Sabina Park’s Infamous Test: A Tragedy in Turf and Trust

Few Test matches in cricket’s long and storied history have been shorter, but none have so completely shattered the credibility of officials and administrators as the opening game of the 1997-98 series between the West Indies and England at Sabina Park. What unfolded that day was not merely a sporting debacle but a parable of misjudgment, denial, and an almost Shakespearean tragedy of hubris.

For just over an hour, as England’s physio made his desperate pilgrimages to the middle, the pitch—a capricious, cracked, and crumbling surface—dictated the terms. It was not cricket; it was survival. And then, with an inevitability that had been written long before the first ball was bowled, the umpires conferred with the captains and took the extraordinary step of abandoning the match.

The real question, of course, was whether it should ever have begun.

A Foretold Disaster

Three months before the first Test, the Sabina Park square had been dug up and relaid—a process that, in the best of circumstances, demands time, care, and a deep understanding of soil science. Instead, the pitch was hurried into existence, a patchwork of uncertainty, its flaws barely concealed beneath an ill-fitting veneer of optimism. Groundsman Charlie Joseph and George Prescod, the Jamaican board’s chief executive, remained steadfast in their assurances. It would be ready. It would hold together. It would play true.

But when the England squad arrived, their first sight of the surface evoked dismay. The cracks were not hairline fractures but gaping wounds. The colour was an ominous reddish-orange as if the earth itself bore signs of some ancient battle. The former England seamer-turned-journalist Mike Selvey, writing for The Guardian, painted a grim picture:

"It would appear the pitch was replaced by a cowboy gang of tarmac layers of the sort who will skim your drive with a quarter inch of blackstuff in return for ready money."

Alan Lee, in The Times, was equally damning:

"Most of the tour party have never seen a pitch quite like this. It is arid, cracked, and corrugated. The kindest of assessments would conclude that the recent relaying programme was hideously mistimed."

Even the untrained eye could sense impending catastrophe. A former West Indian player, speaking anonymously, hinted at conspiracy. The pitch had been deliberately left in disrepair, he suggested. "It’s going to be lively," he warned. "It could come down to the survival of the bravest."

The players, however, had no choice but to trust the officials. The game would go on.

The Unequal Contest Between Bat and Earth

At the toss, Mike Atherton—perhaps less choosing to bat than refusing to bowl on such a surface—walked out with Mark Butcher to face the might of Courtney Walsh and Curtly Ambrose. What followed was not cricket but a grim exercise in endurance.

The pitch behaved like an unpredictable beast, growling one moment and lashing out the next. One ball flew over Atherton’s shoulder; another, landing in roughly the same area, scuttled past his ankles. Within minutes, Butcher—who had only been drafted into the side that morning—was dismissed in a surreal fashion. A short delivery reared up at him like a striking cobra, forcing an involuntary fend. The ball ballooned into the air, and as he walked back, dazed, his teammate Adam Hollioake simply laughed.

It was a laughter of disbelief, of absurdity, of men caught in a situation so ridiculous that humour became the only available coping mechanism.

As wickets tumbled, the England dressing room became a theatre of hushed alarm. John Crawley chain-smoked, muttering: "Jesus, someone's going to get killed out there." When a short ball from Ambrose flew past Graham Thorpe’s helmet and over the wicketkeeper’s head for four byes, Crawley erupted: "For f*s sake… this is ridiculous!" Nervous laughter spread through the dressing room like an uncontrollable contagion.

A Game That Could Not Go On

Alec Stewart, England’s wicketkeeper-batsman, found himself not merely battling the West Indian attack but also negotiating the very surface on which the sport was meant to be played. As he stood mid-pitch, staring at the crater-like divots left by the bouncing ball, Ambrose shrugged helplessly.

"There’s nothing I can do about it," the great fast bowler admitted.

When another vicious delivery struck Thorpe’s elbow, Stewart saw his opportunity. "Stay down," he told Thorpe. The longer the physio stayed on the field, the greater the likelihood that sanity would prevail.

By then, Barry Jarman, the match referee, had seen enough. The umpires—Steve Bucknor and Srinivas Venkataraghavan—called the captains together. Brian Lara, leading the West Indies for the first time, was acutely aware of his precarious position with Caribbean fans.

"Shit, you'll have to do it," he told Atherton. "It's my first game as captain, and they already hate me here."

The decision was inevitable. The match was abandoned.

The Fallout

The scene that followed was one of profound anti-climax. The stadium emptied in stunned silence. The English contingent—players, journalists, and fans—stood in muted frustration. Bob Bennett, England’s manager, initially instructed his team not to comment on the pitch. But the absurdity of that request became apparent.

"What do you want us to do," quipped Hollioake, "sing its praises?"

Meanwhile, Joseph, the groundsman, was inconsolable. "I am crying tears and blood," he admitted. "People have come from England just to watch this match. My heart goes out to them."

The Caribbean press was unforgiving. The Jamaica Gleaner thundered:

"The pitch should now be dug up, and those directly responsible for this travesty of a Test pitch should be buried in the same hole."

The shame, the embarrassment, and the damage to Jamaica’s cricketing reputation were profound.

The Epilogue: Lessons and Legacy

In the aftermath, the Jamaican Cricket Association acted swiftly, uprooting the square and experimenting with different clay compositions until they arrived at a stable solution. A year later, when Australia visited, Steve Waugh—never one to dish out empty compliments—praised the new surface.

Yet the scars of that abandoned Test ran deeper than mere embarrassment. It was a reminder that cricket, for all its romanticism, is also an enterprise that demands responsibility. A game that has seen bodyline, underarm bowling, and the occasional riot had now witnessed its most infamous abdication of duty—not by players, but by those entrusted with the integrity of the sport.

And for those who were there that day, Sabina Park would never again be just another cricket ground. It would remain a monument to folly, a cautionary tale of what happens when arrogance meets unpreparedness, and when a pitch—meant to be a stage—becomes an executioner.

Thank You 

Faisal Caesar 

Bangladesh’s Batting Woes Continue: A Test of Temperament in Jamaica

The morning session in Jamaica began with a glimmer of hope for Bangladesh. Liton Kumar Das, brimming with confidence, signalled his intent early on. A crisply timed stroke through the offside off Shannon Gabriel and a glorious extra-cover drive against Keemo Paul hinted at a positive approach. By lunch, the Tigers seemed to have clawed back into the game, buoyed by their bowlers’ disciplined effort to wrap up the West Indies innings. 

However, as the adage goes, “A good start is only half the battle.” The real challenge lay ahead. 

The Liton Dilemma: Aggression Without Application

Post-lunch, Bangladesh’s batting needed discipline—a shift from the Twenty20 instincts to the grind of Test cricket. Liton, facing Keemo Paul, initially showed glimpses of restraint, leaving deliveries outside the off-stump. Yet, his eagerness to play expansive shots betrayed a lack of temperament required for the longest format. 

Gabriel, a seasoned campaigner, sensed Liton’s impatience. A sharp delivery angled in from a short-of-a-length caught Liton off guard, trapping him plumb in front. The dismissal was a textbook example of poor shot selection—a flick attempted when a solid defensive approach was the need of the hour. 

Liton’s downfall underscored a recurring issue: the inability to adapt aggression to the demands of Test cricket. 

Mominul’s Carbon Copy Dismissal

Mominul Haque once hailed as Bangladesh’s Test specialist, walked in under pressure. His dismissal mirrored his first Test woes—a closed face against an angled delivery from Gabriel. This technical flaw, previously attributed to external coaching strategies, now seemed more intrinsic. 

The absence of Chandika Hathurusingha once blamed for Mominul’s struggles, raised uncomfortable questions about the player’s ability to learn and adapt. The so-called local solutions seemed ineffective, leaving Bangladesh’s middle order vulnerable yet again. 

Shakib and Tamim: A Partnership Without Purpose

With two wickets down, Bangladesh needed their senior players to steady the ship. Shakib Al Hasan and Tamim Iqbal stitched together a 59-run partnership, but it lacked the hallmarks of a proper Test innings. Boundaries flowed, but strike rotation—a crucial aspect of building pressure and tiring bowlers—was conspicuously absent. 

Jason Holder, the West Indies skipper, persisted with disciplined lines, knowing Shakib’s penchant for risky strokes. The gamble paid off. In the 24th over, Shakib misjudged a delivery he had previously dispatched, slicing it straight to the fielder. The captain’s dismissal, a loose shot against the run of play, highlighted a lack of focus and the tendency to repeat mistakes—a cardinal sin in Test cricket. 

The Collapse: A Familiar Tale

Shakib’s departure triggered a collapse. Mahmudullah Riyad, shuffling across his crease, fell lbw to a straight delivery—an example of flawed technique against pace. Tamim, who had shown intent to occupy the crease, succumbed to an angled delivery from Keemo Paul. 

Mushfiqur Rahim, often the savior in crises, batted with a reckless abandon more suited to limited-overs cricket. His brief stay at the crease was punctuated by boundaries but lacked the solidity needed to anchor the innings. A lazy jab at a short-of-a-length ball ended his resistance, leaving Bangladesh in dire straits. 

Nurul Hasan, touted as a promising talent, failed to deliver under pressure. A golden duck added to the misery, while Mehidy Hasan Miraz’s stay lasted just twelve balls. 

A Score Fit for T20, Not Tests

Bangladesh’s innings folded for under 150—a total more fitting for a Twenty20 match than a five-day contest. The inability to adjust to the demands of Test cricket was glaring. Poor shot selection, technical deficiencies, and a lack of mental resilience combined to script yet another batting debacle. 

Lessons to Learn, Changes to Make

Test cricket demands patience, application, and adaptability—qualities that seemed in short supply for Bangladesh in Jamaica. While the bowlers had shown fight in the morning, their efforts were squandered by a batting lineup unwilling or unable to grind it out. 

The Tigers must introspect. Senior players like Shakib and Mushfiqur need to lead by example while promising talents like Liton and Nurul must learn to temper aggression with discipline. The road ahead is long, but without fundamental changes in approach, Bangladesh risks repeating the same mistakes. 

As the sun set on Day 2, one thing was clear: the Tigers have the talent, but without the temperament, they will continue to struggle in the purest format of the game.

Thank You

Faisal Caesar 

The Fall of a Kingdom: How Australia Conquered the Unconquerable West Indies

 

"He who works with his hands is a labourer. 

He who works with his hands and his head is a craftsman. 

He who works with his hands, his head, and his heart is an artist."  

- Francis of Assisi 

In the spring of 1995, the Australian cricket team, led by Mark Taylor, ventured into the Caribbean—a land where cricket was more than a sport. It was identity, pride, and artistry. The tour was for the coveted Frank Worrell Trophy, a prize Australia hadn’t held since 1978. The challenge ahead seemed insurmountable, with even West Indies captain Richie Richardson dismissing the Australians as “the weakest team ever to tour the West Indies.” 

The early signs weren’t promising. The Australians were trounced in the ODI series, and when spearhead Craig McDermott was ruled out of the Test series, the chorus of scepticism reached a crescendo. Yet, cricket has a way of defying logic. 

What unfolded during the Test series was not just a contest of bat and ball but an epic narrative of resilience, artistry, and, ultimately, the fall of a cricketing empire. 

Act I: The Struggle and the Spark

The first Test in Barbados shocked the world. Against expectations, Australia emerged victorious. A washout in Antigua kept the series precariously poised at 1–0. The third Test in Port of Spain saw West Indies strike back, fueled by fiery spells and an infamous confrontation between Steve Waugh and Curtly Ambrose—a moment that became folklore in cricket's annals. 

This set the stage for the fourth and final Test in Kingston, Jamaica, where the series—and perhaps the very spirit of West Indian dominance—would be decided. 

Act II: A Kingdom on the Brink

Kingston’s Sabina Park atmosphere was electric, a carnival of sound and color that only the Caribbean could conjure. The crowd, a potent mix of passion and cricketing acumen, roared as Richardson won the toss and chose to bat. 

The early exchanges suggested business as usual for the West Indies. Stuart Williams fell early, but Richardson and the mercurial Brian Lara, fresh off a string of masterful performances, took the fight to Australia. Their partnership of 103 reignited local hopes. 

Enter Shane Warne. With his conjurer's touch, the blond magician dismissed Lara, and the West Indies innings stumbled to 265. It was respectable, but far from the intimidating scores of old. 

Australia's reply could have been smoother. The pace quartet of Ambrose, Walsh, Winston Benjamin, and Kenny Benjamin tore through the top order, reducing the visitors to a precarious 73 for 3. The crowd sensed blood, the bowlers prowled like panthers, and the series hung by a thread. 

Act III: The Artist at Work

Amid the chaos strode Steve Waugh, cricket’s embodiment of grit. His arrival was greeted by a searing bouncer from Walsh and a barrage of sledges. Unfazed, Waugh's focus was unshakeable. 

The Waugh twins, Steve and Mark, weathered the storm, displaying a masterclass in Test match batting. Mark was the more elegant, his strokes a painter's brush on canvas. Steve, in contrast, was the sculptor, chiselling runs out of rock-hard resistance. 

As the day wore on, the Australians silenced the once-raucous crowd. Steve’s ability to endure physical blows and verbal barbs alike became a testament to his mental fortitude. By day’s end, both brothers had crossed centuries, fulfilling a childhood dream while seizing control of the game. 

Act IV: The Fall of the Mighty

On May Day, Steve Waugh reached a landmark—his first double hundred in Test cricket. His 200 was not just a personal triumph; it was the hammer that shattered the Caribbean aura of invincibility. 

Justin Langer later remarked on the innings: “Steve showed he was prepared to put it all on the line, in the toughest conditions ... against probably the best fast bowler of our time. It gave us a huge boost.” 

Australia took a commanding lead, and after a rest day, their bowlers dismantled the West Indies with ruthless efficiency. The victory sealed the series 2–1, ending the West Indies’ 15-year unbeaten streak in Test cricket. 

Epilogue: The End of an Era 

Sabina Park, once a fortress, became the stage for the fall of a cricketing dynasty. The West Indies, who had dominated world cricket with swagger and artistry, were humbled by a team that brought discipline, determination, and their own form of artistry.  

Australia’s triumph under Taylor was not just a series win; it was a shift in the cricketing cosmos. The baton of dominance had been passed, and Steve Waugh’s indomitable double century stood as the defining image of the moment when the mighty kingdom fell. 

In cricket, as in life, the true artist works with hands, head, and heart. On the sun-drenched pitch of Sabina Park, Steve Waugh proved himself an artist of the highest order.

 

Thank You

Faisal Caesar