August 1976. England is in the grip of the longest and fiercest heatwave on record. The cricket field at the Kennington Oval is so parched that you might imagine yourself to be in Trinidad or Antigua, not London. The thousands of black faces around the boundary rope only add to the impression of a Caribbean outpost in SE11.
Michael Holding has the ball. Loose-limbed and doe-eyed, with a languid running style that has earned him the nickname 'Whispering Death’, he is the avenging angel of the West Indies’ fearsome cricket team. He stands in front of the sightscreen, almost pawing the ground at the end of his 44-pace run-up. The air buzzes with anticipation as he fixes his gaze on Tony Greig, the South African émigré who has played his way to the England captaincy. Everyone in the stands knows there is more at stake here than the next run or wicket. This is personal.
Holding begins his silky approach to the crease, his shirt billowing and his head swaying gently from side to side. 'When you watch him,’ the cricket photographer Clyde Cumberbatch said, 'what you are looking at is an African individual with African rhythm.’
That rhythm is matched by the pulse building in the crowd, as thousands of West Indian supporters beat their drums, blow their horns or simply bang a couple of tin cans together.
Holding leaps. The ball whips from his hand in a blur. Greig tries to jam his bat down in time but he is hopelessly late. The stumps detonate, and even though the match is not yet over, there are suddenly hundreds of people on the field. 'Did you see that one, Tony?’ they jeer. 'Who’s grovelling now?’
Holding leaps. The ball whips from his hand in a blur. Greig tries to jam his bat down in time but he is hopelessly late. The stumps detonate, and even though the match is not yet over, there are suddenly hundreds of people on the field. 'Did you see that one, Tony?’ they jeer. 'Who’s grovelling now?’
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