Well, the dust is settling now on an enthralling series.
But I thought that people might be interested to learn about that apparently cuddly teddy bear of a man in the tight blue West Indies shirt.

Because he is part of a story of greatness.
That man is Roddy Estwick, the man who was appointed as the bowling coach a year ago. That in itself was a surprise, because he took Apartheid's Krugerrands to play in South Africa when it was a Pariah state, and most of his peers - notably the great batsman Laurence Rowe - have never been forgiven.
Estwick was a superb fast bowler. His career was ruined by two factors.
Firstly, he was around thirteenth in line for the West Indies fast bowling attack behind:
Malcolm Marshall - a superior version of Dale Steyn
Andy Roberts
Michael Holding - similar to Allan Donald
Joel Garner - almost identical to McGrath and Ambrose
Sylvester Clarke
Curtly Ambrose
Courtney Walsh
Franklyn Stephenson
Ezra Moseley
Eldine Baptiste
Patrick Patterson
Winston Davis
Of those, Marshall, Garner, Stephenson, Clarke and Moseley used to keep him out of the Barbados team!
Yet every one of those bowlers down as far as Moseley would be the world's best fast bowler now.
Secondly, English county cricket massively reduced the number of foreign players a team could sign, and by the late eighties Estwick was reduced to having to go to South Africa to get a contract.
But he was always quick - well into the 140's - and he could swing it into the right-hander, and he ended up averaging 21.90 in county cricket and the South African Currie Cup, mixed in with a few games for Barbados.
But there the story gets really, really interesting.
Because the most notorious of all the West Indian fast bowlers who went to play in Apartheid era South Africa was Sylvester Clarke.
Who was Roddy Estwick's brother.
I lived in England until I was 25, and every West Indian fast bowler used to play county cricket. So did Imran Khan and Wasim Akram and Allan Donald.
And none of them had the terrifying reputation of Sylvester Clarke. Not even close.
We could all see that he was not just the nastiest, he was the fastest too.
Not the most skilled - when Waqar Younis replaced an ageing Sylvester Clarke at Surrey he kept the pace well up into the 150's, but he added swing that Clarke never had.
Clarke was an undisciplined, often ill-tempered bully. He hospitalised a spectator at Multan who made the near-fatal mistake of throwing a brick at him by returning it five times as fast, straight into his skull.
On that tour of Pakistan, Clarke took 14 wickets at an average of 17.28. A year earlier, Dennis Lillee had taken 3 wickets in Pakistan at an average of 101.00.
But all the batsmen on the county circuit - most memorably David Gower - agreed that he was the fastest and scariest of all.
Many a batsman underestimated this borderline obese man who gently ran in to bowl. Unfortunately for them, his immensely powerful shoulders then unleashed a thunderbolt, unless he was tired after a big night - or late in his career a long opening spell - at which times he'd bowl rubbish at 130K until out of the blue he would find a thunderbolt to knock the batsman's block off.
Clarke's pace was only ever measured once, by the South African police using their newest radar gun during four spells for a total of 15 overs in a First Class Currie Cup match at The Wanderers in Johannesburg.
Clarke's slowest ball of the day measured 98 miles an hour - 157.7 kilometers an hour. His fastest was measured at 101 miles per hour - 162.5 kilometers an hour.
Clarke had an astonishing career - his First Class average was 19.52 even after 942 wickets.
So next time you see the cuddly teddy bear figure of Roddy Estwick, just remember who he is, and that he lost the international career he so richly deserved because he happened to be born on Barbados at the precise time when the tiny island of less than 300,000 people was incubating the greatest domestic pace attack in history.
And spare a thought for his brother, the nastiest fast bowler of them all, who didn't even live to see his 45th birthday before his hard living caught up with him.
But I thought that people might be interested to learn about that apparently cuddly teddy bear of a man in the tight blue West Indies shirt.

Because he is part of a story of greatness.
That man is Roddy Estwick, the man who was appointed as the bowling coach a year ago. That in itself was a surprise, because he took Apartheid's Krugerrands to play in South Africa when it was a Pariah state, and most of his peers - notably the great batsman Laurence Rowe - have never been forgiven.
Estwick was a superb fast bowler. His career was ruined by two factors.
Firstly, he was around thirteenth in line for the West Indies fast bowling attack behind:
Malcolm Marshall - a superior version of Dale Steyn
Andy Roberts
Michael Holding - similar to Allan Donald
Joel Garner - almost identical to McGrath and Ambrose
Sylvester Clarke
Curtly Ambrose
Courtney Walsh
Franklyn Stephenson
Ezra Moseley
Eldine Baptiste
Patrick Patterson
Winston Davis
Of those, Marshall, Garner, Stephenson, Clarke and Moseley used to keep him out of the Barbados team!
Yet every one of those bowlers down as far as Moseley would be the world's best fast bowler now.
Secondly, English county cricket massively reduced the number of foreign players a team could sign, and by the late eighties Estwick was reduced to having to go to South Africa to get a contract.
But he was always quick - well into the 140's - and he could swing it into the right-hander, and he ended up averaging 21.90 in county cricket and the South African Currie Cup, mixed in with a few games for Barbados.
But there the story gets really, really interesting.
Because the most notorious of all the West Indian fast bowlers who went to play in Apartheid era South Africa was Sylvester Clarke.
Who was Roddy Estwick's brother.
I lived in England until I was 25, and every West Indian fast bowler used to play county cricket. So did Imran Khan and Wasim Akram and Allan Donald.
And none of them had the terrifying reputation of Sylvester Clarke. Not even close.
We could all see that he was not just the nastiest, he was the fastest too.
Not the most skilled - when Waqar Younis replaced an ageing Sylvester Clarke at Surrey he kept the pace well up into the 150's, but he added swing that Clarke never had.
Clarke was an undisciplined, often ill-tempered bully. He hospitalised a spectator at Multan who made the near-fatal mistake of throwing a brick at him by returning it five times as fast, straight into his skull.
On that tour of Pakistan, Clarke took 14 wickets at an average of 17.28. A year earlier, Dennis Lillee had taken 3 wickets in Pakistan at an average of 101.00.
But all the batsmen on the county circuit - most memorably David Gower - agreed that he was the fastest and scariest of all.
Many a batsman underestimated this borderline obese man who gently ran in to bowl. Unfortunately for them, his immensely powerful shoulders then unleashed a thunderbolt, unless he was tired after a big night - or late in his career a long opening spell - at which times he'd bowl rubbish at 130K until out of the blue he would find a thunderbolt to knock the batsman's block off.
Clarke's pace was only ever measured once, by the South African police using their newest radar gun during four spells for a total of 15 overs in a First Class Currie Cup match at The Wanderers in Johannesburg.
Clarke's slowest ball of the day measured 98 miles an hour - 157.7 kilometers an hour. His fastest was measured at 101 miles per hour - 162.5 kilometers an hour.
Clarke had an astonishing career - his First Class average was 19.52 even after 942 wickets.
So next time you see the cuddly teddy bear figure of Roddy Estwick, just remember who he is, and that he lost the international career he so richly deserved because he happened to be born on Barbados at the precise time when the tiny island of less than 300,000 people was incubating the greatest domestic pace attack in history.
And spare a thought for his brother, the nastiest fast bowler of them all, who didn't even live to see his 45th birthday before his hard living caught up with him.