First published in 2015

It was May 1984 – the beginning of my last summer of primary school. Days passed in a haze of handstands and the fear of imminent nuclear war, and televised sport played very little part at all.

But then a crack commando unit arrived at Heathrow. They wore smart maroon blazers and open-necked shirts and were lithe, debonair and quite brilliant. They leant casually against the wall and demolished England’s cricketing straw-hat – an entire tour slipped by from mid-May to mid-August and they lost only one match – a one-day international at Trent Bridge – and as for the Test series, well, 5-0 was polite.

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They didn’t look like those other sportsmen, often just a Cornish pasty away from elasticated trousers. These guys laughed as they sprang in the air to pluck the juicy red apple from the sky, they high-fived as yet another hundred clocked in, bowled long-limbed Exocets, and topped it all with a rolling strut to win the heart of any pre-teen with taste.

England had endured a dismal winter – becoming the first English team to be beaten by Pakistan and New Zealand, hampered by both injury and accusations of pot smoking. Few thought that the summer would reverse the last three series defeats by the West Indies, and any optimism lasted until, oooh, the first one-day international at Old Trafford when Viv Richards in West Indies cap and Rasta wristband, cocked Duncan Fearnley in his hand, calmly struck one of the greatest one-day hundreds.

The summer ended with a one-off Test against Sri Lanka which was supposed to provide light relief but ended in further humiliation. Gower invited the Sri Lankans to bat, and had to watch them do so for two days with centuries from Sidath Wettimuny and Duleep Mendis. Only the ever-reliable Lamb scraped much dignity from the situation; England were even booed by the Lord’s crowd for slow scoring on the Saturday afternoon.

That West Indies side of 1984 was unbeatable in a way that must be unimaginable to children who follow cricket today. They were the All Blacks and Real Madrid combined – with the same fear and excitement but more grace, perhaps more joy, and certainly fewer financial endorsements. It was both political and awesome. What I didn’t realise as a child, was that these men were all-time greats, at their all-time prime. What luck, to stumble on them that long hot summer.