A Nation Rises: Sri Lanka's First Test Triumph and the Fall of the Giants

They were a team with no past but an overwhelming thirst for a future.

In the shadow of the giants, Sri Lanka’s Test side of 1985 was not expected to challenge, let alone conquer, a world champion. With just a dozen Tests played in over three years and few tangible results to boast, they had mostly existed on the margins—seen, perhaps, as brave but overmatched participants in the game’s grand theatre. Yet, when India arrived on their shores, riding high from their World Championship of Cricket triumph in Australia, they were met not by reverence, but resistance.

The Sri Lankans were not here to admire. They were here to win.

Steel in the Soul, Not in the Squad

They lacked the conventional weaponry—a quality spin attack, world-class experience, or the psychological edge of past victories. What they had instead was belief and a cunning blueprint built around relentless medium pace and mental discipline. The pitches were tailor-made for seam, and India’s famed spinners were reduced to weary workhorses. Sri Lanka’s bowling strategy was simple but devastatingly effective: bowl on middle and off, move the ball away, frustrate, and choke. The Indian batsmen, used to dominance at home, were jolted by the sheer audacity of the plan.

The batting, too, was resilient, if not rhapsodic. From the gritty glove-work and opening defiance of Amal Silva to the classicism of Roy Dias and Duleep Mendis, the hosts batted not for beauty but for history. Behind the classical façade stood the promising silhouettes of youth—Arjuna Ranatunga and Aravinda de Silva—whose flickers of brilliance hinted at the firestorms to come.

And then there was Rumesh Ratnayake.

With a band around his forehead and a whirlwind in his stride, Ratnayake gave the Sri Lankan attack menace. He could move the ball at pace, hit the deck hard, and—most crucially—believed in every delivery he bowled. India had vanquished the best just weeks ago; now they sleepwalked into a trap spun not by leg-spin, but by sheer will.

The Turning Point: A Test Carved from Grit

The first Test in Colombo was almost theirs. Rain, and a stubborn Vengsarkar vigil, denied them victory by a whisker. But what it gave Sri Lanka was far more valuable—belief. When they moved to P. Sara Stadium for the second Test, they arrived not as underdogs but as predators smelling blood.

India, surprisingly, fed the narrative. Gavaskar demoted himself in the order, a tactical indulgence that quickly turned into a disaster. At the end of Day One, Sri Lanka had ground out 168 for 1. The pitch was slow, the pace glacial, but the scoreboard ticked methodically forward. Amal Silva batted with monastic concentration, reaching three figures. Madugalle offered grit. Dias and Mendis, as always, were the pillars. India’s celebrated leg-spinner Sivaramakrishnan, so potent in Australia, looked blunted and bewildered.

Despite a late collapse—17 for 6 turning into 385 all out—Sri Lanka had already seized the mental edge. And by the time India came out to bat under the fading light, the nightmare began. By stumps: 6 for 3. Azharuddin, Rajput, and Vengsarkar gone. Ratnayake roared.

The second morning brought a brief counterpunch. Srikkanth lashed out with typical abandon for 64, and Gavaskar and Amarnath knuckled down in a dour, painstaking stand. But it was Sri Lanka who won the day with discipline, line, and sharp fielding. When Gavaskar was stumped charging Ranatunga’s part-time medium pace, the symbolic moment of the Test had arrived. The mighty were unravelling.

A Nation Holds Its Breath

In their second innings, Sri Lanka did what many wouldn’t: they dared. Promoted to No. 3, the young Aravinda de Silva unleashed an audacious assault—two sixes, nine boundaries, a statement. His 75, aided by Dias’s polished 60, was thrilling yet clinical. When Mendis declared, India were set 348 to win or bat out a day and a half. Either path was uphill. And when the drama returned, it did so with controversy in its arms.

Srikkanth and Rajput were leg-before. One, clearly marginal. Vengsarkar fell to a leg-side tickle, Silva and the umpire combining in a decision that left the Indian vice-captain speechless. Kapil Dev fumed—at the umpiring, at the scheduling, at the mental fog enveloping his side. But even the cloud of injustice could not obscure what was unfolding on the field.

Ratnayake, with adrenaline coursing and a nation willing him forward, cut through India’s middle order. Gavaskar. Amarnath. Then Azhar and Shastri. India were 98 for 7, and the noise from the stands grew primal. Kapil and Siva delayed the inevitable—bravely, stubbornly. But not forever.

When the final blow came, it was poetic. Ratnayake himself, diving full stretch across the pitch to snatch a return catch and seal the historic win. The ground erupted. This was not merely the end of a match. It was the beginning of a legacy.

A Bitter Farewell, a Glorious Arrival

Kapil Dev left the field with 78 to his name and bitterness in his heart. He later lamented the hurried nature of the tour, the lack of preparation, the psychological toll of uncertainty. All of it may have been true. But the scoreboard showed 1–0 to Sri Lanka, and the numbers didn’t lie.

The pitch had aided seam, but the Indians had failed to wield it. The same track had seen Ratnayake, Ahangama, and de Mel share 19 wickets. Kapil, India’s spearhead, had just one to show for his toil.

The Sri Lankan celebration was uncontained and deserved. Amal Silva’s rare double—hundred and nine dismissals—etched his name in folklore. Dias’s twin knocks, and Mendis’s guiding hand, had been vital. But the true hero was Rumesh Ratnayake: 4 for 76 and 5 for 49, the face of a new era.

A Draw, But Not an Equal Ending

The third Test at Kandy saw India seek redemption, but they stumbled again—scoring too slowly, letting chances slip. Despite Maninder Singh’s incisive bowling and Amarnath’s century, they could not dislodge Dias and Mendis, who once again stood like sentinels for five unbroken hours. Twin tons secured the draw and, with it, Sri Lanka’s first-ever Test series win.

A Test, A Statement, A Shift

This was no ordinary series. It was a nation emerging into cricket’s light. It was a team refusing to be patronised. It was the moment when Sri Lanka told the world, and perhaps themselves: We belong!

And in the searing Colombo heat, amidst drama, pace, and perseverance, cricket had given us what it so rarely does—a first that felt like a final.

Thank You

Faisal Caesar

Sachin Tendulkar’s Maiden ODI Century: The Long-AwaIted Milestone, Birth of a Colossus

By the early 1990s, Sachin Tendulkar had already established himself as one of the brightest young stars in world cricket. Having made his international debut in 1989 as a 16-year-old, he quickly gained a reputation for his precocious technique, fearless stroke play, and ability to take on the world’s best bowlers. His performances in Test cricket had been exceptional, but in One Day Internationals (ODIs), he had yet to reach a significant personal milestone—the elusive century.

Despite playing several impactful innings, Tendulkar had to wait almost five years and 78 matches to register his maiden ODI hundred. This statistic baffled many, considering his obvious talent and attacking approach. However, the moment finally arrived on September 9, 1994, at the R. Premadasa Stadium in Colombo. In the third match of the Singer World Series against Australia, Tendulkar not only scored his first ODI century but also announced his arrival as a dominant force in limited-overs cricket.

A New Role: Opening the Innings

Before 1994, Tendulkar had primarily batted in the middle order in ODIs. While he had played several aggressive knocks, he often didn’t get enough time at the crease to convert his starts into big scores. The decision to promote him to the opening slot, made earlier that year, proved to be a masterstroke. It unleashed a more attacking, authoritative version of Tendulkar—one who could dictate terms from the very first ball.

As India opted to bat first against a formidable Australian bowling attack, Tendulkar and Manoj Prabhakar walked out to open the innings. The conditions in Colombo were humid, the pitch slow, and Australia’s fast bowlers, led by Craig McDermott, were eager to exploit any early movement. Yet, from the very start, there was a sense of control and confidence in Tendulkar’s batting.

A Masterclass in Stroke Play

Tendulkar’s innings was a blend of aggression and elegance. He reached his first fifty in just 43 balls, a blistering pace by the standards of that era. His shot-making was a delight to watch—textbook cover drives, effortless flicks through midwicket, and crisp lofted shots over mid-on. The Australian bowlers, usually disciplined, struggled to contain him.

McDermott, a seasoned pacer, tried to outthink him with short deliveries, but Tendulkar responded with controlled pulls. Glenn McGrath, still in the early years of his career, bowled with accuracy, but Tendulkar countered him with deft placement. Even the spinners found no respite as he used his feet brilliantly to disrupt their rhythm.

The most striking aspect of the innings was how Tendulkar paced it. He started with controlled aggression, dominated the early part of the innings, and then adapted as wickets began to fall at the other end. While Prabhakar provided good support early on, the rest of India’s batting order failed to capitalize.

Lone Warrior Amidst a Collapse

At one stage, India looked set for a total well above 250, but a sudden collapse put them in danger of falling short. The last seven batsmen failed to reach double digits, exposing India’s fragile middle and lower order. Yet, Tendulkar held his composure. He slowed down when necessary, rotated the strike, and ensured India had a fighting total.

His century was brought up with a sense of inevitability, a culmination of years of promise finally materializing into a tangible milestone. He eventually fell for 110 off 130 balls, bowled by McDermott, but by then, he had already done enough to leave an indelible mark on the match. India finished at 246/8, a competitive score given the conditions.

Defending the Target: Prabhakar’s All-Round Brilliance

With the bat, Tendulkar had been the undisputed hero of the innings. But with the ball, it was Prabhakar who stole the show. His clever medium pace and disciplined line troubled the Australian batters. He not only took crucial wickets—including that of Mark Taylor—but also contributed in the field with a fine catch and two crucial run-outs.

Australia’s chase never really gained momentum. Their only substantial partnership came from Mark Waugh and David Boon, who added 67 runs. However, the required run rate kept climbing, and once their stand was broken, the Indian bowlers tightened their grip. Eventually, India secured a comfortable victory, marking a successful day for the team.

Beyond the Match: A Defining Moment in Tendulkar’s Career

For Tendulkar, this century was not just a statistical achievement; it was a defining moment in his career. Until then, he had been regarded as a prodigious talent, a player who had the potential to dominate world cricket. But this innings signified something more—it was the first glimpse of his ability to control an ODI innings, to construct a match-winning knock, and to anchor a batting lineup with unmatched authority.

This century marked the beginning of a phenomenal journey in ODI cricket. From that point onward, Tendulkar would go on to revolutionize the role of an opener in the format. His fearless approach, coupled with technical brilliance, changed the way opening batsmen were expected to play in ODIs. He ended his career with a record 49 ODI centuries, a staggering 18,426 runs, and a total of 100 international centuries—an achievement that remains unparalleled.

A Night to Remember

The match in Colombo was more than just another ODI; it was a night when an era began. It was the night when Sachin Tendulkar transitioned from a promising youngster to a genuine match-winner. It was the night when India found its batting talisman for the decades to come.

Even today, when one looks back at Tendulkar’s illustrious career, this innings holds special significance. Not because it was his highest or most dramatic knock, but because it was the first. The first of many. The first of 100. The first that gave the world a glimpse of a legend in the making.

Thank You 

Faisal Caesar 

The Test That Slipped Away: Sri Lanka vs. Australia, SSC Colombo 1992

A Prelude to History

Sri Lanka entered their 38th Test match in 1992 with an air of confidence. The nation had never defeated Australia in Tests, yet their cricket was maturing rapidly. Arjuna Ranatunga, shrewd and combative, chose to bowl first on a damp SSC wicket beneath heavy skies. What followed was a contest that swung violently across five days—culminating in one of the most dramatic collapses in Test history, and the accidental birth of the Shane Warne legend.

Early Triumphs: Hathurusingha’s Spell

Australia’s first innings began inauspiciously. Chandika Hathurusingha, a medium-pacer more associated with utility than destruction, bowled the spell of his life. Seam movement cut through Australia’s middle order—David Boon, Dean Jones, Allan Border, and Steve Waugh—dismissed in a burst that exposed the tourists’ frailties against conditions they had not anticipated. From 256 all out, Australia looked vulnerable; Sri Lanka sensed destiny.

Building an Empire: Gurusinha, Ranatunga, and Kaluwitharana

The second day unfolded under calmer skies. Roshan Mahanama’s classical strokes set the tone, but it was Asanka Gurusinha’s defiance and Ranatunga’s audacity that drove Sri Lanka into uncharted territory. Gurusinha anchored the innings for nearly nine hours, scoring 137 with monk-like patience. Ranatunga, in contrast, launched a cavalier assault—his 127 included 29 runs plundered from three Shane Warne overs.

The debutant Romesh Kaluwitharana then redefined wicketkeeper-batting in Sri Lanka. With impudent aggression, he smashed 132* from 158 balls, treating Shane Warne and Craig McDermott with disdain. For the first time in history, three Sri Lankan batsmen crossed centuries in the same innings, and for the first time their team crossed 500 runs. The hosts led by 291 runs, and Colombo dared to dream.

Border’s Rallying Cry and Australia’s Defiance

On the rest day, Allan Border demanded “guts and determination” from his men. Australia responded. Every batsman reached double figures, and Greg Matthews’ 64 anchored a spirited resistance. From 269 for 5, Australia clawed to 471, with stubborn contributions from McDermott, Warne, and Whitney. Sri Lanka’s sloppy fielding and 58 extras only added to the pressure.

Still, the task seemed modest: 181 runs in 58 overs. A historic victory beckoned.

The Fatal Error: Aravinda de Silva’s Impulse

At 127 for 2, Sri Lanka needed just 54 more runs. Aravinda de Silva, in a cameo of dazzling strokes, had raced to 37 from 32 balls. Then came the shot that turned triumph into tragedy. Attempting to loft McDermott over mid-on a second time, he was undone by Border’s sprinting, over-the-shoulder catch.

From that moment, panic and collapse replaced composure. Ranatunga followed with an ill-judged stroke. Marvan Atapattu, on the brink of yet another duck, succumbed. Kaluwitharana fell cheaply. In the space of minutes, Sri Lanka went from command to calamity.

The Warne Turning Point

Enter Shane Warne, a little-regarded leg-spinner who had conceded runs at will in his young Test career. Border threw him the ball in desperation. What followed was the birth of myth. Warne claimed three wickets in 13 balls without conceding a run, Matthews added four, and Sri Lanka imploded. Their last eight wickets tumbled for 37 runs.

From 127 for 2 to 164 all out, victory evaporated. Australia, who had trailed by nearly 300 on first innings, completed what Border would call “the greatest heist since the Great Train Robbery.”

Aftermath: Lessons and Legends

In the Sri Lankan dressing room, silence descended like a funeral. Players wept openly—Marvan Atapattu over his hat-trick of ducks, Kaluwitharana from the sheer sting of lost opportunity. Gurusinha reflected that Sri Lanka had dominated “14 and a half of 15 sessions, and lost in half a session.”

For Australia, the match marked a turning point. Border finally won a Test in the subcontinent. Greg Matthews revived his career. Most importantly, Shane Warne transformed from an expensive experiment into the man destined to reshape spin bowling.

The defeat scarred Sri Lanka but also hardened them. Later that year, they chased down a small target against New Zealand with ruthless efficiency. The lesson had been learned: pressure is as much a foe as the opposition.

Analytical Reflection

This Colombo Test remains emblematic of Test cricket’s brutal paradox: domination can be undone by a single moment of misjudgment. For Sri Lanka, it was Aravinda’s impetuous shot that symbolized the thin line between glory and despair. For Australia, it was Border’s leadership and Warne’s improbable breakthrough that reminded the cricketing world of the sport’s capacity for resurrection.

The match was not simply lost—it was squandered, surrendered to nerves and haste. Yet in that surrender, cricket gained one of its defining figures: Shane Warne.

Thank You

Faisal Caesar 

Pakistan’s Methodical Approach Outclasses Sri Lanka’s Impulsiveness in Test Clash

Sri Lanka’s approach to Test cricket in this encounter proved to be fundamentally flawed, as their aggressive instincts overshadowed the discipline required for the longest format of the game. The contrast in strategies between the two sides was striking—Pakistan’s calculated patience against Sri Lanka’s hurried aggression. The match not only highlighted individual brilliance but also underscored the importance of adaptability and temperament in Test cricket. 

Sri Lanka’s Impulsive Batting: Aravinda de Silva’s Dazzling Yet Costly Knock

The defining moment of Sri Lanka’s first innings came through their most flamboyant batsman, Aravinda de Silva. He played with characteristic aggression, smashing 127 runs off 156 balls, thrilling the sparse crowd with a breathtaking stroke-filled innings. His landmark century, for the third time in his career, came up with a six—a testament to his audacity at the crease. With 19 boundaries to his name, De Silva’s innings was pure entertainment. 

However, his aggression, while momentarily effective, lacked strategic foresight. Rather than consolidating the innings on a pitch that was slowing down and developing unpredictable bounce, he accelerated at a pace that only hastened his team’s downfall. His knock stood in stark contrast to the calculated approach of Saeed Anwar, whose patient and technically astute innings played a pivotal role in shaping Pakistan’s dominance. 

Pakistan’s Disciplined Batting: The Anwar Masterclass

If Sri Lanka’s innings was built on bursts of aggressive stroke-making, Pakistan’s was a study in controlled accumulation and patience. Their batting was epitomized by Saeed Anwar, whose twin scores of  94 and 136 displayed a blend of elegance and resilience. Anwar, a natural stroke-maker, tempered his instincts and crafted his runs carefully, adjusting to the slow and uneven bounce of the pitch. 

His first innings knock of 94 ended agonizingly short of a century when he fell to off-spinner Warnaweera. However, he made no such mistake in the second innings, scoring 136 off 218 balls, ensuring Pakistan built an insurmountable lead. His ability to graft on a difficult surface set the tone for Pakistan’s dominance, contrasting sharply with De Silva’s entertaining yet ultimately futile stroke play. 

Sri Lanka’s Bowling Miscalculation: A Spin-Heavy Attack with Limited Bite

Sri Lanka’s team selection raised eyebrows, particularly in their bowling attack. They opted for three off-spinners—Dharmasena, Warnaweera, and Muralitharan—while leaving out Kalpage, who had been effective against Pakistan in the one-day series. With only one specialist fast bowler in Wickremasinghe, their attack lacked balance and penetration. 

Despite his efforts, Dharmasena, playing just his third Test, toiled hard to pick up eight wickets, but he and Warnaweera struggled to generate the necessary flight and turn. Instead, their hurried pace through the air made it easier for the Pakistani batsmen to negotiate with them. Warnaweera’s bowling was further clouded by ongoing concerns over the legality of his action. 

Ironically, it was Pakistan’s spinners who proved to be the more effective. Mushtaq Ahmed, with his wrist spin, took three crucial wickets before tea on the second day, and off-spinner Akram Raza exploited the Sri Lankan batsmen’s lack of patience, claiming six wickets in the match. 

The Wasim-Waqar Factor: Pakistan’s Fast Bowling Supremacy

While Pakistan’s spinners played a role, it was their pace attack—Wasim Akram and Waqar Younis—that proved too lethal for Sri Lanka. Wasim Akram was in sublime form, swinging the ball masterfully to finish with eight wickets in the match. His combination of pace, movement, and accuracy made him unplayable, regardless of the pitch conditions. 

Waqar Younis, returning after an appendectomy in April, had a mixed outing. He was punished by De Silva in the first innings for bowling too short on a sluggish surface, but he made a crucial breakthrough in the second innings. On the fourth day, he outfoxed De Silva with a brilliantly disguised slower ball, catching and bowling him to deliver the knockout blow. 

In the final moments of the match, Wasim Akram delivered a devastating spell, taking three wickets in ten deliveries, polishing off the Sri Lankan tail and sealing a commanding victory. 

 Lessons from the Match: Tactical Discipline vs. Reckless Aggression

This match served as a lesson in the contrasting philosophies of Test cricket. Sri Lanka, despite having talented players, failed to grasp the essence of the longer format. De Silva’s brilliance was dazzling but fleeting**, and the lack of strategic batting partnerships proved costly. Their unbalanced bowling attack, leaning too heavily on spin, lacked the penetration to challenge a disciplined Pakistani side. 

Pakistan, on the other hand, demonstrated a masterclass in adaptability. Their batting, led by Anwar’s patience, ensured they built formidable totals. Their spinners outperformed Sri Lanka’s on a supposedly spin-friendly pitch, and their fast bowlers—Wasim and Waqar—were in a class of their own. 

In the final analysis, this was more than just a victory for Pakistan—it was a testament to the virtues of patience, adaptability, and strategic discipline in Test cricket. Sri Lanka, for all their flair, left the match with a stark reminder that entertainment alone does not win Test matches—application and strategy do.

Thank You

Faisal Caesar 

The Longest Day: When Sri Lanka Scaled the Summit but Missed the Stars

The morning broke not with tension, but with inevitability.

At Colombo’s Premadasa Stadium, the promise of a world record loomed just 50 runs away. Thousands gathered under the blazing sun, drawn by the magnetic pull of cricketing history. The scoreline had become a gravitational force of its own — Sri Lanka, with only a single wicket lost, was poised to eclipse everything that Test cricket had previously known about dominance, endurance, and glory.

And yet, this wasn’t an ambush. This was the logical conclusion of two days of unsparing brilliance. If the pitch was a stage, then it had long stopped offering any surprises, let alone the possibility of a fall. Wickets in this Test had become mythic, like the rains in a desert — and so when Nilesh Kulkarni, on debut, dismissed Marvan Atapattu with his first ball in Test cricket, he was not just writing his own folklore, but unknowingly marking India’s last successful gasp with the ball for an agonizingly long stretch.

What followed was a siege.

On the third day, Sanath Jayasuriya — all languid wrists and iron resolve — accumulated 163. Roshan Mahanama, precise and unobtrusive, compiled 115. Their partnership of 283 blossomed into something far more audacious the following day: Jayasuriya added another 151, Mahanama 96 more, and Sri Lanka, at an absurd 587 for 1, seemed to have not so much batted as dissolved all traditional metrics of attrition.

As Jayasuriya resumed on the fifth morning with 326 to his name, the stadium stood in hushed reverence. For the faithful from Matara — his hometown — who had travelled 160 kilometres to witness their native son sculpt greatness, this was more than sport. It was a spiritual experience. Jayasuriya was not just batting; he was representing the crest of a nation's pride, the idea of what it meant to endure and excel.

The Indian fielders, meanwhile, walked out with the hollow gait of men condemned to participate in their own public defeat. The centuries by Sidhu, Tendulkar, and Azharuddin — once stirring declarations of intent — now felt like footnotes in a narrative they no longer controlled. The ball was old, the pitch lifeless, and the bowlers looked like they had been sentenced rather than selected.

Then, as the score ticked to 615 and anticipation reached fever pitch, the script broke. Mahanama, now on 225, misread a Kumble delivery, missed the line, and was adjudged lbw. A partnership of 576 — the highest for any wicket in Test history — came to an end, cruelly one run short of the First-class record held by Hazare and Gul Mohammad.

As fans dismissed the loss as a mere formality, fate stepped in with theatrical precision. Two deliveries later, Jayasuriya, undone by a touch of extra bounce from Rajesh Chauhan, lobbed a simple catch. After 799 minutes of marathon concentration, 340 runs off 578 deliveries, 38 boundaries and two sixes, he walked back — exhausted, perhaps even relieved, but unmistakably short of the historic mark that had suddenly seemed within reach.

It was not just the end of a partnership. It was the end of a myth-in-making.

Jayasuriya later confessed that he had not chased the record — not until he was told, on the fourth evening, that he was just 50 runs shy. That changed everything. He came out burdened not by ambition but by history. And history, as it often does, recoiled.

But the dismantling of the twin centurions did not halt the Sri Lankan juggernaut. Arjuna Ranatunga, reading the pitch better than any curator, deemed any pursuit of victory senseless. Instead, the innings became a slow-burn exhibition of psychological domination. Aravinda de Silva, padded up for nearly 13 hours, uncorked a hundred of pure flair. Ranatunga nearly joined him, falling short only due to a run-out. A 19-year-old debutant named Mahela Jayawardene — whose name would become etched in similar epic scale nine years later — added a silken 65.

By the time Sri Lanka declared at 952 for 6 — the highest team total in Test history — the Indian bowlers looked like survivors of a long war. Kumble's figures of 1 for 226 seemed generous. Rajesh Chauhan's 0 for 276 was a slow bleeding. And poor Nilesh Kulkarni, who had once stood on a pedestal with a wicket from his first ball, now bore the cruel burden of 1 for 195 across 70 overs — the most poetic descent from debut euphoria to historical punishment.

And yet, it wasn’t just numbers that this match offered. It was a study in the mind: of how greatness inches forward and how fatigue, expectation, and ambition each play their part in shaping the destinies of men.

For Jayasuriya, the record that slipped through his fingers will forever linger like a half-remembered dream. “I wasn’t going after the record,” he said, “not until someone told me I was only 50 short.” In that moment, what had been natural became deliberate. What had been free-flowing turned heavy. What had been joy became a burden.

And that — perhaps more than the mountain of runs, the shattered records, or the numbing exhaustion — is the great irony of sport. The closer one gets to immortality, the more human one becomes.

Thank You 

Faisal Caesar 

Of squandered chances and patient triumphs: Bangladesh’s woes and Sri Lanka’s quiet reawakening

Test cricket, perhaps more than any other sport, is a stern tutor. It exposes impatience, magnifies errors, and punishes lapses in discipline with an almost cruel precision. The second Test in Colombo was such a lesson — a canvas on which Bangladesh’s enduring struggles were painted in anxious strokes, even as Sri Lanka quietly sketched out their own reassuring tale of resurgence.

Bangladesh: promise betrayed by impatience and frailty

For Bangladesh, the match began with hope. Winning the toss on a track at the SSC that traditionally flatters batters, they aspired to set the game’s tone. Instead, their innings was a tragic anthology of starts squandered. Six of their batters crossed 20, yet none reached 50. Each seemed to settle just long enough to hint at permanence, only to perish to a reckless stroke or a lapse in judgment. It was not so much that the pitch was hostile — it was that Bangladesh conspired against themselves.

It’s telling that their most substantial partnership, between Mushfiqur Rahim and Litton Das, came with two reprieves handed on a silver platter by Sri Lanka’s fielders. Even then, it was a transient resistance. Bangladesh’s innings was stitched together by the generosity of dropped catches, edges falling tantalisingly short, and missed run-out chances. Yet they could only crawl to 220 for 8 by the close on day one. It felt like a team forever one moment away from collapse — a psychological fragility every bit as costly as technical flaws.

Worse still, Bangladesh compounded these batting frailties with wayward bowling. Aside from Taijul Islam, who turned in a lionhearted five-for, their bowlers too often erred in line or length. When they did build pressure, they failed to sustain it, leaking boundaries that undid spells of good work. In total, they were a side wrestling with their own inconsistency — a problem more chronic than situational.

Sri Lanka: a quiet revolution in temperament

For Sri Lanka, meanwhile, this Test was a portrait of deliberate, almost old-fashioned Test match cricket — a demonstration that control over time remains the game’s most formidable weapon.

Their resurgence is not the stuff of dramatic flair. It is the quiet evolution of a side learning once more how to be methodical. With the ball, they were patient. Despite five dropped catches and missed chances that might have rattled a less disciplined unit, they stuck doggedly to probing lines, trusting that a mistake would eventually arrive. Asitha Fernando and Vishwa Fernando kept hammering the corridor outside off, while debutant Sonal Dinusha bowled with a composure that belied his inexperience. Even Prabath Jayasuriya, wicketless in the first innings, persisted until the surface rewarded him spectacularly in the second.

Their batting was an even richer story. Pathum Nissanka played an innings that was both a masterclass and a metaphor: 158 runs crafted with an unhurried grace that Bangladesh could not emulate. His shot selection was underwritten by a deep assurance; his ability to shift gears — from cautious to imperious — showcased a temperament honed for the long form. Where Bangladesh’s batters seemed forever tempted by risk, Nissanka exuded a calm certainty that allowed the game to bend to his rhythm.

When Bangladesh did apply themselves — as Taijul did with the ball, or briefly when Shadman Islam flirted with a second successive fifty — it only underscored how costly the collective lapses were. They were moments of resistance drowned out by a tide of their own making.

A match decided in moments — and mindsets

In the end, the statistical verdict — an innings-and-78-run victory for Sri Lanka — tells only half the story. The deeper narrative is one of contrasts: Bangladesh’s inability to turn promise into permanence, Sri Lanka’s refusal to panic when catches went down or the scoreboard slowed.

It is also a testament to the timeless truths of Test cricket: that even on a surface with runs to be made, discipline is king; that pressure is not always built by wickets alone but by denying easy runs, by choking off release. Sri Lanka bowled 30 maidens across Bangladesh’s first innings alone, each one a subtle squeeze on the psyche.

Bangladesh, by contrast, often bowled too short or too full, too anxious to force the game rather than let it evolve. Their batting too betrayed this urgency — attacking when they should have consolidated, defending without intent when they needed to score.

Two teams, two journeys

In a way, this match was the crossroads of two trajectories. Sri Lanka are a team quietly rebuilding an identity around patience and process. The likes of Nissanka and Jayasuriya are symbols of this — players who understand that Test victories are accumulated through small moments won again and again across sessions.

Bangladesh remain tantalisingly close yet frustratingly far. They possess the talent: Shanto, Mushfiqur, Litton, Taijul — all capable on their day. But Tests are not won on scattered days. They are won by sustaining standards across days, across innings, across fleeting moments when the game teeters and demands calm. Bangladesh, by dropping catches, playing rash strokes, and squandering bowling pressure, allowed each of those moments to slip away.

The enduring lesson

As Colombo’s sun set on a fourth-day finish, it left behind more than just numbers on a scoresheet. It offered a lesson as old as the format itself: that in Test cricket, unlike any other, impatience extracts a heavy price, while those who are willing to endure, to trust the process over impulse, find themselves rewarded not just with victory but with a growing aura of reliability.

Sri Lanka walk away from this series heartened by the shape their resurgence is taking — a methodical, disciplined, quietly confident side that seems ready to embrace harder challenges ahead. Bangladesh leave with familiar regrets and, hopefully, the resolve to address them. For in the end, cricket rarely forgives repetition of old mistakes. It merely waits to punish them again.

Thank You 

Faisal Caesar 

New Zealand’s Composed Brilliance Dismantles Sri Lankan Stronghold

A Toss, and a Turning Point

In a contest that was expected to tilt toward the hosts, it was New Zealand who scripted a compelling upset, dismantling Sri Lanka with poise and precision in every facet of the game. From the moment Stephen Fleming won the toss and chose to bat, the visitors seized the narrative, rarely loosening their grip across the five days of riveting cricket.

Early Stutters, Fleeting Lapses, and Steady Recovery

Though New Zealand’s first-innings total of 305 fell short of their internal expectations—Fleming later confessed they had aimed for 350—it proved sufficient to lay the foundation for dominance. The innings was a tapestry of intent and occasional folly. Fleming, ever the enigma, combined fluent strokeplay with his trademark absent-mindedness: once forgetting his protective gear and later gifting his wicket with an uncharacteristically loose stroke after crafting a measured 78. His momentary lapses were offset by Adam Parore’s elegance—his 67 laced with timing and touch that lent respectability to the total.

Sri Lanka's Faltering Start

Sri Lanka’s reply began in disarray, two early wickets sending tremors through the batting order. A brief resurgence, led by Jayawardene and the flamboyant Kaluwitharana, nudged them close—within 20 runs—yet their resistance lacked permanence.

A Partnership of Poise and Power

The match, however, pivoted on the extraordinary partnership between Fleming and the precocious Craig McMillan in New Zealand’s second innings. Together, they stitched a stand of 240 in just under four hours, an alliance defined by maturity, footwork, and an unyielding assault on Sri Lanka’s spinners. Fleming, the perennial promise, finally transcended into fulfilment. His unbeaten 174, a career-best, was an innings of stature and serenity—an epic carved in patient strokes and mental steel. McMillan, barely 21, revealed a cricketing intellect far beyond his years, hammering 142 off 179 balls, his innings punctuated by 13 fours and six sixes—a daring contrast to Fleming’s elegance.

A Mountain to Climb

By the close of the third day, New Zealand stood imperiously at 260 for three, and the fourth morning only added to Sri Lanka’s woes. As Fleming accumulated with quiet authority, McMillan’s century arrived at a brisk tempo, reflecting the assertiveness that had unnerved the home side.

Faced with a daunting target of 465 and four-and-a-half sessions to negotiate, Sri Lanka’s task was arduous, but not impossible. On a surface that remained benign yet hinted at spin, they showed early application, reaching 111 for two by stumps on the penultimate day.

Collapse in the Heat of Pressure

De Silva’s assured 71 gave hope of resistance, but when he fell to the first ball after lunch, the unraveling began. In a swift and startling collapse, the final seven wickets tumbled for a mere 81 runs.

Wiseman's Late Bloom Seals the Victory

The architect of Sri Lanka’s demise was Paul Wiseman, a debutant spinner aged 28, whose perseverance was rewarded with figures of five for 82 across a demanding 46.5-over spell. It was a performance of quiet endurance, bereft of drama yet rich in impact, as he methodically dismantled the middle and lower order to seal the win shortly after tea.

A Statement Victory, and a Captain's Maturation

New Zealand’s triumph was not just a statistical victory but a statement of intent. In subduing Sri Lanka on their own soil, they exhibited discipline, clarity, and the rare ability to rise collectively. For Fleming, this match may well be remembered as the turning point—from the talented captain who too often fell short, to the craftsman who finally mastered the long form.

Thank You 

Faisal Caesar 

Endurance and Ennui: A Tale of Records and Reluctance in Colombo

In the sweltering humidity of Colombo, beneath a listless sky and on a pitch that refused to yield, cricket’s most enduring virtues—patience, resilience, and defiance—unfolded in epic, if soporific, fashion. What emerged was not so much a contest as a chronicle of personal milestones—etched in granite rather than fire—and a slow, glacial drift toward an inevitable draw.

For Sri Lanka, the newly minted Test nation still seeking its defining voices, Brendon Kuruppu rose—unheralded and meticulous—as the unexpected hero. A 25-year-old wicketkeeper with only limited-overs experience until then, Kuruppu announced himself in the grandest and most grinding manner imaginable: an unbeaten 201, carved across 776 minutes and 517 balls, in what became not only the highest score for Sri Lanka in Tests but also the slowest double-century in Test history.

Here was not flamboyance but fortitude, not flair but method—an innings that was at once a triumph of will and a test of attention. Kuruppu joined the elite company of Tip Foster and Lawrence Rowe as one of only three men to score a double-hundred on Test debut. But his feat stood apart: not for its fire, but for its ice. He struck 25 boundaries but never lost his inner stillness, embodying a quiet, almost monkish concentration that endured across all five days. To complete the feat, he also kept wicket through New Zealand’s entire innings—another unprecedented accomplishment on debut.

New Zealand, meanwhile, found themselves following their new captain, Jeff Crowe, into the depths of stonewalling. Taking the helm for the first time, Crowe batted as if time itself had slowed around him. His hundred—off 331 balls and 515 minutes—was the third slowest ever recorded in Test cricket, a deliberate act of trench warfare in whites. His final tally, 120 not out in 609 minutes, bore the marks of stoicism rather than swagger.

Together with the imperious Richard Hadlee, whose unbeaten 151 was a rare burst of life in an otherwise lifeless narrative, Crowe crafted a sixth-wicket partnership of 246—a New Zealand record against any nation. Hadlee’s innings, which featured two sixes and fourteen fours, was not just his personal best but a rare shimmer of attacking intent. His contributions were not limited to the bat; he equaled Dennis Lillee's record of 355 Test wickets (in the same number of matches, 70) and took a brilliant gully catch to remove Madugalle after a gritty 59.

Yet for all these statistics and landmarks, the match bore the weight of torpor. The pitch—benign to the point of indifference—combined with heavy, wet air to suck urgency from the contest. Only one wicket fell per session on the first day, as New Zealand’s gamble to field first on winning the toss yielded little but regret. Worse still, the fielders shelled Kuruppu four times—on 31, 70, 165, and 181—mistakes that prolonged the tedium and all but sealed their fate.

Sri Lanka’s declaration, on the third afternoon, came more as an act of mercy than tactical ambition, relieving a crowd already thinned by inertia. Even free admission on the final day couldn’t lure them back. By then, time had dissolved into irrelevance. Bad light stole 119 minutes across the match, but it scarcely mattered—neither side showed urgency, nor did the conditions permit it.

As Ratnayeke briefly threatened to stir the game with a burst of two wickets for five runs in six overs, the New Zealand captain clamped down. At one point, Crowe took 80 balls to reach double figures, and spent an hour on 15. His scoring rate, like the match itself, crawled. And as he and Hadlee batted out the final day—Crowe scoring just 10 runs in the entire last session—the umpires finally drew stumps with sixteen overs unbowled, acknowledging a conclusion already written in the still air.

It was a Test match without narrative drama, but rich in stoic achievement. A record-laden stalemate. An ode to cricket’s slowest rhythms. And in Kuruppu’s marathon, in Crowe’s obduracy, and in Hadlee’s all-round brilliance, it reminded us that sometimes history arrives not with a bang, but with the long, measured beat of bat on ball in the tropical dusk.

Thank You 

Faisal Caesar 

The St. Patrick’s Day Massacre: England’s Stunning Triumph in Colombo

Fresh from the five-day epic in Kandy, England and Sri Lanka embarked on another brutal contest—this time, a three-day thriller in Colombo. What unfolded was a Test match of astonishing volatility, culminating in a staggering collapse that saw Sri Lanka bowled out for just 81 on the third evening. England, despite a jittery chase, secured victory by three wickets and with it, the series 2-1. It was a triumph not only over Sri Lanka but also over oppressive heat and exhaustion. Thorpe, who anchored England’s innings twice, admitted he had never played in such draining conditions.

If Kandy had been a test of endurance, Colombo was an exercise in controlled chaos. The third day alone witnessed the fall of 22 wickets for just 229 runs, a statistic that spoke of both the frailty of batting under immense pressure and the mastery of fast bowling on a deteriorating surface. This time, however, there were no umpiring controversies to muddy the spectacle. Asoka de Silva’s officiating was widely praised, and with the integrity of the contest intact, tempers remained in check.

Tactical Adjustments and the Battle with the Toss

The significance of the toss loomed large. For the third consecutive time—and the 17th in 21 Tests as captain—Sanath Jayasuriya called correctly. With the pitch expected to deteriorate, Sri Lanka’s decision to bat was logical. England, meanwhile, made one crucial change: Hick, whose form had disintegrated, was replaced by Michael Vaughan, a selection that now seemed inevitable. The hosts, too, made adjustments, recalling Dilhara Fernando for Nuwan Zoysa and handing a debut to left-arm spinner Dinuka Hettiarachchi in place of Dharmasena, whose bowling had lacked penetration.

Caddick struck early, dismissing Atapattu in the second over with a delivery of near-perfect geometry—pitching on leg, straightening, and rattling middle and off. But that was England’s only moment of success in a first session dominated by Kumar Sangakkara’s assured strokeplay. The young left-hander, already emerging as the backbone of Sri Lanka’s batting, appeared untroubled by either pace or spin. Yet, cricket at this level has a way of exposing even the most confident.

After lunch, Gough—the ever-reliable enforcer—targeted Sangakkara with hostility, striking him with a bouncer before unleashing a searing, rising delivery that had the batsman recoiling. Uprooted from his rhythm, Sangakkara spooned the next ball tamely to cover. His departure triggered a slide, Jayasuriya falling soon after, though Aravinda de Silva and Mahela Jayawardene steadied the innings, taking Sri Lanka past 200 in the evening session.

Umpire Orchard, near-faultless throughout, may have erred in giving de Silva out caught at silly mid-off, the replays inconclusive. But if luck momentarily abandoned Sri Lanka, misfortune soon turned to calamity. England, invigorated by a late flurry of wickets, ensured the day ended in their favor. By stumps, Sri Lanka’s lower order lay in ruins—Dilshan and Jayawardene dismissed by Croft, Arnold undone by Giles. The collapse continued into the following morning as Caddick, armed with the new ball, ran through the tail. Seven wickets had fallen for just 36 runs.

England’s Response: A Battle of Grit and Guile

Despite a brisk start, England’s reply was soon troubled. Atherton, having smacked three early boundaries off Vaas, succumbed yet again to the left-armer, making it five dismissals in six innings. The method was predictable, the result inevitable.

Then came one of the more bizarre dismissals of the series. Trescothick, in his usual aggressive manner, whipped a shot toward leg, the ball vanishing from sight. Confusion reigned until the fielders, tracking its trajectory, discovered it lodged within the folds of Russell Arnold’s billowing shirt at short leg. An absurd but legal dismissal, and a first Test wicket for Hettiarachchi.

Hussain, battling a thigh injury sustained while fielding, endured a brief, agonizing stay at the crease. The injury would rule him out of the upcoming one-dayers, and his dismissal—dragging on against Hettiarachchi—reduced England to 91 for four. It was left to Thorpe and Vaughan to restore order, which they did with discipline and resilience, navigating Muralitharan’s extravagant turn to reach 175 by stumps.

Morning rain briefly delayed play, and in the lull, murmurs of a possible draw surfaced. No one imagined that the match would end within the day.

But if the second day had ended with a hint of stability, the third erupted into chaos.

The Morning Collapse: A Prelude to the Madness Ahead

England began disastrously. Vaas, rejuvenated, teased Vaughan and White into tentative prods, both edging behind. The hat-trick was narrowly averted, but the damage continued. Giles fell identically, giving Vaas three wickets for a single run in a 16-ball spell. He finished with a career-best six for 73.

Thorpe, composed amid the wreckage, might have perished himself—Orchard missed a clear edge to silly point—but he made full use of his reprieve. He shepherded the tail, even as he inadvertently ran out Croft, and reached his eighth Test century, an innings of defiance and class. His counterattack against spin and pace alike cemented his status as England’s premier middle-order batsman.

By the time the innings ended, England had lost six wickets for 74 runs, precisely the same tally they would need to win.

The Collapse That Shook Sri Lanka

If England had crumbled in the morning, Sri Lanka would have disintegrated spectacularly in the afternoon. What followed was a collapse of historic proportions, as Gough and Caddick ripped through the top order with a ruthless efficiency rarely seen.

Atapattu, who had opened the series with a double-century, now ended it with a pair. Sangakkara and Jayasuriya followed in quick succession, both victims of relentless pressure and sharp movement. De Silva, momentarily looking imperious with two boundaries in three balls, fell for the bait—Caddick’s slower delivery outwitted him, and he was caught at square leg.

The lower order collapsed in a blur of wickets, Muralitharan’s desperate reverse sweep—executed without even taking guard—symbolizing Sri Lanka’s complete capitulation. Within 28.1 overs, they were gone for 81, their second-lowest Test total. England, who had not bowled out a team for under 100 in two decades, had now done so four times in ten months.

The spin pair of Giles and Croft, much maligned at times, had come into their own. Their combined match figures of 11 for 144 highlighted a level of control and variation that had eluded them earlier in the series.

England Stumble to Victory

But still, the drama was not over. England, set a paltry 74, nearly lost their nerve. Atherton, for once surviving Vaas, fell to Fernando instead. When the score stood at 43 for four, Sri Lanka sensed the slimmest of chances. Yet, Thorpe, with the same poise that had defined his century, closed the door with an unbeaten 32.

The final act belonged to Hussain, bravely hobbling to the crease at No. 7 with a runner. It was a moment of stubborn defiance, but also one of cricket’s little ironies—he would become the eighth duck of the day, an unwanted record-equalling 11th for the match.

As the Barmy Army roared, chanting “Bring on the Aussies!”, England could reflect on a remarkable turnaround. From an innings defeat in the First Test to series victors, they had conquered not just Sri Lanka but themselves—overcoming fragility, adversity, and history.

This was Test cricket at its rawest—unpredictable, unrelenting, and utterly enthralling.

Thank You

Faisal Caesar 

 

Zimbabwe’s Gallant Fight in Colombo: A Testament to Grit Amid Adversity

 

The one-off Test between Sri Lanka and Zimbabwe at the Khettarama Stadium in Colombo was a spectacle that defied expectations, a testament to Zimbabwe’s grit and tenacity in the face of adversity. Though victory eluded them, the visitors left an indelible mark with their spirited performance, showcasing the resilience of a team battling not just their opposition but the systemic challenges that plague cricket in their country. 

Craig Ervine’s Heroics: A Study in Composure

In the cauldron-like heat of Colombo, Craig Ervine stood tall, a picture of determination against the wiles of Rangana Herath. Walking in at 38 for 2 and later witnessing the fall of two more wickets, Ervine displayed remarkable composure. His initial restraint—spending 13 deliveries before getting off the mark—was a masterclass in adapting to both the turning wicket and the oppressive conditions. 

Once settled, Ervine’s fluent off-side strokes began to emerge, reflecting the confidence of a batsman who understood the situation. His ability to shepherd the tail, particularly Donald Tiripano, in a vital 62-run partnership for the ninth wicket was a testament to his leadership at the crease. Ervine’s valiant 160, supported by Tiripano’s gritty 27, ensured Zimbabwe eked out a slender yet crucial lead of 10 runs—an achievement of immense psychological significance. 

Sikandar Raza and Malcolm Waller: Courage Under Fire

On Day 3, Herath returned with venom, reducing Zimbabwe to 59 for 5 in a spell of relentless precision. It seemed the visitors were destined for another collapse, but Sikandar Raza and Malcolm Waller had other plans. 

Raza’s innings was an exhibition of calculated defiance. Early on, he absorbed the pressure with defensive strokes, but as he acclimated to Herath’s guile, he transitioned into a more assertive mode, dispatching loose deliveries to the boundary. At the other end, Waller’s controlled aggression complemented Raza’s solidity, and together they forged a crucial partnership that frustrated Sri Lanka. 

Their fightback embodied Zimbabwe’s character—a refusal to capitulate despite overwhelming odds. Raza and Waller gave the tourists a lifeline, and when Graeme Cremer contributed a determined 48 on Day 4, Zimbabwe had positioned themselves as potential victors in a match that few had expected them to dominate. 

What Went Wrong for Zimbabwe?

On the final day, the experience gap between the two sides became glaring. Zimbabwe had the upper hand but faltered in critical moments, their lack of Test exposure and tactical missteps costing them dearly. 

Cremer’s decision-making was a key factor. While operating in tandem with Sean Williams, the captain maintained defensive fields, scattering players in the deep and waiting for Sri Lanka’s batsmen to make mistakes. However, Niroshan Dickwella and Asela Gunaratne were too seasoned to fall into such traps. Their strategy was simple yet effective—accumulate singles and twos, refusing to take unnecessary risks. 

The leg-stump-oriented lines bowled by Cremer and Williams reflected a one-day cricket mindset ill-suited to the longer format. Close-in fielders were conspicuously absent, allowing the Sri Lankan duo to build a match-winning partnership with minimal pressure. 

Zimbabwe’s inability to seize critical moments compounded their problems. Dropped catches and missed run-out opportunities during the most crucial passages of play gave Sri Lanka a lifeline. Additionally, the contentious stumping decision involving Dickwella—adjudged not out by the third umpire—further dented Zimbabwe’s hopes. 

Lessons for Zimbabwe

Despite the heartbreak, Zimbabwe has much to celebrate. Their performance in Colombo earned them respect and admiration from cricketing circles worldwide. However, there are lessons to be learned. 

First, tactical awareness needs to improve. Cremer, while spirited, must refine his captaincy skills to better read match situations and employ proactive strategies. Second, Zimbabwe lacks a genuine wicket-taker who can break partnerships in crucial moments. Investing in the development of such bowlers is imperative. 

Finally, Zimbabwe’s fielding must undergo a transformation. In Tests, where every run matters, a dropped catch or missed opportunity can be the difference between victory and defeat. 

A Call for Support

Zimbabwe’s valiant effort in Colombo is a reminder of their potential, but it also underscores the systemic issues that hinder their progress. The team plays far too few Tests, depriving them of the experience needed to compete against top sides. The lack of a professional cricket board and financial support exacerbates their plight, leaving the players to shoulder an extraordinary burden. 

The international cricket community must take notice. Zimbabwe’s fighting spirit deserves more opportunities, not only for the players to showcase their skills but also to inspire the next generation of cricketers in the country. 

Conclusion

Though Zimbabwe fell short of a historic victory, their performance in Colombo was nothing short of heroic. From Ervine’s masterful century to Raza and Waller’s defiance, the team displayed the kind of character that makes Test cricket special. 

As they reflect on the near miss, Zimbabwe can hold their heads high. The lessons from this match will serve them well, and if their spirit remains unbroken, they may yet script the remarkable turnaround their cricketing fraternity so desperately deserves.

Thank You

Faisal Caesar 

The Roar of a Nation: The Legacy of Bangladesh’s Test Journey

“The three great elemental sounds in nature are the sound of rain, the sound of wind in a primaeval wood, and the sound of the outer ocean on a beach,” wrote Henry Beston. For many in Bangladesh, these are poetic and serene, but they pale in comparison to a more electrifying sound—the deafening roar of cricket fans in jam-packed stadiums at Mirpur, Chittagong, Khulna, and Fatullah. 

That roar, echoing through the hearts of millions, is more than a celebration. It is a testament to the resilience, passion, and determination of a nation that dared to dream against all odds. And none of it would have been possible without that fateful day—**June 26, 2000**—when Bangladesh was awarded Test status. 

A Dream Beyond the Horizon 

Cricket in Bangladesh, before Test status, was like a river without a destination. The followers were there, the passion undeniable, but there was no stage grand enough to channel their fervour. The road to Test cricket was not merely challenging—it was strewn with scepticism and setbacks. 

Bangladesh's victory at the ICC Trophy in 1997, followed by the iconic win against Pakistan in the 1999 World Cup at Northampton, were watershed moments. These achievements provided  Saber Hossain Chowdhury, Syed Ashraful Haque, and their team the ammunition to campaign for Test recognition. Yet, even with these wins, the task was daunting. Persuading the International Cricket Council (ICC) required more than just results—it demanded vision, strategy, and unshakable belief. 

The Eddie Barlow Era: Architect of Change 

Enter Eddie Barlow, the South African legend whose short-sightedness and stout build as a boy had earned him the nickname Bunter.” What he lacked in physical elegance, he more than compensated for with his determination and cricketing acumen. By the time he joined Bangladesh in 1999, Barlow had already carved out a legacy of competitive cricket infused with grit and professionalism. 

Barlow wasn’t just a coach—he was a revolutionary. He emphasized the development of Bangladesh’s domestic cricket structure, understanding that the foundation of Test success lay in nurturing talent from within. Former cricketer and selector Faruqe Ahmed would later call him *“the architect behind the change of the domestic structure.”

Barlow’s approach was holistic. He worked relentlessly with the players, instilling in them not just skills but the mental resilience required to face the rigours of Test cricket. His philosophy was simple yet profound: Bangladesh had to think and act like a Test nation long before they were granted the status. 

The Players’ Coach 

For the cricketers, Barlow was more than a mentor; he was a father figure. His encouragement and belief transformed careers. Habibul Bashar, one of Bangladesh’s most dependable batsmen, recalled how Barlow stood up for him when his place in the team was uncertain. 

“Whatever I have achieved was because of that man,” said Bashar, remembering how Barlow ensured his inclusion in Bangladesh’s inaugural Test squad. 

Barlow’s faith in Bangladesh cricket was unwavering, even when the rest of the world doubted. His presentation to the ICC, showcasing the growth of cricket in Bangladesh, was pivotal in swaying the votes needed to secure Test status. 

The First Test: A Symbol of Triumph 

When Bangladesh played their inaugural Test against India in November 2000, Barlow was there, despite a debilitating stroke that confined him to a wheelchair. His presence symbolized the culmination of years of effort, sacrifice, and belief. 

The match itself was historic, not least because of Aminul Islam’s magnificent century on debut. Reflecting on that day, Aminul recalled how Barlow’s struggles to stand and applaud his achievement became one of the most poignant moments of his career. “Soon after thanking Allah, I looked towards the dressing room where a paralysed Eddie Barlow was trying hard to stand up from his wheelchair to give a standing ovation,” Aminul said. 

This was not just a game. It was a vindication of a dream. 

 The Legacy of Barlow 

Barlow’s tenure with Bangladesh was tragically cut short by a hemorrhagic stroke, and he passed away in 2005. Yet, his legacy endures. He laid the groundwork for a cricketing culture that continues to evolve, though the pace has often been frustratingly slow. Many believe that had Barlow stayed longer, Bangladesh’s domestic structure might have been stronger, and their early struggles in Test cricket less pronounced. 

The Sound That Echoes Still 

As Bangladesh prepared to play their 100th Test match at the P. Sara Oval on March 15, 2017, the journey came full circle. From those early days of scepticism to becoming one of the most passionately supported cricket nations in the world, the Tigers have come a long way. 

Eddie Barlow, watching from beyond, would surely feel pride in what he helped build. His vision and belief gave a voice to a nation’s cricketing aspirations. Today, that voice reverberates in the stadiums of Mirpur and Chittagong, louder and more vibrant than the monsoon rains or the waves of Cox’s Bazar. 

Bangladesh cricket is not just a story of sport; it is a story of hope, resilience, and triumph. It is the sound of a nation finding its place on the global stage.

Thank You

Faisal Caesar

Wahidul Ghani and the Genesis of a Dream: The Ashraful Saga

Cricket, in its essence, is more than just a game; it is a tapestry of dreams, aspirations, and the relentless pursuit of greatness. For Wahidul Ghani, cricket was not merely a passion—it was his lifeblood, an unwavering commitment to a vision for Bangladesh cricket. Though his own international career was fleeting—limited to a solitary appearance against Pakistan in the 1988 Asia Cup—Ghani’s true legacy was etched not on the field but in the hearts and futures of young cricketers he nurtured. 

A Brief Glimpse on the Field

When Wahidul Ghani donned the Bangladeshi colours against Pakistan, he faced the might of batsmen like Ramiz Raja, Salim Malik, and Ijaz Ahmed. Though his leg-spin couldn’t trouble the formidable opposition, the Tigers showed resilience, managing to play out their 45 overs. For Ghani, that match marked the end of his international journey, but it was only the beginning of his enduring contribution to the game. 

Building Foundations: The Birth of Ankur

Post-retirement, Wahidul Ghani dedicated himself to grassroots cricket, founding *Ankur*, a coaching school unlike any other in Bangladesh. Charging no fees, Ghani’s school became a beacon of opportunity for aspiring cricketers who lacked financial resources but brimmed with talent. He was more than a coach—he was a mentor, a father figure, and a symbol of discipline and hard work. Through his selfless dedication, he laid the groundwork for the future of Bangladeshi cricket. 

Among his many proteges, one would go on to immortalize Ghani’s name in the annals of cricket history. 

The Prodigy: Mohammad Ashraful

In 1995, an 11-year-old Mohammad Ashraful entered Ankur. Barely able to hold a bat, the frail boy immediately caught Ghani’s eye. There was something extraordinary in Ashraful’s technique, temperament, and innate love for the game. Ghani nurtured the young prodigy, instilling in him the confidence to overcome physical limitations with sheer determination and skill. 

By 2000, Ashraful had graduated to the Bangladesh U-19 team, participating in the Under-19 World Cup. Critics dismissed him as too small and too fragile for international cricket, but Ghani stood steadfast, shielding his pupil from detractors. The master’s faith in his disciple would soon be vindicated most spectacularly. 

The Test of Fire: Sri Lanka, 2001

In September 2001, Bangladesh faced Sri Lanka in Colombo as part of the Asian Test Championship. The Tigers, still in their infancy as a Test team, were battered in their opening match against Pakistan and arrived in Colombo to widespread criticism. The match seemed destined to be another mismatch, a forgettable footnote in cricketing history. 

Sri Lanka declared on a towering 555 for 5, reducing Bangladesh to a paltry 90 in the first innings. By the end of Day 2, Bangladesh had clawed their way to 100 for 4, with 17-year-old Ashraful unbeaten on 4. Few could have imagined that the following day would script a tale of defiance that would echo for years. 

A Boy Becomes a Legend

Ashraful began cautiously on Day 3, defending with maturity and rotating the strike. As he grew in confidence, he unfurled strokes of sublime quality. Against Chaminda Vaas, Sri Lanka’s wily seamer, he played with assuredness, while against the wizardry of Muttiah Muralitharan, he showcased audacity rarely seen in players twice his age. 

Using nimble footwork, Ashraful neutralized Murali’s guile, dancing down the track to loft him over the infield and pulling with precision when the length demanded. His ability to read Murali’s variations—particularly the feared doosra—astonished onlookers. 

By the time he reached his century with a boundary off Vaas, Ashraful had not only etched his name in the record books as the youngest Test centurion on debut but also silenced critics questioning Bangladesh’s place in Test cricket. 

A Mentor’s Reward

Though Sri Lanka won the match, Ashraful’s 114 was the definitive highlight. Even Muralitharan, who claimed the Man of the Match award, was so impressed that he gifted his prize money to the young Bangladeshi batsman—a gesture that symbolized the respect Ashraful had earned. 

For Wahidul Ghani, it was a moment of profound pride. The boy he had nurtured, the talent he had believed in, had vindicated his life’s work. Ashraful’s innings was not just a personal triumph but a beacon of hope for Bangladeshi cricket, proving that with grit and guidance, the nation could dream of greatness. 

A Story of Triumph and Tragedy

While Ashraful’s debut century remains one of the most iconic moments in Bangladesh’s cricketing history, his career trajectory did not fulfil its early promise. Inconsistencies and controversies marred his later years, leaving fans to wonder what might have been. Yet, his debut knock stands as a timeless reminder of the possibilities that lie within untapped potential. 

Legacy of a Dreamer

Wahidul Ghani’s legacy is not measured by his personal achievements but by the lives he transformed. He was a dreamer who believed in the future of Bangladeshi cricket when few did. His contribution, embodied in moments like Ashraful’s century, laid the foundation for the rise of a cricketing nation. 

Today, as Bangladesh continues its journey on the international stage, the echoes of Ghani’s efforts and Ashraful’s bravery resonate in every victory. Their story reminds us that behind every moment of glory lies the quiet labour of visionaries and dreamers who dared to believe. 

Thank You

Faisal Caesar 

A Turnaround in the Island Nation: Sri Lanka’s Resurgence Against All Odds

In the summer of 2016, amid the grey clouds of despair hovering over Sri Lankan cricket, a moment of brilliance unfolded on the dusty pitches of the subcontinent. In the first ball of the 45th over of Australia’s innings in the third Test, Rangana Herath, the evergreen warrior of Sri Lankan cricket, delivered a slider that thudded into Nathan Lyon’s pad. The appeal was instant and the umpire’s finger went up. A review later, the decision stood, sealing Australia’s fate at 160 all out. Herath had taken his 13th wicket of the match, etching his name into history as the architect of a remarkable victory. Sri Lanka had not just won the Test but completed a historic 3-0 whitewash of the former world number one side. For a team that had never before managed such dominance over Australia, this triumph was more than a statistical anomaly—it was a statement.

The Shadow of Transition

The victory was as much about perseverance as it was about skill. Only weeks earlier, Sri Lanka had endured a miserable tour of England, succumbing to James Anderson and Stuart Broad’s mastery in swinging conditions. Their performance was dissected with the harsh lens of a cricketing fraternity used to seeing Sri Lanka as a powerhouse, albeit a fading one. The post-Mahela Jayawardene and Kumar Sangakkara era had begun in earnest, and it wasn’t a pretty sight. Angelo Mathews, burdened with the captaincy, struggled to find solace in a team riddled with inconsistency and an absence of generational talent.

But transitions are no strangers to Sri Lanka. They had weathered the exits of Arjuna Ranatunga and Aravinda de Silva in the past, finding salvation in the likes of Muttiah Muralitharan, Chaminda Vaas, Jayawardene, and Sangakkara. These legends, in turn, became the custodians of the team during their own transition. Now, with none of these icons left, Mathews had to navigate a storm with a cast that was largely untested and unproven.

The Herath Factor: A Beacon of Hope

If there was one constant in Sri Lanka’s turbulent seas, it was Rangana Herath. The wily left-arm spinner, with his unassuming demeanour and portly frame, defied conventional wisdom about athleticism. His guile, patience, and mastery over the art of spin transformed him into the torchbearer of Sri Lanka’s legacy. When Australia faltered against him, it wasn’t just Herath’s skill on display—it was the triumph of Sri Lanka’s enduring cricketing ethos.

Herath’s success underscored a critical aspect of Sri Lanka’s resilience: their capacity to adapt. Even as their cricket board grappled with accusations of corruption, the players retained a culture of quiet determination. There were no sweeping changes or dramatic calls for heads to roll. Instead, they placed faith in their process, their players, and their ability to weather the storm.

The Seeds of a New Generation

This faith extended to the new crop of cricketers—Kusal Mendis, Dhananjaya de Silva, Kaushal Silva, and Sandakan—who began to show glimpses of the future. These young guns, supported by Mathews and Chandimal, carried the promise of Sri Lanka’s cricketing revival. The victory over Australia was not merely a moment of glory; it was a harbinger of a brighter era, forged by a team that refused to yield to despair.

Lessons Beyond Cricket

Sri Lanka’s cricketing story in 2016 mirrors the ethos of its people. Despite facing adversity, both on and off the field, they chose to rebuild rather than bemoan their circumstances. This culture of quiet resilience, debate over argument, and positivity over pessimism, became their greatest strength. Their cricket is a reflection of a society that values perseverance and hard work, where solutions take precedence over excuses.

As the cricketing world watches, there is little doubt that Sri Lanka will rise again. Their journey, though fraught with challenges, is guided by the enduring spirit of their cricketing culture. With a balanced blend of experience and youth, Sri Lanka’s resurgence is not a question of *if* but *when*.

Thank You

Faisal Caesar 

The Indian Top Order’s Achilles Heel: Lessons from the Sri Lankan Pacers

The ongoing Test series between Sri Lanka and India has unearthed a glaring vulnerability in the Indian top order—a struggle against the moving ball, particularly deliveries that nip back. The Sri Lankan pacers, led by the wily Dhammika Prasad and the deceptive Nuwan Pradeep, have capitalized on this technical frailty, turning India's vaunted top order into a study in survival rather than dominance. 

Yet, the narrative of these dismissals isn’t solely about the brilliance of Sri Lankan bowlers. It is equally about the Indian batsmen's misplaced tendencies and their struggle to adapt to conditions that demand technical precision and tactical awareness. 

Sri Lankan Seam Wizardry: A Masterclass in Exploiting Movement

Dhammika Prasad has been a revelation, tormenting the Indian top order with his ability to generate late movement. His deliveries, which veer unpredictably either into or away from the batsman, have repeatedly lured Indian openers into traps. From KL Rahul’s plumb lbw dismissal in Galle to Murali Vijay’s downfall in the second Test, Prasad’s precision has been relentless. 

Nuwan Pradeep, with his deceptive pace and pinpoint accuracy, has provided the perfect foil. His fuller deliveries, targeted at the stumps, have caught Indian batsmen unprepared, as evidenced by Ajinkya Rahane’s dismissal in the third Test when an incoming delivery pinned him on the back leg before he could adjust. 

While the Sri Lankan pacers deserve credit for their skill and intelligence, the recurring nature of these dismissals points to a deeper issue: the Indian batsmen’s technical inadequacies. 

The Flawed Front-Foot Obsession

Modern-day batsmen, particularly in subcontinental teams, exhibit an almost compulsive tendency to play on the front foot. Against moving deliveries, this approach has proven fatal. The dismissals of Rahul, Vijay, and Rahane showcase a consistent pattern: batsmen committing too early to the front foot, reducing their ability to adjust to late movement. 

In contrast, adopting a back-foot approach against such deliveries provides crucial advantages. Playing late allows batsmen to assess the ball's trajectory and movement, enabling better shot selection and minimizing the risk of lbw or edge dismissals. 

However, the Indian top order seems reluctant to recalibrate their technique, a shortcoming that has become increasingly evident against high-quality swing and seam bowling. 

Root Causes of Technical Deficiency

This front-foot bias isn’t an isolated issue; it reflects broader trends in modern cricket. Several factors contribute to the decline of back-foot play: 

1. The Twenty20 Effect

The rise of Twenty20 cricket has revolutionized batting, emphasizing aggression and run-scoring at every opportunity. The shortest format encourages batsmen to press forward, aiming to hit through the line or drive deliveries irrespective of lateral movement. Over time, this has eroded foundational skills, particularly the ability to play late and off the back foot. 

2. Placid Domestic Pitches

Subcontinental pitches, including those in India, are notoriously flat and unresponsive to seam movement. These tracks rarely test a batsman’s technique against high-quality swing or seam bowling, fostering habits that are ill-suited for overseas conditions or lively tracks. The lack of sporting pitches in domestic cricket has stunted the development of well-rounded batting techniques. 

3. The Absence of the Dukes Ball

The choice of cricket balls in domestic competitions also plays a role. In India and most subcontinental nations, SG or Kookaburra balls dominate. These balls lose their seam and swing potency relatively early in an innings, making life easier for batsmen after the first few overs. In contrast, the Dukes ball, widely used in England, retains its movement for longer periods, providing consistent challenges to batsmen. Regular exposure to the Dukes ball could significantly improve batsmen’s ability to handle swing and seam. 

A Stark Contrast with the Past

The struggles of the modern Indian top order stand in sharp contrast to the assuredness of past greats. Sunil Gavaskar and Graham Gooch, to name just two, epitomized back-foot mastery. They would often negate incoming deliveries with a confident back-foot glance or an elegant late cut, exuding control over their movements and shot selection. 

Their approach wasn’t just about skill but about adapting to the conditions and bowlers—a quality missing in many contemporary batsmen. 

Broader Implications: A Global Trend

India is not alone in this struggle. The recently concluded Ashes series highlighted similar deficiencies in the Australian batting lineup. Even Steve Smith, the world’s No. 1 Test batsman, appeared at sea against the swinging ball, succumbing to deliveries that exploited his front-foot leaning tendencies. 

This widespread decline in technical versatility raises questions about the broader direction of batting in the modern era. While aggressive, front-foot-dominated play has its merits, it must be complemented by traditional skills to thrive in varied conditions. 

The Path Forward: A Revival of Basics

For India, the way forward lies in striking a balance between modern aggression and classical technique. Here’s how they can address these issues: 

- Revamping Domestic Cricket: Preparing sporting pitches in domestic competitions and introducing the Dukes ball can help groom batsmen to tackle swing and seam effectively. 

- Focusing on Technical Drills: Training sessions must prioritize back-foot play and the ability to play late, especially against moving deliveries. 

- Leveraging Overseas Tours: Regular exposure to challenging conditions abroad will accelerate the learning curve for young Indian batsmen. 

- Adopting a Long-Term Vision: The BCCI and team management must recognize that Test cricket is not just about scoring runs but about building resilience and adaptability—qualities honed through tough contests against quality bowlers. 

Conclusion: The Need for Adaptation

The struggles of the Indian top order against Sri Lanka’s pacers highlight a broader truth about modern cricket: the need to evolve and adapt to the game’s ever-changing demands. For Indian batsmen, overcoming their front-foot fixation and rediscovering the art of back-foot play is not just a technical adjustment but a step toward sustaining their dominance in the longest format. 

Test cricket, after all, remains the ultimate arena where skills are tested and greatness is forged. For India, a renewed emphasis on adaptability and classical technique will not only address current vulnerabilities but ensure that they remain competitive against the best, regardless of conditions. 

Thank You

Faisal Caesar 

Kumar Sangakkara: The Last Romantic of Cricket

Sir Neville Cardus once said, “We remember not the scores and the results in after years; it is the men who remain in our minds, in our imagination.” It is a sentiment that encapsulates the essence of Kumar Sangakkara—an emblem of precision, elegance, and intellect, whose cricketing journey transcends numbers and statistics. 

Born in a land of breathtaking beauty, Sri Lanka—a country of golden beaches, lush forests, and cascading waterfalls—Sangakkara’s batting mirrored the natural splendour of his homeland. Like the serene waves lapping against the island’s shores, his cover drives were a soothing balm to the eyes, a visual symphony that could lift the soul of the most jaded spectator. 

Sri Lanka: The Soil That Nurtured Genius

Sri Lanka’s cricketing roots date back to 1832, a time when the British, using Ceylon as a colonial outpost, introduced cricket to the island. What began as a leisurely pastime for colonials evolved into a national obsession. By the early 20th century, first-class cricket had taken root, with occasional matches against touring Australian and English sides fostering a fledgling cricket culture. 

This culture thrived on passion and intellect, creating players who brought not just skill but also innovative thought to the game. From Arjuna Ranatunga’s tactical acumen to Muttiah Muralitharan’s wizardry, Sri Lanka has given cricket not only champions but also minds that enriched the sport. In this illustrious lineage, Kumar Sangakkara stands tall as a cricketer who combined artistry with intellect, embodying the very soul of the game. 

The Artist in a Power-Hitting Era

The left-handed batsman has historically been synonymous with elegance. Cardus celebrated Frank Woolley’s grace as "compounded of soft airs and fresh flavours," and David Gower’s drives were likened to brushstrokes on a canvas. However, as cricket evolved, artistry seemed to wane. The rise of power hitters like Matthew Hayden, Chris Gayle, and Graeme Smith marked a shift toward brute force and utilitarian run-making. Elegance, it seemed, was a relic of the past. 

Enter Kumar Sangakkara. 

From his debut in 2000, Sangakkara redefined left-handed batting with a blend of technical mastery and poetic flair. His backfoot punches were reminiscent of Sri Lanka’s lush forests—vibrant, enduring, and full of life—while his cover drives had the rhythmic grace of the ocean waves, each stroke a masterpiece. To watch him bat was to experience a harmony between precision and aesthetics, power and poise. 

Unlike the violent collisions between bat and ball favoured by many contemporaries, Sangakkara orchestrated a tender dialogue. His relationship with the ball was one of love, not war as if inviting it to dance to his rhythm. Cricket romantics saw in him the embodiment of Cardus’ vision: a player whose art transcended the boundaries of the field. 

The Intellectual Cricketer

Sangakkara’s brilliance extended beyond his batting. As an orator, he brought rare erudition to cricket’s discourse, exemplified by his iconic 2011 MCC Spirit of Cricket Cowdrey Lecture. In it, he spoke eloquently of Sri Lanka’s history, its cricketing journey, and the responsibility of players to uphold the spirit of the game. His words resonated deeply, showcasing his intellect and a vision that elevated him above mere statistical greatness. 

On the field, his leadership was defined by clarity and composure. He captained with the same artistry that he wielded with the bat, navigating the team through triumphs and challenges. 

The Void He Leaves Behind

Sangakkara’s retirement after the second Test against India in 2015 marked the end of an era. The statistical comparisons—whether he stands alongside Sachin Tendulkar or above other greats—are futile when it comes to appreciating his legacy. His greatness lies not in the numbers but in the joy he brought to those who watched him play. 

His departure leaves a void, not just in Sri Lankan cricket but in the global game. In an age increasingly dominated by utility over beauty, Sangakkara was a beacon of elegance. The question remains: who will carry this legacy forward? Players like Soumya Sarkar show promise, but the road to embodying Sangakkara’s ethos is long and uncertain. 

Sangakkara: A Legacy of Art and Soul

Kumar Sangakkara is not just a batsman; he is a reminder of cricket’s capacity to evoke emotions, to create moments of beauty that linger in the heart long after the match is over. His batting was a rare confluence of skill and soul, artistry, and intellect. 

Sir Neville Cardus would likely have written of him what he once said about Frank Woolley: “His immense power is lightened by a rhythm which has in it as little obvious propulsion as a movement of music by Mozart.”

Sangakkara’s story is not one of statistics but of the romance of cricket—a romance that reminds us why we fell in love with the game in the first place. And as he steps away, cricket romantics are left not with emptiness, but with gratitude for the artistry he brought to their lives. 

In a world increasingly practical and devoid of poetry, Kumar Sangakkara stands as a testament to cricket’s enduring soul.

 
Thank You

Faisal Caesar