The CW50 - No.9

[Fusion]

Yep.

Ah, my mistake. I thought you were saying that you would rank him ahead of the batsman that are to follow (except Bradman).

 

[Magrat Garlick]

#9 is an insult to the Greatest bowler of all-time. Can't believe there's gonna be a truck load of unworthy batsmen ahead of him (and Warne, I guess).

This just goes to show how much of a protected species batsmen are, even amongst the great and good (and mediocre) of an internets cricket forum.

man sp33ks the tr00f

(had him at 5, behind a/rs and batsmen)

 

[silentstriker]

Guys, we are talking about the ten best out of 130 years of Tests. There are no insults here. FYI, guys like Benaud don't even have him in top 20. He would make my top five players but let's not get carried away with being insulted at being the ninth player out of a century. Plus I think most of top ten are interchangable anyway depending on personal preference.

 

[Flem274*]

#9 is an insult to the Greatest bowler of all-time. Can't believe there's gonna be a truck load of unworthy batsmen ahead of him (and Warne, I guess).

This just goes to show how much of a protected species batsmen are, even amongst the great and good (and mediocre) of an internets cricket forum.

This.

Spin>pace though (Here SS, come on, )

 

[Magrat Garlick]

Guys, we are talking about the ten best out of 130 years of Tests. There are no insults here. FYI, guys like Benaud don't even have him in top 20. He would make my top five players but let's not get carried away with being insulted at being the ninth player out of a century. Plus I think most of top ten are interchangable anyway depending on personal preference.

but but but

he's behind a spinner...

 

[HeathDavisSpeed]

He specifically said batsmen though; Grace and Sobers weren't just batsmen.

Unless they're fast bowlers, they don't really count I'm afraid.

With Marshall & Warne I think one has to factor their batting into the equation too; neither quite an all-rounder, but both useful contributors.

That time he batted one handed; helping Larry Gomes to a century and then taking a 7 wicket bag with a broken hand. Well, I'll never forget that.

Its also important to remember that Marshall averaged 20.94. A number unsurpassed considering the length of his career and the wickets he took. Also, he made his debut before he was ready due in no small amount to World Series Cricket.

If you take his average after his breakthrough test (Leeds in 1980) he averages 19.94. Even if you consider the cut-off the turn of the decade, he averaged 20.40. That, my friends to me is more of an achievement than the feats of Grace, Richards, Warne, Imran or pretty much anyone other than Bradman.

Malcolm Denzil Marshall is unashamedly my cricketing hero. The man has the figures, he has the guts and and more than enough ability with the bat (7 first class centuries to his name). He was revered from Barbados to Southampton to Durban. To me, he will always be #1.

 

[Matt79]

Oh noez, CW's fast bowling cartel's quest to continuously downplay the importance of everything apart from fast bowling hits a tiny speedbump!

Think I had Marshall about 7. Well done to the guy for being rated, again, the best of the pure bowlers. Along with Imran and Warne, pretty sure SF Barnes will make an appearance above him.

 

[Furball]

Oh noez, CW's fast bowling cartel's quest to continuously downplay the importance of everything apart from fast bowling hits a tiny speedbump!

Think I had Marshall about 7. Well done to the guy for being rated, again, the best of the pure bowlers. Along with Imran and Warne, pretty sure SF Barnes will make an appearance above him.

Barnes has already appeared on the list has he not?

 

[HeathDavisSpeed]

Oh noez, CW's fast bowling cartel's quest to continuously downplay the importance of everything apart from fast bowling hits a tiny speedbump!

Who is the fast bowling cartel other than me and SS?

It is hard to overcome the stigma against fast bowling created by the batting faction who are simply scared of players like Marshall, McGrath and Hadlee though. SS and myself are needed to at least attempt to counterbalance that.

 

[Jarquis]

Oh noez, CW's fast bowling cartel's quest to continuously downplay the importance of everything apart from fast bowling hits a tiny speedbump!

Think I had Marshall about 7. Well done to the guy for being rated, again, the best of the pure bowlers. Along with Imran and Warne, pretty sure SF Barnes will make an appearance above him.

http://www.cricketweb.net/forum/2092046-post1.html

 

[The Sean]

pretty sure SF Barnes will make an appearance above him.

Barnes came in at 11, and you even commented that you were amazed he didn't make the top ten! It's fine though, I know full well the memory goes when you turn 30...

 

[Matt79]

Bull****.

you're all ****s!!!

 

[Burgey]

Agreed. I had him at no.10, and reckon I actually short-changed him a little bit.

Probably my best cricketing memories of the 80s are of Marshall charging in at Border - like an irresistable force meeting an immovable object.

What a bowler he was.

Edit: I should say I didn't vote in this thread. I wrote out a list and was tinkering with it, but time constraints got the better of me. FWIW I'd have had McGrath in my top 10 as well (shout out to Heef and SS).

 

[fredfertang]

A good excuse for a bit of sentimentality - some folk may not rate Mark Nicholas too highly but his eulogy for Maco brings a tear to the eye still

Many years ago, my mother suggested to me, in reference to a splendid school-teacher who had died, that in life one came across only a few truly special people. Lots of good'uns she said, plenty of fabulous folk, but only a few who are special.



Malcolm Marshall, conclusively, was one of those - one of those special people. Not so much because he was so extraordinarily good at cricket, but because of the way in which he applied the various gifts, cricket amongst them, which were given to him. Malcolm was no waster - not of time, not of talent - nor a shirker of any situation or challenge which confronted him.



He maintained excellence without arrogance, earned respect without ever assuming it, and displayed confidence and self-assurance within his immense humility.
For as long as perhaps the last two months, maybe more maybe less, he knew, deep down I think, that the game was up. But he was damned if he would let us know. He was such a stubborn fellow. It was as if he was more concerned about the suffering of those around him, those few intensely close friends kept by this very private man, than about the suffering he was going through himself. The qualities of thoughtfulness and caring, of courage and bravery - and didn't he so often show that in his play - were among his finest. For all the flamboyance and bravado as a sportsman, Malcolm was not one to over-dramatize off the field. He said things as they were and he resolved that his dreadful illness would be his own problem and as it escalated he would not panic others with its potential end.



For everyone who lives here, on this magical island, the name of Malcolm Marshall is synomomous with the style of the place: with the game of cricket in its purest calypso form, but also in its more modern professional form; with fun and sun; with the good and simple living that is typical here; and with the honesty and generosity of spirit that characterizes the people of Barbados. It is clear to a visitor his loss has stunned his nation.



And yet, most fascinatingly, amazingly really, his loss has echoed all around the world, volley upon volley of shock stabbing at friends and fans wherever the game is treasured. The internet, for example, is jammed with messages and memories and telephone lines have been on heat. Among the first calls I received were from Shaun Pollock, in Natal, South Africa, who attributes so much of his success to Malcolm; from Barry Richards, the great South African batsman, living now in Australia; from Martin Crowe, who called him "the finest opponent of them all - furious but fair and fantastic value in the bar"; and Ian Botham, busy on his final walk raising millions of pounds for Leukaemia Research, who for once found himself virtually unable to speak, so sad was he not to say goodbye to "the skinny wimp from the Windies" as he loved to call him.



It was funny to watch opponents greet Macho. The greats, his peers, relished the moment with hand-slapping glee and then they all tore the life out of each other on the pitch. The less good used to whisper among themselves if he was late, as he often was incidentally - wouldn't you be with Connie at home ! - saying "no sign of Macho today ? phew !" Then, when he arrived, wrapped in gold chains and fancy clothes - and boy did he dress snappy or what - their faces would fall. Ray East and David Acfield, the Essex county spinners, and terrified tail-enders, used to wait by his car and offer to carry his bags to the dressing room. "Why ?" asked Malcolm, when it first happened. "Well, Mr Marshall, we thought you might consider a couple of half volleys and if they're are nice and straight we promise to miss them !"



It is an amazing phenomena of his short life that opponents everywhere, from Barbados to Bombay, from Sydney to Southampton, loved him so. Let's face it, he was a lethal bowler - that skidding bouncer homed in on its target like a Scud missile - and a brilliantly, skillful bowler capable of all kinds of swing and cut and subtle changes of pace. But, of course, he was revered after play when he drank his beloved brandies, when his sharp mind chewed the cud of the game and when he boasted his batting exploits - how he rejoiced in batting !



He loved talking cricket, he knew it so well and people listened to his strong opinion, his deep insight and his remarkable ability to explore the game's present and future with uncanny foresight. He had time for everyone after play, in the mornings before play too, when he would share the secrets of his success equally with anyone, friend or foe. Pollock, Lance Kulsener, Dominic Cork and Chris Cairns are among those who lapped at his advice. Imran Khan, who calls Malcolm the greatest of all fast bowlers, learned the leg-cutter from him. Malcolm, in turn, had learnt it from Dennis Lillee. Theirs was the Fast Bowlers Union and how he loved to share the nuances and stories of the spoils with all-comers.



So far then, we have a universally loved and respected character who is unselfish and warm, and a man of supreme skill.



But we mustn't forget his sense of humour, the extravagant plans for each batsman and those often hysterical, detailed field settings.



And then he would turn up his collar and swagger away, job done clinically yet with such flair. That swagger, the swaying of the hips, the brim of the sunhat tilted forwards, the collar pointing to the sky were all a result of his adoration of Sir Garfield Sobers, whose hundred against New Zealand at the Kensington Oval in 1972 was the definitive moment in the thirteen-year old Malcolm's dream to reach the top. He wanted to BE Sobers. "Come on Sobey, come and have a bowl", Clive Lloyd would sometimes say years later and in would stroll this languid, almost liquid cricketer, immaculate every inch of the way even when dripping with the sweat of his efforts.



Not much got the old boy's back up, though you didn't dare meddle with his cricket case or nick a T-shirt from his wardrobe - blimey, you would have thought an atomic bomb had gone off if he found anything out of place, so neat and tidy were clothes and kit. And he didn't like sloppiness from cricketers, or from people in general in fact and certainly didn't suffer indifference from anyone; and he couldn't stand bad manners. Oh, and he liked to get his own way, but then don't we all. And you know why these things frustrated him ?



Because he cared. He cared about standards, about commitment to the chosen cause, about quality in all things. Joel Garner once said that "Malcolm's real strength is that he never gives less than 100 per cent for any team in which he plays or is involved." Even to the end, before his operation, he would be bowling in the nets, inswing and outswing, appeals and exasperation, smiles and scowls and so much joy.



That's Macho for me. A man of joy and delight in all he did and in others around him. The endless chatter, that laughter with his head thrown skywards, those dancing happy eyes and that welcoming ripper of a smile. And the unbridled enthusiasm for a determined march on all the challenges of life - didn't matter what they were, simple things even such as a round of golf, a hand of backgammon, a night on the town - all met with relish and hope.



He is gone now and of course we're sad. We're heartbroken. But he is a man we MUST celebrate for he gave life all that he had and from him came an unforgettable warmth and always a sense of direction. The Hampshire captain of the Sixties, Colin Ingleby-Mackenzie, said last week "We can only assume the great Maestro in the sky was short of a class all-rounder." Not only does the Maestro in the sky have with him a great all-rounder, but in Malcolm he has the greatest enthusiasm for the game I have known. They will probably be having a party together right now, as we must in time, in his honour. Let's be honest, he'd hate us not to smile from within each time we think of him - the Marshall Memory really is one to treasure.



Malcolm always referred to himself as "a lucky man". Well, we're the lucky ones, to have known him. What a privilege it has been.

 

[Burgey]

A good excuse for a bit of sentimentality - some folk may not rate Mark Nicholas too highly but his eulogy for Maco brings a tear to the eye still

Well Mark Micholas just soared in my estimation. What a wonderful tribute.

 

[HeathDavisSpeed]

Some great anecdotes in there. I'm trying to remember if I saw Marshall bowl to Ray East at Chelmsford. I suspect not, I feel that it may have been after Ray East had retired.

This part was great though:

Imran Khan, who calls Malcolm the greatest of all fast bowlers, learned the leg-cutter from him. Malcolm, in turn, had learnt it from Dennis Lillee. Theirs was the Fast Bowlers Union and how he loved to share the nuances and stories of the spoils with all-comers.

As if Khan or Marshall weren't tough enough to face without Lillee (and then Marshall) sharing the secrets of yet another variation.

 

[NUFAN]

I had Marshall at number 4. Very surprised he is down at number 9.

 

[The Sean]

Should have just stolen Nicholas' words as my penpic TBH. Absolutely wonderful, tear-in-the-eye stuff.

 

[Days of Grace]

Unless they're fast bowlers, they don't really count I'm afraid.



That time he batted one handed; helping Larry Gomes to a century and then taking a 7 wicket bag with a broken hand. Well, I'll never forget that.

Its also important to remember that Marshall averaged 20.94. A number unsurpassed considering the length of his career and the wickets he took. Also, he made his debut before he was ready due in no small amount to World Series Cricket.

If you take his average after his breakthrough test (Leeds in 1980) he averages 19.94. Even if you consider the cut-off the turn of the decade, he averaged 20.40. That, my friends to me is more of an achievement than the feats of Grace, Richards, Warne, Imran or pretty much anyone other than Bradman.

Malcolm Denzil Marshall is unashamedly my cricketing hero. The man has the figures, he has the guts and and more than enough ability with the bat (7 first class centuries to his name). He was revered from Barbados to Southampton to Durban. To me, he will always be #1.

One thing I hold against Marshall slightly is that he dined out against really weak Australian and English bowling attacks in the 1980s.

 

[silentstriker]

By Pat Symes.

Memories of Maco

At the tail-end of Grantley Adams Airport in Barbados, where Concorde once went to its mark to begin its own majestic run-up, lie the earthly remains of Malcolm Marshall.

In the tiny church of St Bartholomew, a black marble plinth, lovingly maintained, signals the final resting place of one of the great West Indian fast bowlers from an era when the Caribbean ruled the cricket world. A steady stream of cricket-loving holidaymakers in their Mini Mokes have turned the grave into a shrine, all of them entranced by a moving poem written by his son Mali at the moment of his father's death and etched into the plinth.

On April 18, Malcolm Denzil Marshall would have been 50, should have been 50 but for the colon cancer undiagnosed for three years which crushed even his noble spirit half way through his 42nd year.

The worldwide outpouring of grief when Marshall, reduced to not much more than 25kg, died in November 1999 was testimony to the genuine love and admiration he engendered. Another great West Indian fast bowler, the Reverend Wes Hall, whispered the final prayers and ushered Marshall into the hereafter, as he believed he would be. In his last weeks Marshall had rediscovered his faith. The litany of cricketing mourners was a compelling tribute to his legacy. They had travelled across the globe to pay their respects and Barbados was an island plunged into gloom on the day he was laid to rest, silent crowds lining the streets to say their farewells as the cortège made its way to its final destination.

Not that Marshall ever spent long in Barbados once he began a 20-year career that took him abroad on a regular basis. In a way it was the constant travelling which contributed to his downfall, never being in one place long enough to get the body-twisting stomach pains properly treated. Too often he was told he had indigestion. At 50 he should have been at his coaching peak with plenty still to offer. Those of us lucky enough to know him prefer to remember the laughter and vivacity he spread in his wake like scattered stumps.

Marshall and I got on well, initially because we made each other money. I ghosted his book in 1986 and wrote his column in the Daily Mirror for eight years, rusty shorthand struggling to keep up with a mountain of words, machine-gunned out in a Bajan accent he never lost. I was never sure I wrote what he said, but he never complained.

"Maco" liked brandy (not rum) and coke and he would deliver his sermons for me to scribble down as he knocked it back, his accent getting thicker and voice higher by the shot.

Sometimes I would need him urgently in places like Rawalpindi in the days before email and mobile phones. He would be on tour with West Indies and, for want of something to do, the players would drift in and out of each other's hotel rooms. I am fairly certain I did at least two Daily Mirror columns down crackling phones lines with players other than Marshall but they were happy to talk and it would have been rude to interrupt.

For a man as dedicated and in every sense the ultimate professional, it was a surprise to discover that, if it had not been for the tenacity of an English businessman, Marshall's career would have been still-born.

By his own admission Marshall was a lazy youth, happy to hang out with his equally indolent pals on the beaches and in the Bridgetown parks. Sir Ian Clark, managing director of Banks Brewery, wanted him for his club side but Marshall turned him down. Luckily for cricket, Clark persevered and won him round a year later by promising an undemanding day job. Within another year he was heading to India with West Indies, his first Hampshire contract in his back pocket.

Marshall went on to become statistically the most successful Test bowler of the 1980s, suppressing his desire to be recognised as a batting allrounder once it became clear his springy, skidding action could cut a swath through the best international batting. As far as I could make out, only three batsmen irritated him.

In Dilip Vengsarkar's case it was more than irritation. It was an uncharacteristic blind hatred, at least in the early years. Vengsarkar had belittled him from slip at Bangalore in 1978-79 when the debutant Marshall was batting, constantly appealing until the umpire gave in under pressure and raised his finger for a dodgy leg-before. Marshall never forgave him and spent the rest of his career hunting down the great Indian batsman. No wicket gave him greater pleasure.

For no reason I could ever discover Marshall did not like Chris Broad, and the sight of Rehan Alikhan, the former Sussex and Surrey opener, maddened him. It may have been something to do with the batsman's perceived arrogance at the crease. In one county match Alikhan played and missed four times in succession. The silent assassin, who thought sledging had something to do with snow, finally lost his cool. "Somebody get him a bigger bat," he shouted in exasperation.

Marshall liked Geoff Boycott, admiring his technical correctness and his bravery. Whenever they played against each other, a curious ritual was enacted. As Boycott walked out to bat and Marshall prepared to bowl the first ball, Marshall would say: "You hookin' today, Boycs?" To which Boycott would reply: "Not today, Maco." Marshall would then bowl him a bouncer, Boycott would sway away from it, they would smile at each other and the match would begin.

On one surreal occasion I was a front-seat passenger in Marshall's car driving down from his house high in the hills over the west coast of Barbados when he spotted Boycott honing his batting with local youths willing to bowl to him on the rough-hewn pitch and then retrieve the ball from the undergrowth past grazing sheep. Maco slammed on the brakes, wound down the window and screeched: "Boycs, I'm coming to get you." Under his tan Boycott visibly paled. "No, no, I'm just finishing up," he said, putting the bat under his arm and vacating the crease at a brisk pace.

What he said, he meant, as he did at Pontypridd when playing for Hampshire. With two days remaining, Glamorgan were 13 runs ahead in their second innings with seven wickets left. Just before the start of play in front of a full dressing room Marshall rang his Southampton golf club and booked a tee-time for 4pm that day.

In the first session Marshall took six of the seven remaining wickets, leaving Hampshire 70 to win, which they accomplished before lunch. At 4.05pm Marshall was teeing off, apologising for being five minutes late.

It was a shame that Marshall's coaching career coincided with declines at Hampshire and West Indies, so that neither matched the success of his playing career. The sloppy attitude of the West Indian players particularly troubled him. For those of us who remember the one-armed bandit of Headingley 1984, the swagger of a man who knew his place in history, we would like to think Wes Hall was right when, from the funeral pulpit, he boomed: "Malcolm Denzil Marshall is safe and all is well with his soul."

Haha:

Marshall liked Geoff Boycott, admiring his technical correctness and his bravery. Whenever they played against each other, a curious ritual was enacted. As Boycott walked out to bat and Marshall prepared to bowl the first ball, Marshall would say: "You hookin' today, Boycs?" To which Boycott would reply: "Not today, Maco." Marshall would then bowl him a bouncer, Boycott would sway away from it, they would smile at each other and the match would begin.

On one surreal occasion I was a front-seat passenger in Marshall's car driving down from his house high in the hills over the west coast of Barbados when he spotted Boycott honing his batting with local youths willing to bowl to him on the rough-hewn pitch and then retrieve the ball from the undergrowth past grazing sheep. Maco slammed on the brakes, wound down the window and screeched: "Boycs, I'm coming to get you." Under his tan Boycott visibly paled. "No, no, I'm just finishing up," he said, putting the bat under his arm and vacating the crease at a brisk pace.