The wall in Jamaica stretches over 30 feet, and is an artistic tribute to the sporting legends that have brought such glory to a tiny island. © Getty Images

If you’re not paying attention, you might just miss it, so unusual is the location. Opposite the National Stadium, it catches the eye as you turn left on to Roosevelt Avenue. I ask Spencer, my driver, to slow down, and then ask him what it is. “It da Jamaica wall of honour, man,” he says solemnly. When we get out of the car, I see that a drainage canal runs alongside the wall that stretches over 30 feet, and is an artistic tribute to the sporting legends that have brought such glory to a tiny island.

Some of the paintings are crude, especially the unflattering portrait of Michael Holding from his Whispering Death Afro days, but others are beautifully executed. The one of Lawrence Rowe – Yagga to those that adored him – playing a shot off the back-foot grabs your attention, as
does that of Courtney Walsh poised to bowl with that languid action.

And while the island’s cricketers have been tremendous ambassadors, starting with the incomparable George Headley, it’s perhaps revealing that the first three faces on the wall are all athletes. Arthur Wint, Jamaica’s first Olympic gold medallist [London, 1948], has pride of place, and next to him is Merlene Ottey-Page. But for drug cheats from behind the Iron Curtain, Ottey would have been the premier sprinter of her age, rather than someone doomed to silver and bronze.

Next to her is Donald Quarrie, sprint hero of the Montreal games and predecessor to the likes of Asafa Powell. The cricketers come only after that, and Spencer speaks breathlessly in his scattergun patois about Rowe. “I watch him as a little boy. He da man.” When I mention that even King Viv idolised Rowe, Spencer beams with pride.

The misfit among the murals is easy to spot. Sir Frank Worrell was born in Barbados and when I ask Spencer why he’s there, he has no answer. But as the memorial service for him at Westminster Abbey revealed, Worrell belonged to far more than one island. A captain who transcended the sport, he’s remembered as the binding force that helped to make this
conglomeration of islands the game’s premier power.

Even more poignant than the hero who dies young – Worrell succumbed to cancer at the age of 42 – is the one who falls from grace. Allan ‘Skill’ Cole is still regarded as the greatest footballer that Jamaica has produced, and the first to play professionally in Brazil. But in 2002, he was one of six men implicated in a drug bust. A Rastafarian, Cole was a dear friend of Bob Marley, with whom he would have kick-abouts on Hope Road. His dreadlocks and his fondness for ganja eventually ended the Brazilian adventure, and he was briefly Marley’s manager. And to this day,
some insist that he might have penned a couple of Marley’s hits.

As we walk back to the car and the reggae classics playing on the radio, you can’t help but think of Marley’s most haunting lines. Good friends we have, good friends we lost along the way…

	Little Scotland - The kilts make an entry in St Kitts © Cricinfo Ltd

Scotland, famously, have never qualified from the group stages of any
of their innumerable football World Cup campaigns, and if their first
day of action in cricket's big fandango is anything to go by, a
similar pattern is set to be repeated in the coming fortnight. Massive
yet heroic failure is the nation's stock-in-trade in any given
sporting event - and their fans are contentedly resigned to their
fate.

"Scotland don't go to many World Cups in any sport these days, but a
trip to the Caribbean for two weeks … it's a tough choice." Martin
Brown, an investment manager from Edinburgh, puts the dilemma in a
nutshell as he stands beneath the scoreboard at midwicket, watching
the inevitable unfold before his eyes.

A muffed caught-behind from Colin Smith prompts a chorus of "are you
English in disguise?" as the wheels begin to come off a spirited
bowling display. Martin, however, is already adamant he has the reason
for the impending demise. "They did drop their best player last night,
so it's probably what you'd expect."

The cause celebre in this man's eyes is the otherwise unassuming
figure of Neil McCallum. "He's one of the best middle-order batsmen,
he's the best fielder in the team, and having played 21 or 24
consecutive games, he was sensationally dropped last night," adds
Martin, warming to his rant. "It's a big blow for him. He's a top guy
and the fans are disappointed."

Are the fans also personal friends of his? "No, we just met him when
we got out here," comes the response, to loud guffaws. Such is the
close-knit nature of this peculiar sporting odyssey. Sat up high in
the Southern Stand, for instance, are Sean Stewart and his girlfriend,
Diane Anderson, who have got to know Scotland's No. 3, Ryan Watson, on
account of his family staying in the same hotel in Frigate Bay.

"I'm just sitting here drinking punch and not really paying
attention!" admits Diane, who had "no say whatsoever" when her other
half announced their holiday plans for this year. "Neither of us had
been to the Caribbean before so we figured we'd kill two birds with
one stone," adds Sean, whose previous Scottish sports-watching habits
had been confined to television. Such is the unique lure of cricket.
Islands as idyllic as St Kitts have special powers to convert the
uninitiated.

Not that everyone in Navy Blue is entirely new to the sport, however.
"We're here to promote the Fat Bearded Bastards Cricket Club,"
announces Chris Sayer, an ample hirsute solicitor from Edinburgh,
whose offices are but a five-minute stroll from Scotland's HQ at the
Grange. "Our aim is to roll back the tides of fashion, and encourage
everyone to grow beards and put on weight." Judging by the damage he
and his cronies inflicted on an unsuspecting member of the press corps
on Monday night, his mission is well underway. "The Scots order whisky
chasers with everything," he lamented while wilting during
final practice on Tuesday afternoon.

Even so, there is a serious undertone to Chris's efforts to spread the
word. "It's a crucial time for Scottish cricket," he adds. "They've
got to continue to develop to justify their fragile financing. If they
don't get the financing, that'll be the end of the resurgence. And
they've had some great success in recent years, beating many of the
Associates, and some of the better counties as well."

All the same, such complex issues are far from the thoughts of the
majority of the Scottish fans in the ground. Never before has any
Caribbean island been over-run by many kilts and ginger wigs,
half of whose wearers are sure, come midnight, to be found upside-down
in the fountains of Independence Square, burbling gently to themselves
and passers-by. "We're so red it's unbelievable," chant the inebriated
clans on the hill, slow-roasting in the heat of the midday sun.
Inevitable defeat matters not a jot. It's the manner of the meltdown
that counts.

	The new stadium in St Kitts has been built on time and on budget © Andrew Miller

On many levels, the story of St Kitts is the most uplifting of a myriad of tales to have emerged from the chaotic preparations for this World Cup. It is the story of how a land the size of an English county town rose above its humble status to claim a share of the biggest prize of all. While the big dogs squabbled and were left floundering to be finished on time, St Kitts merely enlisted the help of another of the world's underdogs, Taiwan, and delivered a delightful 8000-seater stadium from scratch, on time and on budget.

It's a tale with all the ingredients for a classic feelgood movie, although the happy ending will have to remain on hold for a little while longer. On Wednesday, the World Champions, Australia, take on Scotland in opening match of Group A, and only then will we see quite what this remarkable little island has to offer. The initial impressions are encouraging if a touch confusing, for cricket is not a game inscribed on this nation's soul.

Not once in the history of West Indian cricket has a native of St Kitts represented the Test team (though Joey Benjamin, born in Christ Church in 1961, did turn out for England in 1994). Nevis, the island's twin that rises high through the mist, 6km to the south, has had a fractionally better return with a total of five - including Keith Arthurton, Stuart Williams and Runako Morton, whose exploits in a losing cause in New Zealand last year earned him a plot of land from the government and the misplaced assumption that he had arrived as an international cricketer. He did not make this World Cup party.

The tale of St Kitts is a tale of achievement but also of neglect. West Indian cricket was a phenomenon that bypassed this tiny island (and tiny is the operative word - by the last count the combined population of St Kitts and Nevis was 39,618, which is less than the capacity of the newly-reconstructed Gabba). In the island's National Museum, the names of every carnival queen since 1972 have been printed out on a central display (and there's an interesting array of porcelain bed-pans as well), but cricket is very much an afterthought.

In fact, a temporary exhibition has had to be set up in a separate room - a selection of photos, mostly borrowed from nearby Antigua, and a lone West Indies shirt (from their ignominious 1996 World Cup campaign, of all the moments in history to forget). The cheery curator thanks me for popping in and urges me to "spread the word", which I am only too glad to do, although I remain baffled by her opening gambit. "So where are you from," she asks. "China/Japan?"

Cricketing hotbeds they are not, and yet, the assumption is revealing, for St Kitts' best friends, since independence from Britain in 1983, are all from the Far East. The Basseterre Fisheries Complex, on the seafront near the port, was built with a substantial donation from Tokyo (which may or may not have been connected to the island's subsequent backing of Japan's bid to overturn the whaling ban). As for Taiwan's influence, that has already been amply documented.

The point is, the arrival of the Cricket World Cup in St Kitts does not feel like a case of regeneration, as the ICC and the West Indian Cricket Board would have us believe. It is more a case of conception - the planting of a seed where nothing previously has existed. "I did wonder if they would ever get it done,” said Chris Dehring, the tournament organiser, when he first saw the area of scrubland in the centre of Basseterre which was being proposed as the new home of St Kitts cricket. Unlike the rest of the World Cup project, this was one arena he did not need to worry about.

How many of the locals, however, will be taking part in the cricket carnival? Indirectly, of course, it affects them all. The capital, Basseterre, is a beautiful Creole market-town, decked out in pastille colours and equipped with all the amenities a one-horse town could need. A clock-tower, a church, a two-pump Shell Garage positioned right on the high street. Now added to that mix is string upon string of flags and banners proclaiming the arrival of the World Cup, although with the cheapest of seats on Warner Park's grassy banks costing upwards of US$80, few of the locals are expected at any of the matches.

Is the Caribbean ready for this event? That's the question being asked all across the region as the minutes tick down to zero hour, but in St Kitts, they are as ready as they'll ever be. The roundabout outside Robert Bradshaw Airport is still undergoing some last-minute restructuring, while the gravel-pit that passes for Warner Park's carpark could do with a bit of sprucing up. But the pitch is in place and the teams are ensconced in the newly completed Marriott Hotel, one of the finest of its ilk in the Caribbean. This is one little island that's ready for its big adventure.

	Viv Richards may be the king of West Indies, but he couldn't get an invite to the World Cup opening ceremony © Getty Images

The flight from St Maarten in the Netherlands Antilles to Antigua was among the shortest I’ve ever taken, and the azure blue waters that wash the island with a beach for every day of the year came into view within half an hour of taking off. With Air France having managed to leave one of my bags behind in Paris, the first few minutes on the island that spawned one of cricket’s most iconic heroes weren’t pleasant ones.

“First time in Antigua?” asked the woman at immigration. I said yes, adding that it meant a lot to me to finally be on his island. Growing up a brown boy in the UK of the early 1980s, that swagger, the success and those red-yellow-and-green wristbands meant everything to me. There were others too, like the magnificent Michael Holding and Liverpool legend John Barnes (with roots in Jamaica), but if you ever needed one good reason to not be ashamed of your colour, it was him.

The CARICOM visa went through without a hitch and by the time I crossed over to the check-in counter for the flight to Kingston, his image was ubiquitous. He was everywhere, like Chè in Kerala’s Marxist strongholds – on the cover of tourist information pamphlets, on posters adorning little souvenir shops, and on the book and DVD shelves. Then again, how many islands can boast that Isaac Vivian Alexander Richards was born there?

As I waited in the queue to check in, one of the baggage handlers came and plonked a golf bag next to me. When I turned back to see who it was that could be traveling to Jamaica with clubs, it was the man himself, as regal as ever in white shirt and grey trousers. I hesitantly reached out my hand and mentioned the fact that I had interviewed him in Colombo during the 2002 Champions Trophy. He obviously didn’t remember, but the “Good to see you again” wasn’t the cursory one you get from most celebrities.

In fact, as you watched the king in his own environment, what struck you most was his rootedness and humility. Everyone from baggage handler to check-in clerk was acknowledged, there was back and forth banter, and sometimes a vigorous handshake. When we walked into the terminal, the first place I checked out was the book shop. Obviously, the autobiography was there. I picked it up and took it over, and he scrawled out his signature. The young man running the store then played him some of the lilting Calypso tunes used to promote this World Cup, but when he was offered the CD, he declined politely, saying that he’d prefer to pick it up on his way back.

All was not right in the Richards world though. It was an appalling oversight that the greatest batsman that most of us will ever see wasn’t invited to the opening ceremony in his own backyard. He didn’t criticise anyone in so many words, but the sense of hurt was palpable. Whoever’s responsible, and somebody must have been, should do the decent thing and resign, for having organised cricket’s equivalent of Braveheart without William Wallace.

The pain of missing out was undoubtedly exacerbated by the fact that it was Jamaica that hosted the showpiece occasion. In the book, Richards talks of his special bond with the island, and how he rated his 36-ball 61 against India [first Test, 1983] as the most memorable innings he ever played. “Jamaica in particular created the same sort of sporting atmosphere I had experienced when I watched England play football at Wembley or Liverpool at Anfield. I had always felt their love for me, and for years I tried hard – maybe too hard – to thank them for their support and to fulfil what they felt about me.”

But rather than gripe about what’s now in the past, he preferred to talk about what West Indies needed to do to bring back the halcyon years. “This is a massive opportunity,” he said. “If the team does well here, it’ll give the game a much-needed boost.” The opposite doesn’t even bear thinking about, in a region where most young men seem to walk around imitating their idols from the NBA – baggy shorts, impossibly loose T-shirts and all.

He laughed when you asked him about the difference between them and now. The first World Cup in 1975 barely spanned three weeks. This one will encompass seven. “I suppose they want to give exposure to some of the lesser teams,” he said, perhaps forgetting that the likes of East Africa and Canada were around in the ’70s as well.

“Australia are wobbling a little, aren’t they,” he said. “England aren’t even considered a very good one-day team. And New Zealand beat them too. Quite a few teams have a chance.” Back in his day, that was never the case, with West Indies first and then daylight.

The bookstore clerk then put on a DVD with footage from those glory years. “Does this bring back memories?” he asked with a grin. “Makes me feel old, man” was the reply. In the eyes of many though, he, like Peter Pan, will never grow old. And despite the slight from those that should have known better, he’ll forever be the king.