My favourite cricketer: Viv Richards

Björn Borg? Wayne Gretzky? Martina Navratilova? None of them. I would argue that the greatest sportsperson in the world between 1976 and 1984 was Vivian Richards. A peerless athlete, artist, role model. An absolute god. 

When I think back to the cricketers of that era they seem to me to be defined by characteristic single body parts.

Geoffrey Boycott: left elbow – raised high in defence. Bob Willis: knees – pumping on his approach to the wicket. David Gower: the blond curls. Derek Randall: those shuffling feet. Joel Garner: his hands – turning that ball into a tiny tangerine. Ian Botham: the barrel chest – puffed out like an all-in wrestler. Viv, though… he was the shoulders. Broad and loose and sexy and incredibly powerful. They were the source of his swagger as he walked to the wicket, swinging that vast bat in his hands like a feather. They were his mojo. 

I also remember the obvious things – he saw the ball absurdly early, hooking even the fastest in front of square. He wore no helmet, even as all around him were succumbing. And I can close my eyes and conjure that square-cut, leaning back with all the time in the world. Not to mention the way he picked up those length balls and stroked them through midwicket, like a man lazily sweeping leaves off a porch. His game was power and timing combined in a way that came close to art.

^{Brendan Kelly's portrait in the Lord's Pavilion}

The innings that stand out for me weren’t necessarily the obvious one-day knocks (the 1979 World Cup final, or the Old Trafford ODI dismantling of England in 1984); nor his calling card 291 at The Oval Test in 1976; nor even the astonishing 56-ball century at Antigua in 1985/86, his gift to his homeland. Instead I remember a succession of 70s (76 and 74) against Dennis Lillee in his prime at the Adelaide Oval in 1979/80, hooking everything off his eyebrows. (Earlier that winter he made 140 at Brisbane and 96 at Melbourne). 

And a prize memory – his absolutely mesmerising 145 at Lord’s against England in 1980, where he simply looked like he was playing a different game to everyone else. I was there, sitting at the base of the Warner Stand, willing him to bat on and on. I also remember his fury at being out at the end of the day. As Lord’s stood to him, you could see his eyes flashing in anger. He spat out his gum, and flicked it away with his Duncan Fearnley – his own distinctive mic drop. 

Viv is still at Lord’s now – those same eyes look out from the remarkable portrait that hangs above the staircase on the way up to the home dressing room. Proud, powerful, wounded. Challenging us to ask – has there ever been anyone better?

This article was published in the Summer edition of The Cricketer - the home of the best cricket analysis and commentary, covering the international, county, women's and amateur game