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In the subcontinent, even a match which pitted a minnow like Bangladesh against one of the erstwhile giants of the game, could not have been played on a ground which did not seat even fifteen thousand on a slow day. The only reason why the sight of some obscure patch of green in a cricketing backwater like Ireland did not depress me any further (after the Indian debacle), was because it was in Dublin. Dublin, home to Trinity College, James Joyce, Singular Man and Balthazar B, all of who had laid claim to my stream of muddy consciousness for a considerable period of my misspent youth. But therein ended all similarities. There was nothing Joycean about the cricket. Or maybe that is what it was.

For a while my patriotic fervour overcame all dictates of reason and logic, and all cricketing sense went for a six. I was ready for the unspeakable: was it about to happen? Was Bangladesh about to do a Kenya? Had not Gordon Greenidge passed the edict that the West Indians were fallible, that they were ripe for the picking? We won the toss, the wicket was supposedly good, we chose to bat. All right, if one must insist on nit picking, conditions were overcast, gloomy and blustery. Still, batting first always puts the other team under pressure. And so we attempted to do just that. Except that the man who was meant to orchestrate such matters once again let down a whole nation. There are more things in heaven and earth, Aminul, than are dreamt of in your philosophy. Etc., etc.

Courtney Walsh did the early damage, not letting the opening stand get into double figures, for the second time in a row. But the rest of the batting order trod the familiar path back to the dressing rooms in the same monotonous fashion that is now becoming a trademark for the team. Apart from Walsh, the rest of the bowling was mundane and mediocre. Yet the batting of the senior pros of the side ensured that the West Indians, in spite of shoddy bowling and shabby fielding, were not going to be upstaged in Dublin. Fallible they perhaps were, but batting pedigree they still had in plenty.

It was left to Mehrab Hossain and Naimur Rahman to repair the gaping holes left behind by their senior colleagues. To their credit these two youngsters rose manfully to the need of the hour. Mehrab scored a truly responsible and methodical 65 while Naimur was quite steadfast in notching up 45. He missed out on one of the most important fifties he is likely to score for his country. But the writing was on the wall. The seniors really have to pull up their socks for the rest of their stay in England.

Bangladesh looked well on their way to 200 plus. Only Courtney Walsh was not yet ready to have things going Bangladesh's way. He carved the innards out of the lower order and 182 looked par for the course for West Indies. But it could well have been so different.

Bangladesh bowled with a purpose and plan for a change. The opening bowlers were impressive with their line and length and had the batsmen struggling for the better part of the first 15 overs. But Ridley Jacobs, Sherwin Campbell and Jimmy Adams are hardened pros, they had sailed this route before. In the end it was a case of what is, what was and what must be. West Indies-by 7 wickets.

West Indies are a pale shadow of what they once were. Sadly, we are watching the demise of one of the great powers of world cricket. Judging by the present scenario of cricket in the West Indies, a revival does not seem to be on the cards. Judging by what we saw in Dublin, judging by what we might have achieved perhaps, let's hope for the improbable. Well, why not? This could be the time for the changing of the guard.