Cricket, at its finest, is more than just a contest of skill; it is a battle of endurance, intelligence, and, at times, sheer defiance. The two-wicket thriller between New Zealand and Pakistan at Dunedin in February 1985 remains one of the most riveting Test matches ever played in the southern hemisphere. It was an encounter that saw milestones achieved, tempers flare and a final-wicket partnership etched into folklore. It was a match where the future and the past collided—Richard Hadlee celebrated his 250th Test wicket, Javed Miandad surpassed 5,000 Test runs, and an 18-year-old left-arm seamer named Wasim Akram stormed into international cricket with a breathtaking ten-wicket haul. Yet, despite these towering individual feats, the game is best remembered for its tension-filled final act and Miandad’s fiery exchange with the umpire.
A Storm Named Wasim Akram
From the moment he marked his run-up, Akram had only one plan—ferocity. His approach was simple yet devastating: relentless short-pitched deliveries that made survival an ordeal for the batters. Lance Cairns, one of New Zealand’s most seasoned players, bore the brunt of Akram’s onslaught, leaving the field with a hairline fracture on his skull after misjudging a bouncer. With Cairns incapacitated, New Zealand’s hopes rested on their final pair—Jeremy Coney, the experienced all-rounder, and Ewen Chatfield, a man known more for his doggedness than his batting ability.
On paper, the match seemed all but over. Chasing 278, New Zealand had run out of recognized batters, and standing before them was a rampant Wasim Akram, a bowler too young to comprehend fear but experienced enough to instil it in his opponents. Pakistan, sensing imminent victory, tightened their grip, while Miandad, ever the strategist, sought to manipulate the game to his advantage.
A Battle of Attrition
Recognizing Coney’s superior batting ability, Miandad devised a tactical ploy—allow him the single, and expose Chatfield to Akram’s fury. It was a classic manoeuvre, one that had broken countless tail-enders before. Yet, in the face of Pakistan’s unyielding assault, Chatfield refused to wilt. He absorbed blows like a prizefighter in a ring, his resolve hardening with each delivery that struck his body.
But cricket, especially Test cricket, is as much about the mind as it is about skill. The battle between bat and ball soon morphed into a battle of nerves. Akram, relentless in his pursuit, began overusing the short-pitched deliveries, falling into a predictable rhythm. The umpires, sensing the excessiveness, stepped in—only to find themselves drawn into Miandad’s combative orbit.
The exchange between Miandad and the umpire was not just an argument; it was a clash of ideologies. To Miandad, cricket was a game where every strategic advantage had to be maximized, and his aggressive interrogation of the umpire reflected his refusal to cede ground. He questioned the legitimacy of the warnings, arguing that Akram was merely exploiting a bowler’s natural weapon. The umpire, unmoved by his protests, issued an official warning. The decision enraged Miandad, but he had already committed to his strategy. Akram, perhaps fueled by his captain’s defiance, launched another ferocious bouncer that once again thudded into Chatfield’s helmet. This time, the umpire had had enough—an official warning was given.
The Crawl to Glory
While Pakistan remained fixated on their aggressive approach, Chatfield and Coney, like soldiers in a besieged fortress, slowly mounted their resistance. They knew they had no choice but to endure, to grind out every run with the patience of sculptors chiselling away at the stone. Each single, each defensive stroke, each minute that passed, sapped Pakistan’s energy.
Coney, later reflecting on the defining moments of that innings, admitted that the temptation to break free was ever-present. “There was always the temptation to hit out, get a few fours, and reduce the gap, but you just had to plug on and let the runs pile up,” he said. “He [Chatfield] had it under control. He shielded me from the bowling for quite a long time.”
And so, in one of Test cricket’s great ironies, it was not the express pace of Akram, nor the tactical nous of Miandad, that had the final say. It was the sheer resilience of two men, one a seasoned all-rounder, the other a bowler of limited batting ability, who outlasted the storm.
As Chatfield and Coney crawled to victory, they did not merely win a Test match; they epitomized the essence of cricket’s greatest format—where triumph is not always about dominance, but sometimes about the ability to simply outlast, to stand when everything else is falling apart. Dunedin 1985 was not just a victory for New Zealand—it was a testament to the human spirit’s unyielding defiance in the face of overwhelming odds.
Thank You
Faisal Caesar
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