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(From Guardian Unlimited)
On my 14th birthday, I received a hand-scrawled letter from my grandfather that I have treasured ever since. In it he offered advice on various things: school, work, family, girls -- all standard areas to impart wisdom.
But he ended it by saying he looked forward to the day when he could stand on the boundary, watch me approach the wicket with poise and focus, steam in to deliver a ball with pace and swing that knocked the bails clean off as the batsman looked on -- still unsure of what shot he should have attempted. Like countless other West Indians of his age, cricket was a way of life, wrapped not only in an almost forensic obsession with the game but of nostalgia for a land left behind. Pride in the …