MISSING the World Cup in Germany, in spite of all the wonderful things I have heard about the experience from friends and associates, is something I can live with.

If you try to follow every dream, you might get lost.

So, sports fans, one has to be a bit selective in what dream you chase because everything comes with a price tag … no free meals.

What I cannot understand is how my mate George Hislop passed up on Germany when his son, Shaka, was punching the world on the chin with his marvellous goalkeeping against Sweden and England in the Soca Warriors’ first two matches.

I guess it is just the humility of the man that Hislop decided to stay in the background and allow his son the opportunity to shine without any sort of intrusion.

Sir CLIVE LLOYD

CHARLIE DAVIS

A father’s love is a strange thing, I tell you!

It does not mean that I would ever understand Hislop’s thinking though, especially knowing how much he contributed to Shaka’s development on the field, and off it as well.

The natural thing would have been for a father to be there and share in the moment.

It will always be a mystery to me, because I never going to ask: “Why?”

If there ever was a story, though, to extract from the World Cup it is the story of Shaka Hislop.

That story -- the boy born in Westminster, London, who went on to play against the nation of his birth and for 83 minutes gave them hell at the World Cup -- is as good as it gets in terms of personal triumph, seeing Shaka was third choice goalkeeper the night before the opening game.

I have to shake Leo’s hand for that particular stroke of genius.

June in Germany however is not quite August in the Caribbean, so while I could live without Germany, I will be taking a few days off with the wife to chase my 24-year-old dream in Antigua, visit some of the topless beaches, see as much of the island other sites, take in Allen Stanford’s 20/20, and pray none of those hurricanes head anywhere near me while I am backpacking from Crab Hill to Shirley Heights.

You will never hear that again in this age of telecommunications.

Over the years, I lost a few of my personal belongings and a few of my books, but the Sir Frank Worrell book remained my most treasured, not for the style of writing, but simply for “the story”.

At no time at St. Mary’s College did I ever learn anything about the history of West Indies cricket and it was certainly not discussed at the dinner table, so Giuseppi little green book took on extra significance for me.

It was adventure, romance and drama, everything a starry-eyed youngster needed in his life at that time in the early seventies.

Wondrous oblivion

My passion for the game of cricket knew no bounds and I was always “elected” class cricket captain although I was certainly one of the least talented players.

In Fifth Form, it was especially puzzling to the other teams, as I was leading players (David Furlonge and Colin Skeene) who were on the St. Mary’s College First XI, and one was even a national youth player.

Sports fans, I could talk the talk, and the players of Canon’s XI let me live my dream.

In my wondrous oblivion, I would read everything I could about the Three Ws, Sobers and anything else about West Indies cricket in the ’60s and when I walked out to take the toss, in my own world, I was Sir Frank Worrell.

My love affair blossomed and I became a patron of West Indies cricket in the ’70s, and followed as much as I could at the Queen’s Park Oval or even the practice matches with the visiting teams that were so fashionable back in those days.

I even travelled on the PTSC bus, armed with my sandwiches, to Gilbert Park to see national youth captain Colin Murray make duck against the visiting English youth cricketers.

That was the prettiest duck you would ever see!

Murray was all class with his collar up and his Sobers-like dip of one shoulder that was so popular with batsmen in those days.

Murray looked good striding to the wicket and, I swear, he looked even better heading back to the pavilion.

During the cricket seasons, I would spend my weekends at the Oval, helping out on the scoreboard during the Trinidad and Tobago trial matches and then following the national team during the Shell Shield, as the regional tournament was known in those days.

During that period, I thought Charlie Davis was a God, and, in my view, he personified what a West Indian cricketer was with his athleticism and elegant batting.

When he retired prematurely, I was heart-broken.

Clive Lloyd healed the beating heart quickly though, when the West Indies toured Australia in 1975/’76, and we got thumped 5-1 with Dennis Lillie and Jeff Thompson terrorising the visitors with persistent aggressive fast bowling.

I was overwhelmed by the way the Aussies ripped the West Indies apart.

It struck a chord.

Although we lost heavily, the emergence of Andy Roberts and Michael Holding as a front line fast bowling attack was significant, and, in turn, Lloyd used his experience in Australia to craft the most lethal fast bowling attack ever seen in the game.

By the time the 1980s rolled over, the West Indies were well on top and knocking over opponents at will, and I started to think about what I wanted to do for the rest of my life, something that would both satisfy me spiritually and still pay for the soap and tooth paste that I need to at least maintain proper hygiene.

So, in 1981 I decided that I wanted to be a filmmaker!

But, it was not so easy making the switch from “young-father-with-wife-and two-children-to-feed”, to being the Caribbean’s answer to Steven Spielberg.

It took me five years to get my first television documentary on Trinidad and Tobago Television (TTT) in 1986, but it was my first project.

Over the years, I have done a few other documentaries, visited some international destinations by virtue of my work in motion pictures, and I am proud to say that all projects undertaken have been finished on time and within budget.

Moment of truth

I always said that I wanted Sir Frank Worrell to be the subject of my first documentary because I thought he was the most significant character ever to wear the maroon jacket and now the time has come.

Giuseppi’s book was the closest I have read to capturing the story.

Sir Clyde Walcott’s Sixty Years on the Backfoot, his autobiography was a complete disappointment because it was clinical about cricket scores but there was precious little about the colour of the period when the Three Ws made their mark.

This is the moment of truth for me.

The Caribbean is going on trial in Antigua on Sir Frank Worrell, and I have to find out for myself how valuable “the story” is to our West Indian civilisation.

Escaping the “Sin Killer”, his government, and the remainder of crazy Trinidad and Tobago for a few days is key to my well being, so I will be there in Antigua to witness the dawn of this new era of 20/20, but in the back of my mind will be Sir Frank and the other legends of West Indies cricket.

The world is waiting on us …