SOME men, it is said, have greatness thrust upon them. So it was for Basil D'Oliveira, an English cricketer widely cited as instrumental in the downfall of apartheid, who died on November 19th.

How a humble cricketer became a focal point not only of the evils of racist South Africa, but also of the English establishment's willingness to bow to it, is one of the most compelling stories in the sport. Certainly, he was not born into greatness. Growing up in Cape Town in the 1930s, he was designated a “Cape Coloured” (his heritage was probably Madeiran). Despite his obvious talent, this meant he was barred from playing for, or against, the country's established sides.

Instead, he honed his technique batting on the perilous, unpredictable matted wickets of the non-white leagues. He scored prolifically—including some 80 centuries. But that should have been that. As he approached 30, he made plans to give up the game, seemingly destined to be the sad story of a good batsmen who was never allowed to test his talents at the highest level—a forgotten victim of a racist country.

Yet the story that defined him still lay ahead. Instead of turning his back on the game, he took a chance. He wrote a letter to John Arlott, a British cricket commentator, asking for help in finding a club in England. Eventually, Middleton, an amateur club in the Central Lancashire league, was persuaded to take a chance. They offered him a contract as the club's professional player.

So it was that in 1960, probably aged over 30 (although officially 28, he admitted to lying about his age so as not to scupper his chances), and with money scraped together by proud neighbours on the Cape, he turned up in dank northern England. He left behind a country in a state of emergency, following the Sharpeville massacre of 69 black protesters. Yet Mr D'Oliveira cut a lonely figure in his new home, bemused at country in which white people waited upon him in restaurants and trains were unsegregated.

Unsurprisingly, he took time to settle. The adjustment wasn't only cultural. Learning to play in England, with its grass wickets, where the ball swung and seamed more than he was used to, took time. Yet, it wasn't long before he was making runs. In 1964, Worcestershire, a first-class county, signed him. In the same year, he became a British citizen.

Then, in 1966, he was selected for England. Incredibly, he later revealed to Pat Murphy, his biographer, that he was 38 when he made his debut at the highest level of the game, long past the age that most great batsmen retire. Yet still he made runs.

Soon attention was focused on England's scheduled tour of South Africa in 1968-69. Mr D'Oliveira was desperate to return to his homeland. He was a hero among the country's blacks and coloureds and wanted to prove that he rightfully belonged on the cricket grounds from which he had been banned. As if to dispel any doubt, in the last game before the squad was announced, he scored a wonderful 158 to help England beat Australia.

Ian Wooldridge, a sportswriter, called it the most important innings in history. Less impressed was the South African government. BJ Vorster, the country's prime minister, refused to countenance the Coloured's return. No one knows the full pressure that the authorities brought to bear on the English cricketing establishment. At the very least, they made it clear that the tour would be cancelled if he were picked. But for two days the MCC—the private club running the English game—sat in a committee room at Lord's cricket ground and deliberated. Finally, emerging from behind its closed doors, they announced that Mr D'Oliveira had been dropped.

The MCC insisted that the decision had been made purely on cricketing grounds. No one believed them. Rather it was seen for what it was; a cowardly act, one of the most shameful in the game's history. The English public was outraged. The post office had to employ staff just to deal with the letters of support sent to Mr D'Oliveira.

Stunned by the reaction, the MCC were presented with a chance for redemption. With amazing good fortune, one of the squad, Tom Cartwright, withdrew because of an injury. The MCC had little choice but to announce Mr D'Oliveira as his replacement. South Africa's prime minister promptly called the tour off.

It was this action which led to the sporting isolation of apartheid South Africa for the next two decades. Ostracism, for such a sports-mad nation, was hard to bear. Many see it as a significant factor in the dismantling of apartheid in 1994.

Through it all, one sensed that Mr D'Oliveira was a reluctant hero. Some likened his impact to Jesse Owens in 1936 and Jackie Robinson in 1947. In 1996 Nelson Mandela invited him to lunch. In 2005 Queen Elizabeth II awarded him a CBE. Yet he remained modest.

He played his last Test match in 1972, finishing with an impressive average of 40.02 over 44 matches, also taking 47 wickets with his medium pacers. One can only speculate on how those figures would have read if he'd been allowed to play in his prime.

Read on: How The Economist reported the D'Oliveira affair in 1968