The ideal cricketer: 100 years after the birth of Frank Worrell

During West Indies’ tour of England in 1957, Frank Worrell was at the height of his cricketing powers, making his case to be rated one of the finest batsmen of all time, and possibly the most graceful, elegant and artistic. Those undemocratic colonial forces within the West Indies that had denied him the right to lead on the field because of the colour of his skin were publicly scuttled and silenced. Though they lost three Tests by an innings, Worrell topped the tourists’ first-class averages, with 1,470 runs at nearly 59. Neville Cardus noted that watching him bat was to observe a genius at work: a Worrell innings “knows no dawn, it begins at high noon”. From Bridgetown to Brisbane, from Bangalore to Birmingham, the centenary of his birth finds his reputation, and remembrances of his many innings and deeds, at precisely this location – high noon.

Worrell was born on August 1, the anniversary of emancipation from British enslavement of African people in the West Indies, and now broadly celebrated as the beginning of black liberation. That act was passed in 1833, in Bridgetown, Barbados, 91 years before his birth. Evidence of his association with liberation leadership was seen and discussed in his homeland even while he was a schoolboy cricket prodigy. He was considered arrogant because he stood up to convention, and he was reprimanded by the headmaster in front of his fellow pupils because of his assertiveness. His capacity to see things his peers could not set him apart for a special role in the decolonising milieu.

All the while, the runs flowed. Still a teenager, he put on an unbroken 502 – then a fourth-wicket world record – with John Goddard, last of the white captains of Barbados and West Indies, against Trinidad at Bridgetown in 1943/44. Worrell made a triple-century, and set tongues wagging, for his batting seemed in keeping with his maturity, and the public saw in him the seed of the disruption of West Indian cricket’s colonial ethos. Two years later, those tongues were set ablaze, when he and Clyde Walcott added an unbeaten 574 against Trinidad at Port-of-Spain, an all-wicket world record surpassed only four times since. Worrell’s contribution was 255 not out. A superstar was born, and a Test debut quickly followed. With Walcott and Everton Weekes, he was selected for the 1947/48 home series against England, scoring 97 in his first innings, and a century in the next game, and averaging 147. It was the foundation on which his reputation was built.

The timing was typically impeccable, set within the political movement calling for an icon from the masses to be the face of the new nationalist campaign. A cricket-crazy community determined that only Worrell could be the inspirational symbol of the emerging West Indian identity. Across the region, cricket was now at the heart of political conversation and consciousness, thanks to this high-performing, charismatic player who possessed all the traits of a future national hero: softly spoken but intellectually sound, rigorous but reasonable, and embracing the spirit of competition without conflict. Societies in the West Indies, and the wider cricketing world, were irretrievably altered by him. Neither before nor since has a cricketer had such a profound, lasting impact on the values of the game.

Within two years of his Test debut, Worrell was in a class above his teammates, the logical, natural leader, and a growing presence with the bat. In England in 1950, the fielders applauded his late cuts; he followed 261 at Nottingham with 138 at The Oval, where West Indies completed a 3-1 win. More than that, his deep analytical intelligence, social charisma and compassionate character had permeated the game, winning respect from all except the officials of West Indian cricket. He was the centrepiece of the Three Ws, who had propelled the side to the upper echelons. Team-mates knew this, and deferred to him.

He was as much admired in Britain as in Australia and India. EW Swanton noted that “just as England brought cricket to the West Indies… she in turn, I believe, has given us the ideal cricketer”. After Worrell received an honorary doctorate of law from Punjabi University, Muni Lal, the Indian high commissioner to Trinidad, noted that he “inspired love and respect wherever he went. A sportsman of his stature – humble and unobtrusive – had seldom been seen on Indian campuses before.” At his acceptance speech, Worrell told the students – future Test spinner Bishan Bedi among them – that with a university education came a responsibility to society.

After his first series as West Indies captain – the 1960/61 tour of Australia that breathed new life into Test cricket – prime minister Robert Menzies stated in a farewell speech: “The next time I meet you, I hope it will be as Sir Frank.” Keith Miller called Worrell a “cricketer and diplomatic genius”, as well as a “philosopher and friend”. A new trophy was presented to Richie Benaud, the victorious captain: Don Bradman, recently appointed as chairman of the Australian board, named it after Frank Worrell. The accolades continued: he joined the Jamaican senate in 1962, was commemorated in wax by Madame Tussaud after leading West Indies to another 3-1 win in England, in 1963 (he retired after the series, aged 39), and was indeed knighted in 1964. Nine victories from his 15 Tests in charge – there were just three defeats – gave him a win percentage of 60, higher than any other West Indian captain. In 1975, he appeared on Barbados’s $5 banknote.

Yet it had taken a mass political West Indian movement in the 1950s, conceptualised and led by CLR James, the Trinidadian intellectual and anti-colonial advocate, to secure Worrell’s role as the Test team’s first substantive black captain (George Headley had stood in against England at Bridgetown in 1947/48). James was supported by Learie Constantine, West Indian cricket’s first all-round superstar. Backed by the region’s political leadership, Worrell understood his place in the discourse. Critically, he accepted the importance of cricket as a stage for non-violent, dignified diplomacy, in which English and West Indian players could change the old imperial world without rancour or racism. His assessment of England’s fractious visit in 1953/54 was typical: downplaying the suggestion the tourists had been badly behaved, even racist, he argued their forthrightness had been a product of the social robustness of their Yorkshire captain Len Hutton and fast bowler Fred Trueman. This was Worrell the global statesman, balancing the sides of colonial conflict with transformative leadership, and presenting humanity above hubris as the vision for the future.

In many respects, then, he was integrated into the web of political forces that tore at the core of British colonialism. He was aware of the long history of exploitation of black and brown people, and of the galloping agenda to create anti-colonial national states from the rubble of the imperial order. Cricket had long been involved in this historic process, and carried the deep battle wounds of the natives.

It was also positioned to be a part of a more progressive political order. The process needed a midwife, a prophet, a philosopher. This was particularly evident in South Africa, where apartheid sought to embrace the game while rejecting its ideas of equality and fairness. His desire to facilitate the global healing of racial wounds prompted his keenness to visit the country to take part in multiracial cricket. He received the full support of James, but this opened a deep political divide in West Indian democratic movements, with Constantine adamant it would consolidate rather than weaken apartheid. Worrell eventually backed off.

As a young man, he understood better than most the nature of his historic moment. He was embraced and surrounded by some of the finest minds in the West Indies and Britain, where he spent most of his time, and played for Radcliffe in the Lancashire League (a nearby street was soon named Worrell Close). In addition, he had both the courage and character to lead on the right side of history.

In 1948, shortly after his Test debut, he had informed the West Indies board he was not available for a tour of India. They had rejected his cordial insistence that all players, not just the owners of merchant enterprises and sugar plantations, should receive a living wage. Instead, he applied to Manchester University to study social sciences. Courage with preparation was his method, paving the way for the basic idea that players should be treated as professionals; also, that they should prepare for life after sport by accessing formal higher education.

Worrell took decisions that shook the foundations of the old order, but his manner was never controversial, always respectful. Liberals and conservatives alike admired his style of advocacy, and rallied around him as a rebel with a creative cause. Established and emerging cricketers were drawn into his orbit by the dignity of his discursive power. He never uttered an ill word in the most testing of circumstances. It was as if he had visited the future, and was merely taking the next step into it.

The 1960/61 series in Australia – triumphant for Worrell, despite a narrow and unfortunate defeat – revealed even more the character of the man. James admired his resilience, and the greatness he exuded. Benaud observed: “I never detected any resentment from Frank that he did not gain the captaincy earlier.” Furthermore, “to play in a series as captain against Frank Worrell was a privilege”. His team-mates responded to his call to play as one, and rise above the inter-island rivalries that had held West Indies back. As opening batsman Conrad Hunte put it: “He told us we were not just flannelled fools, not just cricketers, but statesmen.” Worrell, he said, had told them: “I want us to play as a team on the field, and live as a family off the field.” Benaud again: “He turned West Indies from being the most magnificent group of individual cricketers in the world into a close-knit team. No one else could have done it.” As the tourists prepared to leave Australia, hundreds of thousands came out on to the streets of Melbourne. Miller chuckled: “A salute to Frank Worrell. Never before seen. I doubt if it will ever be accorded again to a visiting captain.”

The retreating perception of cricket as the gentleman’s game was restored, celebrated and elevated by Worrell. In March 1962, when Indian opener Nari Contractor received a sickening blow to the head from Charlie Griffith during a game against Barbados, Worrell rushed to hospital to give blood. Instilling courtesy into the sport meant vulgarity, cheating and abuse were considered not cricket. This was his legacy, as builder and nurturer.

In the West Indies, these tenets were rooted into nation-building. On retirement, after 51 Tests had brought him 3,860 runs at over 49, and nine hundreds – as well as 69 wickets with a mixture of left-arm spin and medium-pace – Worrell was integrated into the fledgling University of the West Indies as an administrator and student advisor. The cricketer, educator, statesman was digging deep for a long innings. He received honours from government and civil society institutions the world over. As the game flourished globally, and was transformed by commercialism, Sir Frank’s value system remained.

In 1967, news of his passing, aged 42, at the University Hospital of the West Indies in Jamaica after a short battle with leukaemia, spread like wildfire. His friend Michael Manley, future prime minister of Jamaica, said of his departure: “When history prepares at last to open its arms to one of its chosen instruments, it does not need to embrace its subject for long to make its point. Frank Worrell confirmed at the end what so many had long suspected: he was a leader. This meant that he was born a leader. All of the great ones come that way.”

A million hearts around the world opened to celebrate his life, including those who gathered for the memorial service in Westminster Abbey – the first time it had convened to sing praise songs for a cricketer. They poured in from all corners of the globe to return the respect Worrell had offered the post-war world in its search for a new, more democratising and decent ethos. It was an innings like no other, beginning and ending at high noon.

Hilary Beckles is vice-chancellor of The University of the West Indies and professor of economic history. He is founder and director of the CLR James Cricket Research Centre. As a student in the 1970s, he played in the Yorkshire League for Hull and Barnsley.

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