Taijul Islam: Built for the Long Game

The long journey, quiet perseverance and technical mastery of the bowler who became the backbone of Bangladesh’s Test attack. There is a revealing story about Taijul Islam that has almost nothing to do with wickets.

In 2018, during a Bangladesh training session at Mirpur, Taijul approached a Prothom Alo journalist with a request. At the time he was already an established international cricketer, already the owner of an eight-wicket haul in a Test innings, already a serial match-winner at home. One might have expected him to want a profile written about himself.

He did not.

He wanted the journalist to write about cricket in Natore.

Taijul remembered travelling from Natore to Rajshahi simply to practise because the facilities available to young cricketers in his hometown were inadequate. He spoke about the absence of proper indoor facilities, practice wickets and coaching. Even when the conversation eventually turned towards his own achievements, his attitude was characteristically simple: he enjoyed an uncomplicated life and was satisfied if he could play well.

It is difficult to find a better introduction to Taijul Islam. His cricket has always resembled the man. Nothing extravagant. Nothing designed principally to attract attention. No obsession with appearing more interesting than he is.

Just repetition.

Persistence.

Adjustment.

And wickets.

More than twelve years after his Test debut, that apparently simple formula has produced something extraordinary. As of the end of Bangladesh's August 2026 Test series in Australia, Taijul has 272 Test wickets from 62 matches at 30.33, with 19 five-wicket innings and two ten-wicket matches. His economy rate across more than 16,000 Test deliveries is only 3.06 runs per over. He is now Bangladesh's leading Test wicket-taker. These are no longer the statistics of somebody operating in another player's shadow. They describe one of the central figures in the history of Bangladesh Test cricket.

From Natore, the Hard Way

Taijul's journey did not begin inside an elite cricket academy.

He was born in Natore in 1992 and grew up in circumstances in which cricket could hardly be treated as a guaranteed profession. His family's financial situation became difficult enough for his formal education to stop while he was still at school, and for a period he had to help his father with work. What mattered enormously was that his parents continued encouraging his cricket. Opportunities were limited. Facilities were limited. Money was limited.

So Taijul travelled.

He went from Natore to Rajshahi to practise. A local cricket enthusiast, Abdullah Al Ashrafi, helped him find opportunities and arranged a year of training at BKSP in Dinajpur. Gradually he moved through regional cricket and towards Dhaka.

There was nothing inevitable about what followed.

His first-class debut for Rajshahi Division came in April 2011. He played only three matches late in that season but took 14 wickets. Former Bangladesh captain Khaled Mashud recognised something worth investing in and helped ensure that Taijul remained within Rajshahi's structure.

Then came the season that changed his life.

During the 2013-14 Bangladesh Cricket League, representing North Zone, Taijul took 37 wickets in only four matches. There were match hauls of 12 wickets, 11 wickets and 10 wickets. In the final, his first-innings figures were 8 for 86. Across the first-class season he collected 55 wickets, forcing himself into Bangladesh A consideration and then, eventually, the national side.

This is important when considering the character of Taijul's career. He was not created by one spectacular international performance. He bowled his way into Test cricket through volume.

Overs accumulated.

Good balls accumulated.

Wickets accumulated.

That pattern would eventually define his international career as well.

A Debut That Announced Something Bigger

When Bangladesh toured the West Indies in 2014, Taijul was initially a late addition to the Test squad. He debuted at Kingstown in September.

West Indies made 484 for 7 declared.

Taijul took 5 for 135.

It was hardly the easiest possible introduction to Test bowling: a young spinner working through a huge innings against international batters, required to keep returning to the crease. Yet he became only the sixth Bangladeshi bowler to take five wickets on Test debut.

Then, barely seven weeks later, came the spell that established him.

Against Zimbabwe in Mirpur, Bangladesh were defending a small target in a tense Test. Taijul took 8 for 39 from 16.5 overs, at the time the best innings figures ever recorded by a Bangladeshi in Tests. Zimbabwe collapsed for 114. Bangladesh eventually won by three wickets, with Taijul himself at the crease when the winning runs were scored.

A five-for on debut.

Then 8 for 39.

Many careers begin with promise. Far fewer survive what comes after the promise. That is where Taijul's more interesting story begins.

The Years Beside Shakib Al Hasan

There was an obvious complication in being a Bangladeshi left-arm orthodox spinner during Taijul's generation. Shakib Al Hasan already existed. Shakib was not merely another spinner competing for overs. He was Bangladesh's greatest all-round cricketer, a global star and for years the centre of the team's balance. Inevitably, Taijul's performances were interpreted in relation to him. When both played, Taijul could appear to be the supporting spinner. When Shakib was unavailable, Taijul was asked how Bangladesh would replace him. Even when Taijul accumulated wickets, the comparison remained.

The numbers show how misleading that eventually became. Cricbuzz calculated in November 2025 that, after Taijul grew into the lead-spin role from around Bangladesh's 2017 South Africa tour onward, he had taken 192 wickets in 42 Tests at 30.31. In the 31 Tests Shakib had missed during the relevant period, Taijul had taken 152 wickets at 29.34.

That is not the output of a replacement.

That is a bowling attack being built around someone.

And perhaps the most fitting development came when Taijul himself became increasingly resistant to the language used about him. By 2025 he was tired of continually being labelled "underrated". His argument was essentially simpler: judge the performances. He had reached a point where, in his formulation, Taijul had his own place.

He was right.

What Taijul Actually Does with a Cricket Ball

Calling Taijul a "slow left-arm orthodox spinner" explains his bowling category.

It does not explain his bowling.

The temptation with spinners is to search for one spectacular delivery: the mystery ball, the enormous turner, the unplayable variation. Taijul's method is more sophisticated precisely because it appears less dramatic. His principal weapon is uncertainty produced from repeatability.

The Bowling Expertise

Taijul has a compact, relatively clean action with a high left-arm release. His body does not need elaborate moving parts to create the delivery. That matters enormously for a bowler expected to operate for 25, 30 or sometimes 40 overs in an innings.

A repeatable action gives him two things.

First, accuracy.

Second, disguise.

If the stock ball, the quicker ball and the straighter delivery emerge from approximately the same action, the batter receives less early information.

Taijul has experimented with his mechanics during his career. Under Daniel Vettori's influence, he worked specifically on obtaining more topspin, bounce and variation, partly with the challenge of bowling effectively outside Bangladesh in mind. He later moved back towards aspects of his earlier action, but the experimentation expanded his understanding of how trajectory and revolutions could be manipulated.

That willingness to modify an established action is itself revealing. His perseverance has never meant stubbornness. It has meant repetition plus adaptation. Drift first, turn second Against a right-handed batter, the textbook left-arm orthodox ball turns away after pitching. But the danger begins before it reaches the surface.

Taijul can drift the ball towards the right-hander before allowing the spin to take it away after pitching. That creates two movements in opposite directions: the batter's initial alignment follows the flight inward, while the ball then changes direction off the surface.

This is why a Taijul delivery does not need to turn extravagantly to beat somebody.

A few centimetres can be enough.

His dismissal patterns repeatedly show batters playing down a line that was correct for the first part of the ball's journey but wrong for the final part.

During his seven-wicket performance against Pakistan in Chattogram in 2021, one analysis highlighted this combination precisely: drift, angle, straightening and clever use of the crease.

The deception is geometric rather than theatrical.

The Arm Ball: The Delivery that Completes the Argument

Once a right-hander begins respecting the ball that turns away, Taijul possesses the obvious countermeasure.

The arm ball.

Instead of gripping and turning away, it travels on with the original angle, often skidding towards the pad or stump. That produces perhaps the most important uncertainty in left-arm orthodox bowling:

Do I defend the angle, or do I defend the turn?

Play for the turn, and the straighter one can strike the pad or stumps.

Play for the straight ball and the orthodox spinner can take the outside edge.

The individual delivery matters. But the real weapon is the memory of the previous deliveries.

Taijul bowls in sequences. That is Test-match spin bowling. Topspin and Unexpected Bounce: The second important development in Taijul's bowling has been the greater use of overspin. A heavily side-spun ball is primarily searching for lateral deviation. More overspin changes the problem.

It makes the ball dip more sharply and, depending on the surface, bounce more aggressively. Vettori specifically encouraged Taijul to develop this component because pitches away from Bangladesh would not always provide the sideways turn available on deteriorating subcontinental surfaces.

This delivery is especially effective against a batter who thinks he has read the length.

The eyes say drive.

The dip means the ball arrives shorter than anticipated. The extra bounce means the defensive contact happens higher on the bat. Close catchers enter the game. Taijul has therefore become more than a bowler waiting for the pitch to deteriorate. His pace variation is subtler than it appears

It is tempting to assign Taijul a narrow speed range, but match commentary shows greater variation than that. He frequently works through the 80s km/h, yet he is capable of pushing noticeably quicker deliveries into the 90s.

During Bangladesh's 2025 Test in Sri Lanka, for example, ball-by-ball records showed deliveries around 82, 85, 88, 90, 92, 93 and even 96 km/h.

The critical point is not the maximum velocity. It is the difference between consecutive balls. An 82 km/h delivery with flight asks the batter to come forward. An 89 km/h delivery arrives before the same movement has fully developed. A still quicker arm ball can skid. Then Taijul can slow the next one again and restore flight.

The action looks similar.

The arrival time does not.

Using the Crease as Another Variation

Taijul also changes where he releases the ball from. Close to the stumps, the right-hander receives one angle. Wider on the crease, the geometry changes. Round the wicket changes it again. This matters because the same spinning delivery can suddenly threaten different dismissals without Taijul needing to invent another ball.

Moving wider can exaggerate the angle. Moving closer can bring lbw and bowled into consideration. Changing the release point can also manipulate where a batter places the front foot, particularly when rough exists outside the right-hander's off stump.

The crease, for Taijul, is effectively another variation. And unlike a spectacular mystery delivery, it costs him almost no control.

The Workhorse

Perhaps the most important Taijul statistic is not 272 wickets. It is 16,184 balls. Test cricket asks something very different of a spinner from producing an isolated brilliant spell. A captain needs somebody who can bowl before lunch, return after lunch, continue after tea and come back the following morning without losing control.

Taijul can do that.

His career economy rate of approximately 3.06 is striking considering the enormous workload.

Even his 19th five-wicket haul demonstrated this endurance. Against Zimbabwe at Harare in June 2026, he took 7 for 138 from 40.2 overs. It came in a match Bangladesh ultimately lost heavily, but there is something almost emblematic about those figures: while the game moved against his team, Taijul kept bowling and kept finding wickets. The performance moved him into the all-time top five among left-arm bowlers for Test five-wicket hauls at that point.

He does not merely attack.

He occupies an end.

That allows Bangladesh's captain to rotate fast bowlers at the other end. It allows attacking fields to remain for longer. It forces batters to manufacture scoring options. And when scoring dries up, a batter eventually takes a risk against either Taijul or the bowler operating with him. The wicket on the scorecard may belong to somebody else. Part of it can still belong to Taijul.

The Spell as Construction

The easiest way to misunderstand Taijul is to watch only his wicket balls. Watch an entire over instead. Then another. Then ten. The pattern becomes clearer. A full ball draws the front foot. Another reinforces the length. One turns fractionally. Another turns more. The batter starts covering the outside edge.

Taijul slides one straighter.

Then he goes slower.

Then wider.

Then quicker.

The batter is no longer simply playing the ball. He is playing all the previous balls at once. That is why Taijul can appear ordinary for half an hour and suddenly take three wickets. The spell has been preparing those wickets before they occur.

Beyond Mirpur: Jamaica Changed an Old Argument

For much of his career, there was a legitimate criticism of Taijul's record: he was substantially more threatening in Bangladesh than abroad.

That should not simply be dismissed. Bangladesh's surfaces have often suited his method, while pitches in places such as South Africa, New Zealand and India have sometimes offered him considerably less assistance.

But his career has also produced evidence of evolution. The best example came at Sabina Park, Jamaica, in December 2024. Bangladesh were defending 287 in the fourth innings against West Indies. This was not Mirpur. There was no assumption that a Bangladeshi spinner merely had to place the ball on a worn surface and wait.

Taijul took 5 for 50.

West Indies were dismissed for 185.

Bangladesh won by 101 runs — their first Test victory in the Caribbean since 2009 — and Taijul was Player of the Match.

That spell matters disproportionately in judging his career.

 

Because it demonstrated that the mechanics he had spent years refining — pace, bounce, trajectory, accuracy and patience — could produce a fourth-innings Test victory outside Bangladesh.

From 200 to The Summit

In October 2024, against South Africa in Mirpur, Taijul became only the second Bangladeshi to take 200 Test wickets. He did it in his 48th Test. Shakib had required 54 Tests to reach the same mark.  A year later came the symbolic moment.

Against Ireland in November 2025, Taijul reached 246 wickets and drew level with Shakib as Bangladesh's leading Test wicket-taker. Soon afterwards he moved past him.

His celebration was revealingly restrained : after Andy Balbirnie was trapped by a quicker delivery and the review confirmed the dismissal, Taijul's response was characteristically modest before he returned to his mark.

For more than a decade, his name had been connected to Shakib's.

Finally the statistical order reversed.

And yet the point is not that Taijul defeated Shakib in some imaginary competition. The more interesting point is that Bangladesh cricket produced two different kinds of greatness. Shakib's greatness was multidimensional. Taijul's has been concentrated.

Give him a red ball. Give him overs. Give him a problem to solve.

That concentration became his identity.

The Match-winner Bangladesh Learned to Trust

Statistics become meaningful when attached to matches. The 8 for 39 against Zimbabwe in 2014 helped Bangladesh win a tight Test. The 5 for 50 at Sabina Park in 2024 secured a historic away victory.

In April 2025, after struggling in the preceding Sylhet Test against Zimbabwe, Taijul responded immediately in Chattogram with 6 for 60 and 3 for 42. The recovery was almost a miniature version of his career: one bad match did not alter his understanding of what he was.

Then came Pakistan in May 2026.

In the second Test at Sylhet, Taijul took three wickets in the first innings and 6 for 120 in the second, nine in the match, as Bangladesh completed a historic 2-0 home Test-series sweep of Pakistan.

These performances explain his real impact on Bangladesh.

Taijul has helped change what the team expects from a home Test spinner. The expectation is no longer simply that he contributes. The expectation is that, if Bangladesh can create a fourth-innings target, Taijul can defend it. That is a very different level of responsibility.

Perseverance without Drama

Taijul's career contains adversity, but very little theatricality. He has played alongside one of the greatest cricketers Bangladesh has produced. He has been omitted from combinations. He has carried enormous workloads. He has had poor Tests. He has altered his action.

He has reconsidered those alterations. He has been described endlessly through comparison with somebody else. And his response, again and again, has been to return to his mark.

That is why one of his comments after a poor Test against Zimbabwe in 2025 was so revealing. Taijul accepted that he had bowled badly in Sylhet. In the next Test, after taking five wickets on the first day, his satisfaction came principally from having found himself again and helped the team.

Not denial.

Correction.

For an athlete whose entire craft depends on delivering approximately the same physical movement thousands of times while making microscopic adjustments within it, this mentality seems almost perfectly matched to his profession.

272 wickets, and The Question of Legacy

At 34, Taijul's career has reached an unusual point.

He has already broken Bangladesh's Test wicket record, yet his bowling does not look like the work of somebody merely completing a farewell lap.

In 2026 alone, before September, he has taken 22 Test wickets in five matches, including 9 wickets against Pakistan in Sylhet and 7 for 138 in Zimbabwe. His career now stands at 272 wickets from 62 Tests.

Years earlier, when he had only 171 Test wickets, Taijul joked that his heart wanted 500 or 600. By 2025, when asked again about a ceiling, his answer had become even more expansive: he was willing to take however many his career allowed. Yet he also repeatedly returned to a more sensible principle — nobody can know how long a career will last; performance and process determine that.

That may be the most Taijul answer possible.

A huge ambition, stripped of grand declarations.

One of the Best

Bangladesh cricket has produced players who were more famous than Taijul Islam. It has produced more explosive personalities. It has produced cricketers whose achievements crossed formats and made them international celebrities. Taijul's claim is narrower, but increasingly difficult to challenge. He is one of the finest Test specialists Bangladesh has produced.

Perhaps even more importantly, he represents something Bangladesh Test cricket has often struggled to sustain: continuity of craft.

From Natore to Rajshahi.

From domestic cricket to 37 wickets in four BCL matches.

From a late call-up to five wickets on Test debut.

From 8 for 39 in his first year to a 200th Test wicket ten years later.

From operating beside Shakib to passing Shakib.

From being viewed primarily as a bowler for helpful home pitches to winning Bangladesh a Test at Sabina Park.

And now, beyond 270 Test wickets.

There is nothing mysterious about the outline of Taijul Islam's story. That is precisely why it is remarkable. He kept turning up. He kept bowling.

He kept learning how much air to give the ball, when to push it through quicker, when to find overspin, when to use the arm ball, when to move wider on the crease, when to attack the edge and when simply to refuse the batter a run.

Over thousands upon thousands of deliveries, those tiny decisions accumulated into a career.

The boy from Natore who once had to travel elsewhere just to find better practice facilities eventually became the man Bangladesh could hand the ball to when a Test match needed to be won.

For years, cricket tried to explain Taijul Islam by asking where he stood beside somebody else.

At 272 Test wickets, that question has become unnecessary.

Taijul Islam stands in his own place now.

Thank You

Faisal Caesar 

Pakistan and the Eternal Reset Button: How the Culture of Chopping and Changing Squandered the Legacy of 1992

There is an irony at the heart of Pakistan cricket.

The country that produced perhaps the greatest example of sustained leadership in its cricketing history has spent much of the period since that leadership disappeared behaving as though continuity itself were a weakness.

On 25 March 1992, Imran Khan lifted the World Cup at the Melbourne Cricket Ground. Pakistan had not merely won a tournament. It had reached the culmination of a cricketing project that had taken years to construct.

Thirty-four years later, on 31 August 2026, Pakistan Cricket Board officials responded to two heavy Test defeats in England by releasing seven players, replacing much of the coaching staff and removing head coach Sarfaraz Ahmed before the series had even finished. Mike Hesson was asked to take over for the third Test. Five of the replacements had yet to play Test cricket.

Those two dates tell much of the story of Pakistan cricket. 1992 represented construction. 2026 represents reaction. Between them lies Pakistan cricket's addiction to the reset button. Pakistan has continued to produce wonderful cricketers. It has produced Wasim Akram, Waqar Younis, Inzamam-ul-Haq, Saeed Anwar, Mohammad Yousuf, Younis Khan, Shoaib Akhtar, Saqlain Mushtaq, Shahid Afridi, Misbah-ul-Haq, Babar Azam, Mohammad Rizwan, Shaheen Afridi and many others.

It has also enjoyed magnificent moments: the 1999 World Cup final, the 2009 World T20 triumph, the rise to No.1 in Test cricket under Misbah, the 2017 Champions Trophy victory and several memorable campaigns thereafter.

So Pakistan cricket did not simply die after 1992. Something more frustrating happened. Pakistan repeatedly produced enough talent to become a dominant cricketing power—and repeatedly dismantled the structures, leadership groups and relationships necessary to sustain that talent. That is a much greater failure. What 1992 Really Represented There is a tendency to reduce Pakistan's 1992 World Cup victory to Imran Khan's charisma, the famous cornered-tigers speech and a miraculous late tournament revival.

That interpretation misses the larger point. The World Cup was the final chapter of a cricketing evolution that had begun years earlier.

Saad Shafqat's excellent examination of the Imran Khan–Javed Miandad relationship describes two men who were temperamentally, socially and personally different, and often deeply suspicious of each other. Yet they eventually understood something fundamental: Pakistan was stronger when their abilities complemented each other than when their egos competed.

The result, Shafqat writes, was a “golden age.”

Pakistan won its first Test series in India and England, defeated West Indies in an ODI series, and in 1988 came extraordinarily close to becoming the first visiting side in 15 years to win a Test series in the Caribbean. Then came the World Cup.

The material on the 1988 Caribbean tour is revealing. Imran returned from retirement and immediately restored a familiar leadership structure. Miandad—described as perhaps the superior tactical mind but a different type of leader—accepted the arrangement and remained indispensable.

This was not harmony in the sentimental sense.

Imran and Miandad disagreed. They competed. They possessed enormous egos. But they developed functional stability. Miandad supplied tactical intelligence and batting genius. Imran supplied authority, strategic direction and an ability to demand more from players than they sometimes believed they could provide. Their personal differences became secondary to cricketing purpose. That distinction matters enormously because Pakistan cricket after them increasingly did the opposite.

Instead of making personalities subordinate to a system, the system increasingly became subordinate to personalities.

After Imran: Authority Fragmented

When Imran retired after the World Cup, Pakistan did not immediately stop being a great cricket team.

Far from it.

The 1990s produced an astonishing collection of talent. Wasim Akram and Waqar Younis became arguably the most destructive fast-bowling partnership of their generation. Saeed Anwar became one of the great opening batsmen of the era. Inzamam matured. Mushtaq Ahmed, Saqlain Mushtaq, Aamer Sohail, Ijaz Ahmed and others gave Pakistan extraordinary depth.

Pakistan reached another World Cup final in 1999. But the organisational character of the team had changed.

Dawn's retrospective on the period describes the post-Imran side, largely associated with Wasim Akram's leadership, as enormously talented but damaged by infighting, player rebellions and eventually the match-fixing scandal.

This distinction is crucial.

The Pakistan of the late 1980s contained powerful personalities too. Imran and Miandad were hardly mild characters. But there was a recognisable centre of gravity. After 1992, that centre fragmented. Captaincy became contested territory. Senior players formed camps. Captains came and went. Coaches came and went. Administrators changed. Selection increasingly became entangled with personalities and factional struggles.

Pakistan began confusing change with correction. Whenever something went wrong, someone had to be removed. Rarely did the institution ask whether the mechanism producing the failure itself was defective.

The Captaincy Merry-Go-Round

Few positions in world cricket have historically felt as insecure as the Pakistan captaincy. After Imran, Pakistan moved through leadership involving Miandad, Wasim Akram, Saleem Malik, Ramiz Raja, Aamer Sohail, Waqar Younis, Moin Khan, Saeed Anwar, Inzamam-ul-Haq and others.

Later generations repeated the pattern: Shoaib Malik, Younis Khan, Shahid Afridi, Misbah-ul-Haq, Mohammad Hafeez, Azhar Ali, Sarfaraz Ahmed, Babar Azam, Shaheen Afridi, Mohammad Rizwan, Salman Ali Agha and others across formats.

The issue is not that captains should never be replaced.

They should.

The issue is the absence of an institutional philosophy governing why one captain is appointed and when another should replace him. Pakistan has too often treated captaincy as a reward for current form, a punishment mechanism following defeat or an administrative instrument after a change at the PCB.

Consider Babar Azam.

He resigned from the captaincy following the 2023 World Cup. Shaheen Shah Afridi was made T20 captain. Months later, after only a tiny sample of matches, Shaheen was removed and Babar was restored as white-ball captain in March 2024. In October, Babar stepped down again. Mohammad Rizwan succeeded him. Shaheen subsequently became ODI captain in 2025.

This was not succession planning. It was circulation. Most revealingly, when PCB chairman Mohsin Naqvi discussed captaincy in March 2024, he publicly said that once a captain was appointed Pakistan would “stick by him for a long time.”

Seven days later Babar replaced Shaheen. Six months later Babar was gone again. The contradiction encapsulates the larger institutional problem. Pakistan cricket frequently announces long-term thinking while practising short-term panic.

Selectors Selecting Selectors

If captaincy has been unstable, selection policy has at times approached absurdity. During Babar's first extended captaincy period alone, Dawn noted that he worked with four selectors and three head coaches. Then the carousel accelerated.

In March 2024, PCB created a seven-member selection committee including Wahab Riaz, Mohammad Yousuf, Abdul Razzaq and Asad Shafiq, plus the captain, head coach and a data analyst. There would be no chief selector; every voting member would possess equal power.

By July, Wahab Riaz and Abdul Razzaq were removed.

By October, the structure had changed again. The captain and coach were removed from selection authority, and a five-member panel involving Aaqib Javed, Azhar Ali, Asad Shafiq, Aleem Dar and Hasan Cheema was empowered not merely to select squads but, according to Dawn, to select playing XIs as well.

ESPN reported that it was already the third selection panel in three months.

By March 2026, even Aaqib Javed—himself a central figure in several of these arrangements—was publicly asking people to compare the consistency of Pakistan's domestic and selection systems with those of other countries. Dawn reported that the selection committee had been altered at least five times in roughly two years.

This is administration consuming itself.

How can selectors establish a philosophy if the selectors themselves are permanently auditioning for survival?

How can players understand what is required for selection when the people defining those requirements keep changing?

One selector may prioritise domestic first-class records. Another may value PSL performance. Another may favour youth. Another may recall experienced players. Another may emphasise fitness. Another may emphasise strike rate. Another may suddenly decide conditions require a completely different type of cricketer.

The player therefore learns a dangerous lesson:

Do not develop toward a clearly defined national style. Develop toward whichever selector currently possesses power.

That is how systems stop producing teams and begin producing survivors.

The Coaching Revolving Door

The treatment of coaches provides perhaps the clearest evidence of the PCB's institutional impatience.

Pakistan has cycled repeatedly through local and overseas coaches for decades: Javed Miandad in multiple spells, Richard Pybus in multiple spells, Bob Woolmer, Geoff Lawson, Intikhab Alam, Waqar Younis, Dav Whatmore, Mickey Arthur, Misbah-ul-Haq, Saqlain Mushtaq, Grant Bradburn, Mohammad Hafeez in a team-director role and then the remarkable sequence that followed.

In April 2024, PCB announced Gary Kirsten as white-ball head coach and Jason Gillespie as red-ball head coach. Both were given two-year contracts. The announcement spoke the language of planning, development and long-term excellence. Kirsten lasted six months. He did not coach Pakistan in a single ODI.

ESPN reported that tensions grew after the PCB stripped Kirsten and Gillespie of selection powers. Gillespie publicly reduced his own position to that of a “match-day analyst”, saying it was not what he had signed up for.

Kirsten resigned in October 2024. Gillespie followed in December, later saying he had been “completely and utterly blindsided” by the board. Think about what that communicates internationally.

Pakistan convinced two respected coaches to enter a supposed long-term project, changed the terms of their authority within months, and lost both before their contracts were remotely close to completion.

Ramiz Raja subsequently warned that episodes such as Kirsten's departure would make recruiting elite international coaches more difficult.

And the wheel kept turning.

By September 2026, after Sarfaraz Ahmed was removed in England only months after taking the job, reporting described Mike Hesson as Pakistan's eighth coach since 2023. No serious high-performance programme can operate like this.

A coach requires time to assess players, establish fitness standards, identify technical weaknesses, build trust, introduce tactical principles, develop reserves and eventually judge whether those interventions work.

Pakistan often hires a coach for a development cycle and judges him on the timescale of a television debate.

The Most Damaging Instability Is Below the National Team

Captaincy and coaching changes attract headlines. The more destructive instability has occurred beneath them. Pakistan has repeatedly redesigned domestic cricket.

The 2019 PCB Constitution replaced the old regional structure with six cricket associations and reduced the number of first-class teams from 16 to six. PCB's own annual report presented the reform as an attempt to concentrate quality and narrow the gap between domestic and international cricket.

Whether one agreed with the model or not, such structural reform required years of implementation and evaluation.

It received barely that.

The political environment changed.

The PCB leadership changed.

The constitution changed.

In December 2022, the 2019 constitution was repealed. The 2014 model returned. Regions and departmental cricket were restored. By 2023-24, separate first-class competitions for regions and departments had returned.

Consider what this means for a young Pakistani cricketer.

His pathway can change not because cricket science discovered a superior development model, but because the political administration changed. His employer can disappear. His regional structure can disappear. His competition can disappear. Then several years later it can return. Administrators describe each revolution as the final solution to problems created partly by the previous revolution.

That is not evolution.

It is institutional amnesia.

A strong domestic structure need not be identical to Australia's, England's or India's. Pakistan should build one suited to Pakistan. But whichever model it chooses needs enough continuity for academies, coaches, groundsmen, clubs, departments, regions and players to understand where they fit. A system replanted every few years never develops deep roots.

Politics at the Top, Instability Below

The fundamental governance problem is even larger. Pakistan cricket has historically been unusually vulnerable to changes in national political power.

Dawn has repeatedly documented how the position at the top of the board has been shaped by political patronage and how PCB constitutions themselves have been rewritten under different governments. One 2023 analysis noted that the 2019 constitution represented the fourth major constitutional change in twelve years.

The consequences cascade downward. A government changes. The PCB chairman changes. The constitution or administrative philosophy changes. The domestic structure changes. The selectors change. The coaching staff changes. The captain changes. The squad changes.

And eventually everyone wonders why the cricket team lacks stability.

In August 2025, this ceased to be merely an outside criticism. Dawn reported that PCB officials themselves discussed the decline and attributed it in large part to frequent changes involving chairmen, selectors, coaches and captains. The board had experienced four chairmen in less than three years: Ramiz Raja, Najam Sethi, Zaka Ashraf and Mohsin Naqvi.

In other words, the institution eventually diagnosed its own disease.

It simply struggled to stop administering the same medicine.

Pakistan's Greatest Post-1992 Periods Offer the Counterargument

Perhaps the strongest argument against permanent upheaval comes from Pakistan's own successes. The country has repeatedly improved when a captain, coach or core group has been allowed to settle. Inzamam-ul-Haq was permitted a substantial run as captain in the mid-2000s, much of it alongside Bob Woolmer.

Misbah-ul-Haq was given enough time after the catastrophe of 2010 to construct a new Test culture. Pakistan was playing almost entirely away from home, yet Misbah's side eventually reached No.1 in the ICC Test rankings.

Mickey Arthur and Sarfaraz Ahmed were given enough continuity to develop a strong white-ball identity. The result included the 2017 Champions Trophy and a shorter period of consistency. All of a sudden Sarfraz was cut off. Babar came in. he gave results for a shorter period but made the team timid and defensive. Babar left and the old cycle returned.

Stability does not guarantee success. Instability almost guarantees that failure cannot be properly diagnosed. If the coach changes, captain changes, selectors change and domestic structure changes simultaneously, who can determine what actually worked?

Pakistan perpetually destroys its own control group.

The Culture of Public Execution

There is another reason the revolving door is damaging.

It creates fear.

A high-performance sporting environment requires accountability. But accountability and insecurity are not the same thing.

When every bad tournament produces rumours about coaches, captains, selectors and senior players being dismissed, decision-making becomes defensive.

Players protect positions.

Captains avoid experimentation.

Selectors protect reputations.

Coaches demand immediate results rather than long-term development.

Administrators search for someone below them to absorb public anger.

Dawn's 2024 investigation into the PCB's “revolving door” quoted insiders describing precisely such an atmosphere: coaches and players become preoccupied with preserving their own jobs because there is no stable pathway or vision around them. That is psychologically devastating for a cricket culture.

Failure should produce analysis.

In Pakistan it too often produces execution.

The pattern is old.

After the disastrous 2003 World Cup, six famous players were discarded in a mass clear-out. Some were recalled soon afterwards.

Following another tournament failure in 2016, the familiar targets—captain, coach and selectors—were again removed while critics complained that the administrative architects escaped responsibility.

And in August 2026, after two Test defeats in England, Pakistan released seven players and changed coaches before the third Test of the series.

Thirty years of supposedly different administrations.

The same reflex. From World-Class Fielding Ambitions to “Managed Decline” The consequences are no longer merely administrative. They are visible in cricket's fundamentals.

One of the pieces examined for this article describes Pakistan's deteriorating fitness and fielding and makes an important observation: these are areas over which a cricket board has unusually high control.

Pitch conditions can vary.

Talent comes in cycles.

International schedules can be unfair.

Financial disparities matter.

But there is no external conspiracy preventing players from becoming fitter or a national side from developing elite fielding standards.

The article notes that fielding coach Shane McDermott left only ten months into a three-year arrangement and was replaced internally, describing a wider atmosphere of “managed decline.”

That phrase is devastating because it captures Pakistan's real tragedy. The talent has not disappeared. The population has not stopped loving cricket. Fast bowlers have not suddenly vanished from Pakistani soil. Young boys have not stopped batting in streets and grounds. Pakistan still possesses one of cricket's great talent reservoirs. What has deteriorated is the institutional capacity to turn that raw material consistently into an elite national team.

The current rankings offer a sobering snapshot. ICC listings in 2026 have Pakistan outside the leading group in all three formats, including around eighth in Tests, while another global tournament of the shorter format ended without a semifinal appearance.

The decline is no longer a temporary loss of form.

It increasingly resembles a structural problem.

Talent Became Pakistan's Excuse

For decades, Pakistan could survive poor administration because its natural cricketing talent was extraordinary. There was always another fast bowler. Another wristy batsman. Another mystery spinner. Another outrageous match-winner emerging seemingly from nowhere. That abundance protected the administration. When the system failed, genius compensated. Wasim could reverse-swing a match. Waqar could destroy a middle order. Saeed Anwar could produce an innings from another world. Inzamam could rescue a chase. Saqlain could invent possibilities with spin. Shoaib Akhtar could simply overwhelm a batsman. Younis and Yousuf could manufacture enormous Test runs. Afridi could turn chaos into victory. Pakistan therefore began believing that chaos was part of its genius. It was not. Chaos was merely being hidden by genius. Modern cricket has made that model increasingly unsustainable.

Other countries now combine talent with analytics, sports science, biomechanics, specialist coaching, carefully managed pathways, strength and conditioning, fielding systems, franchise development and long-term succession planning.

Individual brilliance still matters.

But the baseline level of professionalism has risen.

Pakistan can no longer defeat structured excellence indefinitely with inspiration alone.

What Imran's Pakistan Understood

There is a temptation to romanticise Imran Khan's era and pretend everything was professionally administered.

It was not.

Pakistan cricket contained politics, selection controversies and personality clashes then too. But Imran understood several principles modern PCB administrations repeatedly forget. A captain needs authority. Players need clearly defined roles. Talent needs protection during development.

Fast bowlers need to be identified early.

A team requires a core.

Strong personalities do not need to love one another; they need to respect the hierarchy and serve the objective. And leadership requires enough time for judgment to mean something. His relationship with Miandad is particularly instructive.

Their differences could easily have destroyed the side.

Instead, as Shafqat observes, they eventually realised collaboration served them both. Miandad became the tactical brain beside Imran's commanding leadership. Their partnership became one of the foundations of Pakistan's finest period.

Modern Pakistan repeatedly creates the opposite dynamic.

Authority is divided.

Then redistributed.

Then removed.

The selector possesses power one month.

The coach gains it the next.

The captain joins the selection committee.

Then the captain is removed from it.

Then a new committee selects the XI.

Then another chairman arrives with another philosophy.

Everyone has authority briefly.

No one has responsibility long enough.

The Board That Keeps Rebuilding the House While Living Inside It

Pakistan cricket does not primarily suffer from a shortage of ideas.

It suffers from an inability to remain committed to one good idea long enough to discover whether it works. Every new administration arrives promising reform. New domestic cricket. New selectors. New mentors. New fitness standards. New coaches. New academies. New analytics. New captains. New high-performance programmes. New pathways. Then comes a defeat. The television studios erupt. Former players demand removals. Social media demands blood. The administration responds. And another project begins. This produces the illusion of action. But constant movement is not progress. A man running in circles is extremely active. He is still going nowhere.

The Evidence Is Now Overwhelming

Perhaps Pakistan could once dismiss this criticism as the complaint of journalists or former cricketers. It can no longer do so. The PCB's own officials have acknowledged the damage caused by instability. Former captains have repeatedly warned about it. Imran himself said as far back as 2016 that merely replacing captains, coaches and selectors would not solve Pakistan cricket's underlying structural problem. He warned that unless domestic cricket was fixed, Pakistan would continue changing personnel while the cricket continued to suffer.

Inzamam-ul-Haq made essentially the same diagnosis in 2025, blaming repeated changes to management, coaches and players for Pakistan's rapid decline.

Aaqib Javed was saying much the same thing in 2026.

And yet the cycle continues.

On 31 August 2026, Pakistan responded to defeat by changing seven players and the coaching arrangement halfway through a Test series.

It would be difficult to invent a more perfect symbol of the problem.

1992 Should Have Been a Foundation, Not a Museum Piece

The saddest thing about Pakistan's relationship with 1992 is that the World Cup has become something to remember rather than something to learn from.

The lesson was never simply that Imran Khan was inspirational. The deeper lesson was that Pakistan spent years creating a leadership group capable of absorbing disagreement without collapsing. Imran and Miandad competed but ultimately collaborated. Young players such as Wasim Akram and Inzamam-ul-Haq were identified and trusted. Players understood where authority rested. The side developed an identity. Failures—including the painful 1987 World Cup semi-final defeat—did not produce the destruction of the entire project. Five years later, much of that accumulated experience delivered Pakistan the World Cup. That is how elite sport works.

Development is not linear.

There are defeats.

There are wrong selections.

There are tactical mistakes.

Some players initially fail.

Some captains must learn.

There are coaches whose methods take time.

A serious cricket institution distinguishes between failure that requires improvement and failure that requires replacement. Pakistan too often treats them as the same thing. Stop Searching for the Next Imran Khan. Pakistan frequently asks where the next Imran Khan is. It is the wrong question. There may never be another. Countries cannot design their entire sporting structures around waiting for a once-in-a-generation personality powerful enough to overcome institutional weakness.

Pakistan does not need another messiah. It needs an institution that does not require one. It needs a PCB whose strategic direction survives a change of government. A domestic structure allowed to mature. Selectors appointed for defined terms and judged against transparent criteria. Captains selected according to a succession plan rather than the emotions of the latest defeat.

Coaches given clearly documented authority. Fitness and fielding standards that do not change with personalities. An academy system operating continuously.

A pathway from school and club cricket to district, regional, domestic and international cricket that a 15-year-old player can understand today and reasonably expect still to exist when he is 20.

And above all, Pakistan cricket needs to rediscover patience.

Not blind patience.

Accountable patience.

The Final Irony

Pakistan won the 1992 World Cup because a group of extraordinarily strong personalities learned that the national team's interests were larger than their individual disputes.

Pakistan cricket subsequently spent much of the next three decades letting institutional disputes, political transitions, administrative egos, and public panic become larger than the national team's long-term interests.

That is the central tragedy. The decline of Pakistan cricket was not inevitable. It was not caused by a disappearance of talent. It was not simply bad luck.

And it cannot entirely be blamed on money, security problems, franchise cricket or changing global power structures, although all have mattered. Pakistan has repeatedly damaged itself. It has changed captains before they could mature. Changed coaches before their systems could settle. Changed selectors before philosophies could develop. Changed domestic structures before pathways could mature. Changed administrators and constitutions before reforms could be evaluated.

Then it has looked at the resulting instability and prescribed another round of change.

The country that once produced the partnership of Imran Khan and Javed Miandad—two enormous personalities who learned how to coexist for the sake of winning—has somehow built a cricket administration incapable of granting its own ideas the same accommodation.

Pakistan's greatest cricketing lesson was written in Melbourne in 1992. For thirty-four years, its administrators have repeatedly refused to read it. Great teams are not assembled every morning. They are built.

Thank You

Faisal Caesar

Pakistan Cricket: A Funeral Without a Corpse

Pakistan cricket is not merely losing; it is disappearing. The green shirts still walk onto the field, the anthem still plays, and the familiar crest remains over every player’s heart. Yet the substance beneath those symbols—the courage, skill, imagination and bloody-minded resistance that once defined Pakistan—appears dead and buried.

At Lord’s, Pakistan were dismissed for 110 and 194, losing the second Test by 194 runs and conceding the series 2–0. Their target was 389, but they quickly collapsed to 14 for three. Saud Shakeel’s magnificent 97 briefly provided resistance, yet even his innings felt like a flower laid upon a grave. England’s Ollie Robinson took eight wickets in the match, while Jofra Archer and Josh Tongue supplied the hostility Pakistan once exported to the world.

That is the cruelest irony. England’s attack now resembles the Pakistan of old: fast, varied, confident and predatory. Pakistan, meanwhile, resemble frightened tenants inside a house their ancestors built.

The decline is not confined to one miserable Test. Pakistan have progressively dismantled their traditional strengths. Their top order is technically vulnerable, their middle order has become statistically the weakest in the current World Test Championship cycle, and their fast-bowling heritage has been diluted. Batters occupying positions five to seven have averaged only 24.64—the lowest collective figure among WTC nations.

Previously, Pakistan could survive disorder because they produced strong characters: Imran Khan imposing belief, Javed Miandad turning hostility into fuel, Wasim Akram finding victory inside lost matches, Waqar Younis attacking stumps as though personally offended by them, and Inzamam-ul-Haq batting amid chaos with the stillness of a monument. Today’s side appears almost apologetic. Its players do not seize matches; they wait for matches to happen to them.

Modern franchise cricket has not created every Pakistani weakness, but it has offered an attractive escape from the harder work of Test excellence. Short contracts promise money, visibility and immediate reward. Test cricket demands something less glamorous: technical reconstruction, long domestic innings, physical durability, patience and the willingness to suffer anonymously. It would be unfair to claim, without evidence, that every player values money above country. Nevertheless, the structure plainly rewards the travelling franchise professional more quickly than it rewards the craftsman committed to five-day cricket.

The result is a team familiar with the theatre of aggression but increasingly incapable of its substance. They talk about intent, yet surrender sessions. They celebrate potential, yet neglect production. They possess social-media stardom without corresponding command of difficult conditions.

No figure represents that contradiction more vividly than Babar Azam.

Babar is not a joke as a cricketer; his record contains too many elegant and significant innings for such a crude verdict. But the mythology constructed around him has become absurdly greater than the player visible in decisive moments. He is advertised as a modern master and repeatedly placed beside the era’s very best. Such status cannot rest upon cover drives, rankings and attractive runs accumulated when the contest is comfortable. Greatness is established when the ball moves, the team trembles and defeat approaches.

At Lord’s, Babar returned as captain and senior batter but made eight in the first innings. In the second, with Pakistan pursuing 389, Archer dismissed him with a sharp bouncer as the score became 14 for three. Pakistan did not require elegance then; they required defiance. Their supposed standard-bearer could provide neither.

Babar therefore deserves severe criticism—not because he lacks talent, but because his reputation has consistently outrun his influence. Calling him a “total failure” erases his genuine achievements. Calling him overrated, however, is defensible whenever celebrity is mistaken for greatness and aesthetically pleasing batting is confused with leadership. Pakistan have made him the face of their cricket without demanding that the face reveal courage under fire.

The institutional failure is deeper still: unstable selection, revolving leadership, confused pitches, weak domestic preparation and the absence of a coherent Test identity. Pakistan once produced cricketers through hardship. Now the system produces uncertainty, then asks individuals to perform miracles.

That is why Pakistan have become a laughing stock. Opponents no longer fear their unpredictability; they expect their collapse. Former giants are now treated as a convenient opportunity for struggling teams to recover confidence.

Yet the game is not literally dead. It is worse: it is alive enough to remember what it once was.

Revival will require uncomfortable choices—rewarding red-ball specialists, restoring domestic credibility, selecting on performance rather than reputation,You  limiting franchise distractions where necessary and ending the cult of untouchable stars. 

Until then, Pakistan will continue wearing the uniform of a great cricketing nation while performing like the ghost of one.

Thank You 

Faisal Caesar 

Brian Lara’s One-Legged Pull: When Technique Became Theatre

In conventional batting manuals, the pull shot is presented as a practical answer to short-pitched bowling. The batter moves back, establishes a stable base, swivels through the hips and shoulders, rolls the wrists, and directs the ball through square leg or mid-wicket. Its underlying principle is control: balance first, power second.

Brian Charles Lara seemed to reverse that order.

In Lara’s hands, the pull shot was no longer simply a functional response to the bouncer. It became an act of improvisation—an explosive, almost airborne stroke in which apparent instability produced remarkable control. Nothing expressed this contradiction more vividly than his signature **one-legged pull shot**, a stroke that transformed orthodox mechanics into something closer to choreography.

The Orthodox Foundation—and Lara’s Departure From It

The classical pull depends upon a secure base. A right-handed batter usually rocks onto the back foot or moves back and across, allowing the body to get inside the line of the ball. The feet provide stability while the hips and shoulders rotate around them.

Lara retained some of these fundamentals—especially his early recognition of length, rapid transfer onto the back foot, powerful hip rotation and exceptional hand speed—but exaggerated others until the stroke acquired an entirely different visual character.

The most striking difference came from his front leg.

Against a delivery climbing toward the ribs, chest or shoulder, Lara would often rotate so violently through the shot that his front foot left the ground altogether. His knee rose sharply, sometimes almost toward his torso, while his weight remained momentarily supported by the back leg.

To a traditional coach, this might appear to be a breakdown of balance. With Lara, however, it functioned almost as an alternative form of balance.

The lifted leg acted as a counterweight. Freed from a planted front foot, his pelvis could rotate more completely, allowing the shoulders, arms and bat to travel through a wider arc. What looked like loss of structure was actually a highly individual method of creating rotational freedom.

The High Backlift and the Creation of Bat Speed

Lara’s pull cannot be understood in isolation from his famous backlift.

His bat began high, often dramatically so, giving him a long arc through which to accelerate the blade. This did not mean that he simply swung harder than other batters. The effectiveness of the stroke came from the sequencing of the movement: back-foot adjustment, hip rotation, shoulder turn, arm acceleration and finally the release of the wrists.

The result was tremendous bat speed.

Rather than attempting to resist the pace of a fast bowler, Lara redirected it. The incoming velocity of the ball combined with the speed of his bat, meaning that he did not always require the heavy, muscular base associated with more conventional power hitters.

His power was elastic rather than static.

It came from rotation, timing and acceleration.

That distinction helps explain why the shot could appear simultaneously violent and effortless.

Why the Front Leg Rose

The lifted front leg was not merely decorative. It was connected to the extraordinary rotation that defined Lara’s stroke.

A firmly planted front foot can restrict pelvic movement if the batter tries to rotate beyond a certain point. Lara’s response was to release that restriction altogether. As his hips opened toward the leg side, the front foot detached from the surface and the knee rose naturally with the movement.

This allowed his torso to continue rotating without being restrained by the lower body.

The effect was especially useful against deliveries directed into his body. Where another batter might become cramped for space, Lara could manufacture room through rotation. His body seemed to move away from conventional geometry, creating an angle from which his hands could still attack the ball.

Thus the one-legged pull was not simply a flourish added after contact. It was part of the mechanical solution.

Dynamic Balance Rather Than Static Balance

The central paradox of the shot was Lara’s balance.

Traditional batting instruction often treats balance as something largely static: the head remains still, the feet remain secure, and the body moves around a stable foundation.

Lara demonstrated another possibility—dynamic balance.

For a fraction of a second, he might be supported almost entirely by the back leg while the rest of his body rotated at high speed. Yet his head position, visual tracking and hand coordination remained sufficiently controlled for clean contact.

This is similar to what occurs in other athletic movements. A sprinter, dancer or martial artist may appear unstable when viewed in a single frozen frame, yet remain perfectly balanced within the sequence of motion.

Lara’s pull worked in much the same way.

His stability existed not in stillness, but in movement.

The Role of the Hands and Wrists

The spectacle of the raised leg could easily distract from another essential feature: Lara’s extraordinary hands.

His wrists allowed him to make late adjustments to both direction and elevation. Against a ball rising sharply, he could roll the wrists to keep the stroke down. Against a slightly fuller or slower delivery, he could allow the bat to travel more freely and send the ball in front of square.

This flexibility made his pull difficult to classify.

It could be a controlled stroke along the ground, a whipping strike through mid-wicket, or a more audacious aerial blow. The underlying movement looked similar, but Lara could manipulate the final outcome through changes made very late in the stroke.

His genius therefore lay not simply in producing an unusual body position, but in preserving fine control while operating from that position.

Violence and Elegance

Few strokes captured Lara’s aesthetic contradiction more perfectly.

The upper body moved with extraordinary aggression. His hips snapped open, the shoulders followed, and the bat swept across him with something approaching the violence of a sword cut.

Yet the lower body could appear almost delicate.

The raised knee, the momentary suspension on one leg and the flowing follow-through gave the stroke a balletic quality. At the instant of contact, Lara appeared both fiercely committed and strangely weightless.

It was power without heaviness.

That is why photographs of the shot remain so memorable. Remove the ball, the bowler and the fielders, and Lara’s body alone still communicates the event. The position tells the story of the stroke.

Conquering the Short Ball Through Motion

Most batters seek stability against fast bowling because pace threatens to disrupt their position. Lara often seemed to take the opposite approach. Rather than becoming more rigid when attacked, he became more mobile.

The short ball was therefore not merely something to survive.

It became an invitation to rotate.

By opening his hips, freeing the front leg and allowing the hands to accelerate through the ball, Lara could attack deliveries that might otherwise have forced a defensive sway, hurried fend or uncomfortable evasion.

This was a form of spatial dominance. He created hitting room where little appeared to exist.

Fast bowlers attempted to compress his space.

Lara expanded it.

The Follow-Through as Signature

The finish completed the theatre.

After contact, Lara could remain perched momentarily on the back leg, front knee still raised, torso rotated almost completely toward the leg side and bat finishing high above or around the shoulder.

In purely technical terms, the follow-through represented the dissipation of rotational momentum.

Visually, it looked like defiance.

The pose seemed too dramatic to have been designed deliberately, yet too distinctive to belong to anyone else. Like Viv Richards’ swagger after a hook or Sachin Tendulkar’s straight-drive finish, Lara’s completion of the pull became inseparable from his identity as a batter.

Individual Technique Versus Textbook Technique

Lara’s one-legged pull also illustrates a broader truth about batting technique.

Textbooks teach principles, not absolute laws.

Balance, head position, judgment of length, control of the bat face and efficient transfer of force remain fundamental. But elite players frequently discover highly personal methods of achieving those objectives.

Judged from a still photograph, Lara could appear technically extravagant. Judged through the complete movement—from recognition of length to contact and follow-through—the logic becomes clearer.

His front leg was not simply flying away. His entire kinetic chain was rotating. His base was not disappearing. It was becoming dynamic. His high backlift was not ornamentation. It was the beginning of an acceleration sequence that culminated in extraordinary bat speed. What looked unconventional therefore remained rooted in sound athletic principles.

The Poetry of Kinetic Freedom

Ultimately, Lara’s one-legged pull survives in memory because it occupied the border between technique and art.

There were batters who played the pull more conventionally. There were players who hit it harder, others who kept it safer, and some who attacked the short ball with greater brutality.

But few made the stroke look so liberated.

For Lara, the bouncer could become raw material for expression. The bowler supplied pace and hostility; Lara answered with rotation, timing and imagination. His body briefly abandoned the reassuring geometry of textbook batting and entered something more fluid—a moment in which balance was maintained through motion and control emerged from apparent disorder.

Technical purists could point to the risks. Coaches might hesitate before teaching a young batter to reproduce it. Lara himself probably could not have reduced the movement to a sequence of instructions without stripping away much of what made it uniquely his.

That was precisely the point.

The one-legged pull shot was more than an attacking stroke. It was a demonstration that at the highest level, technique can evolve beyond imitation. Once the fundamentals have been mastered deeply enough, the great player does not merely execute the textbook.

He begins to rewrite it.

And when Brian Lara rose onto one leg, front knee suspended, hips uncoiling and bat whipping toward the leg-side boundary, cricket briefly ceased to look like a technical exercise.

It looked like performance.

Thank You

Faisal Caesar

Two Kings, One Crown: How Imran Khan and Javed Miandad Reshaped Pakistan Cricket

Some partnerships are built on friendship; others are forged through necessity, tension and a shared hunger for victory. The relationship between Imran Khan and Javed Miandad belonged firmly to the second category.

They were, as Saad Shafqat memorably portrayed them, “matched, yet mismatched”—two commanding personalities whose differences generated conflict but also gave Pakistan cricket its competitive identity. Between the late 1970s and early 1990s, Imran and Miandad transformed a gifted but unpredictable side into a team capable of challenging—and defeating—the world’s best.

Imran was the patrician visionary: Oxford-educated, charismatic and physically imposing. He viewed cricket strategically, thinking not only about the next delivery but about the kind of team Pakistan needed to become. He demanded fitness, discipline and unwavering self-belief. His greatest gift as captain was his ability to recognize match-winners before they had established reputations. Wasim Akram, Waqar Younis and Inzamam-ul-Haq were among the young talents who flourished under his protection.

Miandad was the street fighter: instinctive, combative and tactically brilliant. He understood the emotional rhythm of a match—the nervous bowler, the vulnerable fielder, the moment when an opponent could be unsettled. Every run became a contest and every confrontation was an opportunity. His last-ball six against India in the 1986 Austral-Asia Cup final immortalized his refusal to accept defeat.

One supplied the grand design; the other found openings in the heat of battle.

Their coexistence was never effortless. Miandad became Pakistan’s captain while still in his early twenties, but opposition from senior players eventually forced him to step aside. Imran assumed the leadership in 1982, beginning an era that would permanently alter Pakistan cricket.

Regional politics deepened the perceived divide. Imran was associated with Lahore’s cricketing establishment; Miandad embodied Karachi’s defiant cricket culture. Both were proud, outspoken and certain of their own judgment. Yet the public narrative of permanent hostility overlooked something more important: professionally, they needed and respected each other.

Miandad was one of the few players prepared to challenge Imran openly. Imran, despite his authority, understood the value of Miandad’s cricketing intelligence. Their partnership was not sustained by personal harmony but by mutual recognition—and by the knowledge that Pakistan was stronger when both voices mattered.

That understanding reached its supreme expression in the 1992 World Cup final.

Pakistan were struggling at 24 for two against England when Imran joined Miandad at the Melbourne Cricket Ground. With the innings in danger of collapse, the two veterans abandoned flamboyance and constructed a partnership of discipline and survival. Imran made 72, Miandad 58, and together they added 139 runs.

Their stand gave Inzamam and Wasim the platform to accelerate. Pakistan reached 249 for six before Wasim’s devastating spell completed a 22-run victory. The image of Imran lifting the trophy became iconic, but the triumph carried Miandad’s fingerprints everywhere. The final was their relationship distilled into one innings: Imran setting the direction, Miandad negotiating the danger.

More than three decades later, that bond has reappeared beyond cricket. With Imran imprisoned and concern growing over his circumstances, Miandad has publicly defended his former captain’s character and called for the matter to be resolved through dialogue. Visibly emotional, he appealed for Imran’s release and offered whatever assistance he could provide. Javed became the first major Pakistani former player to speak publicly in such direct support.

It was a reminder that beneath the old disputes lay an enduring loyalty.

Imran and Miandad were never two halves of the same personality. They were two kings competing beneath one crown—authority and defiance, vision and instinct, elegance and streetcraft. They did not eliminate their differences; they converted them into strength.

Together, they gave Pakistan cricket its steel, intelligence and belief. And when his captain entered another kind of crisis, Miandad once again walked out to stand beside him.

Thank You 

Faisal Caesar