Wasim Akram vs, Rahul Dravid 1999: The Poetry of a Ball in Chennai

It was early 1999—January, perhaps February—a time when South Asia was embroiled in the high drama of Vajpayee and Sharif’s ill-fated romance, their hesitant gestures towards peace framed by a history of blood and boundary. The first Test series between India and Pakistan in a decade unfolded in a climate thick with expectation and tension. In Mumbai, the usual Sena-brand vandalism was reported; in Chennai, a grotesque provocation—a pig’s head placed in some strategic location—spoke volumes of the charged atmosphere in which a Pakistani bowler would make his mark in India. This was cricket, but also more than cricket. It was an encounter richer in political subtext than the routine narratives of an Australian bowler sending down his first delivery in England.

A Test in the Balance

The story of Pakistan in Chennai was one of defiance, collapse, resilience, and genius. Their batting faltered, then found its footing through the unlikeliest of protagonists—Shahid Afridi, a whirlwind in whites, who played an innings of rare substance. But it was the mastery of Saqlain Mushtaq, the world’s preeminent off-spinner at the time, that turned the tide. India, set a target of 272 in the fourth innings, seemed poised to script their own epic.

Waqar Younis struck first, finding a momentary revival in a longer run-up, but soon enough, rhythm began to elude him. In contrast, his partner Wasim Akram was operating at the zenith of his bowling powers. Wasim was the captain, a statesman of fast bowling, a figure of cinematic intensity before time softened him with glasses and a genial smile. In those days, he carried himself like a hero from the 1970s—brooding, electric with purpose. A bad call from the umpire could ignite him: a teapot stance, a sharp turn towards square leg, a muttered curse, a glare at the pitch, perhaps a shouted command at a fielder. Then, determination would take over, and he would return to his mark, ready to correct the perceived injustice with a single, devastating delivery.

The Spell and the Silence

It was the afternoon session, and Wasim was locked in battle with Rahul Dravid—The Wall, the technician, the thinker. The ball was talking on the dry Chennai surface, Wasim making it murmur secrets into Dravid’s ears. He swung them in late, teasing, sharp, just short of full. One of those deliveries rapped Dravid on the pads—a close call, possibly missing both leg and off, or maybe just fortunate enough to escape.

Then came the next ball, a moment of artistry so pure it belonged more to mythology than sport. It started swinging down the leg side, an innocuous movement, then, as if defying logic, it changed course—veering in the opposite direction, eight inches perhaps, a perfect figure of eight, a ball rebelling against its own trajectory. Dravid, normally the master of late adjustments, was outthought, outflanked. His bat was a fraction slow, a fraction misplaced. The ball kissed the tip-most, outer bail, dislodging it with a delicate hiss, an almost poetic caress.

For a moment, Chennai was stunned into silence. The weight of history, of rivalry, of political undercurrents, momentarily vanished. There was only the sound of Pakistani joy, Wasim’s teammates engulfing him in celebration, their voices piercing the air thick with disbelief.

The Epilogue of a Classic

Hours later, the match reached its crescendo—Sachin Tendulkar, battling pain and destiny, played what many would call his greatest innings. And yet, despite his genius, despite his near-singular will, Pakistan triumphed. In the end, Wasim led his men on a lap of honour, not of conquest, but of mutual respect. Chennai, its initial silence transformed into an ovation, acknowledged greatness without prejudice.

A great Test match is not just a contest; it is a cultural milestone, an event that reveals something fundamental about those who play and watch. The red ribbon arc of Dravid’s dislodged bail was more than a dismissal—it was an expression of staggering skill and precision, a fleeting moment of poetry in motion. It was neither a fragile peace nor war by other means; it was cricket in its most exalted form, a story left to us to interpret, cherish, and remember.

Thank You

Faisal Caesar 

 

 

Test Cricket's Evolving Drama: Bazball Meets Tradition in Hyderabad

In cricket's grand theatre, innovation and tradition often collide. The opening Test of the India-England series in Hyderabad showcased this dynamic vividly, with Bazball—the aggressive and unorthodox English approach—meeting the timeless art of Indian spin. The match evolved as a gripping contest of philosophies, ultimately producing a remarkable turnaround by England, defeating all odds and rewriting history. 

Day One: Spinners Strike, and Jaiswal Shines 

The series began on a surface less diabolical than the spinning traps India has been known for, but Ravindra Jadeja and R. Ashwin quickly demonstrated why they are regarded as modern greats. England's 246 was a tale of promise undone by spin mastery. Early resistance gave way to a collapse, with three wickets tumbling for five runs as the spinners denied space for expansive strokes. Axar Patel's unplayable delivery to Jonny Bairstow highlighted India's dominance. 

England’s counterpunch, however, came in the form of Tom Hartley, their debutant spinner. Though introduced to Test cricket with disdain—Yashasvi Jaiswal lofted his first delivery for six—Hartley's character grew as the game progressed. By stumps, India had already devoured 119 of England's runs, powered by Jaiswal's blistering half-century and Rohit Sharma's elegance. 

Day Two: Momentum Belongs to India 

The second day saw India bat with intent, building a commanding lead of 175. KL Rahul and Ravindra Jadeja led the charge with contrasting fifties, the former marrying precision with aggression, the latter displaying classical mastery over spin. Yet, India's willingness to play high-risk shots kept England in the game. 

Joe Root’s cameo with the ball and Hartley’s perseverance brought England brief respite, but the narrative seemed tilted irrevocably in India’s favour. A monumental challenge awaited England’s Bazball architects on day three, one that required audacity and brilliance in equal measure. 

Day Three: The Bazball Manifesto 

England’s second innings began under a cloud of doubt, with the ghosts of their defensive failures in the first innings lingering. What followed was a masterclass in reinvention, led by Ollie Pope’s extraordinary 196. Embracing Bazball’s core tenet—prioritizing attack over survival—Pope and his teammates swept, reverse-swept, and reverse-scooped India’s spinners into disarray. 

Pope’s brilliance, supplemented by Zak Crawley and Ben Duckett’s assertive starts, saw England rack up 300 in a second innings in India—a feat last achieved in 2012. Even the unflappable Ashwin and Jadeja were rendered mortal, with Jasprit Bumrah emerging as India’s best bowler on a third-day pitch. 

Day Four: England’s Stunning Coup 

The final day encapsulated Test cricket’s unpredictable beauty. Starting with a slender lead of 126 and four wickets in hand, England clawed their way to a defendable target thanks to Pope’s partnerships with Hartley and Rehan Ahmed. The trio’s defiance ensured that India faced a stiff chase on a deteriorating surface. 

Ben Stokes' captaincy shone as he deployed his bowlers masterfully, trusting Hartley and Root to exploit India’s vulnerabilities against spin. The hosts, unaccustomed to the sweeping audacity of Bazball, fell into a reactive mindset, unable to disrupt England’s rhythm. 

Rohit Sharma’s adventurous use of the sweep momentarily threatened a counterattack, but Hartley’s guile extinguished India’s hopes. With each wicket, England’s belief grew, and despite a spirited lower-order effort from Bumrah and Mohammed Siraj, the visitors sealed a historic win in the dying moments of the day. 

A Clash of Ideologies 

England’s triumph in Hyderabad was as much about strategy as execution. Bazball’s aggressive intent, exemplified by Pope’s innovative batting and Stokes’ bold leadership, unsettled India’s reliance on traditional methods. For India, the loss serves as a reminder of the need to adapt, particularly against opponents willing to redefine Test cricket’s norms. 

In this contest of styles, England’s audacity eclipsed India’s artistry. As the series unfolds, the question lingers: will India recalibrate, or will Bazball continue to script improbable victories? This is cricket at its finest—a blend of tradition, innovation, and the eternal tussle between bat and ball.

Thank You

Faisal Caesar 

Shamar Joseph’s Heroics Inspire a Historic West Indies Triumph in Australia

On a balmy Saturday evening at the Gabba, a yorker struck Shamar Joseph’s toe, leaving him crumpled on the ground in visible agony. The young fast bowler from Baracara, a remote village in Guyana, was forced to retire hurt, and his Test match appeared over. Yet, in a tale of courage, resilience, and destiny, Shamar would return to etch his name in West Indies cricket folklore, spearheading a stunning six-wicket haul to seal a historic victory over Australia.

The Unlikely Hero

Shamar’s journey to the Gabba was itself a remarkable narrative. Born in a village accessible only by boat and connected to the modern world as recently as 2018, his rise to international cricket was meteoric. A year ago, he had not played first-class cricket. Now, he was donning borrowed whites, his name hastily taped over a teammate’s jersey, preparing to take on the world’s top-ranked Test team.

Shamar wasn’t even expecting to take the field on Sunday morning. Wracked with pain and barely able to sleep, he arrived at the ground in his training kit, intending only to support his teammates. Yet, when captain Kraigg Brathwaite told him he would bowl, Shamar rose to the occasion with the same unyielding spirit that had brought him this far.

Australia’s Chase: A Tense Beginning

Set a target of 216, Australia began their chase with characteristic confidence. By the fourth day’s second session, they had reached 93 for 2, with Steven Smith and Cameron Green seemingly in control. The Gabba crowd buzzed with anticipation, but Shamar, summoned from the Vulture Street End, had other plans.

Green greeted him with disdain, slashing his fourth delivery for a boundary and following it up with a crisp drive to bring up Australia’s 100. Yet Shamar, undeterred, found his rhythm. A short ball climbed at Green, who deflected it off his elbow onto the stumps. The breakthrough electrified the West Indies, and Shamar wasn’t done.

The Collapse: Shamar’s Spell of Destruction

Fresh off a golden duck in the first innings, Travis Head succumbed to a searing yorker first ball, becoming only the third Australian to register a king pair at the Gabba. Mitchell Marsh, looking to counterattack, edged a rising delivery, and although Alick Athanaze fumbled the initial chance, Justin Greaves held the rebound.

Alex Carey, Australia’s savior in the first innings, fell to another full delivery, his stumps clattered as Shamar roared in celebration. Even as his injured toe bled and throbbed with every delivery, Shamar’s pace did not waver. Mitchell Starc’s defiance ended with a misjudged carve into the off-side, handing Shamar his fifth wicket.

The Gabba, so often a fortress for Australia, had become a cauldron of West Indian brilliance. Shamar’s fastest delivery clocked 149.6 kph, a testament to his unrelenting effort despite his injury. When Pat Cummins edged behind, Shamar had his sixth wicket, leaving Australia teetering at 187 for 9.

The Final Act: A Nation’s Redemption

The umpires extended the session, and Smith, Australia’s last hope, marshalled a gritty resistance. He shielded Josh Hazlewood from strike, farmed the bowling, and even unleashed an audacious scoop for six off Alzarri Joseph. With 12 runs required, Shamar took the ball for the final over.

Smith’s calculated strike rotation left Hazlewood to face the last two deliveries. Shamar needed only one. A vicious delivery from around the wicket shattered Hazlewood’s off stump, sparking scenes of unbridled jubilation. Shamar sprinted to the boundary in celebration, his teammates chasing after him, while the Gabba fell silent in stunned admiration.

A Historic Victory

This victory, West Indies’ first in Australia in 27 years, was more than a Test match win—it was a statement. For a team written off as inexperienced and ill-prepared, it marked the dawn of a new era. Seven uncapped players had defied the odds, led by a young bowler who embodied the spirit of the Caribbean.

Shamar, now a national hero, reflected on the moment with humility. “I can’t remember anything after that ball,” he admitted. “Just know that I’m delighted and proud.” His words resonated across the cricketing world, as legends like Brian Lara and Ian Bishop hailed his performance as one of the greatest in West Indies history.

A New Beginning

Captain Kraigg Brathwaite, typically reserved, allowed himself a moment of pride. “It means everything to do it in front of legends like Brian Lara,” he said. “This young group has shown heart and belief. We can do anything.”

For Shamar, the journey is just beginning. Offers from T20 leagues will undoubtedly come, but his commitment to Test cricket remains unwavering. “I will always be here to play for the West Indies,” he declared, earning applause from Lara, who beamed with pride as he captured the moment on his phone.

As champagne flowed in the dressing room, the significance of the victory was not lost on anyone. It was a day that reaffirmed the enduring magic of West Indies cricket, a day when a young man from a remote village reminded the world of the Caribbean’s indomitable spirit.

Thank You 

Faisal Caesar 

Gigi Riva: The Roar of Thunder and the Poetry of Football

Luigi "Gigi" Riva was not just a footballer; he was a force of nature, a symbol of resilience, and a figure who transcended the boundaries of sport. His legacy, etched into the annals of Italian football, resonates as both a celebration of his immense talent and a testament to the enduring power of loyalty and humility.

A Legend Forged in Adversity

Born in Leggiuno, near Lake Maggiore, Riva's early life was steeped in hardship. The youngest of four children, he lost his father at the tender age of nine and his mother soon after. Sent to a Catholic boarding school and later thrust into factory work, Riva’s path to greatness was neither linear nor easy. Yet, in these formative years, his indomitable spirit began to take shape—a quality that would define his career and life.

Riva’s footballing journey began modestly with Laveno Mombello, where his prodigious talent became evident as he scored 63 goals in two seasons. From there, his rise was meteoric. A move to Legnano in the third division was followed by his transfer to Cagliari in 1963 for a then-significant fee of 37 million lire. It was in Sardinia, a land as rugged and resilient as Riva himself, that his legend was born.

The Sardinian Symphony

Under the stewardship of coach Manlio Scopigno, nicknamed "The Philosopher," Riva transformed Cagliari from a provincial team into a force capable of toppling the giants of Turin and Milan. His goals—powerful, precise, and often poetic—were the keys to unlocking the famously impenetrable catenaccio defenses of the era.

The 1969-70 season was the zenith of Riva’s club career. With his devastating left foot, he propelled Cagliari to their first and only Serie A title, a feat that remains a source of immense pride for Sardinia. His loyalty to the club, despite lucrative offers from powerhouses like Juventus, endeared him to the island’s people, who saw in him a reflection of their own defiance and pride.

This bond was evident at his funeral decades later, when 30,000 mourners—twice the capacity of Cagliari’s stadium—gathered to pay tribute to their hero. Flags, banners, and scarves in the club’s dark red and blue colors fluttered in the Sardinian breeze, a poignant reminder of the enduring connection between Riva and his adopted home.

A Thunderclap on the International Stage

Riva’s exploits were not confined to club football. He made his debut for Italy in 1965, becoming the first Cagliari player to earn an international cap. Over the next decade, he would redefine what it meant to be a striker, scoring 35 goals in 42 appearances—a record that still stands.

His crowning moment came in the 1968 European Championship final, where his goal against Yugoslavia helped secure Italy’s first major international title. Two years later, he was instrumental in Italy’s dramatic 4-3 extra-time victory over West Germany in the World Cup semi-final, a match often described as the "Game of the Century."

Yet, even legends are mortal. In the final against Brazil’s golden generation, led by Pelé, Riva and his teammates were humbled 4-1. It was a sobering reminder of football’s merciless nature, where even the brightest stars can be eclipsed.

The Roar of Thunder

Nicknamed Rombo di Tuono (Roar of Thunder) by journalist Gianni Brera, Riva was a striker of unparalleled versatility and power. His left foot was a weapon of destruction, capable of unleashing ferocious shots from any distance. But he was more than just a goalscorer.

Riva combined physical dominance with technical elegance. Standing just under six feet tall, his aerial prowess was as formidable as his finishing on the ground. He scored acrobatic bicycle kicks with the grace of a gymnast and the precision of a marksman. Despite his imposing physique, he possessed a delicate first touch and a flair for creativity that made him as much a playmaker as a finisher.

His ability to read the game, coupled with his relentless work ethic, made him a complete forward. Whether sprinting past defenders, volleying from impossible angles, or converting penalties with unerring accuracy, Riva epitomized the art of goal-scoring.

The Cost of Greatness

But greatness often comes at a price. Riva’s career was marred by injuries, the most devastating of which occurred in 1970 when an Austrian defender broke his leg during a European Championship qualifier. Although he returned to surpass Giuseppe Meazza’s record of international goals, the physical toll was evident.

A second leg injury in 1976, inflicted by an AC Milan defender, proved insurmountable. After several unsuccessful attempts at a comeback, Riva retired in 1978 at the age of 33. His departure marked the end of an era, but his influence on Italian football was far from over.

The Elder Statesman

From 1988 to 2013, Riva served as team manager for the Italian national team, becoming a mentor and symbol of continuity for generations of players. He was a chain-smoking, dignified presence on the sidelines, embodying the wisdom and gravitas of a man who had seen it all. His tenure culminated in Italy’s 2006 World Cup triumph, a fitting coda to a life dedicated to the game.

A Legacy Beyond Numbers

Riva’s achievements can be measured in goals, titles, and records, but his true legacy lies in the hearts of those who witnessed his artistry. As Pier Paolo Pasolini once said, “Riva plays poetic football. He is a realistic poet.”

Indeed, Riva’s story is a poem of resilience, loyalty, and brilliance—a testament to the enduring power of sport to inspire, unite, and elevate. He was not just a footballer; he was a symbol of hope for Sardinia, a hero for Italy, and a beacon for all who believe in the transformative power of passion and perseverance.

Gigi Riva was special. He was the roar of thunder that echoed through the ages.

Thank You 

Faisal Caesar 

Clash of the Titans: India vs. Pakistan, Chennai 1999 - Pakistan Script Dramatic Victory, Tendulkar's Heroics Fail

Three weeks before the highly anticipated cricket series was set to commence, an act of calculated sabotage unfolded at Delhi’s historic Ferozeshah Kotla Stadium. Approximately 25 supporters of the Shiv Sena, a right-wing political party wielding significant influence in Maharashtra, desecrated the pitch, effectively rendering it unplayable. This stadium, originally designated as the venue for the first Test, became a symbol of the fraught intersection between sport and politics. 

Barely a fortnight later, another incendiary incident shook Indian cricket. Vandals infiltrated the BCCI headquarters in Mumbai, wreaking havoc on property that included the nation’s cherished 1983 World Cup trophy. The desecration of this emblem of national pride evoked widespread anguish. "I cried all night," lamented Kirti Azad, a member of that victorious squad, his words underscoring the emotional toll of such an affront. The fallout prompted officials to reshuffle the venues for the first and second Tests, a logistical decision emblematic of the precariousness of the situation. 

Meanwhile, Shiv Sena leader Bal Thackeray, unrepentant and resolute, boasted of dispatching party operatives to Chennai to assess the security arrangements for the series. His rhetoric escalated ominously, with threats of deploying suicide squads and even releasing venomous snakes onto the field, a chilling metaphor for the venom coursing through the veins of political dissent. 

The tension reached a grim crescendo on January 24, just four days before the match. The Times of India in Chennai reported the tragic death of Palani, a 40-year-old autorickshaw driver who had self-immolated in protest against Pakistan’s participation in the series. His sacrifice, though extreme, laid bare the raw, visceral emotions the series had provoked among certain sections of the populace. 

As the match approached, the atmosphere in Chennai was suffused with unease. Journalists found themselves barred from entering the stadium until late on the eve of the game, a restriction emblematic of the heightened security apparatus. Photographers operated under strict surveillance, and parking zones around the stadium were subject to unprecedented scrutiny. “For the first time, every car parked in the stadium required a pass bearing the police commissioner’s seal,” recalled Keshav Sriraman, a member of the Tamil Nadu Cricket Association’s executive committee. Police officers stood vigil over the pitch, their unyielding presence a stark reminder of the fragile line between celebration and chaos. 

The Contest at Chennai Begins

The opening day of the Test saw Pakistan electing to bat, but their innings began on a precarious note, teetering at 91 for five. Amid the ruins, Yousuf Youhana and Moin Khan staged a gritty counterattack, each crafting resilient half-centuries that steadied the innings. Wasim Akram added a defiant 38, his strokes marked by characteristic audacity, before Anil Kumble, in a masterful display of precision and guile, dismantled the tail to claim figures of six for 70. 

India’s reply was buoyed by the debutant Sadagoppan Ramesh, who, alongside VVS Laxman, stitched together a brisk opening stand of 48 on his home ground. However, Wasim Akram, ever the wily campaigner, struck twice in quick succession after the evening's break, dismissing both openers and tilting the balance. Saqlain Mushtaq then began weaving his web, enticing Tendulkar into an uncharacteristic misjudgment. Charging down the track, Tendulkar mis-hit a looping delivery to backward point for a third-ball duck, an anticlimactic dismissal that underscored Saqlain’s mastery. 

Despite these setbacks, Rahul Dravid and Sourav Ganguly anchored India’s innings with poise, guiding their team to a slender 16-run lead. Yet, the spinners remained relentless. Shahid Afridi, better known for his exploits in limited-overs cricket, showcased his versatility with the ball, claiming the final three wickets with his leg-breaks, a precursor to his heroics with the bat. 

The third day belonged unequivocally to Afridi. Renowned for his blistering 37-ball century in one-day cricket, he defied his reputation as a mere dasher by constructing an innings of extraordinary discipline and flair. Over five hours at the crease, Afridi compiled a majestic 141, laced with 21 boundaries and three towering sixes. His partnerships with Inzamam-ul-Haq and Salim Malik seemed to place Pakistan in an unassailable position at 275 for four. 

But the game, like fate, can be capricious. After tea, the narrative took a dramatic turn. Joshi’s dismissal of Malik triggered a collapse of epic proportions. Venkatesh Prasad, in a spell of breathtaking precision, tore through the lower order with five wickets in 18 balls, conceding not a single run. His final figures of six for 33 stood as a career-best, encapsulating a spell that transformed the match. 

India faced a daunting target of 271, a total that loomed large against the weight of history. Their highest successful fourth-innings chase at home—a nervy 256 for eight against Australia in 1964-65—seemed an eternity away. As the players departed the field, the air was thick with anticipation, the outcome poised delicately between possibility and improbability. 

Waqar Younis Strikes, Sachin Tendulkar Stands Firm

 As the shadows lengthened late on the third evening, India found themselves at a precarious 6 for 2, chasing a daunting 271. The atmosphere in the stands was a volatile mix of hope and apprehension when a helmeted Sachin Tendulkar emerged from the pavilion. VVS Laxman, his brief stay at the crease cut short by a venomous in-ducker from Waqar Younis, was still within earshot as Tendulkar strode to the middle. The crowd, a sea of rising bodies and fervent voices, seemed to channel a collective plea: “Score if you can, but for heaven’s sake, don’t get out.”

The first two deliveries Tendulkar faced were dots, but they carried a weight far beyond their numerical insignificance. Years later, he would recount this moment in *Playing It My Way: My Autobiography*: "Waqar welcomed me to the crease with a couple of bouncers and even walked up to me on one occasion to say, 'Ball nazar aayi?' (Did you see the ball?) I didn't say a thing, but my eye contact was enough to give him the message. I hardly moved, and he was soon walking back to his bowling mark. I remember muttering to myself, 'You are not bowling that quick, my friend.'”

The tension in the air was almost tangible, and when Tendulkar finally opened his account with a well-judged two, the crowd exhaled in unison, a brief respite from their collective anxiety. Four more dot balls followed, each one steadying the nerves, until Tendulkar produced a moment of sublime artistry. Facing Waqar, he unfurled a cover drive that seemed to transcend the game itself. The movement was poetry in motion: the right leg back and across, the left leg hovering momentarily above the ground, the bat meeting the ball with a crisp, resonant crack. The red blur scorched the grass, and as the left leg returned to the turf, Tendulkar completed the stroke with a delicate sideways hop, a knight in shining armour prancing across the diagonal.Ball nazar aayi?

The shot elicited a spontaneous outpouring of admiration. "What a shot," Harsha Bhogle exclaimed on commentary, his voice tinged with awe, carrying the moment into millions of homes. It was a shot that encapsulated not just technique but defiance, a declaration that the battle was far from over. 

As the day drew to a close, India stood at 40 for 2, still 231 runs adrift. The target loomed large, but with Tendulkar at the crease, hope flickered, fragile yet persistent, like a candle resisting the wind. 

The Thrilling Fourth Day – Story of Drama, Heartbreak and Joy

On the warm morning of January 31, 1999, the MA Chidambaram Stadium in Chennai stood as a cauldron of tension and anticipation. Half an hour before the fourth day’s play, a police cordon encircled the pitch, a fortress of security amid the fervent crowd. Among the spectators, a group chanted provocatively in Hindi, *“Harega bhai harega, Pakistan harega”*—a linguistic affront in Tamil Nadu, as pointed as the taunt itself. The air carried a mix of salty breeze and the faint, pungent aroma from the nearby Buckingham Canal, a reminder of the city's unique character. After 12 long years, an Indo-Pak Test on Indian soil was poised to deliver high drama. 

This was the ground where Sachin Tendulkar had orchestrated symphonies with his bat. In 1993, he had dismantled England here; in 1998, he had reduced Shane Warne to a spectator, slog-sweeping the leg-spinner’s around-the-stumps delivery into the midwicket stands. Ian Chappell, then on commentary, would later declare that shot a turning point in the series. Now, playing his fifth Test against Pakistan and his first as a fully realized batsman, Tendulkar had entered the fray with a mission. 

But the wily Pakistanis, led by the indomitable Wasim Akram, were not inclined to surrender. On the second day, Tendulkar’s attempt to dominate Saqlain Mushtaq ended in ignominy—a mistimed loft off a doosra, ballooning to backward point. Out for a third-ball duck, he left the stage under a cloud of disappointment. 

Day four brought another chapter of attrition. The crowd roared as Wasim Akram unleashed a spell of artistry that seemed to transcend the limitations of a subcontinental dust track. Against Rahul Dravid, the ball danced to his command—seaming in, seaming out, as if choreographed. Akram had trapped Dravid lbw earlier, only for the umpire to miss the pad-first contact. Undeterred, he returned with a delivery that pitched on middle and clipped off-stump, leaving Dravid bewildered. Years later, Dravid would reflect on this moment in Sultan: A Memoir: “Wasim was a real inspiration for fast bowlers all over the world, especially in the subcontinent. When he was bowling, you were captivated. Easily one of the most skilful bowlers I have played against.”

The collapse continued. Mohammad Azharuddin misjudged a straighter one from Saqlain and was trapped leg-before. Sourav Ganguly’s square drive ricocheted off silly mid-off, bounced awkwardly on the pitch, and landed in the wicketkeeper’s gloves—a bizarre double-pitch catch. Umpires Steve Dunne and Ramaswamy deliberated briefly before sending Ganguly on his way, prompting cries of “Ramaswamy down, Steve Dunne up up” from the stands. India were reeling at five down, and the mood in the dressing room during lunch was sombre. 

Nayan Mongia, India’s wicketkeeper, recalled the silence and a single technical insight that changed their approach: *“Saqlain Mushtaq had created havoc in the first innings. Most of us hadn’t read his variations. But Mohinder Amarnath had written that Saqlain’s ball from close to the stumps would go away from the right-hander, while the one from wide of the crease would turn in. Once we learned this, it became easier.”

Saqlain was at the zenith of his powers, his doosra a weapon of deception. His first three Test wickets in India—Tendulkar, Azharuddin, and Dravid—were scalps of the highest pedigree, each a master of spin, each undone by his guile. Yet, his triumphs came amidst personal turmoil. His father’s recent passing and a family tragedy had cast a shadow over his form. Questions about his suitability for Tests loomed, but Saqlain found solace in Wasim Akram’s camaraderie. “Wasim brings out the best in me,” he admitted. 

After lunch, Saqlain and Wasim bowled in tandem, a relentless assault on India’s hopes. Tendulkar, burdened by expectation, faced the challenge with steely resolve. At the other end, Mongia battled his own demons—a fever of 102 degrees, a saline drip, and injections to keep him on his feet. “It was so hot, I was batting in a sweater!” he later recalled. Meanwhile, Akram, battling groin pain, admitted to taking *“six to seven painkillers” to keep going. 

Tendulkar Conquers Pain o Esaay and Epic

As the second session wore on, Sachin Tendulkar’s body began betraying him. He frequently walked toward square leg, his movements laboured, his hand instinctively clutching his lower back. Each over seemed an ordeal, each delivery a test of will. By the time tea arrived, his condition had worsened; his grimaces were no longer fleeting but etched into his expression. Yet, India survived the session without losing a wicket, reducing the target from 185 to 126. 

In the dressing room, Tendulkar lay flat on a towel, cold compresses covering him in a desperate attempt to lower his body temperature. Cramping and exhaustion wracked his body, and the thought of batting for another two hours seemed insurmountable. Meanwhile, the Pakistan dressing room was steeped in tension. A Channel 4 documentary captured Wasim Akram sitting alone, running his fingers through his hair, his usually unflappable demeanour showing cracks. Someone muttered, *“Joh ho gaya woh ho gaya”* (Whatever has happened has happened), a resigned acknowledgement of missed opportunities. 

 

Azhar Mahmood later reflected on that moment: “We had so much respect for Sachin. Watching him play Saqlain and Wasim with such ease that day was unbelievable. Reverse swing, bounce, turn—everything was in our favour. And yet, he got a hundred.”

The third over after tea brought Tendulkar’s response. Saqlain Mushtaq, bowling with his trademark drift and guile, delivered the first ball. Tendulkar pulled it to midwicket for four. The next ball was paddle-swept for another boundary. Sunil Gavaskar, on commentary, couldn’t contain his admiration: “Even as he played that shot, my fellow commentator [Ramiz Raja] had his hands up in applause.”* 

Then came a moment of fortune. Tendulkar charged Saqlain, misjudging the length of a doosra, and got a bottom edge that ballooned toward Moin Khan. The wicketkeeper had three opportunities—catch, stump, or silence the crowd with a lullaby—but he fluffed them all. Saqlain, already mid-celebration, froze in disbelief and slumped to the ground. Moin stood motionless, hands on hips, a vice-captain bereft of words. Yet, Akram clapped immediately, a gesture of encouragement and reassurance. 

Two balls later, Tendulkar paddle-swept Saqlain for another four, followed by a cross-batted smack to the boundary. Sixteen runs off the over. The target now stood at 103. 

Pakistan opted for the new ball with 95 runs still required. Tendulkar’s back had “all but given up,” but he and Nayan Mongia decided to take calculated risks. Mongia, a former opener, felt more comfortable against the hardness of the new ball than the treachery of reverse swing. The next five overs yielded 33 runs. Tendulkar was all elegance, driving straight and through the covers. Mongia played the aggressor, whipping and chipping over the infield. A bouncer from Akram flew over both Mongia and Moin to the boundary, while Saqlain’s flighted delivery was dispatched over midwicket. 

“The thing with that Pakistan team,” Mahmood later said, “was that we always had options. Wasim and Waqar were masters of the new ball and reverse swing, and Saqlain could bowl with both. With such a lethal attack, you always had hope.”

Hope flickered to life when Mongia slogged Akram across the line. The top edge spiralled toward the covers, the ball seemingly suspended in time as the crowd screamed in vain. Waqar Younis steadied himself and completed the catch, silencing the stands. 

Sunil Joshi walked into a cacophony of nerves, greeted by Tendulkar’s anguished admission: “Jo, mera back is getting stiffer and stiffer. I can’t take it anymore. I’m going to swing.” Joshi reassured him: “You just stay here. I’ll score.” True to his word, Joshi took on Saqlain, lofting him for six over long-on.“I always felt I could read Saqlain,” Joshi later said. 

But Tendulkar’s body was breaking down. Every movement was agony, every shot a crescendo of pain. Desperation overtook calculation. Facing Saqlain, he attempted to hit a doosra over mid-off. The ball bounced more than expected, taking the leading edge and soaring skyward. 

Akram, standing at mid-off, steadied himself under the skier. On commentary, Harsha Bhogle captured the moment with poetic finality: “Oh dear… he’s got the leading edge… man’s under it… it’s taken… what have we got here… Sachin Tendulkar’s knocked on the door… it’s still closed…”

As Akram clasped the catch, the door indeed remained shut. Tendulkar’s heroic innings, one of defiance and grit, had ended. For Pakistan, the game was once again theirs to lose. 

India Collapse, Pakistan Win

The silence was fleeting. In moments, the Chennai crowd rose in unison, not in despair but in reverence, to honour a monumental innings. Tendulkar had fallen, but as the poet Balakumar once wrote, the Chepauk faithful laid out a bed of cotton for their fallen hero. 

Before departing the stage, with India still 17 runs adrift, Tendulkar turned to his partner with a parting message, a blend of hope and expectation: *“Jo, match finish kar ke aana”* (Jo, finish the match and come back). Sunil Joshi, now entrusted with the task, stood alongside three fellow Karnataka players, ready to script the final act. 

"I told Anil, avanu thirugsalla [he won’t turn it]. Saqlain is only bowling doosras. I’ll take the scoring chances; you just play out Wasim,” Joshi later recalled. 

But fate had other plans. Anil Kumble, playing for the team’s hopes, misjudged a Wasim Akram delivery that straightened after pitching. The umpire’s finger went up, and Kumble was gone for 1 off 5 balls. 

When Javagal Srinath joined Joshi at the crease, the strategy shifted again. “We thought Srinath could chance his arm against Saqlain,” Joshi recounted. “I told him: anything pitched up, swing. If it’s short, just block it. I’d take the single and give him the strike.” 

Yet the pressure mounted. In his attempt to steer India closer, Joshi miscued a shot, offering a simple return catch to Saqlain. He walked back for 8 off 20 balls, his disappointment palpable. “That dismissal still haunts me,” he admitted years later. “I wanted to be there at the end. I wanted to finish it.” 

In the stands, disbelief turned to resignation. The once-roaring crowd now sat in stunned silence, as though watching a car hurtling downhill, its brakes long gone. The wreckage was inevitable; the only question was how soon. 

“The moment Sachin got out, you could feel the air shift,” said Venkitasubban, a spectator. “The fielders seemed revitalized as if victory was now a certainty.” Saqlain Mushtaq emboldened, zipped through his overs, each delivery tightening the noose. At the other end, Akram surged in, his strides longer, his pace sharper, the aura of inevitability growing with each ball. 

For those in the crowd, memories of Bridgetown 1997 resurfaced unbidden. Then, too, India had been tantalizingly close, chasing 120 only to crumble for 81. The parallels were inescapable. The narrative of collapse had taken hold. 

Srinath, playing with a heavy burden, succumbed to Saqlain, and bowled for 1 off 8 deliveries. 

The scoreboard told the cruel story: Tendulkar out at 254. India all out for 258. 

As the Pakistan players celebrated, the Chennai crowd, ever gracious, rose once more. This time, the applause was for the game itself—a contest of skill, grit, and unrelenting drama that had left them breathless, even in heartbreak.

The Aftermath

The crowd at Chepauk, initially struck silent by the cruel twist of fate, rose to its feet in unison. Their applause was not wild or frenetic, but steady, deliberate, and heartfelt—a collective gesture of respect for a contest that transcended rivalry. Sensing the moment, the Pakistan team began a victory lap, acknowledging the grace of their hosts. For anyone familiar with the emotional and often volatile world of India-Pakistan cricket, it was a profoundly moving scene, a testament to the shared humanity beneath the fierce competition. 

VVS Laxman, reflecting on that day in his autobiography, wrote: “I saw Sachin weep like a child [...] None of us knew how to console him.” 

Tendulkar himself would later confess, “My world seemed to collapse around me [...] I just couldn’t hold back the tears. It was the only time I refused to go out and accept the Man of the Match award. [BCCI president] Raj Singh Dungarpur tried to persuade me, but I told him I was in no state, physically or mentally.”

In the Pakistani dressing room, joy erupted without restraint. High-pitched cheers and celebratory cries filled the air, mingled with moments of quiet prayer and reflection. Some players knelt in gratitude, their emotions as raw and intense as the game itself. 

Wasim Akram, speaking to Channel 4 years later, summed up the sentiment succinctly: “We needed one wicket. We needed Sachin’s wicket.” That dismissal, a moment of triumph for Pakistan, had turned the tide irrevocably in their favour. 

The celebrations extended well beyond the field. That evening, the team visited a mosque to offer thanks, followed by a celebratory cake at the hotel. The national anthem was sung with pride, its verses echoing their sense of unity and achievement. Some players ventured out for a quiet meal, their smiles now relaxed, their shoulders lighter. 

The next day, life began to return to its ordinary rhythms. Saqlain Mushtaq, the architect of India’s collapse, was seen strolling through the streets of Chennai, shopping for a sari for his wife—a poignant reminder that even in the most intense rivalries, human moments endure. 

Thank You

Faisal Caesar

 

Franz Beckenbauer: The Architect of Modern Football and Germany’s Eternal "Kaiser"

In the pantheon of football’s greatest legends, Franz Anton Beckenbauer occupies a place of singular reverence. Nicknamed Der Kaiser—“The Emperor”—for his commanding presence on and off the pitch, Beckenbauer was a player, coach, and visionary who redefined the boundaries of the game. Born on September 11, 1945, in a Germany ravaged by the aftermath of World War II, his story is not just one of personal triumph but of a nation’s resurgence, embodied through the beautiful game.

Humble Beginnings in a Changing World

Beckenbauer’s journey began in the working-class neighborhoods of post-war Munich. Football, even in those austere times, provided a sanctuary. Starting as a center-forward at the age of eight, Beckenbauer displayed an early aptitude for the game, but it was his move to Bayern Munich at 19 that marked the turning point in his career. Initially deployed as a left winger, his versatility soon became evident, and his contributions helped Bayern achieve promotion to the Bundesliga in his debut season.

The rise of Bayern Munich mirrored Beckenbauer’s own meteoric ascent. From a second-division side, Bayern transformed into a powerhouse of German football, with Beckenbauer as its linchpin. His early years saw him play in advanced roles, but it was his tactical shift to the sweeper position that would immortalize his legacy.

The Revolution of the Sweeper Role

Beckenbauer’s genius lay in his ability to combine defensive solidity with offensive creativity. As a sweeper—a role traditionally confined to mopping up defensive lapses—he brought an unprecedented elegance and dynamism. His ability to read the game, execute pinpoint passes, and launch attacks from deep redefined the position. Beckenbauer didn’t just defend; he orchestrated, often becoming the catalyst for Bayern Munich’s and West Germany’s most memorable moments.

This transformation was no accident. By the late 1960s, Beckenbauer had begun experimenting with the sweeper role, and his tactical intelligence soon elevated him to the status of Bayern Munich’s captain in 1968. Under his leadership, Bayern claimed their first Bundesliga title in 1969, setting the stage for a golden era that would see the club dominate German and European football.

The International Stage: A Star is Born

Beckenbauer’s international debut for West Germany came in 1965, but it was the 1966 FIFA World Cup in England that introduced Der Kaiser to the world. At just 20 years old, he scored four goals from midfield, propelling West Germany to the final, where they fell to England in extra time. Despite the loss, Beckenbauer’s performances were a revelation, and he emerged as one of the tournament’s standout players.

The 1970 World Cup in Mexico further cemented his legend. In the semi-final against Italy—dubbed "The Game of the Century"—Beckenbauer dislocated his shoulder but continued to play, his arm strapped to his side, embodying the resilience and determination that defined his career. Though West Germany fell short, finishing third, Beckenbauer’s heroics were etched into football folklore.

The Pinnacle of Glory: 1974 and Beyond

The 1974 FIFA World Cup, held in West Germany, was the crowning achievement of Beckenbauer’s playing career. Leading a team that included stars like Gerd Müller and Sepp Maier, Beckenbauer guided his nation to victory against Johan Cruyff’s Holland in the final. It was a clash of philosophies—Holland’s “Total Football” versus Germany’s efficiency and tactical discipline. Beckenbauer’s leadership and composure were instrumental in securing a 2-1 victory, making him the first player to lift the newly designed FIFA World Cup trophy.

That same year, Bayern Munich claimed their first European Cup, a feat they repeated in 1975 and 1976, establishing themselves as Europe’s dominant force. Beckenbauer’s influence was undeniable, both as a player and as a leader, and his contributions during this period remain unparalleled.

A Legacy Beyond Playing

After leaving Bayern Munich in 1977, Beckenbauer continued to shine abroad with the New York Cosmos, winning three NASL Championships, before returning to Germany with Hamburg to claim another Bundesliga title. His playing career ended in 1983, but his impact on football was far from over.

As a coach, Beckenbauer achieved what only a handful could dream of—winning the FIFA World Cup as both a player and manager. Appointed West Germany’s coach in 1984, he guided the team to the 1986 World Cup final, where they lost to Diego Maradona’s Argentina. Four years later, in 1990, Beckenbauer masterminded Germany’s 1-0 victory over the same opponents, becoming only the second man after Mario Zagallo to achieve this dual feat.

Beckenbauer’s contributions extended to administration and diplomacy. As President of Bayern Munich from 1994 to 2009, he oversaw the club’s transformation into a global brand. He also played a pivotal role in bringing the 2006 FIFA World Cup to Germany, serving as Chairman of the Local Organizing Committee.

The Legacy of "Der Kaiser"

Franz Beckenbauer’s influence on football transcends statistics and trophies. A two-time Ballon d’Or winner and a master tactician, he revolutionized the sweeper role and elevated the art of defending. His leadership, sportsmanship, and tactical brilliance earned him a place among the greatest to ever play the game.

FIFA President Gianni Infantino aptly summarized his impact: “A legend of German and world football, Franz Beckenbauer has achievements and triumphs which are etched in history. For all his popularity, Der Kaiser always remained modest and down to earth.”

Beckenbauer’s career, spanning over five decades, is a testament to his unparalleled talent and vision. Whether as a player, coach, or administrator, he embodied the essence of football—grace, intelligence, and passion.

In the annals of the sport, there can only be one Der Kaiser, and his name is Franz Beckenbauer.

Thank You 

Faisal Caesar 

Mario Zagallo: The Eternal Architect of Brazilian Football’s Golden Legacy

Mario Zagallo, a name synonymous with footballing excellence, transcended the sport's boundaries to become a symbol of Brazil's indomitable spirit on the world stage. On 5 January 2024, the world bid farewell to this legendary figure, who passed away at the age of 92, leaving behind an unparalleled legacy in FIFA World Cup™ history. As the first individual to win football’s ultimate prize as both a player and coach, Zagallo's contributions to the beautiful game were nothing short of revolutionary.

A Storied Career in the Shadows and Spotlight

Born in 1931 in the northeastern state of Alagoas, Zagallo’s journey began in humble surroundings. His family moved to Rio de Janeiro when he was an infant, a city that would shape his identity and remain his home until his final days. A diminutive left winger, affectionately nicknamed Formiguinha ("Little Ant") for his relentless work rate and technical finesse, Zagallo was a study in contrasts. Despite his slight physique, he commanded the pitch with a blend of defensive tenacity and attacking ingenuity.

His early playing career saw him shine at Flamengo, where he won three Carioca championships. Yet, destiny had grander plans. In 1958, as Brazil sought redemption from the heartbreak of the 1950 Maracanazo, Zagallo emerged as a pivotal figure in their triumph. Not content with merely playing his role, he redefined it. In an era dominated by rigid formations, Zagallo’s ability to drop into midfield transformed Brazil’s 4-4-2 into a dynamic 4-3-3, a tactical innovation that foreshadowed modern football. His defensive instincts came to the fore in the final against Sweden, where his goal-line clearance at 1-0 down proved decisive. Brazil surged to a 5-2 victory, with Zagallo himself scoring the fourth goal.

Four years later, in Chile, Zagallo was again instrumental as Brazil retained their title, showcasing his knack for rising to the occasion. His opening goal against Mexico set the tone for a campaign that would further solidify his reputation as a player for the ages.

The Mastermind Behind the 1970 Masterpiece

Retiring in 1965, Zagallo seamlessly transitioned into coaching, a realm where his tactical acumen and leadership flourished. After early success with Botafogo, where he won the Campeonato Carioca in his debut season, he was thrust into the national spotlight. Just 75 days before the 1970 FIFA World Cup, Zagallo was appointed head coach of Brazil, replacing João Saldanha. It was a daunting task, but Zagallo was undeterred.

Faced with a team brimming with individual brilliance but lacking cohesion, Zagallo orchestrated a transformation. He reimagined Brazil’s playing style, blending discipline with creative freedom, and assembled a side that remains the gold standard in football history. Under his stewardship, Pelé, Jairzinho, Rivelino, and Tostão dazzled the world, culminating in an unforgettable campaign. Brazil won all six matches, claiming their third world title with a 4-1 victory over Italy in the final. It was a triumph not just of talent but of vision, as Zagallo’s Brazil epitomized the harmony of art and strategy.

The Keeper of Brazil’s Footballing Soul

Zagallo’s influence extended far beyond the touchline. In 1994, as assistant coach to Carlos Alberto Parreira, he was instrumental in guiding Brazil to their fourth FIFA World Cup title. His presence was a reminder of the continuity of excellence that defined Brazilian football. Even in his later years, as technical coordinator in 2006, Zagallo’s wisdom and passion were invaluable assets to the Seleção.

His fascination with the number 13, which he considered his lucky charm, added a touch of mystique to his persona. It was a belief that mirrored his uncanny ability to defy odds and achieve greatness. Beyond Brazil, he left his mark on the international stage, coaching the national teams of Kuwait, Saudi Arabia, and the United Arab Emirates, even helping the latter qualify for the 1990 FIFA World Cup.

A Legacy Carved in Glory

Zagallo’s career spanned an astonishing 53 years, during which he witnessed and shaped the evolution of football. He coached Rio’s iconic clubs—Botafogo, Flamengo, Vasco da Gama, and Fluminense—winning his final title with Flamengo in 2001. Reflecting on his life, Zagallo once remarked, “I was born on the right day. I was born with victory by my side.”

His passing marks the end of an era, but his legacy endures in the hearts of football fans worldwide. Zagallo was more than a player, coach, or tactician; he was an architect of dreams, a custodian of Brazil’s footballing identity, and a pioneer who bridged the past and future of the game.

As the world mourns his loss, it also celebrates the indelible mark he left on the beautiful game. Mario Zagallo’s story is not just a chapter in football history—it is its cornerstone.

Thank You 

Faisal Caesar