Bazball and the Limits of Belief: When an Idea Runs Out of Faith

Bazball is not dead because England lost matches. England have always lost in Australia. Bazball is dying because England no longer seems to believe in it.

Belief was the fuel of this experiment: belief that intent could trump conditions, that audacity could outflank history, that mindset could compensate for the brutal physics of Test cricket in Australia and India. Once that belief wavered, everything that sustained the project—its loose preparation, its permissive culture, its disdain for traditional safeguards—collapsed under its own weight.

The moment of truth arrived not in a press conference, but under the Gabba floodlights, on that third evening when England surrendered six wickets in a session that was meant to be a batting paradise. This was not merely a collapse; it was a philosophical breakdown. The system had been stress-tested and failed. When Ben Stokes later admitted, with startling honesty, that his team had been found wanting, Bazball suffered its terminal diagnosis. A belief system cannot survive the loss of internal conviction.

Every ideology, sporting or otherwise, depends on coherence. England’s earlier success under Bazball was not built purely on aggression but on collective faith—an impenetrable shield of self-affirmation that rendered failure itself irrelevant. In the summer of 2023, even defeat strengthened the doctrine. Now, defeat corrodes it. Cogito, ergo sum becomes cogito, ergo dubito—and once doubt enters the dressing room, the entire construct begins to crumble.

The tragedy is that Bazball was designed to liberate England from precisely the kind of miracle-dependence that now looms over this Ashes campaign. To win from here, England must rely not on systems but on individuals: on Root’s craft, Stokes’s defiance, on extraordinary innings ripped from hostile conditions. That is a return to the very past Bazball promised to bury. The resistance at Brisbane—reminiscent of Thorpe and Hick in 1995, Collingwood and Pietersen in 2006—felt achingly familiar. England were back inside the old grammar of Ashes survival.

This regression exposes the deeper flaws that critics and former players have highlighted. Bazball thrives against moderate opposition but frays against elite bowling, particularly high-class spin or relentless pace. It discourages technical restraint, coaxing naturally sound batters like Ollie Pope and Harry Brook into dismissals that serve ideology rather than circumstance. It leans too heavily on Stokes—physically, emotionally, symbolically—until the captain himself begins to fracture under the strain. And once opponents adapt, bowling straighter, tighter, and waiting patiently, England’s aggression becomes predictably self-destructive.

The loss to India at The Oval last summer may, in hindsight, prove the real point of no return. Romanticised as a celebration of Test cricket’s drama, it masked a fatal truth: Bazball demanded risk without providing contingency. When the margins tightened, the method offered no second gear, only louder insistence on the first.

Stokes’s evolving rhetoric tells the story. The early Bazball years were communal, almost spiritual—about enabling careers, sharing energy, dissolving hierarchy. His recent growl about weakness and survival signals crisis management, not cultural revolution. The kid gloves are off because the illusion can no longer hold.

Bazball was never foolish; nor was it sustainable in its purest form. It worked while the vibe endured. It collapses now because Test cricket, especially in Australia, eventually strips belief naked and demands substance underneath. England need miracles to recover this Ashes. But miracles require faith—and faith, at last, appears to be what Bazball has run out of.

Thank You 

Faisal Caesar 

The Early Unease of the Alonso Era

When Xabi Alonso took over at Real Madrid, expectation rushed in ahead of him. His reputation—sculpted in Leverkusen, refined in midfield intelligence, and romanticised by memory—promised a Madrid that would play with clarity and control, a team restored to aesthetic authority. What has followed so far, however, feels less like a new beginning and more like a prolonged state of uncertainty.

On paper, Madrid’s recent results suggested competence, even progress. But football is rarely honest on paper. Beneath the scorelines, tension had been accumulating—visible in disjointed movements, hesitant positioning, and a side still searching for structural balance. The emphatic 3–0 win away at Athletic Bilbao was widely interpreted as a release of pressure, perhaps even a turning point. Hosting Celta Vigo, then, should have been an invitation to confirm that belief. Instead, it exposed how fragile the foundations remain.

The defence, once again, had a makeshift feel—an all-too-familiar symptom of recent seasons that Alonso has yet to cure. Injuries and improvisation continue to dictate structure rather than design. Going forward, Madrid appeared threatening in flashes, with Federico Valverde captaining the side and carrying urgency, but coherence was lacking.

Opportunities arrived early. Arda Güler and Jude Bellingham both found space but not precision. The afternoon darkened further when Éder Militão was forced off injured—another costly rupture in an already unsettled back line. Vinícius Júnior tested the goalkeeper, Güler squandered again, and Madrid went into the break dominant in territory yet empty in conviction.

If the first half was a warning, the second was a collapse. Celta struck ten minutes after the restart with disarming simplicity—a deft backheel that punctured Madrid’s defensive concentration and silence fell over the Bernabéu. Moments later, Fran García’s second yellow card reduced Madrid to ten men, and with it vanished any illusion of control.

Down to numbers and directionless in idea, Madrid were subdued. A half-chance for Kylian Mbappé briefly hinted at resistance, but it was isolated, almost incidental. Gonzalo García’s late header drifting wide felt symbolic—close, hopeful, but ultimately irrelevant. Then chaos completed its work: Álvaro Carreras followed García down the tunnel, reducing Madrid to nine. Celta’s second goal, scored in the dying seconds, merely sealed a conclusion already written.

This was not just defeat. It was disarray.

For Xabi Alonso, the questions now grow louder. Not about philosophy—his is well established—but about translation. How long does a vision take to settle at a club that lives in the present? How much patience does Real Madrid truly possess? And most crucially: is this the lowest point of the season, or an honest reflection of where this team currently stands?

For now, the romance of expectation has given way to the discomfort of reality.

The Shakoor Rana-Mike Gatting Saga: A Study in Controversy and Conflict

Cricket, often romanticized as a gentleman’s game, has occasionally descended into episodes of acrimony and controversy, leaving indelible marks on its storied history. Few incidents encapsulate this better than the clash between Pakistani umpire Shakoor Rana and English captain Mike Gatting during the Faisalabad Test of 1987—a confrontation that transcended the boundary lines to become a diplomatic and cultural flashpoint.

Shakoor Rana: The Provocateur of Controversy

Shakoor Rana’s career as an umpire was as much defined by his flair for confrontation as it was by his decision-making. From the outset, he carried an air of defiance, often challenging players and teams with an uncompromising demeanor that drew both ire and fascination. His first major brush with controversy came in 1978, during India’s historic tour of Pakistan after a 17-year hiatus. When he reprimanded Mohinder Amarnath for running onto the danger area during his follow-through, an outraged Sunil Gavaskar accused Rana of turning a blind eye to similar infractions by Imran Khan and Sarfraz Nawaz. Although the incident was diplomatically resolved, it signaled the beginning of Rana’s tumultuous relationship with international cricket.

The umpire’s contentious calls continued to plague touring sides. New Zealand’s normally affable captain Jeremy Coney once threatened to pull his team off the field in 1984 after a questionable decision involving Javed Miandad. Ravi Shastri, recalling his own experiences in Pakistan, likened playing against Pakistan to facing a four-pronged pace attack—Imran, Sarfraz, Khizer Hayat, and Shakoor Rana. Rana, it seemed, was as much a player in the drama as those wielding the bat and ball.

Mike Gatting: The Combustible Counterpart

Mike Gatting, England’s burly and combative captain, was no stranger to controversy himself. Known for his fiery temper and uncompromising attitude, Gatting’s tenure as captain was punctuated by brushes with authority and moral scandals. It was almost inevitable that these two fractious figures—Rana and Gatting—would collide in a manner that shook the cricketing world.

The stage was set in Faisalabad during the second Test of England’s 1987 tour of Pakistan. With three balls left on the second day, Gatting moved David Capel from deep square-leg to prevent a single, claiming he had informed the batsman, Saleem Malik. Rana, standing at square leg, intervened, accusing Gatting of cheating. What followed was an explosive confrontation: fingers wagged, obscenities flew, and the stump microphone ensured that the world listened in on their heated exchange.

The Fallout: Cricket Meets Diplomacy

Rana refused to continue the match until Gatting apologized—a demand the English captain staunchly resisted. The standoff escalated to the point of halting play for an entire day, necessitating the involvement of the British Foreign Office and the Pakistani Cricket Board. Under pressure from the English selectors, who were already dissatisfied with his leadership, Gatting begrudgingly penned a brief apology. Rana, never one to shy away from theatrics, reportedly kept the note under his pillow as a trophy of his victory in the altercation.

The incident left a lasting legacy. Rana stood in just three more Tests, yet he remained unapologetic, basking in his newfound fame and charging significant sums for recounting the episode in interviews. Meanwhile, Gatting’s career as captain unravelled further. Just months later, he was removed from his post following a scandal involving a barmaid—a sacking that many believe the English selectors had been planning since the Faisalabad fiasco.

Legacy and Reflection

The Rana-Gatting affair has been dissected endlessly, evolving into a cricketing parable of clashing egos and cultural misunderstandings. Gatting himself later admitted it was not his finest moment, though some critics argue he should have apologized not for his behaviour but for apologizing to Rana. The incident also cast a spotlight on the growing tensions between touring teams and local umpires in an era before the advent of neutral officiating—a reform partly inspired by episodes like this.

While Gatting and Rana have since become footnotes in the broader narrative of cricket, their infamous confrontation serves as a reminder of the game’s human vulnerabilities. It underscores the complexity of personalities and politics that often bubble beneath cricket’s veneer of decorum, revealing that even a game built on gentlemanly ideals can sometimes resemble a battlefield.

Thank You 

Faisal Caesar 

Thrown Under the Bus: Mohamed Salah, Liverpool, and the Anatomy of a Falling-Out

There are moments in football when tactics, formations, and results retreat into the background, and something rawer takes centre stage: emotion, ego, legacy. Mohamed Salah’s explosive post-match interview after Liverpool’s chaotic 3–3 draw at Elland Road was one such moment. It was not merely the complaint of a benched footballer; it was the anguished monologue of a club icon who feels discarded, misread, and—most painfully—unprotected.

When Salah said Liverpool had “thrown me under the bus”, he was not only accusing the club of tactical betrayal. He was articulating a rupture in trust, a fracture in the unwritten covenant between great players and great institutions: loyalty in exchange for legacy, protection in exchange for excellence.

The Making of a Scapegoat

Salah’s grievance is not rooted solely in the benching itself—though three consecutive absences from the starting XI would shock any player of his stature. What stings far more is the symbolism. For the first time in his Liverpool career, Salah senses that responsibility for collective failure has been quietly placed at his feet.

His words were carefully chosen, but the accusation was devastating: someone wanted him to take the blame. He did not name the manager, the board, or the wider club apparatus. He did not need to. In modern football, ambiguity often speaks louder than accusation.

Liverpool’s stuttering title defence has generated a familiar need for narrative clarity. When systems wobble and authority is questioned, the search for a culprit becomes irresistible. Salah, aging yet iconic, immensely powerful yet visibly human, fits the role perfectly.

And so, the club’s greatest modern-era player finds himself defending his existence.

Legacy Versus the Present Tense

Salah’s case rests on memory—recent memory, at that. Last season, he was not a fading star clinging to reputation; he was the Premier League’s leading scorer, the PFA and FWA Footballer of the Year, and the engine behind Liverpool’s title triumph. Five months ago, he stood atop English football. Today, he sits on the bench, bewildered.

This dissonance—between who he was and how he is now treated—fuels the emotional violence of his interview. Football, for all its ruthless logic, still operates on hierarchy. Salah believes he earned his place not daily, but historically. He earned the right to decline from the pitch, not be erased from it.

“I don’t have to go every day fighting for my position,” he said. “I earned it.”

In footballing terms, that statement is almost heretical. In human terms, it is deeply relatable.

The Manager’s Dilemma

Arne Slot did not arrive at Liverpool seeking revolution. Yet revolution has a way of arriving unannounced. Charged with defending a league title amid tactical uncertainty and heavy summer spending, Slot faces a classic managerial paradox: rebuild without appearing to disrespect the foundations.

Dropping Salah may be defensible on form alone. His numbers this season—five goals in 16 starts—do not match the heights of last year. His legs appear less explosive. His influence less constant. Time waits for no winger, not even one crowned “Egyptian King.”

From Slot’s perspective, removing Salah is both practical and preparatory. The Africa Cup of Nations looms; contingency plans are essential. At some point, Liverpool must learn to exist without their talisman.

But football management is not conducted in spreadsheets alone. Context matters. Messaging matters. So does empathy.

What Salah seems to resent most is not the decision, but the silence surrounding it—the sense that he has been exposed rather than shielded, criticized rather than contextualized.

Public Dissent as a Final Weapon

Salah is famously selective with the media. His interviews are rare by design, deployed only when the message demands amplification. Like his chilling warning—“If I speak, there will be fire”—during a tense Klopp-era moment, the Elland Road interview was a calculated ignition.

This was not a tantrum. It was a strategic escalation.

By speaking publicly, Salah forced a private conflict into the open, compelling the club to respond. For an institution that prides itself on discretion and unity, this was heresy. But heresy is often the language of those who feel unheard.

His references to pundit criticism—particularly Jamie Carragher—underscore a broader grievance: Salah believes that unlike other stars, he is not defended reflexively by the ecosystem around the club. The Harry Kane comparison, while imperfect, reveals Salah’s perception of double standards shaped by nationality, narrative, and familiarity.

The Weight of a Giant Past

Few players have shaped a modern elite club as profoundly as Salah has shaped Liverpool. His honours—two Premier League titles, a Champions League, domestic cups, and 250 goals—place him among Anfield’s immortals. Only Ian Rush and Roger Hunt stand above him in the pantheon of scorers.

That weight cuts both ways. It magnifies expectation. It magnifies decline.

This season, Salah looks mortal in a way he never has before. The urgency remains. The precision flickers. The inevitability—the sense that something will happen simply because he is there—has faded.

Slot’s Liverpool may need evolution. Salah’s Liverpool is built on permanence.

These two truths now collide.

A Goodbye Waiting to Happen

Salah’s references to the Brighton game felt ominous. He spoke like a man preparing for farewell rituals—telling his mother to come, speaking of enjoying the moment, invoking the word “goodbye” without demanding it be believed.

He insists he does not regret signing his extension, yet the question itself wounds him. It exposes a truth footballers dread: contracts can bind bodies, but not futures.

Saudi Arabia waits patiently, its interest both denied and undeniable. The Africa Cup of Nations offers physical distance—and perhaps emotional clarity.

If Salah leaves Liverpool, it will not be because he was finished, but because the ending was mishandled.

Authority, Mortality, and the Inferno

Salah’s interview has intensified pressure on Arne Slot, but it has not tilted the balance of power. Clubs rarely sacrifice managers for aging legends, however luminous their past. Authority, once challenged publicly, tends to reassert itself decisively.

This is the cruel geometry of football: yesterday’s king becomes today’s problem, tomorrow’s memory.

And yet, something feels deeply unsettling about this fracture. Not because Salah is blameless—he is not—but because football, at its best, knows how to honour its greats even while moving past them.

Salah spoke. And in doing so, he lit a fire that reveals more than conflict. It reveals fear—of decline, of irrelevance, of endings that do not match the beauty of the journey.

For Mohamed Salah and Liverpool, the tragedy may not be separation. It may be that, after everything they achieved together, they no longer recognise each other at the most human moment of all: when greatness begins, quietly, to fade.

Gabba Under Lights: When Technique, Temperament, and Time Itself Decided the Ashes

There are Test matches that unfold like narratives with clear heroes and villains, and then there are Tests that act as verdicts. Brisbane, under pink-ball lights and suffocating humidity, delivered the latter. The second Ashes Test was not merely won by Australia; it was explained by them—an exposition of why mastery of conditions, moments, and mindset still outweighs bravado, rhetoric, and aesthetic intent.

Joe Root’s long-awaited hundred on Australian soil deserved to be the centrepiece of Day One. In isolation, it was a classical innings: patient without being passive, controlled without being timid. When Root raised his arms under the Gabba lights, helmet off, arms aloft, it felt like an overdue reconciliation between a great batter and an unforgiving land. His 138 was not just a century; it was a repudiation of the accusation that he shrank in Australia. Yet even at its most luminous, Root’s innings had the melancholy quality of a soloist playing against an orchestra already tuning up at the other end.

Because this Test, ultimately, was about everything England did around Root.

England batted for the whole of the first day, scoring over 300 in Australia for the first time since 2018, and yet never quite dominated the game. The scorecard told a story of contradiction: four ducks alongside Root’s century, collapses punctuated by resistance, courage undermined by carelessness. That paradox has come to define this England side. They aspire to liberation through aggression, but too often find themselves trapped by impulsiveness masquerading as intent.

Zak Crawley’s fluent but fragile 76 was emblematic—elegance flirting constantly with self-destruction. Harry Brook’s chaotic cameo was Bazball distilled into its most dangerous form: thrilling, reckless, and ultimately disposable. Ben Stokes’ dismissal, caught mid-decision between impulse and prudence, felt less like bad luck and more like destiny intervening.

And then there was Mitchell Starc.

If Root represented continuity and classical virtue, Starc was inevitability in motion. His six-wicket haul on Day One was not merely devastating; it was historical, surpassing Wasim Akram's record while reminding England that pink-ball cricket in Australia is still dominated by those who understand its rhythms best. Even when Australia’s attack tired late, England never truly escaped the sense that wickets remained just a lapse away.

Yet the match pivoted decisively not when England collapsed, but when Australia responded.

Australia’s batting across the innings never produced a century, but it produced something far more valuable: collective authority. Jake Weatherald’s fearless debut half-century, Steven Smith’s unhurried certainty, Marnus Labuschagne’s mechanical accumulation—each contribution seemed designed not to dominate headlines but to suffocate opposition belief. For the first time in a decade, Australia built four consecutive fifty-plus stands in a Test innings. That statistic alone tells you where the difference lies.

England’s bowling, by contrast, was an exercise in squandered promise. Brief flashes of hostility—Carse’s double strike, Archer’s pace—were drowned out by indiscipline, poor execution, and catastrophic fielding. Five dropped catches did not merely cost runs; they eroded morale. Test cricket is ruthless in this respect: it does not punish intention, only outcome.

By the time Starc top-scored with a defiant 77, batting like a man personally offended by England’s lack of relentlessness, the contest had tilted beyond recovery. His performance embodied Australia’s supremacy in Brisbane—not just skill, but durability, patience, and clarity of purpose.

England’s second innings resistance, led by the stubborn defiance of Stokes and Will Jacks, was admirable but tragic in timing. Their slow, attritional stand was everything England needed earlier and everything they could no longer afford. Neser’s maiden five-for, delivered with the calm authority of someone who understood exactly what was required, ended even that faint hope.

Australia’s victory was complete, but it was not flashy. No miracle spells, no freakish individual centuries—just an accumulation of correct decisions, superior execution, and mental clarity under pressure. Steven Smith’s captaincy, Alex Carey’s immaculate glovework, and Neser’s vindication over Lyon—all were pieces of a system functioning at full coherence.

And therein lies the uncomfortable truth for England.

This was not a defeat inflicted by superior talent alone, but by superior understanding of conditions, of moments, of when to attack and when to endure. Bazball’s philosophical defiance may still have its place, but Brisbane exposed its current flaw: intent without control is not bravery; it is exposure.

As the teams leave the Gabba, Australia are not merely 2–0 up—they are psychologically entrenched. England, once again, must confront the hardest question of Ashes cricket: not whether they can fight, but whether they can last. The urn is not won by moments of brilliance alone. It is secured, relentlessly, by those who refuse to blink when time itself presses hardest.

At Brisbane, Australia, never blinked. 

Thank You

Faisal Caesar