Cricket World Cup retains its primacy and England is the best place for it

Jack Bannister, who died in 2016, was an influential figure in cricket: fine seam bowler for Warwickshire, pioneer of the players’ union, journalist, broadcaster, behind-the-scenes fixer. Shrewd? He could have had a Regius professorship in shrewdness. He also owned a chain of betting shops.

In 1983, halfway through the third World Cup final, Bannister had a brainstorm. An acquaintance shouted at him through the open windows of the old Lord’s press box: “What price India?” “100 to 1.” With Jack, such questions were never theoretical. He took the bet, and he paid.

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That was the most significant day in the history of cricket’s World Cup, the 12th iteration of which starts next Thursday and goes on till Bastille Day, or maybe Doomsday. (Modern cricket has a knack for combining brevity and eternity.)

Until Viv Richards, from a clear blue sky, mishit a pull and was well caught by Kapil Dev near Father Time, West Indies’ domination of this event seemed preordained. They have never won it again, or even come close. India’s very popular win (the Caribbean excepted, plus Jack) was seen at the time as a freak: a Foinavon or a Leicester City. It can now be seen as the first stage of India’s takeover of world cricket.

That day they announced themselves as contenders on the field. Four years later, they staged a political coup and snatched hosting rights to the next World Cup, already assigned to England, and much else besides. In 2008 they sealed their financial dominance with the advent of the Indian Premier League.

In theory, one-day cricket is a democratic game. Between two teams of even roughly comparable ability either one can win on the day. And yet one of the great strengths of the World Cup is that the best team usually wins, and the roll of honour reflects that. West Indies won the first two; since then Australia have won five, India two, Pakistan and Sri Lanka one each. South Africa have been seen as perennial cho-… no, mustn’t say it, New Zealand as regular worthy not-quiters and England as, well, England.

And despite the International Cricket Council’s attempts to muddy the waters with a mish-mash of ersatz tournaments designed entirely as moneymakers, the World Cup has managed to retain its primacy, if not its purity.

The one-day international was invented, by accident, when the New Year 1971 Ashes Test in Melbourne was completely rained off. When the weather cleared on the intended last day, they staged a knockabout along the lines of England’s pioneering Gillette Cup. Wisden did not even print the scoreboard. But 46,000 turned up – more than had attended the entire first Test in Brisbane. And we were off.

Six months later a World Cup was floated. It took four years to sort out – “timid,” said John Arlott. At the start of June 1975 there were snow flurries at Lord’s. Then Britain voted 2-1 to stay in Europe, at which point the sun came out. And it kept shining throughout the two weeks of competition.

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The final – Australia v West Indies – began at 11am on 21 June, the longest day. Which was lucky: it finished at 8.43pm. This was 60-over cricket, a marvellous format, encouraging speed from the batsmen without sacrificing the time-honoured skills, above all the use of attacking bowling and fields.

West Indies appeared to be on the edge of victory but before the last Aussie wicket fell there was a big stand between Thomson and Lillee with several false alarms when the pitch had to be cleared. “In those days the crowd could sit on the grass and run on at the end,” the photographer Patrick Eagar recalls. “I was one of two people allowed to take pictures of the presentation by Prince Philip. I wasn’t using flash. It was getting darker and darker and I was very worried. But it all worked. It was a wonderful day’s cricket.”

Eagar was at the next eight finals as well but never sensed the same magic again. When the fourth tournament went to the subcontinent in 1987, games had to be cut to 50 overs because there was insufficient daylight and no floodlights. The last constraint no longer applies but soon 50-over cricket took over, with its defensive fields and tedious calculations.

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Pakistan’s “Cornered Tigers” triumph in 1992 (Imran Khan could have been made prime minister then and there) and Sri Lanka’s win in 1996, the year of the pinch-hitter, were high points. The return to England in 1999 was an appalling farce. It began with a pathetic opening ceremony including fireworks in mid-morning and got steadily worse. But at least one could laugh. 2007 in West Indies was suffused by the suspicion of murder that followed Bob Woolmer’s death, though this one did have a farce of a final. The past two, frankly, have been largely unmemorable.

England and Wales remains the best place for a World Cup. The immigration that has made Britain change its mind about Europe since 1975 ensures that every team will have a decent following. But the format again is ratshit. Forty-five games in 38 days before the semi-finals is a means of carpet-bombing largely unwatched (in the UK) TV channels, not entrancing the unconverted with cricket’s brilliance.

An event like this needs an impresario who knows how to project the game’s wonders. Instead … “Oh, fool, I shall go mad.”