PCB’s Silence on Imran Khan’s Birthday Is Shameful

Not even a simple birthday wish.

The Pakistan Cricket Board’s silence on Imran Khan’s birthday is difficult to understand and even harder to defend. Whatever anyone’s political views may be, Imran Khan’s place in Pakistan’s cricket history should be beyond political considerations.

He was the captain who led Pakistan to its first and only ODI World Cup triumph in 1992. He was one of the greatest all-rounders the game has produced, a leader who transformed Pakistan into a formidable cricketing force, and an icon whose influence extends far beyond statistics.

A cricket board should be capable of separating cricketing legacy from contemporary politics.

For a while, there was hope that PCB might change—that it might become more professional, more respectful of Pakistan’s cricketing history, and less influenced by forces outside the game.

But apparently, some habits are very difficult to change.

A coal never takes a hue.

Ignoring one of the greatest figures in the country’s sporting history does not diminish Imran Khan’s legacy. It only diminishes the institution that chooses to ignore it.

Administrations come and go. Chairmen come and go. Political circumstances change.

History remains.

And when the history of Pakistan cricket is written, Imran Khan will always occupy one of its greatest chapters—whether PCB acknowledges his birthday or not.

PCB had an opportunity to show that cricket can stand above politics.

Instead, once again, PCB made itself look like a joke—and sadly, it seems determined to stay that way.

Thank You 

Faisal Caesar 

Imran Khan: The Charisma of a Cricketing Prince

The boy had a dream: to become a fast bowler.

Yet after his first Test match, he was virtually written off—not merely as a fast bowler, but by some as a cricketer of genuine international quality. The disappointment affected him deeply. For a time, his motivation faded.

But the dream did not.

Instead of accepting the verdict, Imran Khan began rebuilding himself. He studied the great fast bowlers of Australia, the West Indies and England. He observed their actions, rhythm, physical preparation and methods. He worked relentlessly on his own body and technique, even remodelling his bowling action in pursuit of greater pace.

The transformation was extraordinary.

Within a decade of his international debut, the uncertain young bowler had become one of the most destructive fast bowlers in world cricket. And the transformation did not end there. He developed his batting until he became a genuine high-quality Test batsman.

The world had discovered a great all-rounder.

Then Pakistan cricket made the decision that would define not only Imran's career, but an entire era: it handed him the captaincy.

Perhaps it was one of the finest decisions Pakistan cricket ever made.

Over the following decade, the world witnessed the rise of a charismatic Pathan and the emergence of his team as genuine world-beaters.

More Than Statistics

Cricket has produced greater accumulators of runs, bowlers with larger collections of wickets and captains with longer lists of trophies. Yet greatness in sport is not always contained by arithmetic.

Occasionally, a cricketer possesses something statistics can record only imperfectly—a presence that alters the emotional temperature of the ground.

Imran Khan had that presence.

At his peak, he did not merely look like Pakistan's finest cricketer. He seemed to carry the idea of Pakistan cricket within himself: gifted but unpredictable, elegant yet aggressive, vulnerable to collapse yet capable of astonishing resurrection.

His charisma began with the most immediate thing in sport: the sight of him.

Tall, athletic and unmistakably graceful, Imran possessed the natural theatre of a fast bowler. The long approach to the wicket, the gathering acceleration, the leap before delivery and the explosive release formed a sequence that was almost cinematic.

But the beauty concealed violence.

During his extraordinary peak, particularly in the early 1980s, Imran combined genuine pace with devastating movement. He eventually finished with 362 Test wickets at 22.81, while scoring 3,807 Test runs at 37.69—numbers that place him comfortably among cricket's greatest all-rounders.

Yet numbers tell us what happened.

They do not quite tell us what it felt like when Imran happened.

There was an aristocratic quality to his cricket. He appeared conscious of the occasion without ever seeming overwhelmed by it. Great fast bowlers often possess menace; Imran combined menace with glamour.

His appeal crossed the boundary between sporting excellence and celebrity in a manner unusual for a Pakistani cricketer of his generation.

Crucially, however, the glamour never made him lightweight.

It was authenticated by performance.

The Captain Who Expected to Win

If fast bowling created Imran's aura, captaincy transformed that aura into authority.

Pakistan cricket had always possessed extraordinary individual talent. What it had not always possessed was the ability to convert that brilliance into sustained collective belief.

Imran increasingly supplied exactly that.

He did not merely want Pakistan to compete with the strongest teams. He expected Pakistan to believe that they belonged among them.

His teams confronted the mighty West Indies of the 1980s with unusual conviction. During an era in which the Caribbean side dominated world cricket, Pakistan repeatedly challenged them without surrendering psychologically before the contest had begun.

Then, in 1987, came a historic Test-series victory in India.

This is where Imran's charisma becomes more interesting than mere popularity.

He seemed capable of enlarging the confidence of the men around him.

He backed talent fiercely. He could be demanding, imperious and intensely certain of his own judgment. Yet those same qualities helped create the mythology of a captain who could recognise possibilities in players that others had not yet seen.

Wasim Akram became perhaps the most celebrated example. Imran recognised the young left-arm fast bowler's extraordinary potential and encouraged the development of a cricketer who would eventually become one of the greatest bowlers the game had seen.

Imran was therefore doing more than arranging eleven names on a team sheet.

At his best, he seemed to be constructing a Pakistan side in his own psychological image:

aggressive, proud, fearless and unwilling to concede superiority.

The Cornered Tiger

And then came 1992.

By every conventional law of sporting narrative, Pakistan should have disappeared quietly from that World Cup.

They won only one of their first five matches. Imran was 39 years old, struggling physically and approaching the end of his career. Pakistan's campaign seemed to be drifting towards an unremarkable conclusion.

Then the captain appeared wearing the famous tiger shirt.

His message was simple: Fight like cornered tigers.

It became one of cricket's immortal sporting images because the metaphor fitted both the team and its captain.

Pakistan recovered.

They began winning.

Belief returned. Momentum followed. A team that had appeared destined for elimination suddenly seemed convinced that destiny belonged to them.

And eventually they reached Melbourne.

In the World Cup final against England, with the largest stage of his career beneath his feet, Imran promoted himself up the batting order.

He scored 72, the highest individual score of Pakistan's innings.

Pakistan won by 22 runs.

They were world champions.

There was something almost Homeric about the ending.

The ageing warrior, his body no longer obeying him as it once had, summons himself for one final campaign. His army begins in disorder. Defeat approaches. Somehow they survive, regroup and gather momentum until they reach the final battlefield.

Then the captain leads from the front.

And afterwards, he leaves.

The Perfect Ending

Perhaps that ending explains why Imran Khan's cricketing charisma survived retirement so powerfully.

Had he continued playing for several more years and gradually faded, the mythology might have softened. Instead, his international career effectively concluded with the greatest image imaginable:

Imran Khan holding the World Cup.

Sport rarely provides endings so obedient to legend.

His appeal had always emerged from unusual combinations—beauty and brutality, glamour and discipline, individual magnificence and commanding leadership.

Javed Miandad was perhaps Pakistan's ultimate batting street-fighter, a genius of improvisation and competitive instinct. Wasim Akram would possess an even greater repertoire of left-arm bowling wizardry. Later generations would produce their own Pakistani heroes.

But Imran occupied a different imaginative space.

When he took the ball, there was expectation.

When he walked out to bat, there was presence.

When he became captain, there was authority.

And when Pakistan appeared beaten, there remained the suspicion that Imran himself simply did not accept the verdict.

That may be the essence of his cricketing charisma.

His greatest achievement was not merely that he convinced spectators that he was capable of extraordinary things.

He convinced his teammates that they were capable of extraordinary things.

And ultimately, he made an entire cricketing nation believe it too.

That is why the story of Imran Khan cannot be adequately told through runs, wickets or trophies alone.

It is the story of a young man who was written off, reconstructed himself into a great fast bowler, developed into one of cricket's finest all-rounders, transformed himself again into a commanding captain—and walked away from international cricket as a world champion.

The boy had dreamed of becoming a fast bowler.

He ended up becoming the symbol of an era.

Thank You 

Faisal Caesar 

A Comfortable Win, an Uncomfortable Question: What Did Brazil Really Learn?

Brazil won comfortably. The scoreboard suggested superiority, the possession statistics confirmed it, and India were never realistically capable of matching the Seleção player for player. Yet beneath the reassuring margin of victory lay a more uncomfortable question: what exactly did Brazil learn from this match?

With most European nations occupied elsewhere, Brazil understandably had fewer options for high-profile opposition. But South America, North America and Asia still offered stronger opponents capable of testing Carlo Ancelotti’s developing side. At this stage of Brazil’s reconstruction, matches should not merely provide victories; they should expose weaknesses, demand tactical solutions and force players to operate under genuine pressure.

India simply could not provide that examination.

And perhaps the most concerning aspect was that, despite the enormous difference in individual quality, Brazil did not always make that superiority visible in their football.

Possession Without Penetration

Brazil controlled the first half but rarely overwhelmed India.

Ancelotti selected three midfielders, theoretically giving the Seleção enough technical quality to dominate the central areas and construct attacks patiently. Instead, Brazil repeatedly bypassed the midfield, searching for Vinícius Júnior and Estêvão with longer passes.

It was an oddly impatient approach against an opponent Brazil should have been able to manipulate through sustained possession.

The attack became particularly dependent on Vinícius. Brazil repeatedly looked towards the left, expecting their most established attacking star to create separation and destabilise the Indian defensive structure. But the more predictable Brazil became, the easier it was for India to remain compact.

Brazil had the ball. They had territory. What they lacked was rhythm.

Against elite opposition, such predictability can become costly. Against India, the difference in quality eventually concealed the problem.

Estêvão Provides the Spark

The breakthrough arrived not through a beautifully constructed collective move, but through Estêvão’s willingness to take responsibility.

Towards the end of the first half, Brazil finally began connecting their attacking players with greater fluency. Estêvão found space outside the penalty area and tried his luck from distance. His effort was helped considerably by a goalkeeper error, but the goal nevertheless rewarded one of Brazil’s few players consistently attempting to disturb the defensive block.

Soon afterwards, Estêvão demonstrated another dimension of his game.

Rather than shooting, he produced an intelligent pass for Pedro, who converted to give Brazil a two-goal cushion.

Those moments illustrated what had largely been missing from Brazil’s football: speed of thought rather than simply speed of movement.

The Seleção did not need more possession. They needed better decisions within possession.

A Better Brazil After the Break

Ancelotti made several changes at halftime, and Brazil emerged with noticeably greater purpose.

The ball began moving more naturally through midfield rather than being launched prematurely towards the forwards. Players positioned themselves closer together, combinations became easier, and India were increasingly forced backwards.

The third goal captured this improvement.

Brazil pressed aggressively in the attacking half, Douglas Luiz recovered possession and immediately found Pedro. Instead of slowing the attack, the striker quickly released Samuel Lino, who entered the penalty area and finished the move.

It was arguably Brazil’s most encouraging sequence of the match because it contained several elements Ancelotti will want to reproduce against stronger opposition: coordinated pressing, rapid recovery, vertical passing and decisive movement.

Further substitutions increased Brazil’s control.

The introductions of Breno Bidon, Gabriel Martinelli and Bruno Guimarães gave the Seleção greater circulation around the Indian defensive block. Brazil exchanged passes with more patience and began occupying spaces near the penalty area rather than relying primarily on direct balls from deeper positions.

Eventually, Lino appeared again from the left, escaped the defence and struck powerfully to complete the rout.

The Scoreline Cannot Be the Standard

There was nothing wrong with Brazil winning comfortably. The problem is believing that comfort itself represents progress.

International football offers limited preparation time, particularly when a team is being reshaped under a new coach. Every friendly therefore has value beyond its result. Brazil need opponents capable of pressing their midfield, punishing careless possession, challenging their defensive transitions and forcing Ancelotti to discover which tactical solutions survive when individual superiority disappears.

This match offered very little of that.

There were positives. Estêvão again displayed personality and creativity. Pedro connected intelligently with those around him. Lino made his opportunities count. The second-half midfield functioned considerably better, while Brazil’s pressing produced one particularly impressive goal.

But these moments must be placed in context.

Brazil defeated India convincingly because they possessed vastly superior footballers. Whether they played substantially better football is a more complicated question.

For a national team attempting to return to the summit of world football, the objective cannot simply be to collect comfortable victories. Brazil need matches that reveal their limitations before the matches that punish them arrive.

The Seleção do not need opponents who remind them how talented they are.

They need opponents who force them to become better.

Thank You 

Faisal Caesar 

The World Cup Draw and the Changing Meaning of ODI Cricket

The Cricket World Cup group-stage draw presents a striking contrast for Bangladesh and India.

Bangladesh find themselves in what could easily be described as the “Group of Death”, facing a considerably more demanding route to the next stage. India, meanwhile, appear to have received a much more manageable draw on paper, with Australia standing out as their most formidable hurdle.

But World Cups are rarely decided on paper.

For Bangladesh, the challenge is substantial, but certainly not insurmountable. Tournament cricket often rewards teams that understand exactly how they want to play. If Bangladesh arrive with clear intent, tactical discipline, defined player roles and the courage to be proactive rather than merely survive, progressing from a difficult group is entirely within reach.

And perhaps that uncertainty is exactly what ODI cricket needs.

The Evolution of ODI Cricket

The World Cup also arrives at an interesting moment for the 50-over game.

There was a time when a bilateral ODI series between major nations could command enormous attention. Forty years ago, international cricket itself was the main attraction. Today, the landscape is radically different.

Bilateral ODIs have lost some of their old significance. Outside a few major rivalries and decisive series, routine 50-over contests rarely capture the cricket world in the way they once did.

The biggest reason is obvious: the rise of T20 cricket.

Franchise leagues, international T20s and an increasingly crowded calendar have transformed how cricket is consumed. T20 offers immediate drama, shorter viewing time and a constant supply of high-profile matches. Inevitably, that has reduced the everyday appeal of spending seven or eight hours watching a bilateral ODI.

The balance of power has changed as well.

Cricket in the 1980s and 1990s featured several powerful teams and distinctive cricketing identities. The modern international landscape feels different, with fewer sides maintaining elite standards consistently across formats. That places additional pressure on ODI cricket to justify its place in an already congested calendar.

Test cricket, despite its own challenges, still possesses something ODI bilateral cricket increasingly struggles to replicate: a clearly defined sense of tradition and prestige.

But the World Cup Is Different

And this is where the contradiction becomes fascinating.

You can lose interest in bilateral ODI cricket and still be completely captivated by the Cricket World Cup.

Because a World Cup transforms the format.

Suddenly, every over carries consequences. Net run rate matters. One batting collapse can change a campaign. One upset can reshape an entire group. A match that might have attracted limited attention as part of an ordinary bilateral series becomes essential viewing when qualification is at stake.

That is why the ODI World Cup remains special.

The format may no longer dominate the cricket calendar throughout the year, but its biggest tournament still carries a history and significance that franchise cricket cannot simply manufacture overnight. Generations of supporters remember World Cups through defining images, heartbreaking defeats, extraordinary individual performances and national celebrations.

For Bangladesh, this difficult group therefore represents more than an obstacle. It is an opportunity.

Escaping a comfortable group would be expected. Emerging from a Group of Death would mean something.

And for ODI cricket itself, perhaps that is the lesson.

The format does not necessarily need to dominate twelve months of the calendar to remain relevant. It needs occasions that give its length, tactical complexity and shifting momentum genuine meaning.

Bilateral ODI cricket may have lost some of its old magic. The World Cup has not.

When the tournament begins, millions who barely follow the format during the rest of the year will return.

Because whatever has changed around cricket, the World Cup is still the World Cup.

Thank You 

Faisal Caesar 

Cristiano Ronaldo and the Farewell Portugal Never Planned

Imagine the Portuguese Football Federation arranging a farewell match for Cristiano Ronaldo—the greatest goalscorer in the country's history, the man who carried Portugal's colours around the world for more than two decades—and then leaving him on the bench.

It would feel almost cruel.

Yet Ronaldo's international career now threatens to end in an even stranger fashion: not beneath the lights of a packed Portuguese stadium, not with a guard of honour, but amid disagreement with his coach, an abrupt departure from camp and a private jet leaving Copenhagen.

For a relationship spanning 23 years, this feels painfully small.

But beneath the emotion lies a more complicated question: Portugal may have every footballing reason to move beyond Cristiano Ronaldo. Did it really have to end like this?

The Coach Has Every Right to Bench Ronaldo

On the fundamental issue, Jorge Jesus is entitled to make the decision.

Cristiano Ronaldo's past cannot guarantee his future. At 41, he cannot expect to start simply because of what he achieved at 21, 31 or even 39. If Portugal has younger players better suited to the coach's system, they must eventually be given the opportunity.

Jesus made his philosophy clear:

“I don't have just one player, I have 23.”

And more pointedly:

“In a team, I'm in charge.”

There is nothing inherently wrong with that principle.

Ronaldo deserves respect for his career, not immunity from selection decisions.

The problem is that managing Cristiano Ronaldo was never going to be merely a selection decision.

Ronaldo Is Never Just Another Player

That became obvious during the Norway episode.

According to Jesus, Ronaldo had already been told that he would not start against Norway or Denmark as part of a physical-management plan. He nevertheless warmed up for a considerable period against Norway before remaining unused.

Ronaldo was visibly frustrated.

Rúben Dias subsequently tried to calm the situation, describing it as a brief emotional reaction that should not erase more than two decades of commitment to Portugal.

It could have ended there.

Instead, Ronaldo dominated the next press conference.

Jesus insisted there was no crisis while repeatedly discussing Ronaldo's training, physical condition, playing time, status and his own authority as coach.

That contradiction exposes Portugal's deeper problem.

When Ronaldo plays, everyone talks about Ronaldo. When Ronaldo doesn't play, everyone still talks about Ronaldo.

His presence has become an ecosystem of its own.

Every substitution becomes a debate. Every warm-up becomes news. Every facial expression becomes evidence. Every decision forces the coach to explain Ronaldo before he can explain Portugal.

That is unhealthy for a team trying to build its next generation.

Why Portugal Eventually Has to Move On

This is perhaps the strongest footballing argument for ending Ronaldo's international career—not simply that he is 41, but that Portugal needs room to discover what exists after him.

Young forwards need minutes. More importantly, they need the psychological space to succeed or fail without constantly being compared with the greatest player their country has produced.

The coach needs that freedom too.

Ronaldo the footballer is no longer Portugal's entire problem.

Ronaldo the institution is.

His extraordinary longevity delayed a transition every national team eventually has to make. Portugal should not remain tactically or culturally frozen because its greatest player still believes he can contribute.

But such a transition needed careful management.

Instead, it appears to have arrived as a confrontation.

Ronaldo Has Responsibility Too

Respecting Ronaldo's legacy does not mean excusing every reaction.

Leaving a national-team camp because of a disagreement with the coach is an enormous step.

Ronaldo has spent his career making professionalism, discipline and relentless competitiveness central to his identity. If the reported sequence is accurate, walking away inevitably raises uncomfortable questions about whether he could accept a Portugal in which Cristiano Ronaldo was no longer indispensable.

There are competing accounts of what happened privately.

Journalist Edu Aguirre has claimed Jesus had apologised to Ronaldo for making him warm up without eventually using him and had indicated he would publicly acknowledge mishandling the situation. According to that account, Ronaldo felt betrayed when Jesus instead emphasised publicly that he was “one more player” and that the coach remained in charge.

If accurate, that would make this partly a dispute about trust rather than simply playing time.

But it remains an attributed account.

Ronaldo himself has promised that, “in due course,” he will explain his reasons.

Until then, the private truth remains incomplete.

The Tragedy of Great Athletes

Perhaps there is something deeper happening here.

Ronaldo did not become Ronaldo by gracefully accepting decline.

Tell him he cannot score 40 goals and he wants 50. Tell him his body is ageing and he trains harder. Tell him another generation is arriving and his instinct is to prove that his generation has not finished.

For two decades, that mentality created greatness.

Eventually, however, the same mentality makes departure extraordinarily difficult.

That is one of sport's cruellest paradoxes: the mentality required to become immortal rarely teaches an athlete how to become ordinary again.

Portugal Should Have Planned the Goodbye

And this is where the Portuguese federation cannot escape responsibility.

Ronaldo did not deserve guaranteed minutes. But a 23-year international career deserved a carefully managed conclusion.

Portugal needed a transition plan: reduced minutes, absolute clarity about his role, opportunities for younger players and, eventually, a proper farewell.

Imagine Ronaldo's final appearance in Lisbon: a packed stadium, former teammates present, the trophies remembered, his family watching, one final standing ovation and then the captain's armband handed symbolically to another generation.

That would not have placed Ronaldo above Portugal.

It would have acknowledged what he had done for Portugal while allowing Portugal to move forward.

Instead, everyone appears to have reached the inevitable moment without agreeing how it should happen.

Ronaldo can simultaneously be Portugal's greatest footballer and a player whose role needed to diminish.

Jesus can possess every right to bench him and still have managed the communication poorly.

Portugal can owe Ronaldo enormous gratitude and owe its younger generation the freedom to move beyond him.

Those truths can coexist.

And perhaps that is why this ending feels so sad.

Twenty-three years cannot be erased by one argument. Euro 2016 cannot disappear because of one private jet. The goals, records, trophies and memories will survive whatever happened in Copenhagen.

But endings matter.

Everyone knew this day was coming.

Portugal knew. Ronaldo knew. The federation knew.

And somehow, when it finally arrived, nobody seemed prepared.

The story deserved a lap of honour. Instead, it may have ended on a runway.

Thank You 

Faisal Caesar