Babar Azam and the Art of Resistance

Cricket, at its most poetic, is not about victory or defeat—it is about defiance, about holding one’s ground when the tide has already announced its destination. In Karachi, Babar Azam authored such defiance, chiselling 196 runs of rare beauty and fortitude, and in doing so, he held up a mirror to the essence of Test cricket: survival as triumph.

The Weight of a Captaincy and a Century Drought

For two years, Babar’s bat had been silent on the matter of centuries. Silence, however, is not absence—it is incubation. When he arrived at the crease with Pakistan trembling at 21 for 2, destiny seemed to invite yet another collapse. Instead, what unfolded was an innings that transcended numbers. Yes, it was the highest fourth-innings score by a captain in Test history. Yes, it spanned 425 balls, more than some entire teams survive in a match. But to reduce it to statistics is to ignore its greater resonance: it was an act of reclamation. Babar reclaimed his narrative, and with it, Pakistan’s pride.

The Mirage of Victory, the Substance of Survival

There was a moment—brief, intoxicating—when the impossible shimmered on the horizon. With Rizwan settling into rhythm and the partnership swelling, Pakistan flirted with the idea of chasing down the record 506. For a people who live perpetually at the edge of dreams, the suggestion was irresistible. The crowd did its arithmetic, its feverish brains running faster than the scoreboard. For a fleeting hour, victory seemed to slip into the realm of possibility.

But cricket, like life, punishes audacity when it is misplaced. The ball grew old, the runs dried up, and Lyon—Australia’s much-maligned spinner—found sudden vindication. Babar fell, Rizwan resisted, and the contest retreated from conquest to preservation. And yet, what preservation it was: 171.4 overs faced, second only to the timeless Test of 1939. Pakistan had not won, but they had endured—and endurance, in Test cricket, is often more eternal than victory.

The Theatre of Tension

In those final overs, with seven Australians swarming the bat and every delivery heavy with menace, the National Stadium transformed into a theatre of nerves. Every forward defence by Nauman Ali was applauded as though it were a cover drive. Every Rizwan single became a hymn of resistance. And when Rizwan finally reached his century, not as a marauder but as a sentinel, the ground exhaled. This was not the rapture of victory—it was the relief of survival, which in cricket can feel just as sweet.

Australia’s Frustration, Pakistan’s Redemption

Australia will curse their drops, rue their fatigue, and wonder how once again they let a fourth innings slip through their grasp. They will count the missed chances—Smith’s spill in the slips, Khawaja’s drop at extra cover—as squandered opportunities. But Test cricket has never been about the chances you create; it is about the ones you take. And Pakistan, battered in the first innings, humiliated at 148, took their chance to rewrite the narrative.

For them, this was no draw. It was a reclamation of dignity, a reminder that Karachi is not to be conquered lightly, and that cricket’s beauty lies as much in what is denied as in what is achieved.

The Lasting Memory

When Babar walked back four short of 200, Karachi stood in ovation not for the runs but for the spirit. It was a century that will be told not as a scorecard entry but as a story of how Pakistan, against logic and precedent, survived.

The man at the gate, smiling wryly, asked at the end: *“What happened today, huh?”*

The answer is simple yet profound: Pakistan remembered how to fight. And in Test cricket, sometimes that is victory enough.

 Thank You

Faisal Caesar