That said, the here and now belongs to the son. Australia had scored 598 runs and declared at ease. In a day of exhibition-style batting, Marnus Labuschagne and Steve Smith had clocked double centuries, before Travis Head was on track to make a hundred from as many balls before showing a little respect for Test cricket and coming up short.
The game had become so uneven as a game, it became another one of those days to fill with memories of past Calypso summers. Frankly, Australia used to have to overcome a built-in inferiority complex when they played the West Indies.
But Shivnarine Chanderpaul never had to open the at bat against a spinning pace attack from Mitchell Starc, Josh Hazlewood and Patrick Cummins.
With his frontal stance, Chanderpaul fils parried the short attack, as did pere, arching his back to allow the spires to pass past his nose. Cummins allowed a corner to the leg side and Chanderpaul assisted him on his way over the fence.
When Hazlewood skipped, Chanderpaul drove him halfway through in a deadly replica of…well, enough already.
In the final session, Tagenarine and his captain Kraigg Brathwaite brought up a half-century partnership against the new ball.
It wasn’t much against a shortfall of nearly 600, but these West Indians are trying to pass two tests: one set by a confident homegrown Australian opposition, and an arguably greater one put before their own paternal giants, who are bigger and become more vivid as their deeds recede further into the past.
No one would envy the current generation confronting these Australians, in these circumstances, in this mood. Fewer still would be jealous if they had to face the overwhelming judgment that they could never measure up to their cricketing fathers, who happen to be gods.
At least this Chanderpaul got his literal chance, which no one would love more than his dad.