Rebel Richard Austin: No redemption in sight

Richard Austin and Alvin Greenidge of the rebel West Indies XI play a one-day international against South Africa in Cape Town, during their tour of South Africa, February 1983.

He flew out to Johannesburg, alongside Lawrence Rowe, David Murray, and a host of other talented cricketers including the swashbuckling all-rounder Collis King, whose exploits in the 1979 World Cup final had overshadowed Viv Richards’s classic hundred. They were greeted by loud cheers and applause from a crowd of about 100, in a nation which was condemned to sporting isolation due to its oppressive, pro-white politics.

On January 15, 1983, the first game of the most controversial series of all time began, under the shadow of Cape Town’s Devil’s Peak mountain, as the ragtag bunch from the Caribbean walked out on to the field. Austin does not recollect much of that day now, but he remembers the ecstasy that enveloped him and his teammates.

To the spectators, it was more than just a series – it was the breaking of barriers set around their nation. The Caribbean players felt the same way. And so, they went on with their game, perhaps unaware of the unbridled anger simmering back home.

As the tour ended, and the players departed for their respective locations, the brickbats began to fly thick and fast. Clive Lloyd and Michael Holding, whom Austin once played with, joined the growing throng of dissenters who, as proud descendants of African slaves, believed the eighteen had sold their souls to the devil.

They had defied their governments, the United Nations and the world at large, all for a silly game and the lure of riches.

The cricket board came down hard on the group – they were handed life bans, ending whatever slim hopes Austin, Murray, Chang and the rest had of turning out for the national side. Heroes in one continent, they were now outcasts in their own.

And Austin’s life fell apart.

He struggled to find employment outside of cricket, but no one wanted anything to do with him. The psychological pressure on him was devastating, and beset by the hopelessness of his circumstances, he crumbled.

Alcohol and drugs became his constant companions. He owned a car and a house, but the lure of the streets was too much to ignore, and he succumbed to its steamy, haze-filled seduction.

Slowly, Richard Austin was forgotten by all. People began calling him Danny Germs – a lowly, crazy street bum who often loitered around a patty store, begging for food and money to fuel his addiction. The man who could make the ball talk was reduced to a pitiful wreck in one fell swoop.

Very occasionally, and when he wasn’t enmeshed in the snares of booze and crack, Austin managed to clean himself up and get the odd coaching assignment here and there. But the thirty-year-old burden of being labelled a traitor in all but name has become so great that he has relapsed into his never-ending downward spiral. Even though the Commonwealth heads lifted the bans in 1989, Austin couldn’t benefit.

His teammate on that fateful tour, Sylvester Clarke, escaped the lifelong vilification after passing away in December 1999. Fate, however, has not been that kind to Austin.

He is 59 now, but looks 80. Those bloodshot eyes still carry the pain and misery of the vitriol poured on him from all quarters. His captain on that tour, Rowe, rebuilt his life by moving to the United States; Austin returned to Jamaica and destroyed his life.

In his moments of sobriety, Austin has been known to make intelligent observations about the game. It suggests that he is not yet so far removed from the grip of reality. But in the land of Bob Marley, he is one of the unfortunate souls for whom there may be no redemption song.

The ones who were vocal about their disgruntlement with Austin’s decision – Lloyd and Holding – went on to have successful international careers both on and off the field. The only question I’d ask them is this: if Austin and the rest of the rebels sold out to the South Africans, and if trying to make money is not all in life, then why did you participate in Packer’s circus in the first place? Wasn’t money a factor in your decision then?

Lloyd’s squad of the eighties had a battery of pace bowlers. Was Austin not good enough to be counted even as a reliable back-up option?

The answers won’t be forthcoming. Those guys have their own lives to lead. Austin has no semblance of anything that can be even remotely construed as a life.

And so, as the long night continues, the shadows creep in closer as Austin heads off to another drug-induced coma – the only real world he has known for three decades. Perhaps he is better off that way.