If cricket matches are supposed to tell stories, this one was a haiku: short, sharp, and devastatingly direct. In a world where modern white-ball cricket celebrates innovation and caution in equal measure, the West Indies attacked Pakistan with the blunt poetry of vintage fast bowling. The result? A batting collapse so severe it bordered on tragic parody.
This
humiliation was not born of mystery spin, nor clever variations, nor a devilish
pitch. No—West Indies bowled short. Again. And again. And again. Relentless,
hostile, old-school. A length that once terrorized batters in the 1980s
returned to expose Pakistan’s fearful choreography: hopping, swaying,
ducking—all to calypso rhythms they never learned to dance to.
At the
forefront of this revival was Oshane Thomas, raw pace in human form, leading
his side to bundle Pakistan out for what could have been a historic double-digit
embarrassment had the final wicket not staged a miniature rebellion. It was
Pakistan’s second-lowest World Cup total, and a chilling reminder that
reputation means very little when feet refuse to move.
The chase
was no spectacle—West Indies need not perform elaborate acts when the
opposition has already performed self-destruction. Even as Mohammad Amir
rediscovered fleeting echoes of his former menace, picking up all three
wickets, the outcome was beyond doubt. The scoreboard may have ticked, but the
tension never did.
Chris Gayle, that ageing monarch of mayhem, obliged the audience with calculated brutality—six fours, three sixes, a gentle reminder that even as his knees creak, his bat still roars. The win arrived with 36.2 overs untouched—a World Cup record in balls to spare. A beating so thorough it felt almost casual.
But if
Thomas was the executioner, Andre Russell was the intimidator. Every one of his
deliveries seemed less like a ball and more like a challenge to Pakistan’s
bravery. Fifteen out of eighteen were short: not variety, but velocity; not
cunning, but carnage. Wickets came almost as a mercy—Pakistan had already
mentally collapsed by the time the ball struck pad or glove or stumps.
Let us be
clear: **No pitch in the world is a 105-all-out pitch.** This one was
especially innocent. England—World Cup favourites—scored 359 here barely a
fortnight ago. If the solution to Pakistan’s woefulness were as simple as “just
bowl short,” analysts would have solved cricket decades ago.
This was
not the condition!
This was
not bad luck.
Thank You
Faisal Caesar
This was
cowardice under fire.
From Imam
ul Haq’s timid edge behind to Fakhar Zaman being undone by his own helmet,
Pakistan’s innings unfolded like a masterclass in how not to bat under
pressure. Babar Azam’s presence barely registered. No partnerships, no
perseverance, no pride.
The gulf
between the two sides felt psychological more than technical. West Indies
strode in as a side reborn—muscular, confident, snarling. Pakistan slouched
like a team that has forgotten the very sensation of victory: **eleven
consecutive defeats now and counting**.
Amir tried
to offer hope—a wicketless powerplay drought of 18 months finally broken—but
hope is not a match when the house is already ashes.
As Gayle’s
sixes sailed, spectators simply wanted nostalgia one last time, a Caribbean
farewell before sterner battles await the men in maroon. And those battles will
come. But on this day, they proved they possess the firepower and fury for the
biggest stage.
Pakistan,
on the other hand, must confront a darker truth: defeat is no longer shocking.
It is routine. And unless they rediscover discipline, courage, and technique,
this World Cup could become less a competition—and more a prolonged
humiliation.
West Indies
bowled short.
Pakistan
fell short.
And the
world watched the calypso chorus drown out a once-proud cricketing nation.
Thank You
Faisal Caesar
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