Trevor Chesterfield –The Wind Beneath the Wings ( A Personal Tribute )

By Sreelata S. Yellamrazu

       Trevor Chesterfield’s greatest tribute to the game was in bringing to life, with words, what seemed to be an otherwise mundane day on the cricket field and enhancing the experience of the game with the art of fascinating, insightful and engaging storytelling.

      Trevor would have relished the opportunity to dwell on the art of writing and dissecting the above statement even as he would appreciate individual styles. As I find it difficult to put out an impartial account of his life, it will only be easier if I wrote it as if I were writing him as I always did, from the heart.

       This is an incomplete tribute to the man I call my inspiration, my mentor, my guide, my guru, my dearest friend and a father by his deliberate appreciation. I am sure there will be a better version of this to come, perhaps when he chooses to move my hand again.

      (To those reading, my apologies for the unconventional path taken to pay tribute. )

Dearest papa

(Chesters, TC, Trevor, as anyone would want to read it),

      The wind beneath my wings has disappeared and I feel as though I can never fly again, even though you showed me how.

       Writing a posthumous tribute to you is like being punched in the gut and then asked to lift a truckload. Not that I have ever personally been punched in the gut or have had to carry a truckload, not in the physical sense anyway. But this is perhaps the closest to indescribable pain and irrevocable loss that one will experience in one’s life and the feeling just kept getting worse as you bid your final adieu.

         I never imagined I would be saying that, ( and that is credit to papa’s exuberance and youthful spirit, always lively, always alive with information, insight and affection ) and I cannot even come around to typing it without breaking into a flood of tears. The crude description of emotions should allude to the loss of words I feel as I attempt to complete what should have been taken care of two days ago. It has taken me two whole days and the final rites and rituals to get down to the business of doing what I should have done in the first place.

       But perhaps the finality of it, while making it the most difficult time in my life, has also given me the courage to say what I would want to and fortunately have often said so to you directly, because any later it may no longer make sense.

       What can a daughter, an admirer and a student of Trevor Chesterfield say about him?

       A courageous writer who knew no fear except to speak his mind and the truth against severe odds, a journalist without qualms, a poetic writer whose prose seemed to come from a place beyond his frame, an affectionate mentor who did not mince words when they did not come out right, cricket literature’s finest torchbearer, a friend whose loyalties could not be bought, a confidante without being judgemental, and a father brimming with unconditional love. And I have had the privilege to experience them all.

         But papa, you knew all that as you influenced me much before we met, and though I can feel your material loss and continue to grieve in the pain of it, I know you will influence me from the here beyond. As a little girl mesmerized by the game and whose fascination for the South African team found fulfillment in reading your literature, found in abundance in the now leading cricket website you helped establish (Trevor Chesterfield’s abundance of articles can be found at http://www.espncricinfo.com/ci/content/story/author.html?author=202  ) , I never knew I would one day have the privilege of your approaching me.

         But in the spirit of good things come to good people, you chose to come into my life when I did not fully comprehend the intentions, and you stamped yourself in leading my work into a new light – adding volume to my work without changing my style. With fine attention to detail you unearthed the columnist in the writer and gave me the courage to pen my thoughts without fearing the consequences of speaking from the heart.

         Always challenging to push me beyond , ignoring the resistance I presented, you persisted to win a place not only as my mentor but rapidly transcended into the day you referred to me as your ‘adopted’ daughter. In the self-appointed moniker of papa, you made me yours and in that instance, cricket had changed my life forever once more.       

        There will be no light next to your name on the chat line. There will be no new emails addressed with the fondest of endearments. But the light in my heart for you will forever burn bright and the twinkle in my eye every time I think of you shall never fade. It is not only a promise but also, a huge responsibility.

        That is because you leave behind rather giant footprints to follow. Indeed the legacy of your work is not easy to carry out without your physical encouragement, without  your words constantly enriching the experience of writing about the game and because no one can leave their mark quite like you did. There can never be anyone like you.

         You may have passed away without necessarily be a rich man in the materialistic sense of the word. But if you were to see the kind of emotions – shock, adulation, grief and immense gratitude for your body of work – expressed by your family, friends and colleagues in beautiful messages,

you would know that –

the world was richer by your presence (that would explain the degree of grief in your absence ),

has its faith vindicated in the goodness of gentlemen (cricket and the world has lost one more);

and, as far your signature line went – cricket is life; the rest are mere details…

Cricket was sparkling because of the prose you lent it; and

the game was alive by the spark in your eyes and the spring in your feet.

Cricket will move on,

but it has lost arguably its greatest ambassador and crusader,

It has indeed lost the prose in the pen, and

The voice of someone with an insatiable appetite for appreciation for the game,

And also, in articulating it for the benefit of those who have not been exposed

Or blessed with a similar enthusiasm to develop the body of knowledge and work over time.

You have left an indelible mark;

May the ink in your pen never dry and

wherever you are, continue to shine to guide us every step of the way.

The game has gone quieter even with the din around,

The writing has lost its true beauty even though there is plenty of the ordinary around.

I can only pray that wherever you are, you are watching and working your way diligently as is your quality, enhancing our lives through your deed and that you are happy where you are, because I am sure that God took his time preparing the pitch and outfield in anticipation of your arrival.

I cannot say bye for good (my heart skipped a beat on that thought, and it shuddered, I’m sure of it)

But auf wiedersen …until we meet again.

I have been blessed with the greatest of mentors, the best of friends, the most genuine of colleagues, the choicest of confidantes, and the finest of fathers - in you and for that, it is a debt that will live with me for the rest of my life.

With tears in my eyes ( I know you'd know how to take them away if you were here)
and
love in my heart (the latter deposited by you to last me a lifetime),

Yours always,

Love you, papa,..forever.

Sreelata