Mushfiqur Rahim at 100 Tests: The Relentless Craftsman Who Willed Bangladesh into Belonging

The childish celebration that spans for more than two decades - The cherubic smile that softened even the most exhausting days – The celebration with a roar and clenched fist. The long, meditative hours of batting practice under a punishing sun. These are the images that surface whenever the name Mushfiqur Rahim is uttered in Bangladesh cricket. They are not merely memories; they are fragments of a national journey—an epic told through the life of a cricketer who refused to surrender to history, circumstance, or mediocrity.

Now, as Mushfiqur becomes the first Bangladeshi to step into the rarefied company of 100 Test cricketers, his milestone demands more than celebration. It demands a reckoning with what he has symbolised: resilience in a cricket culture built on the uneasy coexistence of soaring dreams and cruel limitations.

Bangladesh has played 155 Tests in its 25-year history. Mushfiqur has featured in nearly two-thirds of them. That is not longevity; that is institutional memory.

A Career Forged in Adversity

When Mushfiqur Rahim first walked onto Lord’s in 2005, he looked startlingly young—almost child-like—set against the theatre of cricket’s most storied stage. His tiny frame and cautious smile contrasted violently with the four-pronged English pace attack poised to dismantle an inexperienced Bangladesh side. Yet he resisted. It was not a match-saving act, not even a noteworthy statistical contribution, but it contained something Bangladesh cricket desperately needed in those days: defiance.

Defiance from a team mocked for simply being present.

Defiance from a boy who could easily have been swallowed by the cynicism that enveloped Bangladesh cricket in those formative years.

Through the next two decades, that thread of resistance evolved into a science—a disciplined, almost monastic approach to preparation that became Mushfiqur’s signature. He was neither the most flamboyant nor the most naturally gifted, but he became the most dependable. And in a nation where sporting fragility has often been cultural, Mushfiqur’s discipline was radical.

The Last of a Generation

The modern pillars of Bangladesh cricket—Shakib Al Hasan, Mashrafe Mortaza, Tamim Iqbal, Mahmudullah—have all now faded from the arena. Yet Mushfiqur remains, not because he had fewer reasons to retire but because he had more reasons to keep going. When he quit T20Is and ODIs, whispers grew louder that he was nearing the end. Mushfiqur instead treated the speculation as an indictment of his work ethic.

He responded the only way he knows: with runs, with fitness, with sweat, with monastic routine.

At 38, he is still in the “why retire?” phase of his journey—an astonishing mindset in a cricket culture that has historically lacked long-term athletic conditioning, infrastructure, or continuity.

The Arc of a Craftsman

Mushfiqur’s career has not been smooth—it has been sculpted. He entered Test cricket with technical flaws, fought through years of inconsistency, and rebuilt himself. Coaches like Dav Whatmore and Jamie Siddons tinkered with his backlift, his pull shot, and his game against pace. Tamim recalls that the raw talent was never the story; the story was the work ethic. Mushfiqur made himself.

He did so under difficult conditions: a brittle batting order, a domestic structure still learning how to behave like a Test system, and a national expectation perpetually oscillating between premature hope and volatile disappointment.

His double-hundred in Galle in 2013—Bangladesh’s first—was not just a statistical milestone; it felt like an emancipation. Mominul Haque, who debuted in that match, remembers it as a watershed, an innings that allowed younger batters to believe that Bangladesh could dream beyond survival.

That was the year Mushfiqur turned the corner. His average leapt past 50, his discipline matured, and his role crystallised: he became Bangladesh’s immovable spine.

Captain, Keeper, Workhorse

Few cricketers anywhere have carried a national team the way Mushfiqur has.

He captained 34 Tests.

He kept wicket in 55.

He combined both roles in 28 matches—second only to MS Dhoni in Test history.

And he still averaged over 41 as captain.

When he finally relinquished the gloves in 2019, his batting blossomed further. The numbers reveal the story of a cricketer who aged like a craftsman, not an athlete: smarter, calmer, technically tighter, more self-assured.

Since 2013, Mushfiqur has averaged over 42 in 69 Tests—the only Bangladeshi batter with a 40+ average over that period.

The Traveller in a Land of Two-Test Series

There is a peculiar tragedy in Mushfiqur’s career. Had he been Australian, English, or Indian, he might have played 150 or even 180 Tests. Instead, Bangladesh’s limited fixture list forced his career into a series of compressed, under-resourced, two-match tours. Yet, within those constraints, he carved out achievements that rival global greats:

Three Test double-centuries — the most by any wicketkeeper-batter in history.

Hundreds in six countries.

Bangladesh’s highest away average among top-order batters.

Involved in five of the team’s six partnerships exceeding 250 runs.

A balls-per-dismissal ratio of 78.6 — the toughest Bangladeshi batter to dislodge.

He was not merely a participant in Bangladesh’s story; he was the axis around which its Test evolution rotated.

The Human Behind the Legend

The milestone Test brought emotional truths to the surface. In the team huddle before his 100th match, he told his teammates something revealing and profoundly un-Bangladeshi in its humility:

“Mushfiqur Rahim exists because of Bangladesh. I am just a drop in the ocean.”

He dedicated his century in that match—he became only the eleventh cricketer in history to score a hundred in his 100th Test—to his grandparents, who once confessed they wished to live long enough to watch him bat.

These gestures strip away the statistical armour and expose the emotional engine that has powered this journey: gratitude, duty, and a sense of national responsibility that is rare in modern cricket.

A Legacy Beyond the Scorebook

Mushfiqur Rahim is more than the sum of his runs or the longevity of his career. He is the embodiment of Bangladesh’s slow, painful, stubborn rise into Test relevance. He represents an entire generation that learned to endure humiliation, absorb defeat, and still imagine a better cricketing tomorrow.

He is proof that greatness in Bangladesh cricket is not something inherited; it is something engineered.

As he looks ahead to yet another Test series—Pakistan at home next April—he leaves the future deliberately ambiguous. Perhaps he doesn’t need to plan too far. Legends rarely do. Their careers do not end; they taper into memory, into habit, into cultural inheritance.

In a cricket world structured against the small and unfashionable, Mushfiqur Rahim stood only five feet tall but stood tall enough for all of Bangladesh.

And perhaps that is the true meaning of his 100th Test: not a milestone, but a metaphor for a nation that learned—through him—how to stay, resist, and finally belong.

Thank You

Faisal Caesar

Scotland’s Night of Chaos and Communion: Why Hampden’s Four Goals Reshaped a Nation

Some football matches invite quiet contemplation. This was not one of them.

Kenny McLean had just lobbed Kasper Schmeichel — from the halfway line — and Hampden Park ruptured. Limbs everywhere. Joy unbound. On one wild, glorious night in Glasgow, Scotland rewrote its footballing mythology and reclaimed a place in the World Cup after 28 cold, wandering years.

McLean’s audacity, Kieran Tierney’s thunder, Scott McTominay’s full-blooded defiance — these did more than send Scotland to 2026. They rearranged the hierarchy of national memories. Archie Gemmill’s ethereal 1978 goal was nudged off the podium. Even Zidane’s Hampden volley of 2002 suddenly seemed pedestrian by comparison.

This was the kind of evening your grandchildren will be asked about. A “where were you?” event that shifts the emotional geology of a nation.

The Goal That Made a Journeyman the Mayor of Everywhere

They call him the “Mayor of Norwich.” After Tuesday night, Kenny McLean may as well be mayor of every Scottish town with a heartbeat — from Nairn to North Berwick to Newtongrange. When he spun, saw Schmeichel off his line, and shaped destiny with his right boot, it was as if he had kicked open the door to a long-closed world Scotland had forgotten belonged to them.

Even McTominay grabbing the corner flag became an image of national catharsis, a constellation of players careening into each other as if to confirm the miracle was real.

The Relevance of International Football? Scotland Just Settled That Debate

In an age where club football is a globalised mega-industry and international breaks are often dismissed as inconveniences, Scotland detonated the argument that the national game no longer matters.

This qualification campaign — baffling, illogical, utterly Scottish — was proof that international football still has the power to summon a country’s soul to the surface.

The outpouring of pride following the 4–2 dismantling of Denmark was not merely emotional; it was sociological. Scotland wanted this. Scotland cared. Scotland still sees its national team as a vessel for identity that no club crest, no matter how wealthy, can replicate.

The 2026 World Cup will be richer for Scotland’s presence — off the pitch if not necessarily on it.

Steve Clarke: The Stoic Architect of a Beautifully Chaotic Revival

Steve Clarke does not seek the spotlight, yet he now stands as the finest Scotland manager of the modern era. Three tournament qualifications in four attempts. A single playoff loss away from perfection. All achieved with a squad often derided, always doubted, and rarely blessed with world-class depth.

This campaign was an exercise in joyous absurdity. Scotland scored four against Denmark while fielding Craig Gordon — a 42-year-old goalkeeper who is not the No 1 at his club. Many countries would not trade their centre-backs or strikers for Scotland’s, yet Clarke’s team is fuelled by something more valuable than talent: spirit, sweat, and a refusal to yield.

For nearly three decades, Scottish teams have folded under pressure. This one simply refused.

Chaos in Athens, Redemption in Copenhagen, Deliverance in Glasgow

The journey to Hampden’s delirium was anything but linear.

The campaign opened amid grumbling discontent after limp home defeats to Greece and Iceland. A brave scoreless draw in Copenhagen offered hope, only for two anaemic wins over Belarus and Greece to plunge Clarke into fury.

Then came Athens — the strangest Scottish night in living memory. Three goals down, sickness spreading through the Denmark camp, word filtering through that Belarus were improbably tormenting the group favourites. Scotland roared back and nearly forced a draw. Belarus did get one. Fate, finally, blinked in Scotland’s favour.

Denmark will argue — justifiably — that they dominated long stretches at Hampden. But dominance means nothing when reduced to 10 men and faced with a Scotland side that senses blood.

Heroes, Fault Lines, and the Beautiful Imperfection of This Team

This Scotland side is a mosaic of personal sagas:

Craig Gordon, tears in his eyes, contemplating a World Cup at 42.

Kieran Tierney, injured, discarded, repurposed — and suddenly reborn as a make-shift right-sider scoring a goal of destiny.

Aaron Hickey, Lewis Ferguson, careers interrupted by injury but returning when it mattered.

Lawrence Shankland, haunted by a nightmarish season.

Lyndon Dykes, devastated to miss Euro 2024, cheering from afar.

Grant Hanley, apologising to Clarke for a poor game, only to be told he never needed to.

Clarke’s reply — “You don’t ever have to apologise to me” — is the skeleton key to this team. Imperfect individuals. Unbreakable collective.

A Nation Wakes Up Different

Scotland’s qualification was not just a sporting victory; it was a cultural jolt.

At a north Glasgow primary school, an eight-year-old had told his father earlier that evening: “Everybody says Scotland are going to get pumped.” The realism of youth, shaped by decades of failure.

Three hours later, Scotland was airborne.

Veterans of the Tartan Army rasped their voices dry. University students beamed down Buchanan Street calling it “a miracle.” Even those indifferent to football were suddenly pricing flights to Miami. It was the talk of offices — even among colleagues who hadn’t watched it.

This is how national moments work: they infiltrate the collective bloodstream.

The Diaspora Will Return, the Songs Will Be Reborn

Euro 2025’s travelling carnival will be reborn in North America. The viral anthem No Scotland No Party — penned by a Kilmarnock postman — has already entered national folklore. Its author is crafting a World Cup sequel but will release it only “if it feels right.” That is the Scottish way: sincerity before spectacle.

Women’s football leaders speak of inspiration. Travel companies are already cashing in. Teenagers who have never seen Scotland on this stage will now have a team to dream with.

This qualification isn’t simply an achievement. It is an inheritance.

Opinion: Why This Night Matters Beyond Football

Tuesday night at Hampden was more than a win. It was a reminder of what football — international football — still means in the fractured modern world.

It binds generations. It dissolves politics. It warms a cold country in winter. It gives people something to believe in when belief has grown scarce.

Scotland will, inevitably, fear losing to Cape Verde or Jordan next year. Fatalism is part of the national humour. But those anxieties can wait.

For now, Scotland should simply stand still and hold onto this moment — this chaotic, dramatic, uplifting night when a nation remembered itself.

For the first time since 1998, Scotland are going to the World Cup.

And they are going there in style.

Curaçao’s Impossible Dream: How a Missed Appointment Became a Miracle

In football, delays often signal decay — the administrative rot that suffocates smaller federations and stifles talent. Yet the delay in Dick Advocaat taking charge of Curaçao became something else entirely: the quiet overture to an astonishing symphony. What began with financial paralysis and postponed promises ended in a World Cup qualification that borders on the supernatural.

When Advocaat deferred his start date until January 2024 because players were unpaid and federation coffers were bare, the omen felt bleak. Instead, it became the hinge on which the greatest story in the island’s football history would turn.

Curaçao — a Caribbean nation of just 156,000 souls — will be the smallest country ever to grace a World Cup. Iceland’s record falls. Cape Verde, hailed just weeks ago as surprise debutants, suddenly seem almost monolithic by comparison. Curaçao’s achievement is not merely statistical; it is mythic.

“It’s an impossibility that is made possible,” winger Kenji Gorré says, still dazed after two hours of sleep in a Kingston hotel. His words capture the scale of the feat. A nation that could easily fit into a quarter of an Amsterdam suburb is now a guest at football’s grandest ballroom.

The Old Master Who Saw a Future Others Couldn’t

Advocaat did not stumble into this project. He sought it out — aware that, at nearly 78, this World Cup could make him the oldest coach ever at the tournament. His arrival brought gravitas, order, and something the players had hungered for: belief.

“For him to believe in us and believe in our dream… shows the potential he saw,” says Gorré. “I’m grateful he said yes.”

Advocaat’s résumé, thick with national teams — the Netherlands, Belgium, Russia, Serbia, the UAE, Iraq, South Korea — gave Curaçao a structure it had never known. Yet he did not sweep out local knowledge. His longtime assistant Cor Pot arrived, but so did Dean Gorré, once interim head coach and father of Kenji, anchoring the project in its Caribbean soil.

The poetry of that father-son partnership is unmistakable. “To experience going to the World Cup with my dad… these are things dreamt of when I was young,” Kenji says. His voice softens: “It does something to my soul.”

Faith, family, island identity — these aren’t clichés here. They are the architecture of belief.

The Missing General and the Army That Carried His Plan

Ironically, Advocaat was not in Kingston for the decisive match, absent due to a personal matter. Yet the imprint of his work appeared in every tackle, every tactical shuffle. Curaçao were hardened, professional, unshrinking — a reflection of a man who has spent half a century navigating the nervous systems of national teams.

The squad he sculpted is largely diaspora-born, a map of Dutch footballing culture sprinkled across English, Portuguese, and Middle Eastern leagues. All eleven starters against Jamaica were born in the Netherlands. Many played in the Dutch youth system.

Names like Armando Obispo, Tahith Chong, Jürgen Locadia, Ar’jany Martha, Sontje Hansen — familiar to anyone who traces Eredivisie and EFL pathways — converged under Advocaat’s blueprint. The Bacuna brothers carried Premier League muscle memory; others brought Champions League minutes or the mental resilience of footballing nomads.

Diaspora football has always been Curaçao’s reservoir. Advocaat turned it into a bloodstream.

A Century-Old Football Identity Reborn

Curaçao’s football history is a fractured mural — the legacy of the Netherlands Antilles, the dissolution of 2010, and the rebirth of the national team in 2011. Three previous World Cup qualifying cycles produced only six wins.

This time, they tore through the opening group undefeated: St Lucia, Aruba, Barbados, and Haiti fell. The third-round gauntlet — Jamaica, Trinidad & Tobago, Bermuda — was supposed to restore order. Instead Curaçao imposed chaos.

They beat Jamaica 2–0 at home. They demolished Bermuda 7–0. They survived Kingston, and they survived VAR.

That last moment — a Jamaican injury-time penalty overturned — will become island folklore.

“When he said ‘no penalty’, my heart dropped again,” Gorré recalls. “We were like, wow… we are actually going to the World Cup.”

Destiny is an overused word in football. Here it feels earned.

The Smallest Dot on the Map, the Biggest Beat of the Heart

What does it mean for Curaçao — an island tucked just north of Venezuela, still tied constitutionally to the Netherlands — to vault onto the global stage?

For some, it is geopolitical symbolism. For others, a sporting miracle. For Kenji Gorré, it is profoundly personal.

“My mum is from Curaçao. My grandma too. To represent them… I’m just proud.”

 

His family story mirrors thousands across the diaspora. Curaçao’s footballing triumph is not simply about size, money, or odds. It is about memory and identity — about reclaiming a dream that history once denied.

The Opinion: Why Curaçao’s Triumph Matters Far Beyond Football

Curaçao’s qualification is more than a fairy tale. It is a seismic reminder that football’s ecosystem — increasingly dominated by billionaire clubs, mega-nations, and geopolitical power — still has space for improbable beauty.

It is a rebuke to cynicism.

In an era where talent pipelines are globalised, where dual-nationality players are courted like assets, Curaçao shows what can happen when diaspora, identity, professionalism, and belief align under the right leadership.

It is also a story of resilience against structural neglect. Financial instability nearly collapsed this project before it began. Advocaat’s delayed arrival became the accidental catalyst for reform. That is a lesson for small federations everywhere: sustainability isn’t optional — it is the difference between survival and extinction.

Above all, Curaçao’s journey is a reminder of the sport’s democratic soul. The world’s biggest stage has been breached not by money, not by muscle, but by the smallest nation ever to qualify — a dot on the map that refused to remain a footnote.

The World Cup will gain a new underdog. But perhaps more importantly, football regains a little of its poetry.

Thank You

Faisal Caesar

Brazil’s Uneasy Progress: Ancelotti’s Search for Identity Amid a Fragmented World Cup Cycle

Brazil’s final image in the 2025 calendar was far from dazzling, yet the overall balance of the last FIFA window tilts—albeit slightly—toward optimism. Across matches against Senegal and Tunisia, two opponents with contrasting styles and temperaments, Carlo Ancelotti continued sculpting the Seleção’s still-fragile identity. The answers he found were partial, the doubts persistent, but the direction—at long last—visible.

A Cycle Built on Ruins

In a normally structured World Cup cycle, the closing year before the tournament is the phase of refinement: consolidating ideas, polishing automatisms, and fine-tuning details. Brazil, however, lives in a parallel timeline. Four coaches have come and gone since Qatar, and Ancelotti, inheriting a fractured process, must run tests that should have been resolved eighteen months ago. Instability begets inconsistency, and the national team’s fluctuating performances reflect the chaos of its preparation.

The match against Japan last month testified to these oscillations, and the 1–1 draw with Tunisia in Lille only reinforced the point. Ancelotti reduced the number of changes between matches—from wholesale rotations to just three adjustments—but even then, the team’s structure lost coherence once second-half substitutions began to flow. Brazil’s disorganization after the break was not an isolated episode but a symptom of a group still searching for an internal compass.

Even the opening minutes were troubling. Tunisia’s intensity suffocated Brazil, whose midfield needed too long to synchronize, adjust spacing, and regain control of the tempo.

Fragile Edges: Defensive and Goalkeeping Concerns

The right flank became a focal point of fragility. Wesley, entrusted with a starting role, had a night to forget—culminating in the mistake that led to Tunisia’s opening goal. His halftime substitution was inevitable. During this window, Éder Militão unexpectedly emerged as a right-back alternative, offering defensive solidity but little in the way of offensive progression. Ancelotti has experimented widely—Paulo Henrique, Vanderson, Vitinho—yet clarity remains elusive. Meanwhile, Danilo quietly solidifies himself as a near-certain World Cup squad member, not through brilliance but through versatility, leadership, and reliability.

In goal, the picture is no clearer. Ederson, impeccable against Senegal in terms of saves, once again showed vulnerability with his feet—nearly gifting a goal. Bento, given the opportunity against Tunisia, appeared insecure. This is not a crisis yet, but the shadow of uncertainty lingers behind the undisputed Ederson-Alisson hierarchy.

A Left Flank Without an Owner

If the backup goalkeeper issue can be shelved, left-back cannot. Alex Sandro evaporated into anonymity against Senegal; Caio Henrique, making his first start, performed competently but without imposing himself. He closed spaces, supported combinations, avoided errors—but also failed to stake a definitive claim.

With barely seven months before the World Cup, Brazil lacks a true owner of the position. Ironically, Douglas Santos—used sparingly—has made the strongest impression so far. For a team historically synonymous with full-back excellence, this lingering vacuum is particularly symbolic.

The Overcrowded, Uncertain Attack

If the defense suffers from scarcity, the attack is drowning in abundance. Estêvão, incandescent over this window, seems impossible to remove from the starting eleven. Yet Raphinha, Brazil’s best performer in the last European season, is waiting to return from injury. When he does, who makes way? The only time both were fielded together was against Chile—on a night without Vinícius Júnior.

Tactically, Ancelotti appears increasingly wedded to a 4-2-4, a system that leverages verticality and the ceaseless interchanges of his front quartet while acknowledging the absence of a natural creative midfielder. Brazil thrives in transitions, in broken games, in open fields. But the World Cup will inevitably bring low blocks, tight spaces, and matches where a true centre-forward becomes indispensable.

And there lies another void.

The Missing No. 9

Before Qatar, Pedro seized his chance by scoring against Tunisia. This time, Vitor Roque flashed potential—most notably when he won the penalty Paquetá later squandered—but not enough to secure his ticket. Names circulate like roulette numbers: Pedro, Igor Jesus, Richarlison, Kaio Jorge. None has captured the role. None have convinced Ancelotti they can.

This uncertainty coexists with another ever-present question: Neymar. His future with the national team, his physical condition, his symbolic weight—these will dominate debates until the final squad list is announced.

The Match in Lille: A Microcosm of Brazil’s Crisis

The 1–1 draw against Tunisia distilled the wider issues. Brazil struggled to create danger and resorted to long-distance attempts. Tunisia countered with clarity, especially down Abdi’s left flank. A Wesley error opened the door for Mistouri’s goal. Estêvão equalized from the penalty spot just before halftime.

After the interval, Brazil regressed. Danilo and Vitor Roque entered, and the latter produced the team’s brightest moment by forcing the second penalty. But in a decision that sparked questions, Ancelotti instructed Lucas Paquetá to take the shot instead of Estêvão—who had already scored one. Paquetá missed.

Estêvão’s post-match comment revealed both obedience and frustration:

“It was an order from above. I really wanted to take it, but I supported my teammate. We have to train to improve. In a World Cup, you must take your chances.”

In that sentence lies the delicate balance between hierarchy and form, between experience and emergence—a balance Brazil has yet to reconcile.

Hope, But With Work Ahead

Brazil ends 2025 in better shape than it began. There is structure, there is promise, and there is finally a sense of direction. But Ancelotti’s task remains immense. The unresolved battles—for full-back slots, for the No. 9 role, for attacking combinations—will define the months ahead.

A team once accustomed to certainties now approaches the World Cup guided by questions. And yet, sometimes, questions sharpen identity more than answers.

Thank You

Faisal Caesar

A Tale of Two Strengths: Pakistan’s Ruthless Pace and India’s Fleeting Resistances

Pakistan’s victory—achieved with seven balls to spare after chasing 164 in just one hundred minutes—was not merely a triumph in arithmetic. It was an emphatic assertion of their dual superiority: the incisiveness of their pace attack and the depth of their batting. Sarfraz Nawaz, with match figures of 9 for 159, and Imran Khan, quicker and more hostile even when less prolific, combined to expose the vulnerability of India’s top order. Yet, India found moments of brilliance through Sunil Gavaskar’s twin centuries, only the second time in his eight-year international career that he achieved this rare feat, and through the defiant all-round efforts of Kapil Dev and Karsan Ghavri—performances that kept the contest from collapsing into a one-sided procession.

India’s Miscalculation: A Side Unbalanced and a Captain Uncertain

India’s woes did not stem from batting alone. Much of their eventual unraveling could be traced to Bishan Singh Bedi’s misreading of both pitch and personnel. For the first time in years, India entered a Test with only two spinners, not because the Karachi pitch demanded pace but because the management feared weakening their batting. Ironically, even this conservatism did not stabilize them. The surface—grassier and more uneven than typical for Karachi—offered variable bounce, granting Pakistan’s pacers a natural advantage India never matched.

Bedi’s captaincy oscillated between caution and overreach. He delayed using his spinners when his seamers tired, and later persisted with himself too long in pursuit of tail-end wickets. These tactical missteps allowed Pakistan to seize phases of control India might otherwise have contested.

The First Innings: Promise, Collapse, and Late Recovery

India’s first innings began with promise after winning their first toss of the series. Partnerships of 58 and 73 carried them to 179 for four, but the innings pivoted sharply after Gavaskar’s dismissal at 217. A familiar slide followed—two wickets for just 36 runs—until Kapil Dev and Ghavri stitched together an eighth-wicket stand of 84. Kapil’s 59 off only 48 balls, laced with aggression (two sixes, eight fours), lifted India to a total that looked competitive, if not commanding.

Pakistan replied in similarly cyclical fashion: a composed start, a mid-innings wobble at 187 for five, and finally a monumental rescue effort. For a brief period Bedi and Chandrasekhar rekindled the craft of their prime, threatening to tilt the match. But Pakistan’s depth—symbolized by Javed Miandad’s second century of the series—proved too substantial. Miandad and Mushtaq Mohammad added 154 for the sixth wicket, seizing an advantage that India’s bowling could not reclaim.

The Turning Point: Tailenders and Captaincy Under Strain

On the third morning, India briefly clawed back. Mushtaq departed for 78 before Pakistan overtook the total, and Miandad fell with the lead only 30. Yet India squandered the moment. Pakistan’s tail, encouraged by Mushtaq’s assertive leadership, counterattacked decisively. By the time the declaration came, the hosts had amassed a 137-run lead—a margin shaped as much by Indian fatigue as by their captain’s muddled use of resources.

The Second Innings: Gavaskar’s Defiance and India’s Daybreak Collapse

India’s second innings began with eight hours still left in the match, and the pressure told instantly. Imran Khan bowled with blistering speed, nearly removing Gavaskar in the opening over. Sarfraz struck soon after, removing Chauhan and almost claiming Mohinder Amarnath—saved only by a dropped catch from Zaheer Abbas. Amarnath survived long enough to forge a 117-run stand with Gavaskar, restoring hope.

But the final morning exposed India’s fragility once more. By half an hour before lunch they had slumped to 173 for six, ahead by only 36. Gavaskar, nearing another hundred at lunch, shifted into a higher gear afterward, farming the strike and targeting Iqbal Qasim and Sikander Bakht. With Ghavri he added 73 invaluable runs, creating a thin but crucial buffer.

Then came the decisive breakthrough: at 246, Sarfraz—round the wicket—found Gavaskar’s edge. Bari’s superb catch ended an epic innings and punctured India’s resistance. Kapil Dev’s counterattack gave India flickers of momentum, but Mushtaq delayed the new ball for five overs, nearly gifting India breathing space. Once the ball was finally taken, the innings unravelled abruptly.

 

The Final Assault: A Chase Against Time, Won Through Imagination

Pakistan began the final chase needing 164 with the clock and mandatory overs looming. Majid fell early, but the promoted Miandad joined Asif Iqbal, turning the pursuit into a display of audacity and tactical sharpness. With bold field placements, daring running, and total command of tempo, the pair hammered 97 runs in just nine overs, shredding India’s defensive lines.

Even after Asif’s dismissal, Pakistan did not retreat. And if any doubt lingered, Imran Khan extinguished it brutally in the sixteenth over—lofting Bedi for two sixes and a four. It was a fitting symbolic ending: Pakistan’s pace spearhead finishing what he and Sarfraz had begun.

A Match of Contrasts and Exposed Fault Lines

The Karachi Test became a narrative of contrasts.

Pakistan’s pace vs. India’s indecision.

Gavaskar’s mastery vs. the fragility around him.

Mushtaq’s tactical boldness vs. Bedi’s strategic hesitation.

India produced moments of valour—Gavaskar’s twin hundreds foremost among them—but the broader pattern revealed a side caught between caution and confusion. Pakistan, meanwhile, showcased a team whose multiple strengths converged at critical moments.

The victory, ultimately, was not won in a single session but in the accumulation of sharper choices, deeper batting, and the relentless hostility of Imran and Sarfraz—a combination India never quite solved.

Thank You

Faisal Caesar