Aye, even now, when he strolls out on to the terrace of the Sandy Lane Hotel in Barbados - where you can spot more 'faces' waiting in line for the breakfast buffet on any average morning than in Hollywood on Oscars night - his arrival is accompanied by a fanfare of awed hush. His age may have finally overtaken his venerable batting average - 60 against 57.78 - but even superstars fall silent when a supernova comes within the same orbit. ``Who is he?'' demand the Yanks in ignorance. ``Sir Garfield Sobers,'' reply the Brits in wonderment. ``Our Gary,'' smile the waiters and waitress in affection.
Some day, I suppose, we may have to stop eulogising him in word and speech for the simple reason future generations will not believe us. How good was he? As good as Ali, Pele, Laver, Nicklaus or Piggott in their chosen spheres; the greatest cricketer who ever lived - bar none. Batsman/opening bowler/ spinner/fielder supreme. Today he is invited to dine with kings and emperors, but Gary Sobers has never forgotten that he was born in an impoverished wooden shack in an anonymous 'street' with no name squeezed in among hundreds of such back alleys in the Bay area of Bridgetown. ``People say some very kind things,'' muses Sobers, whose modesty has always been as abundant as his genius and his elegance, ``but you cannot go through life believing you really are 'the greatest'. If you do, it's very likely you'll forget where you came from.
``I've been incredibly lucky because I enjoyed what I did. I look upon myself as someone who was privileged enough to represent his country. Whether I went in to bat, bowl or field, I felt I had a job to do for my team and I like to think I always tried to do it to the best of my ability. I didn't always succeed, but the thought was there. If you let fame and praise and prestige go to your head, then you'll only want to mix with high-falutin' members of society. Of course it's nice that so many visitors who come to Barbados express an interest in meeting me, but when I look in the mirror I don't see myself as Sir Gary Sobers, or as a great cricketer. I'm just me. I enjoy what I'm doing (part-time golfer, full-time roving ambassador for the Barbados Tourism Authority) and I enjoy life
An ordinary man who scored 8,032 Test runs, including 26 hundreds, at an average of almost 60, who captured 235 wickets at 34 each, and who took 109 catches. Yet Sobers spends little time luxuriating in his statistical achievements. When forcibly pressed to nominate one particular memory, he finally mentions almost apologetically - his match-saving innings against England at Lord's in 1966.
W ITH five West Indian second innings wickets down, England were poised for victory early on the fourth afternoon much to the embarrassment of the then MCC secretary, Billy Griffith, who was preparing for the arrival of the Queen during the tea interval. ``Perhaps I should phone the palace,'' he muttered to West Indies team manager Jeff Stollmeyer. ``Perhaps I should drop a hint she might want to come along a bit earlier,'' he fretted. ``Perhaps,'' advised Stollmeyer, watching Sobers march out to join his young cousin, David Holford, at the crease, ``you should should wait for an hour or so to see what happens''.
Suffice to say the Queen was not told to get her skates on; Sobers and Holford - inspired by his captain's gentle promptings at the other end - were still batting the next day, making a flawless 163 and 105 respectively in a record unbroken sixth wicket stand of 274. ``I was a bit fortunate,'' recalls cricket's knightliest of paladins, who, by his own strict criterion, must have been bloody lucky therefore when he made his historic knock of 365 against Pakistan, the highest Test score until Brian Lara's mauling of England in Antigua two summers ago.
The youngest of six children reared by the redoubtable Telma Sobers ('a saint of a mother' in the words of E. W. Swanton, my professor in all matters cricketing), Sir Gary learned his art - as had Weekes, Walcott, Worrell and the rest before him - on the unfinished lanes of Bridgetown and on the smooth coral sands where each departing wave would leave behind a was five so I have no memory of him putting a bat in my hand. I'd like to be able to tell you the exact age I was when I first held a bat but I can't. I might have been five or six, I might have been seven or eight. There was certainly no lightning bolt suggesting destiny had marked out this moment in some way. Everyone on the island played cricket, so I did, too. When you're born on Barbados, it's as simple as that.''
Then what is the secret of why this tiny Caribbean paradise, with a population of a mere 250,000, has produced more wondrous cricketers than any plot of land on earth? ``There is no mystery, no secret. It's because Barbados is so small. When I was growing up, Everton Weekes, Frank Worrell and Clyde Walcott were familiar to everyone. Whereas before television, it's doubtful whether many Australians had seen Don Bradman, let alone passed him on the street or met him on the beach with his family after church on a Sunday. Also, we weren't 'watchers'. Very few Barbadian youngsters could afford a ticket to go to the Kensington Oval. We might listen to a very important Test on the wireless, but most of the time we were we outside playing.''
I T IS one of sport's abiding cruelties that fate has seen fit to bestow fabulous wealth upon so many arrogant boors in cricket, football, golf or whatever, while treating genuine noblemen such as Sobers with criminal neglect. Though he has made good his escape from the abject poverty of his youth, Sir Gary lives alone since his divorce in unpretentious middle-class style. His generosity of spirit is legendary. One morning as E. W. Swanton, who decamps to Barbados at this time of the year, was idly chatting to the professional in his shop at the Sandy Lane Golf Club, Sir Gary drove off from the first tee. ``There goes my very best customer,'' noted the pro. ``Oh, and why's that?'' enquired Jim. ``Because whenever he comes in to buy himself a new shirt, he always buys another three for the fellas he's playing with.''
Some, indeed, are born great . . .