Malcolm Marshall Address (Memorial Service 21st March 2000)

How appropriate that today should be a sunny day, for Malcolm was a sunshine man. How appropriate too that in Trinidad yesterday four of Malcolm's contemporaries Courtney Walsh, Curtly Ambrose and the young cricketers he coached Franklin Rose and Reon King should bowl out Zimbabwe for just 63, Malcolm would be looking down on that with a huge smile on his face. Perhaps this thrilling victory was not a coincidence.

Many years ago my mother suggested to me, in reference to a splendid, schoolmaster who had died, that in life one came across only a few truly special people. Lots of good'uns she reckoned, but only a few who are special. Malcolm Marshall, conclusively, was 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.

Throughout his immense, if too short, life he maintained excellence without arrogance; he earned respect without ever assuming it his right, and displayed confidence and self-assurance within his enormous humility.

For perhaps as long as the last two months of that life, 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 and proud 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-dramatise. 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. When the end came, whatever the pain and whatever the deterioration, it came with dignity and with final mouthed words fought for but found "I love you Connie"

What a couple they made - Connie's beauty and patience and strength - Macko's confidence, sense of fun and level of public achievement. Their son Mali lives on, a product of their joint talents and charisma, and with him go our thoughts, wishes and love.

For everyone where he died peacefully last October in Barbados, the name of Malcolm Marshall will forever be synonymous with the style of the place: with the game of cricket in its purest calypso form, with smiles and sunshine; with the good and simple living that is typical there; and with the honesty and generosity of spirit that characterises the people of Barbados. It was clear to those of us who visited towards the end of last year, his loss had stunned his nation. Here in England and Hampshire particularly, people were numb, for a favourite adopted son had moved to another higher place.

The people who first saw him in the snow at Derby in 1979, wrapped to a radiator terrified of the cold, to the fans who sung his name when he held the B&H Cup at Lord's, to those who said goodbye on two September days. First, when retiring in 1993, then last year.

And yet, most fascinatingly, amazingly really for such an undemonstrative man the world, volley upon volley of shock stabbing at friends and fans wherever the game is treasured at anytime. The Internet was jammed with messages and memories and telephone lines were on heat. Among the first calls I received were from Shaun Pollock, who attributed so much of his success to Malcolm; from Barry Richards, living now in Australia; Richards said how sorry he was not to have played with Malcolm - he had the privilege to play with Gordon and Andy but not Malcolm; 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 unable to speak, so sad was he not to say goodbye to "the skinny wimp from the Windies" as he loved to call him. Since then, all over South Africa, in Zimbabwe and in Trinidad people have indicated their fondness and respect and rejoiced his legacy.

Captain Peter Short who recommended Malcolm to Hampshire and Charles Knott the County Cricket chairman, whose shrewd mind knew a good thing, who took on this raw young bowler, continuing the line of West Indians who played cricket for the county, the first of which was another Marshall, the wonderful batsman Roy, who Malcolm used to follow in the papers. Malcolm loved the camaraderie of County Cricket and in turn, County Cricket loved him for the pleasure and commitment he brought to it.

It is an amazing phenomenon 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 - who could forget that skidding bouncer homing in on its target like a Scud missile - and also a brilliantly, skilful bowler capable of all kinds of swing and cut and subtle changes of pace. The Reverend Wes Hall said that Malcolm was the greatest of all fast bowlers, and then, after a pause he added "And the one thing Wesley Hall knows about is fast bowling". And of course he was revered after play when he drank brandies galore, when his sharp mind chewed the cud of the game and when he boasted his batting exploits - how he delighted in batting.

He loved talking cricket, he knew it so well and people listened to his strong opinion for he was not a man plagued by self-doubt we learned. 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 and in the mornings before play too, when he would share the secrets of his success equally with anyone, friend or foe. Pollock, Lance Klusener, Dominic Cork and Chris Cairns are among those who lapped at his advice. Imran Khan, who calls Malcolm the greatest of all bowlers, leaned the leg-cutter from him, Malcolm, in turn, had learned 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 universally loved and respected character who was 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 ... (at this point in the address, Mark told a short story about a moment of brilliance when Malcolm was bowling against Leicestershire) ... 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 100 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 and of course, he came closer than most, "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 soaked by the sweat of his efforts.

Not too much got the old boy's back up, though you didn't dare meddle with his cricket case with its creased clothes, clean boots and sanded bats. And he didn't like sloppiness from cricketers, or from people in general in fact and certainly didn't suffer indifference from anyone; Oh and he couldn't stand bad manners.

Why? Because he cared. He cared about standards, about loyalty, about commitment to the chosen cause, about quality in all things...Joel Garner once said, "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, in-swing and out-swing, appeals and exasperation, smiles and scowls and so much joy.

That's Macko for me. A man of joy and delight in all he did and 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 and energy 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. It is a sin not to grieve, for grieving is a part of love and of friendship's price. But we must not let it overcome us. Better to keep sacred the memories and to celebrate, for he gave us all that he had and from him came unforgettable warmth and always a sense of direction.

The week that Malcolm died Colin Ingleby-Mackenzie said "We can only assume the great Maestro in the sky was short of a class all-rounder, not only does he now have a great all-rounder with him but in Malcolm he has the greatest enthusiasm for the game I have known. Who knows, maybe they are, as we must, on the dawn of a new season partying in his honour. Let's be honest, he'd hate us not to smile from within each time we think of him - for his life was rich and happy, a life to treasure.

Malcolm always referred to himself as "a lucky man". Well, we're the lucky one's, to have known him. What a privilege. Today we say thank you, rest well my friend, you have earned it ...