Trophy had shown that ODI cricket could be lucrative and captivating. Likewise, the birth of the Benson and Hedges Cup, nine years after the creation of the Gillette Cup, meant sell-out crowds flooded into Lord's twice a year for domestic one-day finals.

The emergence of Prudential - a ready-made sponsor prepared to throw their weight behind cricket - no doubt helped, and by the mid-1970s it was clear that the sale of broadcast rights could cover costs. In 1973, the trailblazing women's World Cup offered more encouragement. The prospect of a men's tournament was gathering steam. And with a number of proposals floating around, the ICC may have feared being gazumped: if they didn't arrange it, someone else might.

Two days before the women's final, plans for an "international competition" were approved. It had long been clear that apartheid would prevent South Africa from touring England in 1975. Since a multi-team Test tournament would be disruptive and unwieldy, a one-day cup - combining a group stage and knockouts - seemed ideal. Though many viewed the World Cup as an amuse-bouche for the Ashes that summer, it was still the greatest logistical undertaking, and most vibrant carnival of cricket, in the game's history. "Fans were licking their lips about the talented squads selected," remembers Terry Blake, tournament director of the 1999 World Cup. "It was intense and slightly exotic to have so many teams in one country for the first time. I had a holiday job as an ice-cream salesman near Horsham, and had the radio in the van on all tournament long."

East Africa - an unlikely amalgamation of players from Kenya, Tanzania, Uganda and Zambia - and Sri Lanka were invited to join the six Test nations. One journalist reflected that Idi Amin would be following events "with attention"; Robin Marlar cooed that "after this summer, the one-day game will be everlastingly international". Still, no one had any idea what to expect from the newcomers: some bookies had Sri Lanka at 250-1 to lift the trophy; others reckoned their chances were one in a thousand.

Helmets had yet to make an appearance and, after the winter demolition of England by Dennis Lillee and Jeff Thomson, bouncers had become a contentious issue. Administrators feared not just for the quality of the spectacle, but for the safety of the batters. Prudential - well placed to do so - announced they had insured each player for £50,000, covering "death or total disablement", as well as the "loss of limbs, eyes, fingers, toes and baggage". Eight days before the first coin was tossed, the ICC decided that any ball passing over the batter's head would be a wide. They also decreed that bowlers shouldn't send down bouncers to "non-recognised batsmen", leaving many to question the definition: could a tailender become recognised once he started flaying boundaries? West Indies fast bowler Andy Roberts didn't mince words: "It's ridiculous."

Still, those last-minute tweaks belied some serious planning. Prudential paid £155,000 to sponsor the tournament, while the BBC won broadcast rights for £55,000. IPL money it was not, yet it would be put to good use: the seven visiting sides were offered return airfares, and a team bus for the duration of their stay. Every player would receive £250, a laundry allowance of £20, and cash for meals - £1.50 for lunch, £3.50 for dinner. The English players were promised first-class rail fares, or a petrol allowance of 7p per mile.

The TCCB established an ICC Cup Promotional Working Party, led by Raman Subba Row and Robins. They all agreed it "should not be allowed to overshadow the subsequent Test series against Australia". Still, they weren't totally blind to the merits of modern marketing. Disney character Jiminy Cricket was used to promote the tournament, and Page 3 model Susan Shaw was recruited for a poster designed to bring a dash of glamour to the gentleman's game. Bat in hand, she sported a pair of tiny white shorts, and a T-shirt that screamed: "Cricket's a big hit".

There were functions to arrange at Buckingham Palace and Lord's, and a host of hotels to book - the Waldorf and Kensington Close in London, the Post House and Metropole in Leeds, plus lodgings in Manchester, Birmingham, Swansea, Taunton, Nottingham and Eastbourne. Then there was the matter of prize money: £4,000 for the winners, £2,000 for the runners-up, £1,000 for the losing semi-finalists. The man of the match picked up £50 in the group stage, £100 in the semis and £200 for the final, where the award would be decided by a panel of Ken Barrington, Richie Benaud and Jeffrey Stollmeyer; supposedly international, it did not include an Asian.

Above all, organisers knew they would have to sell tickets by the bucketload. Ground admission started at £1, rising to £3 for the final; in most cases, seats in the best stands were around £2. Amid an economic crisis, the ICC were desperate to attract punters. As the weeks counted down, the question remained: would this bold project - arguably the most revolutionary move in the men's game since the introduction of overarm bowling - work? Five days before the start, snow disrupted fixtures in Essex and Derbyshire, where Clive Lloyd chucked a snowball at Lancashire team-mate Farokh Engineer. Might the World Cup be scuppered by Arctic weather?

Lloyd and Engineer sneaked in a B&H quarter-final at Grace Road before joining their teams on June 5. First came an official presentation at Buckingham Palace, followed by lunch at Lord's - where, to everyone's relief, the skies were blue. The schedule was kinder to some than others: bellies still full, New Zealand and East Africa headed to Birmingham, Australia and Pakistan to Leeds, West Indies and Sri Lanka to Manchester; England and India remained in the capital. Cricket's first men's World Cup would start next morning.

The fact that group matches were played simultaneously - four at a time - attests that broadcasters were an afterthought. Still, BBC TV put together an impressive live schedule: six of the 12 group games, plus both semis and the final. But, in 1975, radio was still the thing: the World Service promised commentary stints from all matches, as well as ball-by-ball coverage of the final; the Eastern Service would report in Hindi, Urdu and Bengali. The Caribbean Broadcasting Union even sent their own commentators, Tony Cozier and Reds Perreira. In New Zealand, too, fans could tune into commentary on all their team's matches. Bizarrely, there was no ball-by-ball coverage in England until the final. "In those days, Test Match Special was on Radio 3," says producer Peter Baxter. "The controller was Austrian-born. He knew nothing about cricket, but was fascinated by our Test coverage - not least because it was the one time his network had a registerable audience. We were having a meeting about how we were going to cover the World Cup, and he stormed into the room late. Before he sat down, he said: 'This one-day cricket is crap.' On that basis, we only got commentary on the final."

Come June 7, there were highs of 27˚C, and the tournament was largely bathed in sunshine. Not a ball was lost to the weather, and fans flooded in. On the opening day, 21,000 turned up to watch England v India, and 22,000 for Australia v Pakistan - Headingley's first full house in nine years. If anything, the worry was too many spectators. There were protests by Sri Lankan Tamils at The Oval, while one Indian fan - enraged by Sunil Gavaskar's unbeaten 36 from 174 balls against England, as India crawled to 132 for three in 60 overs - punched two policemen at Lord's, and was sentenced to six months.

But Gavaskar's go-slow was a reminder that, for the tournament to take flight, the cricket had to be compelling. Jack Fingleton claimed the format showed "most batsmen can bat better than they think", and said it had made "every man a champion fieldsman", while greatly improving the running between wickets. And, on June 11 at Edgbaston, came a classic. Chasing 267 to beat Pakistan, West Indies looked dead and buried at 203 for nine. But Deryck Murray and Roberts batted with gumption, crossing the line with two balls to spare. The tension was so great Clive Lloyd supposedly drank 15 cans of pale ale. No footage of his post-match interview has survived.

Cricket was capturing England's imagination. Tickets for the West Indies- Australia group game at The Oval sold out well in advance; enough money was put down on India beating New Zealand for Ladbrokes to slash odds from 11-4 to 7-4 (India lost a thriller). Marlar felt the tournament had extended the game's audience "from theatre to cinema proportions". Only a dead game at Trent Bridge between Sri Lanka and Pakistan drew fewer than 4,000.

There was also a gripping semi-final at Headingley, where England almost defended 93 against Australia. "It got very exciting," says Baxter. "When John Snow and Chris Old started swinging it around corners and reduced them to 39 for six, I persuaded Radio 2 to come across to us for an update. From that moment, England started to lose the game. It was a question of me ringing the controller's office, big discussions, and lots of 'We'll get back to you, old boy,' as wickets were tumbling. It was agonising."

Despite England's absence and MCC's earlier fears, the final between West Indies and Australia proved the hottest ticket in town. Gate receipts were £66,400, then a record for a day's cricket. And at nine and a half hours, it was also the longest day's play in living memory. It felt celebratory. "The West Indian fans were as joyous as a Saturday morning at the Kensington Oval," says Baxter. "It was different to a Test match day: less hum, more rattle - the perfect neutral match for a Lord's final."

The game had it all: a bruising hundred from Lloyd, spilled catches and spectacular run-outs. West Indian fans charged on to the field as Murray ran out Thomson; by the time Prince Philip smilingly handed Lloyd the trophy around 8.45, the skies were darkening. Journalists asked whether his dinner was being kept warm at the palace. The teams shared a couple of beers in the changing-room, but scheduling left little time for celebrations: next day, six of the West Indies XI were in action for their counties in the John Player League.

Before the World Cup, Tony Lewis had described one-day games as a "necessary evil". Yet a fortnight's glorious entertainment had turned heads. John Woodcock painted the final as "drama, tragedy, carnival and farce all rolled into one". Not everyone was convinced. "It is like a strip show raising funds for the legitimate theatre," complained Michael Parkinson. "It would be a dangerous thing if the present euphoric mood hid the fact that limited-over cricket is merely a gimmick."

Crucially, it was a commercial triumph: 158,000 spectators turned up, and the tournament generated a profit of around £226,000, of which 10% passed straight to the TCCB, and 7.5% to each of the seven other participants; the rest went to the ICC. If there was a criticism, it was that cricket had sold itself a little short: in hindsight, £1 to watch the group match between West Indies and Australia was a basement-level bargain. According to Baxter, "1975 would have opened Kerry Packer's eyes about what might be possible".

Some wondered whether the World Cup could work outside England, which Woodcock pointed out was the most "compact and cosmopolitan" of the cricket-playing countries. Britain's long daylight hours in the summer months were another factor. India threw their name into the hat to host in 1979, but had to wait until 1987.

Yet in the half-century since, the World Cup has spread its wings - not just to India and the West Indies, but to Kenya and Zimbabwe, Sri Lanka and Bangladesh, Ireland and the Netherlands. In 2027, it will arrive in Namibia.

Even as ODI cricket struggles for attention, the World Cup holds a special place in the calendar. That's quite a legacy for a tournament many assumed was destined for failure.