Vivian Richards: A spirit of vengeance who left behind a legend written in fire.

In Jewish legend, HaGolem of Prague was summoned from clay, animated by sacred words, to defend his people when danger surrounded them. He rose from the earth, fists hard as stone, a silent sentinel between the oppressed and their tormentors.

Some men need armour. Others need stories. Richards required neither, though you sensed the old spirits walked with him—HaGolem of Prague at his side; Anansi the Spider, weaving mischief between balls; Sango, the Yoruba god of thunder, his bat striking down bowlers like lightning; Antar ibn Shaddad, the warrior-poet, singing defiance into the desert air. Perhaps even the Tokoloshe lurked nearby, mischief in his eyes, watching as Richards turned the old colonial team sport into an all-encompassing and utterly overwhelming theatre of the self.

There was no deception. No veil of false modesty. No shuffling about the crease, seeking reassurance in technique or artifice. Vivian Richards walked to the wicket like a man who knew.

Knew his worth. Knew his place. He knew that the earth beneath his feet and the leather ball whistling towards his ribs owed him no favours—but would ultimately yield. There was an elegance to this certainty—a control, even when the game's violence erupted around him. Gum was rolling over his teeth, his bare head gleaming in the sun, and Richards was not bluffing. Long before that day, he had already measured himself in harder places than Lord’s or the MCG.

This was not mere bravado. This was knowledge. Knowledge of a history too long defined by someone else’s bat and someone else’s whip. He knew he carried his people with him—their dignity, defiance, and hope—but he carried these lightly. He was not burdened. He was fuelled.

If Frank Worrell, the kindlier warrior of another era, was the Caribbean’s middle-class vanity project—a black Doctor Jekyll, composed, educated, urbane, worthy of dining at the master’s table—then Richards was his working-class mirror, the Hyde unleashed to smash the mansion windows and set the cane fields alight. A beautiful spirit of vengeance. Not polite resistance, but glorious defiance.

His strokes were clean, decisive. He did not merely repel bowlers; he disarmed them.

Richards’ trials rival those of any hero of ancient myth, but because they were written large on the psyches of millions and captured on film—undeniable, immortal—his deeds transcend human fancy. This was history, visible and absolute. Lillee, Thomson, Botham—men who thrived on intimidating others—were reduced, again and again, to actors in his drama.

The scoreboard recorded the centuries, the partnerships, the victories. But that was not what mattered. What mattered was that Richards stood there, unhelmeted, unmoved, and unbeaten.

From 1980 to 1995, his West Indies side did not lose a Test series. Richards, who played 50 Tests as captain, never lost a series. This was not chance. It was the result of leadership grounded in the same unshakeable knowledge. He expected the best from his men because he expected it from himself.

He was not perfect. That same force which powered him to dominance sometimes pushed him too far. He sought to demolish when containment would have sufficed. There was an Achillean flaw in him—the pride of the warrior who could not quite bring himself to play safe.

But flaws are for mortals. Richards leaves behind the record of his deeds and the footage—hours of it—in which you see why our sporting heroes are the truest legends—surpassing those whose victories live only on celluloid or within the pages of epic mythology. samjhere@gmail.com