by Tony Cozier

THE INTENTION of a few weeks' vacation in Ireland was for an overdue break away from cricket in an enchanting country where the sport rates only just above kick-boxing, synchronised swimming and beach volleyball in the sporting scheme of things.

It was always going to be as unlikely an exercise as a smoker hoping to give up the habit, since the West Indies were simultaneously engaged in the Tri-Nations Series in Kuala Lumpur.

The need to know how they were doing was as strong as that of the lure of a filter-tipped cigarette for a long-time addict of my intimate acquaintance.

There were only two ways of keeping up-to-date with events in the Malaysian capital. One was the hourly score – and only the basic score – on BBC Radio. The other was the irregular visit to an internet café wherever one could be located, between pubs.

Yet, in a strange way, such spasmodic contact from thousands of miles away simply accentuated the one problem that continues to asphyxiate the West Indies team.

It is the inability to make the most of positions of incontrovertible strength, a failure to close the deal.

Nothing more vividly charactertised the glory days under Clive Lloyd and Viv Richards than the ruthless demolition of the opposition. Nothing has more accurately defined the decade of decline than the number of times defeat has been snatched from the jaws of victory.

It is not that the teams led by Richie Richardson, Courtney Walsh, Brian Lara, Jimmy Adams, Carl Hooper and Shivnarine Chanderpaul lack the necessary strength. They have all proved, as again on the recent venture, that it is not the drawback.

The deficiency is mental. It is the inclination to buckle under pressure that cultivates and perpetuates a habit of losing.

None of those captains, or the succession of coaches, managers, and psychologists employed over the past decade or so has managed to overcome it. Even from the isolation of Ireland, the fluctuations of Kuala Lumpur confirmed the status quo.

Somewhere along the Shannon River, we spluttered into our cereal bowls when the brief BBC report on the opening match gave the West Indies score as 176 for two after 25 overs, going after 280 against fearsome Australia.

We guessed that Chris Gayle and Brian Lara were tearing the Aussies apart and awaited the next sportscast, an hour later, with guarded optimism.

Only next day did the London papers reveal that the destruction was wrought, not by Gayle and Lara, but by a less likely left-hander, Shivnarine Chanderpaul, with his 83-ball 92.

Even after years of bitter experience, what came next was a shock to the system. West Indies all out for 201 runs, the radio announced an hour later; Australia winners by 78 runs. It meant nine wickets had tumbled for 29. The memory of those scores of 47 and 61, 82 and 97 came flooding back. The Guinness, so velvety in the land of its origin, immediately turned to vinegar.

The next two matches were no less erratic but they restored the Guinness to its pristine best and showed what is possible.

In the first, the BBC depressed us as India's total mounted, hour by hour, until it reached 309 for five. Sachin Tendulkar had announced his return after a lengthy, injury-induced absence, with 141 and that, surely, was that.

As it turned out, that was only that when rain stopped play after 20 overs with the West Indies 141 for two and, thanks to the mystifying mathematics of Messrs. Duckworth and Lewis, it meant a West Indies win. Fortuitous as it was, we would take it. Four days later came the return against Australia and the most emotionally fluctuating match of the lot.

Australia 110 for five was the first score we got on tuning in to the BBC Five Live sports report. By the next contact, it had jumped to 272 for six from their 50. It was nothing new, of course, but it again spoiled the Guinness.

Only the West Indies! Only the West Indies, indeed, for what transpired as we moved from one Kil-something to another Balli-whatever was the stuff that has driven us all to such distraction for so long.

This time, there was no collapse, no capitulation, only a stunning triumph over the most powerful team of the day. With Gayle and Lara to the fore, and in spite of a few wobbles at the end, it was achieved with 16 balls in hand, guaranteeing a place in the final.

It was – or, at least, should have been – the ideal boost to morale for the final and the defence of the Champions Trophy to come. Wrong.

When the first broadcast we heard informed us that India were all out for 162 and the West Indies were 36 without loss in reply, my confident comment to my fellow West Indian traveller in the front seat was something along the lines of "easy, easy, Japaneasy".

My cousin, more realist than pessimist, replied: "Let's wait and see". By the next report, the score had slipped to 68 for four, by the one after to 109 for seven. As the inevitable defeat was confirmed, by 16 runs, my fellow vacationers simply shrugged their shoulders.

Only next day, through the London papers, was it clear that the West Indies had taken careful aim and shot themselves in the foot.

Gayle was slotted at No. 6 and Lara at No. 9. Had those who decide such things indulged in some strange south-Asian elixir that clouded their judgment?

Surely, it was a time to build on the exhilaration of two successive victories over two of cricket's modern powerhouses, to begin cultivating a winning habit, not playing the fool with team selection and the batting order.

It was obvious, even from such a distance, that it was misplaced complacency and a recipe for disaster.

The crushing loss in the final, by 127 runs to Australia, was the upshot. It was no surprise and, by then, our small, roaming West Indian troupe had reached Dublin and could turn our attention to another international sporting contest just down the road.

Europe's golf victory over the United States in the Ryder Cup was just as one-sided as Australia's in the Tri-Nations, but it was a neutral contest we could follow live on television, in a boisterous, overcrowded pub without the emotional ebb and flow of the previous week.

The Champions Trophy is next, a tournament that stimulates ecstatic images of the famous victory at the Oval two years ago.

As I was then, I'll be taking in the action live in front of the television set, not keeping up to date with spasmodic radio reports.

Either way, the hope, and the tension, will be the same.

* Tony Cozier is the leading cricket writer and broadcaster in the West Indies.