Everyone is frightened of Curtly Ambrose - except modern day West Indian cricketers

Curtly Ambrose terrorised the circadian rhythms of my youth. He was so bloody scary that I believed his power could one day terrify 15 dysfunctional sovereign nations in to working harmoniously as a team – if the need ever arose, of course.

Fast forward a few decades to where the playing fields are Ambrose-free and I’m grown-up and hairy, although the haunting sweat patches of my developmental years are still prevalent.

Despite hanging up the chin music and soul-destroying glares, the mysterious Ambrose aura still remains. His image has remained hardened by avoiding frequent media exposure, plus he has a spooky penitentiary-style haircut that could beat you up on its own.

Yes, despite retiring and probably being a top bloke who is no human threat whatsoever, the basic sight of history’s most spine-chilling quick still has the power to have me inadvertently reaching for a soft toy. And don’t lie, probably you too.

Like an acclaimed super villain or a Shane Warne poolside selfie, the West Indian firebrand will forever possess the skills to bring the chills. Like some blokes, he just has ‘it’- the innate ability to make you cross to the other side of the road or step on your wicket out of sheer self-preservation.

His is a natural style of compelling terror that demands respect worldwide, and more importantly, can coerce anyone to do what he asks.

That’s anyone except West Indian cricketers, who he’s passionately urged to play with a pulse.

Yes, as a cowering youngster, I was wrong. Even with Ambrose’s blood-curdling aura and princely standing among Caribbean cricket, his menacing presence on the team’s coaching staff still isn’t enough to frighten the Windies into coherence. This means they are a truly special brand of futile.

The team’s established decrepitude has absorbed the natural inspiration of Ambrose, which is difficult to comprehend. Have they not seen his videos or heard the stories of grown men crying mid-pitch for mother? Have any of them asked him to remove sweatbands?

For shame. This is the same guy who sent shockwaves through cricket with a whirlwind spell of 7-1 at the WACA. And I say ‘whirlwind’ erroneously, because it unfairly portrays the burst like a plain weather event that subsided without much fuss. This carnage was more like being inside a snow dome belonging to a Parkinson’s patient.

In fact, such was the spell’s destructive nature, the implausibly comical figures of seven wickets for one run actually seemed to paint an inadequate picture of proceedings. Sure, the scorecard says it was seven for bugger-all, but it felt more like a ten-ball twelve-fa at 180 knots.

And c’mon fellas, the iconic giant in your coaching staff is the same bloke who stared in to arctic eyes of Steve Waugh and rattled the bones of a collective nation! I don’t know about the rest of you, but that day, I feared for two things: the physical boundaries of cricket, and Waugh.

Nobody denies that all Aussies adore Steve and admired his bloody-minded stance, but most of us would’ve been happy to leave him to fend for himself that day. You got yourself in to this, now get yourself out. I’ll back you up from over here in the corner, while I solemnly pray. For you.

You see what I’m getting at. The legendary Antiguan has a forceful presence, and his record should be enough itself to tickle a response. That these players aren’t inspired by his mere proximity is bloody science-stumping, and frankly, unfair on the legacy of arguably the game’s most hostile bowler.

This is a guy who frightened his way to 405 Test wickets, who frightened his way into the ICC Hall of Fame, and who frightened his way into his reggae band as a bass guitarist. He’s probably never played the bass guitar in his life, but again, have you seen his haircut? It gets results.

This young West Indian team should be in enough awe to at least walk in with the bowler.

Ambrose’s air is such that I believed it could melt politics, debunk dysfunction and create urgency, but this modern generation is something special and beyond the influence of even a once-in-a-lifetime superstar. In a way, I guess that’s some kind of perverse achievement for them.

But while this current crop will be remembered for hands in pockets and a scourge of amateur rap, I will always fondly remember Ambrose as the man who provided happiness by rag-dolling cricket when he so pleased.

Thanks for the sweat patches, Curtly. I’m at your service 24-7. Whatever it takes to avoid a soul-destroying stare.