The Gods Watched, Then Laughed: A Six-Run Saga at The Oval

There are endings that feel ordained and others that feel orchestrated by cosmic mischief. The conclusion of the fifth Test between England and India at The Oval was emphatically the latter. It unfolded like a fever dream—delirious, improbable, and unspeakably human.

India’s six-run victory, their narrowest ever in Test history, emerged not simply from the hands of Mohammed Siraj or the missteps of England’s middle order, but from the alchemy of sport itself—the convergence of exhaustion, absurdity, brilliance, and error into something that can only be called Test cricket.

This series, already heavy with subplots—injuries to Jofra Archer and Jasprit Bumrah, the emotional entropy of Ben Stokes, the volcanic emergence of Shubman Gill as captain, the absurdist pantomime of the Fortis-Gambhir spat—found its crescendo on Day Five, where the players limped into history on bloodied boots and blistered willpower.

The morning began as it often does in English cricket: with the gods asleep or drunk. The sun, out too late. The rain, gone but threatening. The crowd, half-believing. England needed 35 runs, India four wickets. Somewhere, in the bowels of the Oval, the ghosts of Cowdrey, Botham, and Laxman were shifting nervously in their invisible seats.

And then came Siraj.

This was not a spell of cricket. This was penance made flesh. His face still bore the psychic scar of stepping on the boundary rope the day before, turning a wicket into a six, a moment that might have defined the match had Siraj not insisted on writing a different ending. He began the final act like a man late to his own redemption, conjuring both movement and menace as the old ball kissed and cut its way back into the game.

His first scalp—Jamie Smith, drawn into a wide drive and caught behind—was surgical. But it was the aftermath, the shift in air, the sudden awareness that this game had become alive in a new, more volatile way, that truly changed the tone. Every ball thereafter felt like a coin flipped at the gods’ mercy.

It’s easy to romanticise Test cricket’s fifth days, but seldom does one deserve it so completely. This wasn’t just attrition or skill—it was performance art. Jamie Overton’s boundaries off Krishna were defiant, but Siraj struck back, his lbw dismissal of Overton squeezed from the cold stone of a DRS review. Then came Josh Tongue, yorked by Krishna, the stumps splintered like narrative finality. And then there was one.

Chris Woakes, one-armed and freshly bandaged, walked to the crease like a Shakespearean ghost—symbolic, tragic, nobly doomed. Much like Colin Cowdrey in 1963, he arrived to bear witness more than to wield influence. But what theatre it made. Each of his flinches, the wince on his face as his arm jostled from its sling, was worth volumes. At the other end, Gus Atkinson swung hard and missed harder. England crept toward the total. Each run now felt weightier than the innings that preceded it.

And then—fittingly, brutally—Siraj bowled the perfect ball. A full, arcing yorker, straight and swift. Atkinson missed. Off stump splayed. Victory. Catharsis. Pandemonium.

Siraj, the Series' Soul

If a single figure could personify the mad beauty of this series, it would be Siraj. In a contest bursting with characters—Brook the elegant outlaw, Gill the patrician stylist, Root the quiet surgeon—it was Siraj’s blood-and-thunder presence that provided its emotional core. His figures—30.1 overs in the final innings alone—reflected a stamina that bordered on spiritual. There is no stat for a man refusing to lose.

And yet the match was not his alone.

Harry Brook’s 111 in the fourth innings was a modern-day masterpiece—a collage of invention and abandon, of risk made rational. The lofted cover drive off Akash Deep, one of the more surreal moments in the annals of cricketing aggression, was less a shot than a declaration of belief. A conviction that scoring, even in such tension, was not only possible but necessary.

In contrast, Root played the long symphony—technically assured, emotionally unflustered, his 105 a reassertion of classical virtues amidst the din. But both fell, and with them, England’s hopes.

Bazball: A Philosophy Under Trial

What will be said of this era—this high-octane, lurching revolution that calls itself Bazball? Is it bravado or brilliance? Does it summon glory or fragility?

Here, perhaps, we found the limits of the aesthetic. For all its dazzle and daring, it leaves little room for compromise. The absence of Stokes’ fielding, the multiple dropped chances, the gaps in composure—these were not just tired bodies but also the product of a doctrine that sometimes trades tension for thrill. You live fast. You fall hard.

And yet, what theatre. What gall.

England’s collapse—47 for 4 from a position of command—wasn’t a failure of method as much as a failure of margin. India held tighter lines. England blinked first. Sometimes it’s that simple.

Of Groundsmen and Gods

It would be a mistake not to mention the strangest subplot of them all: Lee Fortis, the Oval groundsman, catapulted from the periphery of cricket’s subconscious into the cultural spotlight following his confrontation with Gautam Gambhir. The incident was comic, yes, but also deeply telling. In an era where cricket is increasingly commodified, where power resides with boards, broadcasters and brands, this was a turf war in the literal sense. And how ironic that Fortis’ pitch, green and uncompromising, produced a final act for the ages.

A Test series to Relish 

The 2025 England-India series, by any measure, now joins the pantheon of modern epics. From Headingley to Manchester, the storylines have multiplied—comebacks, centuries, injuries, rainbreaks, politics, pitches, dropped catches, and divine reversals. The cumulative emotional toll has been extraordinary.

And yet, what end could be more fitting than one that tips into myth? 35 runs needed. Three wickets in hand. One arm in a sling. And a man with unfinished business steaming in to bowl.

The gods, it seems, were not angry after all. They were just waiting for a better story.

Thank You 

Faisal Caesar 

The Test That Broke Them: England, India, and the Cost of Cricketing Greatness

By the time the Old Trafford shadows lengthened on Sunday evening, the cricket itself had taken a back seat. What remained was theatre: a tableau of cramping muscles, exhausted minds, and bloodied limbs. England’s lead had been overturned not just by India's batters, but by the unrelenting weight of a schedule designed to stretch men into myth—and often leave them broken.

What was billed as a decisive fourth Test became something else entirely: a war of attrition where resolve was measured not in boundaries or wicket.

ts, but in how long one could stand. That it ended in a draw, with India’s lower-order allrounders celebrating centuries while England’s bowlers lobbed friendly grenades in protest, was a testament to both brilliance and brutality. This was not just a match that failed to end in victory—it was a match that exposed the limits of endurance and the fraying seams of modern Test cricket.

England's Superman Is Still Mortal

Ben Stokes’ performance—141 runs, a five-wicket haul, and one busted body—was a poetic epic written in sweat and pain. He entered the series as a man already fighting time and his own physiology. Yet, here he was again, bowling through a deteriorating shoulder, pushing past a calf strain, swinging his bat with the same fury and finesse that once made him the talisman of English cricket. When he raised his bat to the heavens, it was not just to mark a century; it was to acknowledge what it cost to get there.

But even Superman has limits. Stokes bowled more overs in this series than ever before in his career. He left the field at times visibly broken, at others barely functional. And still he returned, because leadership—particularly in English cricket’s mythologized narrative—requires pain, heroism, and a touch of madness. The question that now looms is: at what cost?

Jofra Archer's Quiet Resurrection

Six months ago, the idea of Archer and Stokes bowling in tandem seemed nostalgic fantasy. Archer had become cricket’s ghost—always present, rarely seen. Yet at Old Trafford, he glided in again, the same smooth menace in his action, the same disdain for left-handed batsmen. But the body is less forgiving. By the final day, he was down to 80mph, painkillers dispensed during drinks, his ribs asking questions his mind tried to silence.

This was no fairy tale comeback. This was a comeback with caveats, underscoring how fragile fast bowling is when wed to fragile bodies.

India's Ironmen: Gill, Rahul, Jadeja, and Sundar

India’s batters, meanwhile, did not just bat long—they battened down the hatches and resisted the full weight of England’s momentum. Gill’s century—his fourth of the series—was not simply another tally on a scorecard. It was a declaration. A defiance. Hit on the hand repeatedly, facing a limping, grunting Stokes, Gill remained unmoved, unmoving, and unyielding.

KL Rahul played with a kind of meditative calm. Washington Sundar and Ravindra Jadeja turned dead rubbers into resurrection stories, two allrounders promoted up the order who refused to yield an inch. Together, they drained England’s bowlers not just of hope, but of energy.

This was not stonewalling. This was architecture—building partnerships that stood like ancient ruins, indestructible in spirit if not in elegance.

The Madness of the Schedule

Herein lies the true tension of this series—not between bat and ball, but between duty and destruction. Since June 18, both sides have played or trained for 28 out of 40 days. By the end of this five-Test series, that will be 35 out of 48.

It is easy to romanticize Test cricket’s five-day drama. But when the pitch refuses to break, the players eventually do. Rishabh Pant, India’s vice-captain, is already on crutches. Siraj, Bumrah, Woakes, and Archer have all bowled through injury. England might enter the final Test without a single fully fit frontline seamer. What began as a series between two proud teams has become a cautionary tale about modern cricket's unsustainable intensity.

The Finish That Wasn’t

When Stokes offered the draw with an hour to go, and India declined—choosing instead to let Sundar and Jadeja complete their centuries—it sparked friction. England responded with theatrical lobs, the field spread in farcical symmetry, the game descending into pantomime.

Some saw gamesmanship. Others saw justice. Both were right.

England felt slighted—taunted even—after offering a sporting escape route. India, having borne 943 deliveries in the field, felt entitled to their moment. But in truth, the awkward conclusion was entirely fitting. This was a match that could never have ended neatly. It had been too raw, too draining, too real.

The Cost of Glory

England lead 2–1, but this series will be remembered less for its margins than for its madness. For Root’s quiet march past Dravid and Ponting. For Stokes’ haunted heroism. For Archer’s aching return. For the sight of Gill, bloodied and bandaged, still swinging.

There remains one Test to go, one more chapter in this bruising narrative. The inaugural Anderson-Tendulkar Trophy deserves its decider. But whatever the final scoreline, both teams will leave London knowing they gave more than they should have had to.

Because sometimes the greatest Test isn’t the one between two teams—it’s the one between the game and the limits of those who love it too much to walk away.

Thank You

Faisal Caesar

A Symphony at Lord’s: Where Grit, Grudge, and Glory Danced in the Heat

The Summer of Slow: When England Swallowed Their Own Medicine

Shubman Gill’s sly invitation—“Welcome back to boring Test cricket”—felt at first like a juvenile taunt. But he wasn’t wrong. For a full sun-cooked day at Lord’s, England’s Bazball bravado was shelved. Joe Root and Ollie Pope went 28 balls without scoring; the crowd went from roaring to wilting in their seats, sunburned and half-dreaming of shade.

This was not the revolution England had promised the world. It was a retreat into the cautious pages of an older manual. The pitch was partly to blame: slow, inert, offering bowlers a chance to be patient artists. But deeper down, this was about memory—of Edgbaston’s 587-run hammering, of an India that didn’t just punish you but humiliated your brand.

Ben Stokes chose to bat, and the hosts crawled to their slowest scoring day under the Bazball sun. The irony? They needed it. Boring cricket saved them. And as they discovered, boring cricket, when seasoned with stubbornness and a splash of Joe Root’s class, still has its place in the modern hymn book.

Joe Root’s Canvas: Painting Mastery on a Worn Backdrop

While the heat melted the spectators and stilled the bats, Root turned the day into his private gallery. At Lord’s he is less batsman, more curator of moments—each deft leave, each gentle guide to third man, another stroke of quiet genius. By the time he reached his 37th Test century (surviving the overnight sleep on 99), he had swept past Dravid and Smith on the all-time charts.

Root knew precisely how to negotiate Bumrah’s menace: largely by not facing him. Watching him maneuver singles to keep himself at the non-striker’s end was a masterclass in humility. It wasn’t audacious cricket; it was grown-up cricket. The innings felt almost hushed in its brilliance, a whisper amid the echoing hype of Bazball, reminding everyone that elegance doesn’t always need an exclamation point.

Bumrah: Legacy in Swing and Seam

Jasprit Bumrah arrived at Lord’s with personal ghosts to slay and an honours board to chase. Rested at Edgbaston precisely for this, he etched his name where Indian legends like Kapil Dev once stood—and then, by surpassing Kapil’s overseas five-fors, gently pushed the great man aside.

This was less a burst of brilliance and more a long orchestration. Early on, Bumrah called for slips to stand closer, knowing this deck was slower. Later, when England threatened to creep away, he sliced through their illusions: a ball nipping back to splatter Brook’s stumps, another that ghosted under Root’s sweep.

In a match that demanded artistry more than raw pace, Bumrah was Rembrandt with the seam—light here, dark there, everything alive on the canvas.

Stokes: The Mad, Magnificent Martyr

If Root was the quiet artist, Stokes was the tragic hero—flinging himself body and soul at the match, daring injury to catch up. He bowled 44 overs across the Test, pushing his reconstructed hamstring past sensible thresholds, exorcising two years of reduced threat with the ball.

There were moments that bordered on absurd. A nine-over spell on the final morning. Then, after lunch, another ten, driving himself into exhaustion while orchestrating every field tweak, every psychological skirmish. He forgot to collect his cap from the umpire, such was the haze of his zeal.

Yet it was this very madness that turned the match. Stokes was the heat and noise Lord’s had longed for. When he ran out Pant with that spinning direct hit—a man nursing multiple wounds attacking an injured keeper—it was both cruel and magnificent.

Asked later why he tortured himself so, he shrugged: “Bowling to win a Test match—if that doesn’t get you excited, I don’t know what does.” It was the mission statement of a man who long ago decided immortality was worth the risk of breaking.

Jofra Archer: Rage, Relief, Resurrection

Then there was Jofra. Three balls into his first over back, three years of rehabilitation finally gave way to sunlight. His deliveries climbed past 90mph, some touched 93, and batsmen didn’t just play—they flinched.

The dismissal of Pant on day five was poetry with bite. After being contemptuously driven straight, Archer dug deeper, found a fuller length with spite, and let the slope do the rest. Off stump cartwheeled; so did Archer, racing up to offer Pant a few pointed words—uncharacteristically raw from cricket’s usually unflappable poet.

His was not just a return to Test cricket. It was a reclaiming of the stage. And watching him revel in it—emotions bursting after the abuse of three lost years—was worth every second of the wait.

India: Their Old Fire, Their New Fretfulness

This Test didn’t just slip from India; it was wrested away. Yet for long periods, they held the upper hand. Rahul was a monument to composure, Jadeja a foxhole genius who nearly pulled off a legendary heist. Gill? He talked plenty, wagging tongues about boring cricket, clapping sarcastically at England’s delays—but offered little when Carse trapped him LBW.

Their own moments of petulance hurt them. Gill’s obsessions with over rates, the running squabbles with Crawley, the impatient hook from Bumrah at the death—these were distractions that the finest sides sidestep. India looked, at times, like a team searching for old arrogance instead of conjuring new ruthlessness.

The Coda: A Match That Went to the Edge of Madness

When it ended, it was not with an eruption but a kind of weary embrace. Shoaib Bashir spun one into Siraj’s pads, stumps shattered, bodies sank. Stokes didn’t even run. His team ran to him instead, offering their energy to a captain who had given them everything.

This Lord’s Test didn’t elevate tactics or trends. It elevated hearts and flaws and sheer bloody-mindedness. It was about Stokes bowling until he forgot his own rituals. About Archer chasing demons. About Bumrah signing the honours board and then looking for another blank space.

Shubman Gill once asked for “boring Test cricket.” Careful what you wish for, young man. This was that—and it turned out anything but dull.

Thank You 

Faisal Caesar 

The Gill Conundrum: England’s Monotony and a Batter’s Flourish

On the opening day of the Visakhapatnam Test in 2024, Shubman Gill exuded the composure of a man who had momentarily banished the ghosts of Hyderabad. Unlike his first-innings effort there — where mere survival seemed his solitary aim — here, Gill batted with purpose, his movements crisp, his intent to score never in doubt. Only occasionally was he troubled by the scrambled seam that James Anderson, cricket’s ageless conjurer, has weaponised so subtly in recent years.

Gill glided to a visually sumptuous 34, his drives purring off the blade, before allowing temptation to dictate fate. A ball from Anderson, which jagged away ever so slightly, found the edge of Gill’s bat. Ben Foakes, vigilant as ever, did the rest. What began as a promise of resurgence ended prematurely, leaving in its wake murmurs of a burgeoning pattern of failures — murmurs the team management might hesitate to voice aloud, yet which statistics lay bare.

Indeed, by that dismissal, Gill had already been caught behind the wicket — by keeper, slip, or gully — on 13 occasions in his Test journey, felled by both pace and spin. There is, unavoidably, a pattern. A modern batter schooled on the creed of ‘bat on ball’, Gill is often reluctant to let the cherry pass unmolested. He tends to chase with his hands when discretion might counsel restraint. Because he habitually positions himself slightly leg-side of the ball to carve his exquisite off-side strokes — the kind that illuminated his tours of Australia and England — his feet lag, passengers rather than guides. Thus, hands and torso lunge where head and front foot should lead, rendering him vulnerable to anything that deviates outside off. His hard hands, meanwhile, all but guarantee that edges will carry obligingly to waiting catchers.

This susceptibility is most pronounced against deliveries shaping away — be it the classical away-swinger, the subtle leg-cutter from right-arm quicks, or the ball holding its line from the left-arm angle of a Wagner or Boult. Yet Gill’s vulnerability is not one-dimensional. He has been bowled seven times and trapped leg-before six more, suggesting that the inward movement is no less a threat.

Overall, an arresting 43.1% of Gill’s Test dismissals have come against balls that lured him around that probing off-stump channel, particularly when conditions lent even modest assistance to swing. If the surface offered any encouragement, Gill was prone to succumb. Conversely, when bowlers erred by bowling consistently outside off without pace or deception, Gill’s flair blossomed. He thrives on predictability; given time and width, he constructs innings with an artist’s flourish.

This was conspicuously on display in England, at Leeds and Edgbaston, where circumstances conspired to flatter him. England, in their planning, perhaps outsmarted themselves. By crafting benign surfaces and electing to bat first on what turned out to be veritable highways, they inadvertently invited Gill to dictate terms. The usual logic — to accumulate runs, stretch opponents, and later exploit a deteriorating pitch — turned inward on England. Instead, they faced an India growing in confidence, their own attack bereft of spark.

At Leeds, England’s bowlers targeted the orthodox 6–8 metre length outside off, sending down 197 balls in that corridor across 86 overs. In contrast, India’s attack employed a similar count of such deliveries — 203 — but in just 77.4 overs, blending them with more varied tactics. England’s approach proved too uniform. Their lengths were predominantly full, their lines rigidly outside off, their pace pedestrian. Deviation was scarce; creativity, scarcer still.

This strategic monotony played straight into Gill’s hands. Bowlers pitched up and slightly angled in, but rarely altered the recipe. There was little surprise — few short balls to push him back, no well-concealed cutters to draw him forward nervously, no bursts of sharp pace to disrupt his rhythm. As a result, Gill could measure his strokes, pace his innings, and punish errors with impunity.

The lesson for England is stark. If they continue to persist with this one-dimensional method — full, off-stump, and hoping for the ball to do the work — Gill and his peers will feast. Test batting of quality is vulnerable not to mere discipline, but to a cocktail of cunning: shifts in length, subtle changes in angle, variances in pace. Without these, England risks seeing their lines carefully plotted on a chart, only for Gill to trace them to the boundary rope.

In Visakhapatnam, even as Gill fell for another innings that flattered before it truly threatened, the signs remain. Give him predictable bowling, and he will paint masterpieces. Challenge him with guile and variation, and the edges — literal and figurative — begin to show. England would do well to ponder this if they hope to rein in a batter whose flaws, while evident, require more than mere patience to exploit.

Thank You

Faisal Caesar

Edgbaston: Where Numbers Lied and Bazball Found Its Limit

Edgbaston was supposed to be England’s sanctuary. Since 2000, its numbers have whispered sweet reassurances: first innings totals around 300–334, second innings climbing to 366, and even as the game wears on, a combined per-innings average of 331. For Ben Stokes’ England, who have built their Bazball empire on featherbeds and soft Dukes balls, it was the perfect stage.

Yet amid these comforting stats, something vital was overlooked: conditions only protect you until your mind decides otherwise. By the end of this second Test, England weren’t just beaten by India—they were exposed by their own gospel.

The Seduction of History

The statistics of Edgbaston are irresistible. They suggest a pitch that grows friendlier with time, where the surface rarely deteriorates and fourth-innings nightmares are someone else’s problem. Before this match, 57 Tests in 25 years had yielded 16 draws and 41 results, but still with a batting average so plump it could have been grazing in the outfield.

And so England were lulled. They won the toss, backed their bowlers to exploit whatever early grass was left, and trusted that their approach—be it chasing 250 or 450—would hold water. Even when India piled up 587, the sheer history of Edgbaston promised they could counterpunch.

The Spell of Gill and India’s Patient Cruelty

But then Shubman Gill happened. In this series, Gill has batted with such frictionless grace that MRF could swap its sticker on his bat for a can of WD-40. His 269 in the first innings was a masterpiece of time and temperament. When India returned in the second innings, with a lead already monstrous, he added another 161, making him the first in history to score a 200 and 150 in the same Test.

India’s entire approach was a cold rebuttal of Bazball’s chaos. They used the time gifted to them—by conditions and by England’s collapse—to build a monument of runs. It was a throwback to an older philosophy: bat long enough, accumulate enough, and the opposition will collapse under the psychological weight even before the pitch intervenes.

And collapse England did.

The carnival and the cliff edge

When Jamie Smith and Harry Brook came together at 84 for 5 in the first innings, England were 503 behind, Siraj was on a hat-trick, and Edgbaston was primed to become a graveyard. Instead, in a remarkable two-hour stretch, it turned into a rock concert.

Smith counterattacked to a breathless 184 not out, Brook belted 158, and their 303-run partnership didn’t just steady the ship—it nearly convinced the faithful that Bazball would conjure another miracle. The Hollies Stand sang Oasis and “Sweet Caroline” with all the carefree abandon of fans convinced this wasn’t the brink of disaster but just another dizzy chapter.

That’s the magic and the madness of Bazball. It takes the fear of failure—cricket’s most intimate demon—and kicks it into the stands. It thrives on moments like these, when risk seems not just justified but morally essential.

When Ideology Met Reality

But by day four, reality reasserted itself. India declared with England needing 608, more as a formality than a challenge. Soon enough, Akash Deep—Bumrah’s stand-in—found swing and seam to rip out six wickets. England folded for 271. At no point did they look like chasing, drawing, or even enduring.

The statistical promise of Edgbaston—that average innings of 331—was reduced to a mocking echo. A surface that stayed true for India’s marathon innings didn’t save England from their own hard hands and hopeful wafts.

The irony? The numbers were never wrong. This was still a true pitch. India’s 587 and then 430 combined runs (across innings) proved it. England’s Smith and Brook also proved it for a session. But Bazball without calculated control is a roulette wheel spun too often. This time, it didn’t land on red.

The Deeper Lesson

In the post-match analysis, some will point to missed reviews or marginal lbws that could’ve made India 30 for three on day one. Others will note the absence of Jasprit Bumrah and wonder how England still lost so heavily.

But the real story is about two ideologies. India’s slow suffocation—anchored in time, scoreboard pressure, and the mental erosion of chasing leather—clashed with England’s cultish devotion to perpetual aggression. One prevailed not just on the scoreboard but in exposing the limits of its rival’s philosophy.

Jeetan Patel, England’s spin coach, even admitted with a philosophical shrug: “That was yesterday; today is today; tomorrow will be another day.” It might be a fine mantra for mindfulness, but on a cricket field it can sound like a coping mechanism.

In Praise—and Warning—of Bazball

This isn’t to say Bazball is a failure. It remains Test cricket’s great theatre, reviving interest, selling grounds out, and giving us innings like Smith’s that demand to be watched again. But it is also a reminder that unmoored aggression, even on the friendliest batting roads, will sometimes drive a team over the cliff.

India knew that all along. They turned Edgbaston’s inviting averages into a noose for England. They batted, batted, and batted until the numbers that promised a draw or even a chase became irrelevant. In the end, the history of Edgbaston was not enough. Only the future—rooted in adaptability and balance—will be.

Thank You 

Faisal Caesar 

The Quiet Evolution of Bazball: From Battle Cry to Clarity

Three years ago, word filtered out from Trent Bridge that Brendon McCullum had charged his England players to "run towards the danger." What followed—Jonny Bairstow vaporising a target of 299 against New Zealand—was sporting theatre, raw and rousing. The press, predictably, devoured it. The mantra was headline catnip, a declaration of intent wrapped in machismo.

Fast forward to this week at Headingley, and England, faced with a chase of 371, completed it with 14 overs to spare at a breezy 4.5 runs per over. Yet, this time, there was no rallying cry, no metaphors borrowed from war or wilderness. Just a quiet confidence. The dressing room message was succinct: “Bat the day, win the game.” Zak Crawley and Ben Duckett, opening the innings, agreed simply to “play like it was day one.”

It wasn’t theatrical. But perhaps that’s the point. After three years under McCullum and Ben Stokes, a new psychology is calcifying. Where once England’s Test team approached large chases with trepidation—weighted by history, fixated on the draw—now they appear unshackled. The clarity is so complete, the sabres need not be rattled.

Ben Duckett, architect of a match-defining 149 from 170 balls, hinted at this maturation. “My mindset was a bit different to what it has been over the last couple of years,” he noted, having initially restrained himself against Jasprit Bumrah’s probing spell. “It was potentially a bit of maturity kicking in… knowing it would get easier.”

Credit, too, went to Crawley, whose 65 came in a 188-run opening partnership that laid the foundation for the pursuit. “He is definitely thinking about batting differently now,” said Duckett. “Still smacking the bad ball, but with a calmness in thought.”

This tonal shift isn’t limited to the middle. Rob Key, director of England men’s cricket, has quietly encouraged less public bluster. Behind the scenes too, the rhetoric has softened. Bazball, once a clarion call, now hums beneath the surface—less showy, more systemic.

There remain flashes of overreach. Jamie Smith’s premature dismissal on day three, moments before the second new ball, was a reminder that aggression still sometimes bleeds into recklessness. But in the decisive moments—when 69 runs remained and the finish line beckoned—Smith steadied. At the other end, Joe Root offered a masterclass in calm, a heartbeat barely perceptible, allowing Smith to play a poised, unbeaten 44.

Naturally, detractors will note India’s dropped catches, a cooperative pitch, and yet another subpar batch of Dukes balls. The scepticism mirrors the early days of Eoin Morgan’s white-ball revolution—when England’s newfound fluency with the bat from 2015 to 2019 was treated with suspicion before it became the norm.

Yet the counterarguments fall a little flat. England dropped chances too. And Headingley’s true surfaces predate the Stokes-McCullum regime—recall Shai Hope’s unforgettable 2017 twin centuries on this very ground.

Even with fortune’s usual fluctuations, the achievement stands tall. Not just the fourth-innings chase, but the resilience shown earlier. India amassed five centuries, and twice forced England into the field for long, draining stretches. In another era, English shoulders would have slumped. This time, they stiffened.

Alastair Cook captured the contrast aptly. Speaking to Test Match Special, he confessed that in his day, had he won the toss and seen the opposition reach 430 for three—as India did by day two—doubts would have surfaced within the ranks. But this team under Stokes is different. Their belief is unyielding. To borrow a phrase from Stokes’s own 2019 Headingley epic: they “never, ever give up.”

And now, perhaps, they don’t even need to say it aloud.

Thank You 

Faisal Caesar 

Ben Duckett: The Aggressive Craftsman of England’s Bazball Revolution

Headingley Heroics: A Statement Victory

Headingley has become a fortress for England, and the 2025 Test against India solidified its mythic status. Chasing 371, England raced to their target in just 82 overs—a record-breaking effort that stunned the visitors and thrilled spectators.

At the heart of it was Ben Duckett, whose innings of 149 was as dazzling in technique as it was brutal in pace. Alongside Zak Crawley, Duckett forged a 188-run opening partnership, the highest first-wicket stand in the fourth innings of a Test match in England and the highest globally since 1995.

What made the performance remarkable wasn't just the numbers but the context—the pitch offered spin and variable bounce, rain threatened throughout the final day, and England faced arguably the world’s best all-format bowler, Jasprit Bumrah. Yet Duckett's innovation, particularly his now-trademark reverse sweep, dismantled India's attack. Bumrah was neutralized. Jadeja, one of the world’s leading spinners, was reduced to a defensive option. India’s six dropped catches and two lower-order collapses proved fatal, but the tone was set by Duckett’s bat.

Duckett's Defining Knock: Controlled Aggression at Work

Ben Duckett’s 149 wasn't a blitzkrieg from ball one. It was strategic. He began cautiously, respecting the new-ball spells of Bumrah and Siraj in gloomy morning conditions. The tide turned with the change bowlers—Duckett pounced on Prasidh Krishna and Jadeja with pinpoint precision.

Reverse sweeps, paddles, and deft cuts followed. He offered just one chance—on 97—which was grassed by Jaiswal. That missed opportunity typified India’s day and allowed Duckett to continue building one of his most important Test innings. His footwork was quick, his reactions sharper. A reverse slap over cover-point for six encapsulated his audacity.

Duckett eventually fell to Shardul Thakur on 149, but not before redefining what a fourth-innings innings could look like in English conditions. His strike rate edged close to 100, showing how Bazball isn’t recklessness—it’s precision offence.

A Tale of Two Careers: From Early Promise to Near-Oblivion

The 2016 Meteoric Rise

In 2016, Ben Duckett was the most exciting young cricketer in England. A 282 not out against Sussex marked him as a future star. His style—high backlift, fast hands, and fearlessness—wasn’t typical of a Test opener, but it worked.

He ended the year as PCA Player of the Year, PCA Young Cricketer of the Year, and a Test and ODI debutant. However, his initial stint at the international level was short-lived. He struggled in India, scoring 13, 5, and 0 in successive innings. His defensive technique was exposed on spinning tracks. He was dropped and didn’t return for years.

Off-Field Troubles and Setbacks

Worse followed. In 2017, during the Ashes tour, Duckett was suspended for an off-field incident involving teammate James Anderson. The drink-pouring episode in Perth was symbolic: Duckett’s career, once promising, was now in freefall. He was banned, fined, and left out of the Lions tour. His discipline, both in life and on the field, was under scrutiny.

Redemption Through County Cricket: Nottinghamshire and Renewal

Rebuilding Phase at Notts

Duckett left Northamptonshire and joined Nottinghamshire in 2018, a move that reshaped his career. He rediscovered his hunger, his confidence, and importantly—his discipline. He scored a rapid double hundred in 2019 and emerged as the rock in Notts’ batting lineup. In 2022, he amassed 1,012 runs at 72.28, leading Nottinghamshire to a Division Two title.

His transformation was complete. The loose strokes of his early years gave way to measured aggression, and England noticed. His recall in late 2022 was not just redemption—it was a renaissance.

The Bazball Catalyst: A Style Made for the Modern Game

Ben Duckett’s resurgence coincided with the birth of Bazball—England’s new fearless, attacking brand of Test cricket under Brendon McCullum and Ben Stokes. It wasn’t just about scoring quickly; it was about dominating psychologically.

Duckett fit the mold perfectly. His reverse sweep became a symbol of defiance against traditional cricket norms. He scores at tempo, rotates strike with touch shots, and pivots aggressively against short-pitched bowling using his core and hips. He makes 360° cricket a red-ball art form.

His 88-ball century in Rajkot (2024) was the fastest by an Englishman in India and epitomized Bazball at its finest.

Consistent Performer in All Formats

Duckett’s rise hasn't been limited to just Tests:

ODIs: Scored his maiden century (107 not out off 78 balls) against Ireland in 2023.

Ashes 2023: Scored 321 runs, including two vital fifties in a drawn series.

New Zealand Series: Registered 151 runs in two Tests.

Ireland Test 2023: Scored a career-best 182.

He has adapted his white-ball skills to red-ball cricket, maintaining tempo without compromising technique. His ability to judge length early makes him effective against spin and pace alike.

Mental Fortitude and the Fearless Mindset

One of Duckett’s greatest transformations has been psychological. Early in his career, he tried to conform—playing "proper" Test cricket. It didn’t suit him. Since his return, Duckett has embraced his style:

“Two years ago, the shots I play would have been unacceptable. It’s amazing what you can do when you take away the fear of failure.”

He no longer tries to prove he’s the “perfect” opener. He plays to his strengths—and that honesty has been his biggest asset. Stokes and McCullum’s leadership gave Duckett the freedom to fail—and in doing so, he’s succeeded consistently.

Culture Fit: A Face of Modern England Cricket

Duckett is more than just a cricketer—he’s a symbol of the new team culture. He embodies the team’s relaxed and open ethos. He jokes about bringing out “Ducky bucket hats”, blending brand with performance.

The team atmosphere allows individuality to flourish. He’s not burdened by history, records, or expectations. He sees Test cricket as an opportunity, not a burden.

Duckett's Redemption is England's Revolution

Ben Duckett’s story is not just a tale of personal revival—it’s a reflection of how English cricket itself has evolved. Once a flawed prodigy with off-field baggage, Duckett is now a pillar of the most exciting Test team in the world.

He’s technically refined, but not restricted.

He’s fearless, but not reckless.

He’s aggressive, but with purpose.

As England continue their Bazball journey, Duckett remains central to their ambitions—an opener who scores with flair, defies convention, and has finally found his place. His journey reminds us that redemption in sport is not only possible but can be glorious.

Thank You

Faisal Caesar

Leeds, Not Quite Itself: A First Day Unfolded Under an Unfamiliar Sun

The first day of a Test at Headingley has traditionally been a place of grind—clouds overhead, movement off the seam, and a hint of menace with the new ball. But on Thursday, something peculiar happened: the famous Leeds bite went missing.

Since the turn of the century, Headingley has offered a mixed bag on Day 1. Consider the numbers. In the unforgettable 2000 clash, England and West Indies limped to a combined total of just 277 runs. A year later, Australia fared better, reaching 288 for 4 by stumps. In 2002, India closed out Day 1 with a controlled 236 for 2. Then came 2003, when South Africa, through grit and resistance, compiled 260 for 7.

The trend of restrained scoring continued: England collapsed for 203 in 2008 except for their 347 for 6 at stumps on Day 1 against Pakistan in 2006. In 2009, both Ashes combatants combined for 298. Fast forward to 2014, and again the day's tally stood modest at 293. England’s 298 all out in 2016 followed suit. In 2018, Pakistan stumbled to 174. The following year, Australia fell for 179, and in 2023 they managed 263, with England adding 68 for 3 by stumps — a total of 331. Even in 2021, India were bundled out for 78, with England surging to 120 without loss by close.

And yet, Thursday in 2025 brought an anomaly. India, unfazed and unhurried, finished the day on 359 for 3 — a total that defied the usual Leeds script. If one removes this extraordinary showing, the average Day 1 score at Headingley over the past 25 years stands at 265.7 runs. In most cases, this figure represents not the effort of one team, but the combined yield of both.

Conditions, Expectations, and a Sudden Shift

There were clues, early on. The pitch wore a faint but noticeable tint of moisture. Overhead, however, the sky was a radiant, cloudless blue, with the kind of muggy stillness that confounds meteorologists and pacemen alike. At 10 a.m., the air already hung heavy. It was not quite the Leeds of memory — that tangle of grey skies and devilish movement — but still, there was enough precedent for Ben Stokes to follow the logic of history. He won the toss and elected to bowl, a decision that aligned with the statistics: since the dawn of the Stokes-McCullum era in 2022, England have won 10 tosses at home, choosing to bat first just once. The last six teams to win at Headingley had done so by bowling first.

But deeper examination reveals nuance. The wins came in overcast or volatile conditions: the spongy deck and gloomy skies of 2021 during India’s collapse; showers forecast in 2023’s Ashes encounter; or New Zealand’s brave, perhaps ill-advised, call to bat amid England’s Bazball revolution.

Thursday, however, betrayed none of those elements. The moisture vanished within the first 30–50 minutes. What remained was a surface bereft of menace, almost placid in its behaviour. The movement died, the sun settled, and suddenly, it was as if the game had shifted continents.

Bowling Miscalculations and Subcontinental Echoes

India’s batters — fluent, composed, clinical — made the most of it. Jaiswal, all wrists and elegance, capitalised on early looseness. England’s bowlers, by contrast, struggled to calibrate their lines and lengths. The fullness required at Headingley — just under six metres to hit the stumps — was largely absent. They bowled too wide, then too short. The penalty was swift and unrelenting.

Brydon Carse, thrust into his first home Test and entrusted with the new ball, showed glimpses. But in only his 15th first-class new-ball spell in England, he lacked the polish. Worse, he overstepped with costly timing. A missed LBW review against Jaiswal — on 45 at the time — stung even more in hindsight.

Josh Tongue, operating at a brisk pace, found bounce — but not a breakthrough. Shubman Gill countered his aggression with calculated flair, taking 34 off just 31 deliveries from the Nottinghamshire quick. England’s short-ball strategy became predictable, and Gill was well-prepared for the duel.

A Leeds That Felt Elsewhere

By stumps, India’s 359 for 3 was not just a score but a statement. It revealed a pitch that had lost its Leeds identity, a bowling attack that failed to adapt, and a toss decision that — by day’s end — felt like a misjudgment.

In the end, the first day in Leeds didn’t resemble Headingley at all. It resembled Hyderabad, Kanpur, or Mohali — only transplanted to Yorkshire, and under an English sun that offered no swing.

Thank You 

Faisal Caesar