Dr Joel Teelucksingh
Cricket was once more than a game in the West Indies. It was an identity, a statement, a unifying force stitched into the soul of a people.
For many in the Caribbean, it was the sound of conch shells mingling with the thwack of leather on willow, the smoky haze of barbecue pits outside the Queen’s Park Oval and radio static under your pillow as you listened to the West Indies battle Australia deep into the night. Cricket was culture, poetry, and for some—therapy.
But like the old Oval scoreboard, something vital has fallen silent.
When I was a boy, I would sit with my father in the Dos Santos Stand at the Oval, sipping juice and watching legends stride out like gladiators. He’d whisper stories about past triumphs and my mother would remind me of the time she met V.S. Naipaul in the 1970s, umbrella in hand, discussing Miguel Street at that very ground. To them, and to many others, cricket was a mirror to our society.
Today’s youth, glued to TikTok, have little connection to the cricketing heroes of yesteryear. They can name every Indian Premier League team but can’t recall the last time West Indies won a Test match on home soil. They do not understand the pain of losing—because they were never taught the pride of winning with honour.
We need to teach them again. We need to remind them that cricket was born in the British Empire but was reborn in the Caribbean—not as an imperial pastime, but as a defiant declaration of independence, identity and resilience.
Recently, the cricketing world was jolted by the revelations from the inquest into a former English cricketer’s suicide. Behind the disciplined stance and stiff upper lip was a man quietly crumbling before stepping in front of a moving train. His story is not an anomaly. It is not about weakness — it’s about human beings bruised by pressure, expectation and the ruthless demands of professional sport.
The dressing room, once seen as a sanctuary, often becomes a pressure cooker. Cricket has its own lexicon of cruelty—“mental disintegration” the Australians call it. A euphemism for “sledging,” the art of verbal abuse masquerading as strategy. Opponents trade insults, mock family members, question masculinity, and assassinate character — only to shake hands and have a beer afterwards. Is that sportsmanship or psychopathy?
We hold media conferences about mental health, wear ribbons and armbands, then reward players who provoke and humiliate others on the field. We honour the sledge but ignore the wound.
Match-fixing scandals, ball tampering, fake injuries, phantom dismissals—the gentleman’s game has become a theatre of deceit. It’s not just cricket that’s broken—it’s the values that once held it together. If CLR James were alive today, would he still ask, “What do they know of cricket who only cricket know?” Or would he sigh, knowing that even those who know cricket have forgotten its soul?
We see patients struggling with anxiety and depression. In most cases, they are not elite athletes, but the signs are the same—sleep disruption, mood swings, self-doubt, fatigue, a sense of worthlessness. Imagine living through that under the spotlight of millions, while commentators critique your technique and trolls dissect your failures online.
Mental illness doesn’t wear whites. It doesn’t announce itself with a red ball or a bouncer to the ribs. It creeps in—slowly, silently—and turns the game into a battlefield of the mind.
The West Indies, once the undisputed giants of cricket, have slumped into mediocrity. And while some point to administrative chaos, lack of funding, or the allure of franchise leagues, I’d argue we’ve lost something deeper: the belief. The hunger.
And in this conversation, we must include mental health. The same way we examine a strained hamstring or a torn rotator cuff, we must be willing to examine a player’s psychological scars.
Every cricket board should employ mental health professionals. Coaches must be trained in emotional intelligence. Teammates must be taught to check in, not check out.
We are still afraid of the word depression, still calling it “tabanca” or “a little sadness.” After the debacle of 27 all out, we hear about a need for “mental toughness.”
We can do better. We must do better. Cricket gave us a stage to show the world who we are. It’s time we use that same stage to show that mental health matters—on and off the field.
Bring back the joy. Make cricket fun again. Bring it to schools, villages and community centres. Hold mental health workshops for athletes. Celebrate the thinkers, not just the hitters.
Value the quiet players who might not sledge or showboat but are fighting battles the scoreboard can’t see.
Let us go beyond the boundary once more — into the realm where cricket is not just a game, but a force for healing, hope and human dignity.
