Sir Vivian Richards, the Master Blaster, spent the evening of Friday the 13th telling tales and charming a throng of England supporters to whom, long since, he had agreed to speak. After the events of the day at the stadium that bears his name, but not his integrity – the second Test had been called off after just 10 balls because of a dangerous outfield – they had not anticipated him wishing to attend and not one person would have begrudged him keeping his own counsel. But arrive he did, to work his pitch superbly alongside Richie Richardson, another of Antigua's finest, his audience enraptured by sheer charisma. If his contribution was classy, then the classiest thing of all was to be there at all. "Life has to go on, brother," he told me, and then, beaming, posed for yet more photographs.
Earlier in the day, though, an unofficial total exclusion zone had been placed around him lest there be some collateral damage should he finally blow. He, like just about everyone – even Alan Hurst, the hapless ICC match referee whose curt eve-of-match dismissal of any suggestion that the outfield was unsafe hid a man who was probably crapping himself – had seen the problem coming. It could have been tested beforehand, should they have needed absolute proof that all was not right, by the expedient of getting a fast bowler to run up full tilt for a few overs from either end. Perhaps that was too simple.
Viv knew it all right, though. He had been brooding about it, just as he had during the World Cup when the stadium was opened. Even then, it now transpires, the ICC had had doubts about whether matches could be staged there and mooted moving the six games that eventually were. There were severe drainage problems caused by heavy plant used in the construction of the North Stand compressing the outfield, which had been laid prematurely, and rupturing pipes. Rectification came too late, not helped by a government decision to suspend remedial work over Christmas in order to stage a concert. By then it was too late anyway. As the event unfolded like a bad dream, Viv described it as "like an arrow through my heart".
Antiguans across the island were embarrassed but none more than the man himself. He had heard the prime minister, Baldwin Spencer, pledging to make someone accountable and pour resource into the effort to restage the match, but it is his government that manages the ground and carries responsibility. Elections are due within the next three months and his chance of re-election will hang by a thread now such is the impact of the fiasco. Viv heard Spencer's words and snorted.
The stadium had been regarded as a fitting tribute to one of cricket's greatest players and in any other country that would have been the case. It is a fine arena. But it was built for the wrong purpose, not to honour Viv, but, using Chinese money, to satisfy the World Cup demands of the ICC with their ridiculous emphasis on security rather than attempting to capture all that is good about Caribbean cricket. A stadium to seat 20,000 people was constructed on an island with a 70,000 population.
In the middle of St John's, though, a 20-minute ride away, is the dear old decrepit wonderful Antigua Recreation Ground, the beating heart of a vibrant town. More than a cricket ground, over the years it has been a social centre. When cricket stopped there it was as if a life support had been turned off. Now, though, cricket will return, as if we have all been allowed into a Tardis and transported back, once more to experience that which we thought had gone for ever. And that is why Viv, on Friday evening, was able to keep in check the massive hurt he felt, not just for himself (although the humiliation of being associated by name with such a travesty would have been enough for most) but for the people of the island.
The ARG is where he first watched cricket, from the vantage point of a tree. His father worked in the Victorian prison over the road. It was at the ARG that he played his first representative matches, here that he scored a century to mark the ground's first Test, here that he blazed a remarkable 56-ball century. Here, too, he heard Chickie's booming beat and saw Gravy's cavorting clown, and listened to the persistent percussive rhythm of the Iron Band.
It is the ARG, not the Sir Vivian Richards Stadium, that is his spiritual home and, as the island prepares to celebrate, as if liberation has come, there is, through the hurt, a spring in Viv's step. It means that much. For a few days only it may be (although we live in hope), but Antiguan cricket is back where it belongs. And in Antigua, suddenly it feels good to be alive.
