Kenneth Walcott McLeod
He never preached his values—he lives them. BTW, he's alive and well.
I mentioned a game of cricket on Wednesday. Unremarkable for me — but life-changing for someone who became a friend.
In case you missed it, Kenneth Walcott McLeod followed Lancashire around the island of Jamaica in 1987 with the obvious intention of impressing the tourists—bowling left-arm rockets with considerable gain—culminating in a three-day first-class match at Sabina Park. He accounted for your scribe in the first innings, and I wasn’t there long enough to allow the double in the second. Lancashire contracted Kenny for the 1987 season, continuing into 1988, with the highlight a blistering spell against Leicestershire—career best figures of 5-8.
A brief aside on the name. My son is also called Kenneth (Kenny) (Ken), after my mother's brother, Uncle Ken, who was a significant presence in my early years. Walcott might think we borrowed his. We did, a little. But Irene's brother got there first.
Later—1990-91—we played a season together at South Canberra Cricket Club, living in an apartment in Kingston. Ironic for a Jamaican. Kenny was three years senior and had played in Canberra the year before. Metaphorically, he held my hand in the early going.
I learnt so much from Kenny. My career was trending OK back at Lancashire, and Kenny had lost his contract after the club signed Wasim Akram as their overseas player. He never once complained about his lot, he was happy in Canberra, bowling in second gear until someone took liberties with him. I was fascinated listening to him talk about life in Jamaica—his schooling, Christian values, kindness, family, and travelling to Kingston to try and play for Jamaica. He did.
Kenny is still the only person I've known to iron handkerchiefs. Thursday nights after training, we'd head into Manuka for a wander. I'd be waiting at the door while he pressed his shirt, trousers, and yes, his handkerchief. His values were forged in St Elizabeth and carried with him everywhere. He never preached them—he lived them. Quietly, he taught me so much. Just don't tell him.
We met our wives in Canberra. He stayed and made a life—two girls, all grown up with their own children. Kenny the grandfather, now retired in Batemans Bay, swinging the golf club as sweet as he bowled.
There’s too much to say here, I’ll write more over on SpeakingCricket. Yesterday I asked a mutual friend and ADS reader to find some dirt on KWM. There was nothing to say, other than good. I’ll share this instead. It says everything. Thanks, Darce.
I didn’t get to play a lot with Kenny, but thankfully I did see a lot of him. He visited me at my workplace, almost to the minute, every fortnight.
“Doogs,” he would say, “I need to send some money to Jamaica.” “No problem, Kenneth — and where do I send it?”
Classic McLeod. Just send it to Jamaica, man. Once we established the bank account, I would process the International Money Transfer, and he would wander back out into Franklin Street—comfortable in the knowledge that his Mum would spend a bit more on family groceries that week.
See you soon, Walcott.
Nick
