Aminul Islam: The Unsung Guardian of Bangladesh Cricket’s Legacy

To encounter Aminul Islam is to meet a figure remarkable not only for his talent but for his humility. A cricketer who carried the hopes of an entire nation during Bangladesh’s formative years in international cricket, Aminul remains, even today, devoid of the pride that often accompanies such accomplishments. Instead, he exudes an unassuming warmth and kindness, treating fans with the same sincerity as an elder brother would, offering encouragement and a genuine connection to anyone who approaches him.

Aminul Islam’s legacy is woven into the fabric of Bangladesh cricket. Technically gifted and mentally resilient, he was fearless against pace and precise against spin, distinguishing himself as one of the country's finest batsmen during a time when the game was still finding its footing in Bangladesh. Alongside pioneers like Gazi Ashraf Hossain Lipu, Akram Khan, Minhajul Abedin, and Golam Nawsher Prince, Aminul dreamed of making cricket a defining part of Bangladesh’s identity at a time when soccer dominated the nation’s sporting landscape.

In the face of almost insurmountable odds, these players carried cricket on their shoulders without financial backing or guaranteed careers. For Aminul, cricket was “oxygen”—an unbreakable passion that sustained him even as they played with no promise of fame or reward. Their perseverance paid off when, in November 2000, Bangladesh played its first-ever Test match at Dhaka’s Bangabandhu National Stadium. Aminul rose to the occasion, scoring the first Test hundred for Bangladesh, a glorious 145 that filled the country with pride. Critics who had dismissed him prior to that match were left speechless, as Aminul, true to form, let his bat do the talking.

Yet, this triumph was not enough to shield him from the shifting tides of the cricket board and the harshness of the press. As Bangladesh transitioned from a fledgling Test nation to one looking toward future success, calls to “refresh” the team emerged, advocating for an overhaul in favor of youth. Tragically, this cost Bangladesh one of its most experienced batsmen, as Aminul was unceremoniously pushed aside—a veteran cast away at the very moment his experience was most needed. He was not only left out of the national squad but even banned from participating in domestic competitions, an insult to a player who had given so much to the game.

Disheartened but undeterred, Aminul took his expertise to Australia, where he embraced a new chapter as a cricket coach. His deep knowledge of the game earned him a place in the Asian Cricket Council’s (ACC) development program, where he took on the responsibility of nurturing cricket in countries like China, Brunei, Malaysia, Singapore, and Taiwan. His efforts to popularize cricket in China are particularly notable, where the sport is now blossoming in a culture largely unfamiliar with it. Through dedication and skill, Aminul Islam has sown the seeds of a cricketing revolution in unlikely terrain, bringing new players into the fold of the game he cherishes.

Despite his immense contributions, Aminul’s connection to Bangladesh cricket remains fractured. The cricket board has repeatedly overlooked his experience, failing to recognize the invaluable insights he could bring to developing young talent in Bangladesh. His nurturing presence, like that of an elder brother, could be instrumental in managing egos, guiding new players, and fostering team unity. Bangladesh cricket needs mentors like Aminul, figures who understand not only the technical demands of the game but also the human side of mentorship. His history, marked by resilience, hard work, and passion, stands as a testament to what can be achieved with vision and dedication.

Aminul Islam is more than just an icon; he is a custodian of cricket’s values and an asset whose experience could elevate the sport in Bangladesh. His legacy and skills deserve recognition not only as a chapter in cricket history but as a beacon for its future. To dismiss such knowledge, passion, and loyalty is to overlook a gardener who knows how to cultivate talent, who has dedicated his life to blooming beautiful flowers on foreign soil when he should have been welcomed with open arms at home. Bangladesh cricket has much to gain from inviting him back to the fold, from allowing Aminul Islam to share his wisdom with the next generation of cricketers. His contribution could be transformative—a guiding hand for young guns, a quiet strength for the veterans, and a unifying spirit for the whole team.

 

Thank You

Faisal Caesar

A Symphony of Reverse Swing: Dale Steyn’s Masterclass Seals South Africa’s Triumph

Setting the Stage: A Contest of Resilience and Strategy

In the fading light of the fourth day, as the sun dipped below the horizon, Dale Steyn orchestrated a spell of reverse swing so mesmerizing that it transcended mere cricket and entered the realm of artistry. South Africa’s 231-run victory over Australia, achieved in the dying moments of the day, was not just a win; it was a testament to resilience, strategy, and the sheer brilliance of a fast bowler at the peak of his powers. This victory, carved out against the backdrop of a faltering forecast and a defiant Australian resistance, will be remembered as one of South Africa’s finest.

Graeme Smith’s Tactical Gamble

The stage was set for a dramatic conclusion. Graeme Smith, ever the pragmatist, declared South Africa’s innings 40 minutes before lunch, acutely aware of the ominous weather forecast for the final day. His decision to claim the extra half-hour in the evening session was a gamble, but one born of necessity. With Australia seven wickets down, the Proteas needed to strike swiftly, and Steyn, with his fiery spell, ensured they did just that. His fourth wicket of the innings, a marginal lbw decision against Ryan Harris, was emblematic of his relentless precision.

Chris Rogers: A Lone Warrior Amidst the Collapse

Chris Rogers, the architect of a magnificent fourth Test century, had been the bedrock of Australia’s resistance. His 237-ball vigil was a masterclass in patience and technique, but it was cut short by a moment of brilliance from substitute fielder Alviro Petersen, whose direct hit from mid-off left Rogers stranded. The dismissal was a turning point, a moment where the balance of the game shifted irrevocably in South Africa’s favor. Rogers’ departure, coupled with the deteriorating light, left Australia’s lower order exposed to the wiles of Steyn and his compatriots.

A Test of Character: South Africa’s Fightback

The narrative of this match was one of contrasts. South Africa, battered and bruised after their defeat in Centurion, faced questions over their team balance, the absence of a frontline spinner, and a pitch that seemed to defy the very essence of fast bowling. Yet, they rose above these challenges, crafting a victory that was as much about mental fortitude as it was about skill. Australia, on the other hand, began their pursuit of 448 with a flourish, as Rogers and David Warner’s rollicking 126-run opening stand momentarily raised hopes of an improbable chase. But cricket, like life, is often a tale of fleeting fortunes.

Warner’s Dismissal: The Beginning of the End

Warner’s dismissal, courtesy of JP Duminy’s clever bowling, marked the beginning of Australia’s unraveling. Duminy, whose left-arm spin had caused discomfort to both openers, delivered a ball that straightened just enough to clip Warner’s leg stump. Without Warner’s aggressive intent, Australia’s scoring rate stuttered, and South Africa seized the initiative. The introduction of reverse swing, that most elusive of cricketing arts, tilted the game decisively in the home side’s favor.

Dale Steyn’s Mesmerizing Spell

Steyn, after an indifferent start with the new ball, found his rhythm in a spell that will be etched in the annals of cricketing lore. His five-over burst yielded three wickets for just 11 runs, each dismissal a masterpiece in its own right.

Michael Clarke fell to a delivery that seamed away late, the edge brilliantly snaffled by Faf du Plessis at second slip.

Steven Smith, so often Australia’s savior, was undone by a ball that ducked back sharply, crashing into his pads and leaving middle stump in peril.

Brad Haddin suffered the ultimate humiliation, his middle stump uprooted for the second time in the match—a stark reminder that even the most seasoned batsmen are rendered helpless against a bowler in full flight.

Rogers’ Defiance: A Flicker of Hope

Amid the carnage, Rogers’ century stood as a beacon of defiance. His innings, punctuated by crisp drives and unwavering concentration, was a throwback to his Ashes heroics. Yet, even his resolve could not withstand the collective might of South Africa’s attack. The final act of the day, a contentious catch by AB de Villiers that was ultimately ruled not out, encapsulated the tension and drama of the session. As the sun dipped below the horizon, it seemed Rogers might yet shepherd Australia to the final day. But Steyn, ever the predator, had other ideas.

A Victory Forged in Adversity

In the end, South Africa’s victory was a triumph of will over circumstance. It was a reminder that cricket, at its core, is a game of moments—moments of brilliance, moments of despair, and moments that linger in the memory long after the final ball has been bowled. As the Proteas celebrated under the floodlights, their joy was not just in the result, but in the manner of its achievement. For Dale Steyn, this was more than a spell; it was a symphony, a crescendo of skill and passion that echoed through the annals of cricketing history. And for South Africa, it was a victory forged in the crucible of adversity, a testament to their enduring spirit.

The Beauty of Test Cricket

As the curtains close on this chapter, one cannot help but marvel at the beauty of Test cricket. It is a game that demands patience, rewards skill, and, on days like this, transcends sport to become something truly sublime. Tomorrow, the sun will rise on a new day, but the echoes of Steyn’s spell will resonate for years to come.

Thank You 

Faisal Caesar 

Graeme Pollock's Heroic Stand: A Tale of Valor at Newlands

Cape Town cradled between majestic mountains and the boundless Atlantic, beckons travellers with its unmatched beauty. From Table Mountain’s towering presence to the churning waters teeming with great whites, Cape Town is an adventurer's dream. Among these treasures, the city is also home to Newlands Cricket Stadium, where fans can experience the passion and grandeur of summer cricket, framed against the imposing silhouette of Table Mountain. Newlands is a stage that has hosted some of cricket’s most unforgettable performances, its stands alive with the energy of the crowd and the drama unfolding on the pitch. 

One such epic battle took place in the summer of 1967. Australia, led by the steely Bobby Simpson, was touring South Africa. The Proteas began with a victory in Johannesburg, setting the series aflame. That first Test saw South Africa turn the tables after trailing by 126 runs, thanks to a commanding second-innings display from Eddie Barlow, Ali Bacher, Graeme Pollock, and others. The Australians were humbled, bowled out by Trevor Goddard’s six-for, and South Africa claimed a 1-0 lead.

But Cape Town’s Newlands was to be the stage for Australia’s fierce response. In the second Test, they roared back, but it was South African Graeme Pollock who, in pain yet undeterred, would become the match’s enduring legend. 

Australia batted first and laid down an imposing 542, with Bobby Simpson and Keith Stackpole both reaching centuries. Eddie Barlow showed grit by claiming five wickets, but South Africa’s reply was precarious from the outset. Graeme McKenzie tore through the Proteas' top order, and by the end of the second day, they were limping at 56 for 3. Among them was Pollock, nursing an injured thigh, yet unbeaten on 28, a score stitched together with boundaries struck by sheer determination.

The third day dawned bright and warm, casting Newlands in a vibrant light. But for those watching, that scenery was eclipsed by Pollock’s willpower and skill at the crease. His injury was severe, and his right leg—the essential foundation for a left-hander’s stance—was practically unusable. Pollock’s solution was ingenious and brave: he shifted his weight onto his back foot, minimizing his movement and forcing his balance to the back. This made every cover drive a precarious marvel, with his right foot often lifted off the ground. 

South Africa's wickets fell rapidly, and they soon teetered at 85 for 5. It was then that Pollock shifted gears, giving the Newlands crowd a display of unrelenting aggression and artistry. Against an Australian bowling attack eager to tighten their grip, Pollock retaliated with ferocity, crafting shots off the back foot with astonishing control and power. His elegance was compromised by his limited movement, yet his resilience imbued each stroke with purpose and audacity.

In a mere 139 balls, Pollock reached his hundred, and the onslaught continued. He drove and cut with astonishing ferocity, disregarding his physical limitations, each shot echoing through the stadium. By the time he edged a ball to HB Taber, Pollock had amassed a staggering 209 runs, embellished with thirty boundaries. It was a masterclass etched into the annals of cricket, a performance of indomitable courage that reverberates to this day.

Although Pollock’s valiant knock couldn't prevent South Africa from following on, and despite his failure in the second innings, his courage had invigorated his teammates. They fought hard, setting Australia a target of 180 in the final innings. Australia chased it down to secure victory, yet the lasting memory of that game was not their comeback, but Pollock’s heroic stand. His innings played on one good leg and an iron will remain one of cricket's greatest feats, an immortal tale of valour at Newlands. 

Pollock’s knock is part of the folklore of cricket, an enduring reminder of a batsman's spirit triumphing over adversity. His innings wasn't just about runs or statistics; it was a testament to resilience, skill, and the boundless magic of cricket at Newlands.

Thank You

Faisal Caesar

Brendon McCullum’s 302: A Study in Self-Denial, Transformation, and Triumph

Brendon McCullum has always been a cricketer who played on instinct—an aggressive batsman whose natural game is defined by audacity, fearlessness, and the refusal to be tied down. He is a destroyer, a swashbuckler, a man who witnesses no reason to merely accumulate runs when they could be seized with ruthless efficiency. His batting philosophy is simple: attack is the best form of survival.

Yet, for nearly two days at the Basin Reserve, McCullum fought against everything that had defined him. He waged a battle not just against the Indian bowlers or the match situation, but against himself. Against the urge to dominate, to strike, to dictate terms with sheer force. It was a war against his very essence.

And he won.

We can only imagine the mental toll this innings took on him. It is one thing to refine technique, to make adjustments based on form or conditions. But to reinvent oneself in the middle of a Test match—to forsake one’s fundamental instincts in pursuit of a greater cause—is a feat few have accomplished. How many of us have truly defied our own nature and succeeded?

The Body Betrays, The Mind Endures

At 32, McCullum is far from old in cricketing terms. But his body, battered by years of diving into advertising boards, chasing lost causes, and playing in pain, had aged beyond its years. His back was a constant source of discomfort, his shoulder was sore, and he was carrying several niggles.

On the fourth evening, he admitted that he had scraped through the final hour in a daze. The physical exhaustion was overwhelming, yet from the outside, he betrayed no sign of weakness. His face remained composed, his body language unwavering. Even as he ran hard for a third run while on 277, even as he fielded at cover the next day, even as he battled fatigue in his twelfth hour of batting—he refused to let the pain show.

This was a masterclass in endurance, not just of the body but of the will. Cricket has seen great innings of attrition before—Sachin Tendulkar’s 241 not out in Sydney in 2004, where he deliberately cut out the cover drive, comes to mind. But Tendulkar’s task was selective restraint, a calculated omission of a single stroke. McCullum’s challenge was all-encompassing. His entire game was built on risk. To strip that away was to dismantle his very foundation. Yet, for the sake of his team, for the sake of history, he did it.

The Captain’s Burden: Beyond Personal Glory

Had New Zealand collapsed in this match, the series that had promised so much would have been reduced to an afterthought. A 1-0 lead would have evaporated into a drawn series. The memories of their dominance would have been tainted by the bitter taste of an avoidable failure.

When McCullum walked in on the third morning, New Zealand was staring at disaster. They had lost half their side for 94, still 152 runs away from making India bat again. The match—and the series—hung by a thread.

This was not the time for McCullum the entertainer, the risk-taker. This was the time for McCullum the leader.

And so, he resisted. He left balls he would have once slashed at. He absorbed pressure instead of counterattacking. He understood that his team needed time, not fireworks. He was missing his best batsman in Ross Taylor, and his lower order was fragile. This was a captain who knew that his side’s fate depended on his willingness to endure.

This was not defiance—it was duty.

A Nation Holds Its Breath

By the fifth morning, the match was saved. McCullum had already achieved what had once seemed impossible. But history was still within reach. No New Zealand batsman had ever scored 300 in a Test match. Martin Crowe had come agonizingly close, falling for 299. The milestone remained elusive.

For 46 minutes that morning, the entire country seemed to pause. The crowd at the Basin Reserve cheered every single as if it were a six. The economy of New Zealand might have momentarily stalled, as anticipation built with every defensive shot, every push into the gaps, every ticking of the scoreboard.

On 293, McCullum played at one that fell just short of the fielder. The crowd gasped. Then, as if sensing the moment, he accelerated. A boundary took him to 297. Another to 300.

And then, with a glide past gully, he had done it.

For four minutes, the applause did not stop. His father, Stu McCullum, was in the stands, taking in the moment. Every seat in the ground was empty—because every spectator was standing. This was no longer just McCullum’s achievement. This was New Zealand’s moment. A moment 84 years in the making.

The Aftermath: A Hard-Earned Draw and a Series Victory

New Zealand eventually declared at 680 for 8, their highest Test total. Had McCullum fallen earlier, they might have left India a tricky target. But they had worked too hard to throw it away. They batted on for ten more overs, ensuring India had no sniff of victory.

India, given 67 overs to survive, started shakily. Shikhar Dhawan fell to an lbw that, in retrospect, would have missed the stumps. Kohli edged one early on but did not walk, showing no inclination towards fair play when survival was at stake.

For a while, it seemed New Zealand might push for victory. Trent Boult and Tim Southee bowled with fire. Cheteshwar Pujara fell to a brutal short ball. There were half-chances, fleeting moments of excitement.

But Virat Kohli held firm. His innings was not one of resistance but of dominance. He played with fluency, unfazed by the pressure. He scored a century, his third outside Asia, and ensured that India would not lose.

When the captains shook hands after 52 overs, the match was drawn. The series, however, was New Zealand’s.

A Legacy Redefined

For McCullum, this innings was more than a statistical landmark. It was a transformation. It was a glimpse into what he could become—more than just an attacking batsman, more than just an entertainer. He had shown himself capable of adaptability, of resilience, of fighting not just against bowlers, but against his own nature.

It was, in every sense, an act of willpower.

Cricket often glorifies numbers, but some innings transcend mere statistics. Brendon McCullum’s 302 was one such innings. Not because it was a triple-century, but because of what it represented—the ability of an individual to redefine himself, to suppress his natural instincts, and to deliver when it mattered most.

And for that, McCullum’s 302 will forever be remembered not just as a score, but as a testament to human perseverance.

Thank You 

Faisal Caesar 

The Revival of Fast Bowling: Mitchell Johnson’s Fierce Resurgence in a Batsman’s Era

 

In an age when cricket is dominated by colossal sixes and blistering boundaries, where T20 culture fuels a thirst for quick thrills and towering scores, fast bowling has often seemed like a relic of a bygone era. Batsmen today are celebrated like conquerors, the pitch favours their power, and the rules lean heavily in their favour, skewing the game towards an epic spectacle of bat against bat rather than the classic clash of bat and ball. 

But for those of us who grew up in the late ‘80s and ‘90s, cricket was defined by an exhilarating balance. It was a stage for the most compelling of duels—one where speed and power could meet finesse and technique. Back then, the game felt electric, with formidable fast bowlers like Wasim Akram, Waqar Younis, Curtly Ambrose, Courtney Walsh, and Allan Donald charging in with raw ferocity, giving cricket a dangerous allure. They carried on the legacy of titans before them—Imran Khan, Dennis Lillee, Malcolm Marshall, and Michael Holding—fearsome bowlers who ruled with brutal elegance. 

But the last decade brought with it an uncomfortable reality: the fiery pace of true fast bowlers was disappearing, seemingly tamed by commercial pressures. Sponsors preferred seeing the ball sent soaring into the stands rather than whizzing past a ducking batsman. In this paradigm shift, young fast bowlers were increasingly urged to trade raw pace for precision, to deliver in the safe corridor of line and length, sacrificing the reckless thrill that once defined their craft.

Enter Dale Steyn in the late 2000s—a lone wolf who kept the fire alive, a symbol of speed and intimidation. He held on to the fast-bowling flame, but for true fans, it wasn’t enough. We yearned for more wild, untamed forces who could bring back that primal energy, who could make our hearts race. The spirit of fast bowling needed a catalyst, a force of nature.

The Rejuvenation of a Speedstar 

And then, in the 2013-14 Ashes series, that force arrived, reincarnated in Mitchell Johnson. In the first Test at Brisbane, Johnson’s thunderous pace unleashed a storm beyond anything the English batsmen had prepared for. He didn’t just bowl fast; he bowled with a ferocity and control that sent shivers down their spines. Bouncers screamed past helmets, struck arms, and shattered wickets with a relentless intensity that transformed the Australian summer into a nightmare for England. The crowd electrified, chanted his name, their roars echoing the enthusiasm once reserved for legends like Dennis Lillee and Jeff Thomson. Johnson tore through the English lineup, ending the Ashes with an astonishing 37 wickets.

But he wasn’t finished. Next, he flew to South Africa, cricket’s top-ranked Test team at the time. And here, at Centurion, Johnson only grew more fierce, more devastating. Each delivery was a bolt of lightning, leaving South African batsmen stunned, bewildered, and shell-shocked. His twelve-wicket haul in the match dented the South African psyche, reminding them—and the cricketing world—that the terrible beauty of true fast bowling was not dead.

Mitchell Johnson is a throwback to an era when fast bowlers were fearsome hunters. With his fierce moustache and menacing demeanour, he looked every bit the wild beast on the prowl, savouring the thrill of the hunt. For him, pace bowling isn’t a matter of robotic precision; it’s a visceral, thrilling experience, a high-wire act of speed, aggression, and unpredictability. He doesn’t cater to a formulaic line-and-length; he embodies raw energy, delivering every ball with unbridled intensity. Johnson isn’t about elegance or restraint; he’s about primal excitement and the kind of raw power that commands the crowd’s attention.

The New Hope in Fast Bowling

Mitchell Johnson has become cricket’s modern-day tornado, a force that can decimate a batting lineup in a session, transforming the stadium into a cauldron of excitement. When he runs in, the crowd holds its breath, sensing that something extraordinary—whether triumphant or calamitous—is about to happen. Johnson has reignited the crowd’s passion for fast bowling, giving them a taste of what it means to live on the edge.

In Johnson, cricket has found its much-needed Renaissance. He’s the revolution the game desperately needed, a beacon of hope for young bowlers who aspire to more than just precision and restraint. By blazing a trail of sheer pace and unadulterated aggression, Johnson offers a glimpse of a brave new world of fast bowling—one that might inspire broadcasters and fans alike to celebrate not just the spectacle of the bat, but the thrill of the ball hurtling toward 90 miles per hour. Mitchell Johnson is indeed a terrible beauty, and through him, cricket’s glorious legacy of fast bowling lives on.

Thank You

Faisal Caesar

Michael Holding: The Whispering Tempest and the Art of Destruction

There are cricketers, and then there are forces of nature. Michael Holding belonged to the latter category. He was not merely a fast bowler; he was an aesthetic marvel, a paradoxical blend of silence and storm, a master of speed who approached his craft with the grace of a dancer and the ferocity of a warrior. His bowling was not just about wickets but about an experience—one that left batsmen rattled, umpires in awe, and spectators mesmerized.

Nicknamed Whispering Death for his near-soundless approach to the crease, Holding defied the conventions of fast bowling. His was an action unburdened by exaggerated effort—fluid, rhythmic, almost hypnotic. But within that deceptive elegance lay a menace that could transform a batting order into a pile of broken stumps and shattered confidence. His legacy is etched in the pages of cricketing history not only through numbers and statistics but through unforgettable images: Geoff Boycott groping at thin air, Brian Close being battered at Old Trafford, stumps uprooted at The Oval, and, in a moment of sheer frustration, his boot sending the bails flying in New Zealand.

The Genesis of a Legend

Michael Holding’s journey into the fast bowling pantheon began in Jamaica, a land that has historically produced men of towering physical and mental strength. As a young boy, he was gifted with a lean, athletic frame and a natural affinity for speed. Yet, like many great athletes, his early career was fraught with struggle.

His introduction to Test cricket came in the most hostile of environments—the 1975-76 tour of Australia. Facing the ferocious duo of Dennis Lillee and Jeff Thomson, Holding found himself part of a West Indian side that was being steamrolled by a ruthless Australian team. The pitches were fast and bouncy, the opposition relentless, and the crowds baying for Caribbean blood. Holding, still raw and learning the trade, could manage just 10 wickets at an average of 61.40. It was a baptism not by fire, but by an inferno.

Many a fast bowler would have wilted under such an onslaught. Holding did not. He returned from that bruising tour a different beast—leaner, wiser, more determined. Clive Lloyd, the astute leader of the West Indies, saw in him a weapon that could turn the tide of cricket’s power struggle. The Australians had their enforcers in Lillee and Thomson; Lloyd would build his own pace empire, and Holding would be at its vanguard.

The Coming of Age: England 1976

If the 1975-76 series was Holding’s trial by fire, the 1976 series against England was his anointment as the harbinger of West Indian supremacy. England, under Tony Greig, had underestimated the Caribbean force that was about to be unleashed. Greig’s infamous claim that he would make the West Indians grovel was not just an ill-advised comment; it was an invitation for annihilation.

Holding, along with his fellow pacemen, responded in kind. His 28 wickets in four Tests came at a staggering average of 12.71. The English batsmen, seasoned players of seam and swing, had no answers to the searing pace, the brutal bounce, and the ruthless accuracy.

Yet, it was at The Oval in the final Test of the series that Holding truly ascended to cricketing immortality. On a dry, lifeless surface that had reduced all other bowlers to mere spectators, Holding reverted to the fundamentals of fast bowling—full, straight, and unrelenting. He took 8 for 92 in the first innings, following it up with 6 for 57 in the second. Nine times the stumps were rattled, three batsmen were trapped plumb in front. Only two of his victims required a fielder’s intervention.

It was not just the numbers that were staggering; it was the sheer force of will that made this performance otherworldly. Holding had transformed a dead wicket into a minefield, bending the laws of physics and cricketing wisdom to his will.

The Caribbean Enforcer

By the late 1970s, Holding was no longer just a fast bowler—he was an instrument of destruction, a symbol of the new West Indies, a team that would dictate terms rather than be dictated to.

Now part of a fearsome quartet that included Andy Roberts, Joel Garner, and Colin Croft, Holding became the embodiment of West Indian aggression. Their dominance was not just about skill; it was a psychological war. Opponents did not merely face pace; they faced an existential crisis every time they took guard.

One of Holding’s most infamous performances came against India in 1976 at Kingston, Jamaica—a match so brutal that it remains a case study in cricket’s delicate balance between competition and safety. The pitch was a hostile, uneven surface, and Holding, operating at full throttle, unleashed a barrage of bouncers that forced Indian captain Bishan Singh Bedi to take the extraordinary decision of declaring his innings twice—not out of strategy, but out of sheer concern for his batsmen’s well-being.

The West Indies were no longer a team simply playing cricket. They were imposing an empire, and Holding was one of its foremost generals.

The Art of Fast Bowling

Holding’s genius lay in the seamless marriage of speed and aesthetics. Many fast bowlers have been terrifying; few have been beautiful. His run-up was unlike any other—long, languid, almost silent. Where other quicks charged in like warriors, Holding glided like a panther, barely touching the ground before unleashing deliveries of unerring precision.

Yet, he was not merely a bowler of brute force. He was a craftsman, capable of subtlety. When the surfaces in India in 1983 denied him the traditional virtues of pace and bounce, he adjusted, emerging with 30 wickets in six Tests at 22.10.

And then there was that over to Geoffrey Boycott in 1981—a passage of play that has since passed into legend. Boycott, one of the finest defensive batsmen cricket has seen, was made to look utterly helpless. The first five deliveries beat him. The sixth shattered his off-stump. It was an exhibition not just of raw pace, but of a bowler in complete control of his art.

The End of an Era and a New Beginning

By 1987, the years of relentless fast bowling had taken their toll. Holding’s body, once so fluid, began to falter. His final Test at Wellington saw him bowl 37 overs without success. The fast bowler’s greatest enemy—time—had finally caught up.

Yet, Holding was not done with the game. His transition to commentary was as effortless as his bowling action. His voice, rich and deliberate, became one of cricket’s most authoritative narrations. He spoke not just with knowledge, but with a rare dignity and clarity.

And then came his most defining moment off the field—his impassioned speech on racism in sport and society. It was not just the words he spoke, but the sincerity with which he delivered them. In that moment, Holding was not merely a former cricketer or a commentator; he was a statesman, speaking for generations of athletes who had endured racial discrimination.

The Immortal Whisper

Michael Holding’s legacy is not merely that of a great fast bowler. He was an experience, a moment in time when cricket was both at its most beautiful and most terrifying. He was the storm that moved with grace, the whisper that carried death, the artist who wielded destruction.

Even today, long after his final delivery, the memory of that silent, ghostly run-up lingers. The cricketing world may never see another like him, but as long as fast bowling exists, his shadow will always loom—silent, deadly, and eternal.

Thank You 

Faisal Caesar 

The Shining Yet Shadowed Legacy of Kevin Pietersen: England’s Maverick Lost

The Australian summer had scorched the English cricket team, leaving it battered and demoralized. But the true heat came not from the relentless sun, but from Mitchell Johnson’s blistering pace that tore through English defenses. It was a devastating series, one that saw Jonathan Trott step back, citing a debilitating mental struggle after the humiliation in Brisbane, while Graeme Swann quit all forms of cricket midway through. England melted, an ice sculpture in the inferno, ultimately succumbing to a historic 5-0 Ashes loss. 

As England’s cricket board braced for a revamp in the aftermath, a new shock surfaced: Kevin Pietersen, England’s most prolific and flamboyant batsman, would not be part of this rebuilding. Rumours flew: KP, it seemed, had been unmanageable during the Australian tour. This wasn’t the first time his brash personality and uncontainable flair had ruffled feathers within England's cricket hierarchy. But this time, the decision seemed final. England would move forward without their dazzling talisman.

Pietersen’s exclusion felt like an act of self-sabotage. Here was a batsman who brought rare mastery to the crease, who had not only stamped his authority but brought a kind of elegance mixed with audacity to England’s batting order. Since his debut in 2005, KP, with his fearsome pulls, audacious slog sweeps, and thrilling switch-hits, had thrilled crowds and struck fear into opposing teams. He was the centrepiece of England’s ascent in world cricket—a player who could turn games and raise England’s profile on the global stage.

Yet Pietersen’s off-field controversies followed him like shadows. His rebellious personality, sponsorship deals, striking blond highlights, and unabashed prioritization of the IPL drew criticism and raised eyebrows. His public rift with then-coach Peter Moores cost him the captaincy; his infamous text-message saga led to a temporary exile from the team. But time and again, his reintegration into the squad underscored his cricketing genius. He was, simply put, too talented to ignore.

Kevin Pietersen was England’s quintessential maverick. Mavericks are often misunderstood, their brilliance laced with complexity. Driven by a restless spirit, they operate by their own rules, challenging authority and embracing risks with fearless conviction. Pietersen embodied that archetype: a player who thrived on challenging convention, bending the rules, and daring to be different. Mavericks are valuable because they add depth, unpredictability, and excitement—a team’s golden goose. Cricketing history has witnessed captains like Mike Brearley and Imran Khan managing these “crazy diamonds” with skill and patience. Brearley’s guidance helped Ian Botham channel his raw talent, and Imran Khan’s command held together Pakistan’s mercurial squad in the 1980s. With the right leadership, such players can shine brighter and contribute immensely to a team’s success.

Yet, it appears that England was unwilling, or perhaps unable, to harness Pietersen’s unique spirit. Paul Downton, England’s new managing director, attempted to justify the decision, acknowledging Pietersen’s outstanding contributions but emphasizing a need to “rebuild not only the team but also team ethic and philosophy.” His words were measured, but for cricket fans, they rang hollow. How could a team’s ethos improve by sidelining its most passionate player, the one who, through sheer talent, had lifted England from the ordinary to the extraordinary?

At 33, Pietersen was still far from finished. His physical prowess and insatiable hunger for competition hinted that he could have served England’s cause for several more years. With a player of such calibre, a wise administration would have found a way to manage his mercurial temperament. If handled skillfully, Pietersen could have remained a linchpin in England’s batting lineup, anchoring the team through its rebuilding phase. 

What stings most is that Pietersen’s exclusion seems to be about everything but his cricketing abilities. The whispers and rumours of discord are a familiar refrain, a toxic undercurrent that has trailed his career. Yet one is left wondering: was the issue truly with KP, or did his unconventional brilliance simply fail to fit the mould of England’s restrained cricketing ethos? With Pietersen gone, international cricket loses one of its rare “crazy diamonds,” a player who refused to bow to convention and whose flair and individuality redefined English cricket.

Kevin Pietersen’s career, marked by defiant brilliance, seems to have ended not on his terms, nor through a decline in his skill, but due to the inability of English cricket to accommodate a genius who coloured outside the lines. The cricketing world is poorer for his absence. For those who love the game’s unpredictability and spirit, one can only ask: what would cricket be without Kevin Pietersen, the shining yet shadowed legacy of a maverick who truly changed the game?

 
Thank You
Faisal Caesar

Bangladesh’s Crossroads: The Cost of Siding with Cricket’s Big Three

 

The state of global cricket stands on a precipice, torn by a clash of power and principle. Cricket’s three wealthiest boards—the BCCI (India), Cricket Australia, and the ECB (England)—have tabled proposals that, while advantageous to their own interests, pose serious threats to the broader cricketing world. These proposals were met with immediate opposition from several cricketing nations, notably Pakistan, South Africa, Sri Lanka, and Bangladesh, all of whom voiced their concerns at the recent International Cricket Council (ICC) meeting in Dubai on January 28 and 29.

Initially, the Bangladesh Cricket Board (BCB), led by Nazmul Hassan Papon, seemed inclined to support the so-called "Big Three" proposal. However, public outcry back home in Bangladesh swiftly shifted Papon’s stance. Die-hard fans took to the streets, expressing deep-rooted fears about the future of their beloved sport, while cricket analysts in Bangladesh vehemently criticized the board’s initial support. This groundswell of resistance urged Papon to oppose the ICC's proposed revamp.

Central to Bangladesh’s concerns was the introduction of a two-tier Test cricket system, which would threaten the country’s hard-won Test status. Under such a system, Bangladesh and Zimbabwe would be relegated to playing the Intercontinental Cup against associate nations, with limited chances to challenge the top-tier Test teams. The BCB's advocacy against this system bore fruit when the ICC added a clause affirming that all member nations could play in all formats of cricket, with participation based on “meritocracy.” On this assurance, Papon quieted his opposition and, ultimately, lent his support to the revised proposal.

Papon’s decision appeared, at face value, a triumph for Bangladesh. His priority was safeguarding Bangladesh’s Test status, and he achieved that. However, this stance raised questions about his broader responsibilities to the global cricket community. Bangladesh, though not yet a top-tier power, is nevertheless an integral part of the world cricket structure. Shouldn’t the board have considered the wider impact of the proposal, beyond immediate security for their own Test status?

With Papon’s endorsement, the Big Three were left with only one vote short of passing their constitutional amendments. Bangladesh's backing seemed to tip the scales in their favour. At Dhaka’s Shahjalal International Airport, Papon painted his acceptance as a victory, stating: “We will be in a better position than others. We haven’t been to India in 14 years. We will go there to play Tests, and they will come here too. We will go to England; Australia will come here.” His remarks, however, seemed strangely uncritical, as though the mere prospect of a high-profile series justified the decision.

Yet, were these promises made by the Big Three concrete? Was there a binding, written assurance? Given the BCCI’s long-standing issues with fulfilling its bilateral commitments to Pakistan, it’s entirely possible that Bangladesh, too, could face an empty promise. Without a written contract, Bangladesh could find itself sidelined by wealthier, busier cricket boards whose schedules are increasingly full with domestic leagues and high-value bilateral series.

Furthermore, did Papon fully comprehend the implications of the “meritocracy” clause? Al-Amin, a sports journalist with Bangladesh’s Daily Star, dissected this term and suggested that it might be a veiled pretext for relegating less financially lucrative teams to the sidelines in the longer formats. He pointed out that the ICC has already implemented “merit-based” selections in limited-overs formats, resulting in Bangladesh and Zimbabwe playing qualifying phases for major tournaments. Thus, the “meritocracy” language may be less about fair play and more about sidelining smaller teams from regular competition with elite sides.

The phrase “no immunity to any country” also raises a red flag. If immunity doesn’t apply, then relegation remains a real possibility, placing Bangladesh’s Test future back on shaky ground. A superficial look at the proposal could create a sense of security, but a deeper analysis reveals vulnerabilities that threaten to erode Bangladesh's stability in world cricket.

Rather than aligning with the Big Three, Papon should have remained with Pakistan, South Africa, and Sri Lanka, who continued to voice their concerns. Together, they might have leveraged a collective stance to challenge the legality of the Big Three's plan, even taking their case to the Court of Arbitration for Sport (CAS). However, if Papon signs the Member Participation Agreement (MPA) on February 8, he may lose the chance to stand with these cricket boards or seek legal recourse.

Indeed, should the promises made by the Big Three materialize, Bangladesh could benefit financially from more high-profile games with cricket’s wealthiest boards. Yet these benefits may prove fleeting, a temporary inflow of funds masking the longer-term challenges that could arise from conceding so much influence to three powerful boards. Verbal assurances from “cunning minds,” as critics have called the Big Three, hold little weight against the unpredictable currents of global cricket politics.

While Bangladeshi fans may initially rejoice at Papon’s promises of prosperity, looking beyond the short-term gains is essential. Bangladesh’s loyalty to world cricket’s traditional values is part of its identity, a badge of honour hard-won and not easily sacrificed. In this turbulent landscape, one can only hope that Papon’s decisions do not ultimately compromise the broader integrity of the sport. For cricket fans who cherish the unpredictable beauty of this game, preserving the spirit and equality of world cricket should remain the top priority, above fleeting financial gain.

 

Thank You

Faisal Caesar