At 5 feet 9 inches, Malcolm Marshall was the
David among menacing Goliaths in the West Indian pace battery in the ‘80s. And
as a young boy, there was no sight more riveting than watching this dynamo
pulverize the finest batsmen around the world. The red cherry had a lot to
cheer about. In the hands of Malcolm, it was being used with all the guile, at
speeds that were mesmerizing even on television. The run-up was not straight
but diagonal. It was smooth, gazelle-like but incredibly quick. As he neared
the bowling crease, his fingers conjured up magic perfectly aided by the seam.
With a quick whip of his right hand, the cricket ball was now a red nuclear
warhead – moving either ways, cutting deceptively and many a times skidding
into the pitch and rising furiously towards the batsman’s head. This skidding
bouncer was his ball of death. When the batsman let it pass, he smelt the
leather so close and thanked heavens for letting him stay alive, one more time.
