A Tale of Two Strengths: Pakistan’s Ruthless Pace and India’s Fleeting Resistances

Pakistan’s victory—achieved with seven balls to spare after chasing 164 in just one hundred minutes—was not merely a triumph in arithmetic. It was an emphatic assertion of their dual superiority: the incisiveness of their pace attack and the depth of their batting. Sarfraz Nawaz, with match figures of 9 for 159, and Imran Khan, quicker and more hostile even when less prolific, combined to expose the vulnerability of India’s top order. Yet, India found moments of brilliance through Sunil Gavaskar’s twin centuries, only the second time in his eight-year international career that he achieved this rare feat, and through the defiant all-round efforts of Kapil Dev and Karsan Ghavri—performances that kept the contest from collapsing into a one-sided procession.

India’s Miscalculation: A Side Unbalanced and a Captain Uncertain

India’s woes did not stem from batting alone. Much of their eventual unraveling could be traced to Bishan Singh Bedi’s misreading of both pitch and personnel. For the first time in years, India entered a Test with only two spinners, not because the Karachi pitch demanded pace but because the management feared weakening their batting. Ironically, even this conservatism did not stabilize them. The surface—grassier and more uneven than typical for Karachi—offered variable bounce, granting Pakistan’s pacers a natural advantage India never matched.

Bedi’s captaincy oscillated between caution and overreach. He delayed using his spinners when his seamers tired, and later persisted with himself too long in pursuit of tail-end wickets. These tactical missteps allowed Pakistan to seize phases of control India might otherwise have contested.

The First Innings: Promise, Collapse, and Late Recovery

India’s first innings began with promise after winning their first toss of the series. Partnerships of 58 and 73 carried them to 179 for four, but the innings pivoted sharply after Gavaskar’s dismissal at 217. A familiar slide followed—two wickets for just 36 runs—until Kapil Dev and Ghavri stitched together an eighth-wicket stand of 84. Kapil’s 59 off only 48 balls, laced with aggression (two sixes, eight fours), lifted India to a total that looked competitive, if not commanding.

Pakistan replied in similarly cyclical fashion: a composed start, a mid-innings wobble at 187 for five, and finally a monumental rescue effort. For a brief period Bedi and Chandrasekhar rekindled the craft of their prime, threatening to tilt the match. But Pakistan’s depth—symbolized by Javed Miandad’s second century of the series—proved too substantial. Miandad and Mushtaq Mohammad added 154 for the sixth wicket, seizing an advantage that India’s bowling could not reclaim.

The Turning Point: Tailenders and Captaincy Under Strain

On the third morning, India briefly clawed back. Mushtaq departed for 78 before Pakistan overtook the total, and Miandad fell with the lead only 30. Yet India squandered the moment. Pakistan’s tail, encouraged by Mushtaq’s assertive leadership, counterattacked decisively. By the time the declaration came, the hosts had amassed a 137-run lead—a margin shaped as much by Indian fatigue as by their captain’s muddled use of resources.

The Second Innings: Gavaskar’s Defiance and India’s Daybreak Collapse

India’s second innings began with eight hours still left in the match, and the pressure told instantly. Imran Khan bowled with blistering speed, nearly removing Gavaskar in the opening over. Sarfraz struck soon after, removing Chauhan and almost claiming Mohinder Amarnath—saved only by a dropped catch from Zaheer Abbas. Amarnath survived long enough to forge a 117-run stand with Gavaskar, restoring hope.

But the final morning exposed India’s fragility once more. By half an hour before lunch they had slumped to 173 for six, ahead by only 36. Gavaskar, nearing another hundred at lunch, shifted into a higher gear afterward, farming the strike and targeting Iqbal Qasim and Sikander Bakht. With Ghavri he added 73 invaluable runs, creating a thin but crucial buffer.

Then came the decisive breakthrough: at 246, Sarfraz—round the wicket—found Gavaskar’s edge. Bari’s superb catch ended an epic innings and punctured India’s resistance. Kapil Dev’s counterattack gave India flickers of momentum, but Mushtaq delayed the new ball for five overs, nearly gifting India breathing space. Once the ball was finally taken, the innings unravelled abruptly.

 

The Final Assault: A Chase Against Time, Won Through Imagination

Pakistan began the final chase needing 164 with the clock and mandatory overs looming. Majid fell early, but the promoted Miandad joined Asif Iqbal, turning the pursuit into a display of audacity and tactical sharpness. With bold field placements, daring running, and total command of tempo, the pair hammered 97 runs in just nine overs, shredding India’s defensive lines.

Even after Asif’s dismissal, Pakistan did not retreat. And if any doubt lingered, Imran Khan extinguished it brutally in the sixteenth over—lofting Bedi for two sixes and a four. It was a fitting symbolic ending: Pakistan’s pace spearhead finishing what he and Sarfraz had begun.

A Match of Contrasts and Exposed Fault Lines

The Karachi Test became a narrative of contrasts.

Pakistan’s pace vs. India’s indecision.

Gavaskar’s mastery vs. the fragility around him.

Mushtaq’s tactical boldness vs. Bedi’s strategic hesitation.

India produced moments of valour—Gavaskar’s twin hundreds foremost among them—but the broader pattern revealed a side caught between caution and confusion. Pakistan, meanwhile, showcased a team whose multiple strengths converged at critical moments.

The victory, ultimately, was not won in a single session but in the accumulation of sharper choices, deeper batting, and the relentless hostility of Imran and Sarfraz—a combination India never quite solved.

Thank You

Faisal Caesar

The Lillee-Miandad Clash: A Test of Tempers and Test Cricket’s Spirit

Cricket, often idealized as a stage for grace and sportsmanship, has not been immune to moments of discord that tarnish its image. Among these, the infamous confrontation between Dennis Lillee and Javed Miandad during the first Test of Pakistan’s 1981 tour of Australia remains one of the sport’s most vivid and controversial episodes—a tale of collision, both physical and cultural, that tested the spirit of the game.

Setting the Stage: A Tense Beginning

Javed Miandad arrived in Australia as Pakistan’s newly appointed captain, leading a team fractured by internal discord. Senior players questioned his authority, and Wisden observed that he lacked the full support of his squad. Facing an Australian side brimming with confidence and spearheaded by the fiery Dennis Lillee, Miandad’s leadership was under immediate scrutiny.

The opening Test in Perth unfolded dramatically. On a moist, bowler-friendly pitch, Pakistan skittled Australia for 180, only to be routed themselves for a paltry 62, courtesy of Lillee’s devastating 5 for 18 and Terry Alderman’s 4 for 36. Chasing an improbable 543 to win, Pakistan began their second innings with little hope. The tension on the field was palpable, and the seeds of confrontation were sown as Miandad walked in to bat.

The Collision: Sparks Ignite in Perth

The incident that would define the match—and perhaps the tour—occurred 40 minutes before tea on the fourth day. Miandad turned Lillee behind square for a single, but as he completed the run, the two collided. Eyewitness accounts largely agree that Lillee initiated contact, seemingly moving into Miandad’s path deliberately. What followed remains a matter of dispute.

According to Lillee’s version, Miandad hurled abuses at him, prompting Lillee to respond in kind. Miandad, however, claimed that Lillee blocked his way and then kicked him. Tempers flared as Lillee turned to confront Miandad, who raised his bat above his head in a gesture that seemed to threaten physical retaliation. The image of umpire Tony Crafter stepping between the two, restraining Lillee as Miandad brandished his bat like a warrior’s weapon, was broadcast around the globe, capturing the undignified spectacle in its full intensity.

A Media Frenzy: Divided Opinions

The fallout was immediate and fierce. Australian media lambasted Lillee’s behaviour, calling for his suspension. Former Australian captain Bob Simpson described the incident as "the most disgraceful thing I have seen on a cricket field," while Keith Miller demanded Lillee be banned for the rest of the season. Ian Chappell likened Lillee’s actions to those of "a spoiled, angry child."

Yet within the Australian camp, the narrative diverged. Greg Chappell, the captain, defended Lillee, suggesting the incident was a deliberate provocation by Pakistan to entrap his star bowler. This defence, perceived as jingoistic and dismissive of Lillee’s culpability, only fueled public outrage.

Pakistan’s manager, Ijaz Butt, was equally vocal, accusing Lillee of persistent taunting throughout the match. He declared that Lillee’s antics were unbecoming of a Test cricketer and hinted that Pakistan might abandon the tour if no punitive action was taken.

Justice or Theater? The Aftermath

The initial punishment—a fine of A$200 imposed by Lillee’s teammates—was widely condemned as lenient. Even the officiating umpires protested. The Australian Cricket Board (ACB), under mounting pressure, convened a hearing and reduced the fine to A$120 while imposing a two-match ban. Critics noted the ban conveniently excluded Test matches, sidelining Lillee only for two minor one-day internationals.

For his part, Lillee issued a carefully worded apology, but only for his reaction, maintaining that he had been provoked. Miandad dismissed the apology as insincere, reiterating that Lillee’s actions had been deliberate and unsporting.

A Cloud Over the Tourhe tension lingered, casting a shadow over the series. Australia won the second Test convincingly, with Lillee dismissing Miandad in both innings, a symbolic triumph in their personal battle. Pakistan salvaged pride with an emphatic innings victory in the final Test, but the series remained overshadowed by the Perth incident.

Legacy of the Incident

Decades later, the Lillee-Miandad confrontation remains a symbol of cricket’s capacity for drama and discord. Both players, icons of their era, continued to debate their innocence long after their careers ended. Over time, they reportedly reconciled, yet their clash endures as a cautionary tale about the volatility of emotions in high-stakes sports.

While the game survived the scandal, the incident exposed flaws in cricket’s governance, particularly the inadequacy of disciplinary mechanisms. It also highlighted the cultural tensions that often underpinned matches between subcontinental and Western teams—a dynamic that would only begin to shift with the advent of neutral umpires and more stringent codes of conduct.

In the end, the Lillee-Miandad saga serves as a stark reminder of cricket’s dual nature: a game capable of inspiring both nobility and ignominy, played not by paragons of virtue but by humans prone to passion, pride, and error.

Thank You 

Faisal Caesar 

Pakistan’s Glorious Summer of 1987: A Triumph Beyond Cricket

Pakistan’s introduction to Test cricket was nothing short of remarkable. Despite losing their inaugural series against India in 1952 by a respectable margin of 2-1, they quickly established themselves as a formidable competitor on the global stage. Their tour of England in 1954 further cemented this reputation, as they managed to draw the series 1-1—a feat that underscored their potential. While debates persist over whether England fielded their strongest XI in every match, the broader implication was undeniable: Pakistan was a team with the capability to challenge the traditional powerhouses of the game.

Yet, the promise of their early years did not immediately translate into sustained success against England. Over the next three decades, Pakistan endured a series of setbacks, failing to secure a single series victory against their English counterparts. In ten subsequent encounters—both home and away—England triumphed in six series, while the remaining four ended in draws. A five-Test series in 1962 seemed to signal Pakistan’s growing stature, but England’s commanding 4-0 victory had the opposite effect. Subsequent series were reduced to three matches, reflecting the perception that Pakistan was yet to develop the depth required to consistently compete with the best.

During this period, Pakistan produced a handful of world-class players—most notably the legendary Hanif Mohammad and the formidable Fazal Mahmood. However, the team as a whole lacked the structural integrity to consistently challenge the elite Test nations. This dynamic began to shift in the 1980s. A narrow 2-1 series loss in England in 1982 hinted at Pakistan’s growing resilience, and by 1984, they had secured a significant 1-0 series victory at home. The cricketing world took further notice when Pakistan held the mighty West Indies to a thrilling 1-1 draw in 1986—a result that confirmed their emergence as a genuine force. England, acknowledging Pakistan’s rise, extended an invitation for a five-Test series in 1987, marking the first such engagement between the two nations in 25 years.

At the helm of this resurgent side was Imran Khan. At 34, he was considered by many to be in the twilight of his illustrious career, yet his leadership and all-round brilliance remained undiminished. First appointed captain in 1982, his tenure had been interrupted by injuries, most notably debilitating shin splints. In his absence, Javed Miandad had briefly assumed the captaincy in 1985, before Imran returned to lead Pakistan to a historic 1-0 series victory in India in early 1987. With this triumph fresh in their minds, Pakistan arrived in England that summer with quiet confidence, believing they could defy expectations.

Beyond Imran’s inspirational presence and Miandad’s batting genius, Pakistan’s squad boasted an impressive blend of youthful exuberance and seasoned experience. A young Wasim Akram, already showing glimpses of his prodigious talent, was complemented by the guile of spinners Abdul Qadir and Tauseef Ahmed. The batting order, long considered a weak link, now carried greater stability with Ramiz Raja, Shoaib Mohammad, Mudassar Nazar, Mansoor Akhtar, and Salim Malik forming a formidable top order. With a balanced squad and a sense of purpose, Pakistan stood poised to challenge England on their home soil, seeking to rewrite history and stake their claim among the cricketing elite.

England Beckons: A Tour Clouded in Controversy

Buoyed by their success in India, Pakistan set sail for England in May, embarking on a tour that would test both their resilience and their reputation. The selection committee—effectively an extension of Imran Khan’s strategic mind—made a few alterations to the squad. One omission, however, ignited an off-field storm. Qasim Umar, aggrieved by his exclusion, unleashed a barrage of allegations involving drug abuse within the team. His claims cast a shadow over the touring party, leading to an uncomfortable reception at Heathrow, where sniffer dogs were waiting for them. The scandal, though never substantiated, marked the abrupt end of Umar’s international career. 

Once on the field, Pakistan found themselves in a dogged three-match Texaco Trophy ODI series. England edged the decider at Edgbaston by a single wicket, setting the stage for an enthralling five-Test series. Both teams arrived battle-hardened, having recently vanquished their fiercest rivals—Pakistan against India, and England against Australia. The hosts, fresh from reclaiming the Ashes, were considered favourites. Yet Imran Khan, a man never shackled by preordained narratives, had other plans. 

Weathering the Storm: A Series Shaped by the Elements

Pakistan entered the first Test at Old Trafford with a squad that was far from full strength. Imran Khan, despite leading the side, was restricted to playing purely as a batsman due to a strained stomach muscle sustained just before the match. The absence of Abdul Qadir, who remained in Pakistan attending to his ailing wife, further weakened the team’s bowling arsenal. Javed Miandad, a pivotal figure in the batting lineup, arrived late on tour following the birth of his son and was consequently short of match practice. However, these setbacks ultimately proved inconsequential, as relentless rain ensured that fewer than 15 hours of play were possible over the five days, rendering the match a dampened affair.

Opting to bat first after winning the toss, England compiled a commanding total of 447, anchored by a composed and methodical 166 from opener Tim Robinson. The young Wasim Akram, celebrating his 21st birthday on the eve of the match, continued to impress, claiming 4 for 111 in what was only his 16th Test appearance. Pakistan’s response was less assured, as they stumbled to 140 for 5 before the persistent rain forced an inevitable draw.

A little over a week later, the teams reconvened at Lord’s for the second Test, where once again the weather played a decisive role. England, the only side to bat, posted 368, with Bill Athey justifying the selectors’ continued faith in him by crafting a well-earned 123. However, rain delays prolonged England’s innings until the close of play on day three, and further downpours on day four ensured that Pakistan never even had the opportunity to bat. Despite the frustrating conditions, there were silver linings for the visitors—most notably, Imran and Qadir, now reunited with the squad, managed to get valuable bowling practice, hinting at a more competitive contest ahead.

Turning the Tide at Headingley

Pakistan required only five overs and one ball on the fourth morning to formalize their victory, a swift conclusion that left England with an all-too-familiar sense of despair. It was a dismal echo of their defeat by India on the same ground a year earlier. The pitch, riddled with cracks and offering erratic bounce, drew criticism, yet England’s batsmen bore greater culpability. Of their bowlers, only Foster adapted to the conditions with precision, skillfully moving the ball both in and away, compelling the batsmen into error. His spell, a masterclass in fast-medium bowling, yielded eight wickets, a performance as commanding as Imran’s. In contrast, Dilley’s away-swing rarely troubled the batsmen, Capel’s line and length lacked menace, and Edmonds oscillated between attack and containment. England’s decision to exclude Emburey in favour of a fourth seamer, Capel, proved misguided, while Richards deputized for the French, still recovering from chickenpox. Pakistan remained unchanged.

England’s decision to bat first under a sky of high clouds and little breeze seemed sound, yet within a mere 63 minutes, they were reeling at 31 for five. The collapse was a testament not just to Pakistan’s pace and swing but to England’s technical frailties. Robinson, hesitant, fell to the third ball. Athey, playing late, perished in the seventh over. Broad, caught in indecision, succumbed in the eighth. Gatting shouldered arms to his demise, and Gower, in an ill-fated attempt to withdraw his bat, dragged onto his stumps. Imran, with figures of 7-1-16-3, was relentless; Wasim Akram, equally incisive, returned 10-4-20-2 before making way for Mudassar.

Botham, adopting a watchful approach, resisted for nearly two hours before Mudassar, having already bruised his instep—a blow that would prevent him from fielding—enticed him into an ill-judged drive at a gentle outswinger. Richards, inexplicably, left an inswinger from Wasim and paid the price. When the young left-armer tired, Mohsin Kamal stepped in, claiming three wickets in nine balls. Capel, resolute, reached a debut fifty with his sixth boundary but fell immediately after, driving a full-length delivery back to Mohsin, who plucked the return catch above his head. His innings, a study in patience and technique, lasted three hours and thirteen minutes, underscoring the value of a committed forward defence.

Pakistan, in response, faced 27 overs before stumps, during which England squandered three opportunities off Foster’s bowling. Mansoor survived two difficult chances, first to Edmonds, then to Emburey in the slips, while Yousuf, dropped the second ball, capitalized on England’s generosity, occupying the crease throughout Friday morning’s session.

Salim Malik, embodying quiet authority, orchestrated the second day’s play with an innings of discipline and refinement. His 99, compiled over five and a half hours from 238 deliveries, featured eight boundaries and was a lesson in application. His partnership of 72 with Ijaz Ahmed had already tilted the match decisively in Pakistan’s favour, and on the third morning, Ijaz and Wasim Akram extinguished any lingering English hopes. Ijaz, with audacious strokeplay, enthralled the Saturday crowd—back-foot drives behind point, a pair of dancing steps down the pitch for a straight boundary, and a flick of the wrists for a ninth four en route to his fifty. Wasim Akram’s innings, a cavalier 43 from 41 balls, was adorned with four sixes and two fours before Edmonds, sprinting in from fine leg, ended his spree with a tumbling catch.

England’s second innings unravelled almost immediately. Broad and Robinson departed in Imran’s first and second overs. Athey and Gower, displaying an air of reckless defiance, added 35 in the 38 minutes before lunch. Broad, adjudged caught behind off Imran’s second ball, was doubly unfortunate—the replay, scrutinized repeatedly, suggested the ball had merely brushed his left hand after he had withdrawn it from the bat, an injustice compounded by the wicketkeeper’s sharp reflexes. Yousuf, however, fared worse in the afternoon session when, after fumbling the ball and recovering it, he made an unsuccessful appeal for Botham’s wicket. The umpire dismissed the claim, and an incensed Botham had to be restrained by umpire Palmer, while Imran, ever the disciplinarian, reprimanded Yousuf in no uncertain terms.

With Qadir applying a vice-like grip at one end through 23 successive overs, Pakistan’s fast bowlers exploited the pitch’s fickle bounce from the Football Stand end. Imran, immaculate in his craft, claimed his 300th Test wicket with the dismissal of Richards, smartly taken at forward short leg, becoming only the eighth bowler to reach the milestone. On the fourth morning, he added three more to his tally, finishing with match figures of ten wickets. Capel, once again, exhibited resilience, batting for three hours, but England’s fate had been sealed from the moment their innings crumbled on Thursday morning. That Gatting might have made the same decision at the toss was of little solace; the execution, not the intent, had dictated England’s downfall.

A Battle of Attrition at Edgbaston

A placid Edgbaston pitch seemed destined for a tame draw from the outset, as Pakistan negotiated Gatting’s decision to bowl first with ease. Yet, the match, languid for much of its course, sprang to life dramatically after lunch on the final day, setting the stage for an improbable English victory.

An incisive spell of fast bowling from Foster, ably supported by Botham, dismantled Pakistan’s second innings with unexpected haste, leaving England with an ambitious yet attainable target of 124 from the final eighteen overs. Broad’s aggressive 30 in an opening stand of 37 off just five overs provided England with the perfect platform, and for a fleeting moment, parity in the series seemed within reach. However, Pakistan, marshalled by the relentless Imran Khan and the fiery Wasim Akram, expertly curtailed England’s charge. Unshackled by the constraints of one-day cricket—no fielding restrictions, no curbs on short-pitched bowling—Pakistan dictated terms as wickets tumbled. England, in the end, fell tantalizingly short by just 15 runs.

Both captains concurred that England, given their wealth of one-day experience, should have secured victory. Yet, it was Gatting who bore the brunt of criticism, particularly from the tabloid press, for his miscalculations in the early days of the match. He had gambled on the assumption that the prolonged spell of wet weather would render the pitch greener than usual, offering early assistance to his seamers.

Curiously, England omitted Radford from their twelve, despite his standing as the leading wicket-taker in the County Championship, opting instead for two spinners. The decision left England short of a paceman, a deficiency Pakistan exploited, amassing 250 for three by stumps on the first day. The innings was anchored by Mudassar Nazar, who compiled his ninth Test century with unwavering discipline, sharing a pivotal third-wicket stand of 135 with Javed Miandad. Miandad, reprieved on 15 when Botham spilt a straightforward chance at slip, capitalized to score 75.

Rain and bad light plagued the second day, delaying the start until 1:25 p.m. and causing several stoppages. One such interruption proved particularly farcical: umpires Whitehead and Meyer emerged from the pavilion, poised to restart play, only to be left standing alone on the square as England’s players remained oblivious in their dressing room. The miscommunication, later dissected with blame apportioned in multiple directions, was met with derision. Ultimately, the light deteriorated once more, and to the bemusement of the crowd, the umpires retreated, still without a sign of the England team.

Despite the interruptions, Dilley disrupted Pakistan’s momentum, dismissing Mudassar—after an epic vigil of nearly seven hours—along with Malik and Imran in a four-over burst. However, England failed to capitalize fully, allowing Pakistan to reach 439. A costly drop by Botham when Salim Yousuf was on 4 enabled the wicketkeeper to compile a career-best 91.

England’s response on the third day was propelled by a commanding opening stand of 119 between Broad and Robinson. The innings lost momentum in the middle phase as Imran, extracting prodigious movement, engineered yet another five-wicket haul—his 21st in Test cricket. Yet, Gatting, defying his critics, produced a defiant 124. His six-hour, 39-minute innings, punctuated by sixteen boundaries, ensured England a hard-earned 82-run advantage, aided by late-order contributions from Emburey and Foster.

Pakistan’s second innings commenced with just under an hour remaining on the fourth day, and all signs pointed towards an inevitable draw. By lunch on the final day, at 74 for one, they had nearly erased the deficit. However, Foster ignited a dramatic collapse, removing Shoaib, Mansoor, and Miandad in quick succession. Botham compounded Pakistan’s woes with a stunning return catch to dismiss Malik before clean bowling Ijaz. Yet, a crucial 13-minute break for bad light, coupled with Imran’s obdurate 37, prolonged England’s toil until the final hour.

England’s pursuit of victory was derailed by a series of run-outs, with Athey—though not solely culpable—embroiled in all of them. His inability to accelerate in the closing stages, managing a mere 14 runs in seven overs, proved costly and ultimately led to his omission from the Fifth Test.

Poor weather over the first four days restricted the attendance to 42,500, with gate receipts totaling £287,080. Thankfully, there was no repeat of the crowd disturbances that had marred the one-day international between these sides at Edgbaston in May. However, the necessity of a substantial police and stewarding presence significantly diminished the match’s profits. In the end, what had seemed a meandering contest transformed into a gripping spectacle, a testament to the unpredictable drama of Test cricket.

The Oval: Where Legends Are Forged

 Gatting and Botham’s stoic resistance on the final day provided England with a rare moment of solace in a summer of dwindling fortunes. Their unwavering defiance for over four hours ensured that Pakistan's dominance translated into only a 1-0 series victory—their first in England—rather than a more emphatic margin.

To unsettle such a formidable opponent, England needed to seize the initiative by batting first on a measured, albeit slowish, pitch. Yet fate favoured Pakistan, as Imran Khan, winning his first toss of the series, set the stage for England’s third consecutive home series defeat. By the second day’s lunch, Pakistan’s batsmen had already dictated the match’s trajectory, and by the evening of the fourth, England—following on—remained a staggering 381 runs adrift with seven wickets in hand.

Seeking fresh impetus, England replaced Athey with Moxon, ending the former’s fourteen-Test run, and once again overlooked Radford in favour of a dual-spin attack. Pakistan, meanwhile, reintroduced Ramiz Raja and Tauseef Ahmed, sidelining Shoaib Mohammad and Mohsin Kamal for the first time in the series. The early removal of Ramiz and Mansoor by Botham and Dilley hinted at an opportunity for England to exert pressure, but Javed Miandad soon dismantled their aspirations. His long-overdue maiden Test century against England was merely a prelude to a masterful double-century—his fourth in Tests—making him only the seventh batsman to achieve such a feat. Having survived a difficult chance to Foster at long leg when on 9, Miandad reached 6,000 Test runs on the first day, guided by the steady Mudassar and the flamboyant Malik. England’s cause was further weakened by injuries to Dilley (ankle) and Foster (strained side), forcing the latter out of action for the remainder of the innings.

Malik, a picture of controlled aggression, surged from 64 to the 90s early on the second day before securing his sixth Test hundred—the first outside his homeland. His innings of 237 balls, spanning over four and a half hours, contained just six boundaries yet yielded a record 234-run partnership with Miandad for Pakistan’s fourth wicket against England. Imran Khan, in what he declared to be his final Test, added another milestone by registering his first century against England, accelerating from 57 to three figures while Miandad momentarily paused his own scoring. Though Miandad harboured ambitions of challenging Sobers’ record 365 not out, fatigue overtook him, and after a marathon ten-hour vigil—facing 521 balls and striking 28 fours and a six—he offered a simple return catch to Dilley. Imran’s innings, marked by his signature audacity, ended in an attempt to snatch a fourth run off Ijaz’s stroke, bringing Pakistan’s total to 600. His innings of four and a quarter hours featured a six and eleven fours.

On the third morning, Ijaz and Yousuf extended their seventh-wicket stand to 89—a record for Pakistan against England—before Dilley’s late burst secured him a career-best six for 154. Imran’s hopes of an early declaration were dashed by deteriorating light, forcing Pakistan’s innings to reach its full, imposing length. Their final total of 708, amassed over 13 hours and 40 minutes, surpassed their previous highest of 674 for six against India in Faisalabad (1984-85) and ranked as the sixth-highest in Test history—the second largest total ever conceded by England. Botham’s figures of 217 runs conceded in 52 overs set an unenviable England record, surpassing I. A. R. Peebles’ 204 from 71 overs against Australia at The Oval in 1930.

England’s plight deepened when Broad edged behind off Imran’s fourth ball, and at 78 for four, the prospect of a humiliating defeat loomed large. Gatting’s determined half-century and Botham’s dogged support saw them through to stumps, but their task on the fourth day was formidable. Survival depended on one of them batting through the day, yet Qadir’s probing leg-spin soon exposed England’s vulnerability. Only Emburey offered any significant resistance, striking a six and six fours as Qadir tore through the lineup with his finest Test figures of seven for 96, including a devastating spell of three for 13 in 37 balls.

Following on, trailing by 476, England faced the ignominy of an unprecedented margin of defeat. That humiliation became a tangible reality when Moxon, Robinson, and Gower fell cheaply. However, on the final day, with Wasim Akram sidelined for an appendix operation, England’s resistance stiffened. Gatting’s ninth Test hundred—his fifth in fourteen matches—anchored the innings, despite a series of missed chances at 5, 23, 58, 60, and 107. His undefeated 150, compiled over five and three-quarter hours with 21 fours, stood as a testament to his resilience. Botham, suppressing his natural attacking instincts, displayed remarkable discipline, eschewing risk and ensuring England’s survival. Joining Gatting 45 minutes before lunch, he remained steadfast until the job was completed at 5:25 p.m., salvaging a draw from the wreckage of an otherwise one-sided contest.

More Than a Victory: A Statement to the World

The years that followed solidified this team's claim to being arguably the greatest Pakistan has ever produced. From early 1985 until their away loss in Australia in 1990, Pakistan remained undefeated in a Test series, a testament to their dominance on the international stage. During this period, they secured series victories over formidable opponents such as the West Indies, England, India, and Australia, while also engaging in two fiercely contested drawn series, both at home and abroad, against the West Indies. These accomplishments underscored their status as a force to be reckoned with in world cricket.

Although their 1987 World Cup campaign ended in the semifinals, it did little to diminish the team's growing reputation. Imran Khan, ever the stalwart leader, continued both his playing career and his stewardship of the side, ultimately guiding them to the pinnacle of cricketing achievement—the 1992 World Cup. His leadership, marked by both resilience and tactical brilliance, became the defining feature of Pakistan’s golden era.

The 1987 series against England, however, was not without its share of controversy. The air was thick with allegations of cheating, unsporting conduct, and complaints over umpiring decisions. While these issues were undeniably contentious at the time, they now seem secondary in the broader narrative. What remains most significant is that this series served as a crucial turning point, solidifying Pakistan’s reputation as a genuine, world-class Test cricketing nation—one that could stand toe to toe with the best in the world.

Thank You

Faisal Caesar

The Match That Refused to Sleep: England vs Pakistan, Edgbaston 1987

A Toss, A Gamble, A Misfire

It began as a slow burner. A dull, rain-nudged Test match. A sleepy pitch. A conservative script. Everything about Edgbaston seemed destined to lull spectators into five days of benign equilibrium. And yet, in one final, breathless twist, this match exploded into life—delivering high drama, bitter regret, and unforgettable tension in its dying hours.

When Mike Gatting won the toss under heavy skies and chose to bowl, many saw method in the madness. The summer of 1987 had been soaked in rain, and the Edgbaston surface bore the pallor of promise for swing and seam. Gatting gambled, hoping for early inroads. But as the first day unfolded, so too did the cracks in England’s planning—none of them on the pitch.

Mudassar and Miandad: Calm in the Storm

Pakistan, resolute and unhurried, were in no mood to oblige. The decision to omit Neil Radford—then tearing up the County Championship—raised eyebrows. England’s attack lacked bite, and the tourists cashed in. Mudassar Nazar, the epitome of gritty accumulation, ground his way to a ninth Test hundred in an innings of meditative patience. Javed Miandad, irrepressible as ever, should have gone early—put down by Botham at slip when on 15. Instead, he joined Mudassar in a third-wicket stand worth 135. By the close of play, Pakistan had cruised to 250 for three. England looked not just flat, but oddly directionless.

Rain, Farce, and Five Wickets

Then came Day Two: a day that resembled farce more than Test cricket. Rain sliced the day into fragments. Bad light hovered like a curtain waiting to fall. At one point, the umpires strode out ready to resume play—only to find the England team still in the dressing room, oblivious. Communication breakdown? Tactical confusion? Either way, it was not the look of a side in control.

Between interruptions, there were flashes of resistance. Graham Dilley found rhythm and resolve, slicing through the middle order with a memorable five-wicket haul. Mudassar fell at last—after seven hours at the crease—and Dilley removed Malik and Imran Khan in a flurry. But the tail wagged defiantly. Salim Yousuf, given a life on 4, blossomed into a thorn in England’s side. His 91—the highest of his career—helped Pakistan swell to 439. A mountain, given the time already lost.

Gatting’s Redemption and Imran’s Threat

England needed steel. They found it—at least at first. Chris Broad and Tim Robinson launched the reply with authority, adding 119 for the first wicket. But Imran Khan, ever the sorcerer with ball in hand, cast his spell. The ball zipped, dipped, and seamed. Batsmen came and went. The innings faltered.

Yet in the eye of the storm stood Gatting—the embattled captain, fighting not just the opposition but the press, the pundits, and his own doubts. His 124 was an act of personal and national restoration—six hours and thirty-nine minutes of resolve. With able support from Emburey and Foster, England eked out an 82-run lead. Narrow, yes—but precious.

Sleepwalking into Day Five

Then, the game began to sleepwalk again. Pakistan began their second innings late on the fourth evening, and by lunch on Day Five, they had almost erased the deficit. All signs pointed to a stalemate.

Foster’s Fire and Botham’s Spark

And then—chaos. Neil Foster, previously a footnote, turned avenger. His spell after lunch was a jolt to the system. Shoaib, Mansoor Akhtar, and Miandad—all gone in a blur. Edgbaston rumbled. England believed. Botham, not to be outdone, pulled off a sensational return catch to dismiss Saleem Malik, and then bowled Ijaz with a reverse-swinging gem. The finish line shimmered.

But cricket is a game of fine margins and cruel timings. Bad light robbed England of thirteen minutes—thirteen golden minutes where momentum dissolved. Imran Khan, who had captained stoically and bowled masterfully, now played the role of anchor. His 37, full of poise and time-wasting precision, bought Pakistan a vital buffer. Still, when the final hour began, England had a shot at glory.

The Final Hour: Run Chase and Ruin

124 runs. 18 overs. One chance.

Chris Broad lit the fuse. He blasted 30 off a five-over opening stand of 37. The chase was on. The Edgbaston crowd surged with hope. But from the moment Broad fell, so did England’s rhythm. Imran and Wasim Akram bowled with menacing control, attacking the body, exploiting the absence of modern-day fielding restrictions, and drying up the runs.

Then came the collapses—not of skill, but of nerves. Three run-outs. Three hammer blows. All involving Bill Athey. His presence in the late overs was marred by stagnation. Seven overs. Fourteen runs. A lifeless coda to what should have been a climactic crescendo. England ended 15 runs short. Fifteen runs adrift of what might have been one of their most audacious wins

The Fallout and the Echo

In the aftermath, there was plenty of analysis—some fair, some ferocious. Gatting faced a firestorm for his first-day decision. Athey was dropped for the next Test. Yet, amidst the disappointment, this match earned its place in memory—not because of the result, but because of how it dared, so late, to dance with destiny.

Legacy of a Late Blooming Classic

From quiet beginnings to a fevered finale, Edgbaston 1987 became a tale of tension, tactics, and tantalizing what-ifs. It reminded the cricketing world that even a match written off as a draw can erupt into brilliance when players, pressure, and possibility align.

Thank You

Faisal Caesar

 

A Test of Contrasts: Triumph, Controversy, and the Weight of Legacy

Some Test matches are remembered for their moments of pure cricketing pleasure—Aamir Sohail’s audacious strokeplay, Wasim Akram’s fiery spells, David Gower’s ascent to statistical immortality—but others are immortalized by the controversies that unfold in the heat of battle. This match, though glittered with individual brilliance, is best recalled for an incident that threatened to overshadow the cricket itself: the clash between Aqib Javed, umpire Roy Palmer, and Pakistan captain Javed Miandad on the evening of the fourth day.

It began with a warning. Palmer, upholding the spirit of fair play, deemed Aqib guilty of intimidatory bowling against Devon Malcolm. The moment could have passed into the annals of forgettable formalities, but fate had other ideas. Palmer, perhaps unintentionally, returned Aqib’s sweater with more force than necessary—perhaps because it caught on his belt, perhaps because frustration simmered beneath the surface. The slight, real or perceived, ignited a tempest. Miandad orchestrated an animated exchange, a Pakistani supporter stormed the field waving a rolled-up newspaper, and security personnel rushed to contain the scene. It was a confrontation evocative of Faisalabad 1987-88, when Mike Gatting and Shakoor Rana had turned a cricket match into a diplomatic standoff. Yet here, Palmer retained a quiet dignity, exuding the patience of a schoolmaster mediating a playground dispute.

Conrad Hunte, deputizing as match referee in Clyde Walcott’s absence, acted swiftly. Aqib was fined half his match fee—approximately £300—while team manager Intikhab Alam was reprimanded for publicly claiming Palmer had disrespected his players. Further censured by the ICC when he refused to retract his statement, Intikhab remained defiant. Adding to Pakistan’s woes, the entire team was fined 40% of their match fees for a sluggish over-rate. The repercussions lingered like a storm cloud over an otherwise fascinating contest.

Aamir Sohail - The Brute Force  

England, meanwhile, had entered this match with the specter of internal politics hovering over their selection. Ian Botham and Allan Lamb were dropped, while Phillip DeFreitas was ruled out with a groin strain. Into the fray stepped David Gower, the prince of languid elegance, recalled for his 115th Test after excelling for Hampshire. The sins of Queensland—his unauthorized joyride in a Tiger Moth—were momentarily forgiven. Michael Atherton, refreshed after back surgery, also returned, while Warwickshire seamer Tim Munton finally received his long-awaited Test debut.

Miandad, ever the strategist, had no hesitation in batting first on a wicket made for stroke-makers. Pakistan’s openers, Ramiz Raja and Aamir Sohail, attacked with the controlled aggression reminiscent of Gordon Greenidge. By lunch, Pakistan had rattled up 131 runs, the only casualty being Ramiz—given out to an inside edge apparent only to umpire Palmer. Whispers later suggested that this moment sowed the seeds of discord that would erupt on the fourth evening.

Sohail, unperturbed, constructed an innings of rare dominance. With an unerring ability to punish anything less than immaculate, he raced to his maiden Test century in 127 balls, reaching 131 by tea. The momentum continued until, exhausted but euphoric, he fell for 205, his 32 boundaries painting a masterpiece through the covers. Asif Mujtaba, anchoring the innings with a second half-century of the series, fell to his only reckless stroke, while Miandad—muted but ever capable—unleashed a sequence of five boundaries against Ian Salisbury to remind the world that, with Vivian Richards retired, he was still among the last great masters.

Rain, Resilience, and the Swing of Fortune

The second day was lost to rain, and when play resumed, Pakistan’s ambitions of an overwhelming total were checked. Miandad fell 12 short of his 24th Test century, becoming Munton’s maiden Test scalp. With England’s senior bowlers faltering, Graham Gooch took matters into his own hands, sending down 18 overs of honest medium pace and claiming three wickets to return his best Test figures. Pakistan, perhaps miscalculating the time needed for a decisive result, declared midway through the third afternoon, setting a target that would require swift breakthroughs.

England’s reply, disrupted by rain and bad light, was given an immediate jolt by Wasim Akram. Bowling with fire on the ground where he had recently committed to four more years with Lancashire, he overstepped 32 times in his innings-long search for menace. Yet, when he struck, the impact was devastating. In his eighth over, he removed Alec Stewart with a wide ball and then sent Michael Atherton’s off-stump cartwheeling with a delivery of exquisite late swing, reminiscent of Bruce Reid’s artistry.

But Pakistan’s fielding betrayed them. Three dropped catches before stumps allowed England to breathe, and with Monday designated as a rest day to avoid clashing with the Wimbledon men’s final, the momentum ebbed. When play resumed, the crowd anticipated something special—and Gower delivered.

A Cover Drive for the Ages

The script demanded it. England, on the back foot, needed their most elegant stroke-player to rise. Gower, requiring 34 runs to surpass Geoffrey Boycott’s England record of 8,114 Test runs, batted with ethereal ease. A squeeze through slips, a supreme cover drive, a caressed push through mid-wicket—his innings was a catalogue of his greatest hits. The inevitable came swiftly: a cover drive to the boundary, 31 minutes after he took guard, and he was England’s all-time leading scorer. It was a milestone met with raucous acclaim, a feat befitting the artistry of a player for whom numbers had always been incidental to beauty.

Gower and Gooch departed before England could save the follow-on, but Lewis, blending power with pragmatism, and Salisbury, with plucky determination, ensured England escaped further peril. Wasim finished with his 10th Test five-wicket haul, while Aqib claimed career-best figures, including a perfectly judged slow yorker to bowl Malcolm—the final punctuation mark in a spell that had already ignited controversy.

A Stalemate with Subtext

The final day meandered towards the inevitable draw. Guided by Miandad, Pakistan batted with caution, an approach more measured than memorable. Graham Gooch, desperate for inspiration, bowled himself into the ground, and his persistence was rewarded with five wickets for 69 across the match. England’s wicketkeeping future, meanwhile, took an unplanned turn—Jack Russell, sidelined with a stomach complaint, ceded the gloves to Alec Stewart, a foreshadowing of the transition to come.

This Test was an affair of contradictions—breathtaking batting, sublime spells of pace, a record-breaking milestone, and yet, a controversy that lingered like an aftertaste. For Pakistan, it was a match of dominance tempered by their own miscalculations. For England, a testament to individual brilliance within a broader struggle. And for cricket itself, a reminder that within the long rhythms of a Test match, moments of magic and moments of discord often sit side by side, shaping history in ways no scoreboard alone can tell.

Thank You

Faisal Caesar 

A Promising Series Begins in the Gloom

The Edgbaston Test between England and Pakistan opened the summer series under a shroud of rain and anticlimax. Hopes for a vibrant contest were drowned—first in water, then in a deluge of runs on an unyielding pitch. Though the match ended in a draw, it offered an evocative blend of disappointment, misjudgment, and the unmistakable aura of cricketing theatre.

Pre-Match Drama: Selection Gambles and Strategic Retreats

Before a single ball was bowled, the story had already begun to unfold off the field. Injuries to Tufnell, Lawrence, and Reeve forced England to reconfigure a successful side. The inclusion of the uncapped Munton and Salisbury, and the recalled Ramprakash, signalled both experimentation and uncertainty. The spotlight fell squarely on Ian Salisbury, a 22-year-old leg-spinner on the verge of breaking a two-decade drought for England in that art.

Captain Graham Gooch’s decision to play Salisbury was hailed as bold and necessary—until the weather intervened. The rain on the opening morning unsettled England’s nerves. In a last-minute reversal, Salisbury was dropped in favour of a safer, bat-heavy lineup. Gooch would later admit the error, as conditions did not, in the end, favour caution.

Rain, Refunds, and Recriminations

With the first two days marred by relentless downpours, cricket’s bureaucratic machinery came under fire. Only two deliveries were bowled on Friday before play was halted again, yet this brief passage counted as ‘play’ under Test and County Cricket Board rules, voiding any obligation for ticket refunds.

The result was a public relations fiasco. While 8,500 spectators received refunds on Thursday, 15,000 were denied the same on Friday. Protesters gathered, officials disappeared through side exits, and trust in the game’s administrators took a heavy blow. Later, even the Small Claims Court would side with fans, ruling the Board’s conduct unfair.

A Pitch Without Soul, A Test Without Teeth

Once the match finally resumed, it became an extended batting exhibition. Over the last three days, 902 runs were scored for the loss of just 11 wickets—a statistic that belied the supposed contest. Edgbaston’s newly laid surface offered no encouragement to bowlers; their efforts were mechanical, their spirits visibly dimmed.

Pakistan, meanwhile, showcased both youth and legacy. Debutants Aamir Sohail, Inzamam-ul-Haq, and Ata-Ur-Rehman provided promise, but it was the seasoned pairing of Javed Miandad and Salim Malik who stole the stage. Their 322-run partnership—record-breaking for either side in this fixture—was a lesson in timing, temperament, and tactical exploitation of a dead pitch.

Miandad and Malik: Masters of the Middle

Miandad, ever the wily craftsman, maneuvered the field with studied precision, reaching his 23rd Test hundred and surpassing Geoffrey Boycott as the fourth highest run-scorer in Test history. Malik, equally elegant, registered his personal best with poise and minimal fuss. Together, they silenced England’s seven-man bowling carousel, which was reduced to lifeless routines and errant deliveries.

Dropped catches and absent spin options deepened England’s woes. Gooch’s decision to omit Salisbury now appeared not just defensive but damaging. The only spin came from Graeme Hick, whose tidy but toothless off-breaks were symbolic of England’s muddled tactics.

Stewart’s Statement, and a Batting Reprieve

In reply, England faced a follow-on target reduced by rain regulations to 150. Pakistan declared at 446 for four, but England chased the psychological margin with ease, thanks in large part to Alec Stewart. The wicketkeeper-batsman produced a masterclass in fluent aggression, compiling a career-best 190 embellished with 31 boundaries.

His partnership of 227 with Robin Smith effectively secured the draw. Smith too reached three figures—his seventh Test century—all at home—but beyond them, England’s batsmen failed to press the advantage. Hick reached his first half-century in his eighth Test, but did little to silence his critics. Ramprakash was dismissed for a second-ball duck by the persevering Rehman, whose three wickets in a five-over spell briefly rekindled competitive spirit before the rain returned once more.

Innovation Unused, Potential Unfulfilled

This Test also marked a quiet innovation in the game: the first use of a third umpire in England. But with no close calls of consequence, Bob Cowper’s role was largely ceremonial—his primary challenge was staying awake.

A Draw That Spoke Volumes

The Edgbaston Test will not be remembered for its result, but for what it revealed. It laid bare England’s strategic hesitations, Pakistan’s depth of batting skill, and the inadequacies of pitch preparation and administrative foresight. It was a match shaped more by what didn’t happen—no competitive bowling, no meaningful declarations, no dramatic finales—than what did.

Yet even in anticlimax, Test cricket found ways to provoke thought, stir debate, and write stories between the raindrops.

Thank You

Faisal Caesar 

The Unfinished Symphony: A Test of Grit and Genius

The historic 1988 Test series between Pakistan and the West Indies was more than just a contest between bat and ball—it was a clash of philosophies, temperaments, and cricketing ideologies. For years, the West Indies had dominated world cricket, their pace battery striking fear into the hearts of batsmen across the globe. Pakistan, meanwhile, was a team brimming with talent and ambition, led by the indomitable Imran Khan, determined to challenge the Caribbean supremacy.

With Pakistan having won the first Test in Guyana—a rare feat against the mighty West Indies on their home soil—confidence was at an all-time high in the visiting camp. As the caravan moved to Trinidad’s Queen’s Park Oval for the second Test, the stakes were immense. Pakistan aimed to seal a historic series victory, while West Indies, bolstered by the return of Sir Vivian Richards and Malcolm Marshall, sought redemption.

The Battle Begins: A Captain’s Bold Gamble

On a traditionally slow and turning track, Imran Khan, defying convention, chose to bowl first after winning the toss. Perhaps it was the psychological edge gained from the previous victory, or perhaps it was a calculated gamble—either way, the decision was soon vindicated.

Imran himself set the tone, dismissing the legendary Gordon Greenidge in the very first over. At the other end, a young, fiery Wasim Akram produced a beauty to trap Desmond Haynes in front of the stumps. At 25 for 2, the mighty West Indian batting line-up found itself wobbling against the sustained brilliance of Pakistan’s attack.

Richie Richardson and Gus Logie attempted to rebuild, but they too fell to Akram and Abdul Qadir, respectively. Carl Hooper, immensely talented yet inexperienced, was all at sea against Qadir’s mesmerising leg-spin. By the time Jeff Dujon joined his captain, Richards, at 89 for 5, the West Indies were in dire straits.

Richards' Counterattack and Qadir’s Masterclass

Richards, the undisputed monarch of West Indian batting, decided to counter the only way he knew—through sheer aggression. He tore into the Pakistani attack, dispatching eight boundaries in a dazzling display of strokeplay. Dujon, inspired by his captain’s fearless approach, stepped out and lofted Qadir for a six.

But Pakistan’s bowlers were relentless. Imran, master of reverse swing, produced a lethal outswinger to dismiss Dujon. Ten runs later, Qadir outfoxed Richards, bringing an end to his blistering knock of 49. The lower order crumbled swiftly, and the West Indies were bundled out for 174 by tea on the first day. Pakistan, once perennial underdogs in Caribbean conditions, were now dictating terms.

Yet, cricket is a game of relentless uncertainty. When Pakistan came out to bat, Malcolm Marshall and Curtly Ambrose, fresh and hungry, struck back with venom. Rameez Raja fell in the slips, Mudassar Nazar battled hard but was held at gully, and Shoaib Mohammad succumbed to Ambrose’s rising delivery.

When Javed Miandad, the pillar of Pakistan’s batting, walked in, the tension was palpable. His confidence was soaring after his match-winning ton in the first Test, and he brought much-needed stability. However, the West Indies had an army of fast-bowling assassins. Winston Benjamin, the fourth seamer, proved lethal, removing the nightwatchman Ijaz Faqih and then delivering a telling blow by uprooting Miandad’s stumps. At 50 for 5, Pakistan’s earlier dominance had evaporated, replaced by anxiety and unease.

The Fightback: Malik and Yousuf Resurrect Pakistan

The following morning, Pakistan found itself teetering on the edge. Young Ijaz Ahmed was unable to withstand the onslaught, and Imran, despite his batting prowess, fell cheaply. At 68 for 7, the match appeared to be slipping away.

Enter Saleem Yousuf, a gritty fighter with a penchant for crucial contributions. Despite a shaky start—he was dropped by Dujon on 3—he capitalised on his second chance. Saleem Malik, a man of composure and silken strokeplay, held firm. Together, they stitched a crucial 94-run partnership. Malik’s 66, spanning almost three hours, was a masterpiece of patience and resilience.

Just as Pakistan seemed poised for a respectable total, part-time spinner Carl Hooper dislodged Malik. But Abdul Qadir, ever the unpredictable, smashed Hooper into the stands to give Pakistan a lead of 20.

Imran Khan’s Masterclass with the Ball

When the West Indies came out to bat in the second innings, Imran sensed an opportunity to drive the final nail into their coffin. He struck in his very first over, dismissing Haynes for a duck. Though Richardson and Greenidge steadied the innings, Imran, returning after a brief rest, cleaned up Greenidge and then removed Logie with a ball that jagged in viciously. At 66 for 3, the hosts were once again struggling.

Viv Richards walked in, aware that the weight of the Caribbean expectations rested solely on his broad shoulders. He saw off the remainder of the day, finishing on 78 for 3 at stumps.

The following morning, Pakistan made early inroads. Richardson, looking well set, was lured into a false shot by Imran. At 81 for 4, West Indies were on the brink of another collapse.

The Richards-Dujon Resistance

But Richards, a man for the big occasion, decided to script a turnaround. Early in his innings, a dramatic moment ensued when an Imran inswinger struck him on the pad. Pakistan erupted in a vociferous appeal, but umpire Clyde Cumberbatch remained unmoved. An incensed Saleem Yousuf had to be calmed down after a verbal altercation with Richards.

Unperturbed, Richards soldiered on. Hooper played the perfect supporting role, grinding out an invaluable 94-run partnership before falling to Imran. Dujon then took up the mantle, and together, they seized control. Richards, often battling cramps and nausea, reached a masterful 123. His eventual dismissal—trapped LBW by Akram—signalled the beginning of the end for the West Indies. However, Dujon batted with remarkable tenacity, carrying the total past 390.

Pakistan’s bowlers, especially Imran and Qadir, had toiled tirelessly. Imran claimed a magnificent five-wicket haul, while Qadir’s four scalps included the final blow, dismissing Walsh. Pakistan now needed 372 to win.

The Final Pursuit: Pakistan’s Brave Resistance

Chasing a record target, Pakistan’s openers started positively, with Rameez Raja and Mudassar neutralising the early threat. But once again, wickets tumbled in clusters. Benjamin’s incisive spell sent Shoaib and Mudassar packing, while Marshall accounted for Rameez. At 67 for 3, Pakistan’s ambitions of victory seemed distant.

Miandad and Malik, seasoned campaigners, put up a gritty stand, but their ultra-cautious approach made victory increasingly unlikely. When Malik fell for 30 after a three-hour vigil, Pakistan were 153 for 4.

Imran promoted himself, but his defensive approach backfired. After 44 minutes of resistance, he fell to Benjamin, leaving Pakistan 169 for 5. The game was slipping away.

Then came the defining partnership. Miandad, the ultimate fighter, and young Ijaz Ahmed added 113 runs, reigniting hopes of a miraculous win. Miandad’s century was a study in control, while Ijaz displayed remarkable composure. But Richards, sensing an opportunity, brought himself on. Ijaz, in his enthusiasm, charged down the track, only to be stumped.

As mandatory overs began, Miandad fell to Ambrose, ending Pakistan’s dream of victory. Now, survival became the priority. Saleem Yousuf and Wasim Akram resisted gallantly, but when Yousuf was adjudged LBW in the final over, tension soared.

The last man, Abdul Qadir, walked in. Five balls remained. With supreme calm, Qadir fended them off. A five-day epic ended in one of the most gripping draws in Test history.

The Aftermath: A Series for the Ages

Pakistan had preserved their lead, West Indies had fought back gallantly. Two evenly matched sides, locked in a battle of skill, heart, and determination, now moved to Barbados for the series decider. The world watched in awe—cricket had rarely seen a contest of such staggering intensity.

Thank You

Faisal Caesar

The Day Pakistan Breached the Caribbean Fortress

To understand the significance of Pakistan’s triumph at Georgetown in 1988, one must first appreciate the aura of invincibility meticulously built around West Indian cricket over the past decade. Since their last home defeat in 1978—coincidentally at the same venue—they had gone undefeated in 25 Tests on Caribbean soil, a streak that spanned ten years. The numbers told a story of relentless domination: 15 victories, 10 draws, and an entire generation of West Indian fans who had never witnessed their team lose at home.

This was not a side that simply won; they crushed their opponents with a mixture of intimidating pace bowling and destructive batting. The mere sight of Michael Holding, Joel Garner, Andy Roberts, and Malcolm Marshall running in to bowl was often enough to instil fear in opposing batsmen. Meanwhile, their batting lineup boasted names like Vivian Richards, Gordon Greenidge, and Desmond Haynes—players who could single-handedly dismantle even the most disciplined bowling attacks.

By the time Pakistan arrived in early 1988, West Indies had recently completed a ruthlessness against the likes of England, Australia, India and New Zealand at home and away reinforcing their claim to being the undisputed rulers of world cricket. The Pakistani team, in contrast, arrived in a bit rusty fashion - injury problems and a tad poor form cast doubt over the team. Their one-day performances had been abysmal, losing all five ODIs by convincing margins against the home side. They appeared woefully unprepared to challenge the Caribbean juggernaut.

But fate, that mischievous hand that so often shapes history, had other plans.

The Hand of Destiny

Cricketing miracles often find their origins in unexpected places. For Pakistan, the first stroke of destiny was delivered not on the cricket field but in the private chambers of General Zia-ul-Haq, Pakistan’s military ruler.

Imran Khan had already retired from international cricket, seemingly content with his legacy. The Pakistan Cricket Board (PCB) had pleaded for his return; fans had staged hunger strikes outside his residence. Yet, the great all-rounder had remained unmoved. It was only when General Zia personally requested his comeback as a national duty that Imran relented.

His return, however, was far from triumphant. He struggled in the ODI series, failing to make an impact with either bat or ball. The tour seemed destined to be another forgettable chapter in Pakistan’s cricketing history.

But just before the first Test, a second twist of fate struck—Viv Richards was ruled out due to a haemorrhoid operation, and Malcolm Marshall was sidelined with a knee injury. The absence of their talismanic captain and one of the greatest fast bowlers was a seismic blow to the West Indies. Even with a formidable bench strength, the psychological gap left by these two giants would prove crucial.

The Lion from Pakistan

West Indies, under the stand-in captaincy of Greenidge, won the toss and chose to bat. However, the moment Imran Khan took the ball, it became clear that Pakistan had sensed an opportunity.

Imran’s bowling that day was a masterclass in control, precision, and intimidation. With his smooth run-up, high-arm action, and ability to generate movement even on the unresponsive Bourda surface, he made the ball talk. His first victim was Haynes, caught behind for a mere 9.

For a brief period, Simmons and Richie Richardson stabilized the innings, and it seemed as though West Indies were back on track. But Imran, always a captain who trusted his instincts, made a bold move—introducing the lesser-known off-spinner Ijaz Faqih ahead of the legendary Abdul Qadir. It was a gamble, but one that paid off spectacularly. Faqih struck with his very first delivery, clean-bowling Simmons.

West Indies still had their veterans to rely on, but Imran was relentless. He removed Greenidge with a classic outswinger, dismissed Richardson for a brisk 75, and then unleashed a spell of fast bowling that shattered the lower middle order. Logie, Hooper, Dujon, Benjamin, and Walsh all fell in quick succession. By the time Imran had finished his demolition job, he had taken 7 for 80, bowling West Indies out for 292.

It was a stunning comeback—not just for Pakistan, but for Imran personally. He had returned to cricket with a dream of beating the West Indies in their own fortress, and here he was, leading his team off the field with the ball in hand and the opposition in tatters.

Miandad’s Redemption

If Imran’s bowling had laid the foundation, it was Javed Miandad's batting that built the structure of Pakistan’s historic triumph.

Miandad had long been recognized as one of the finest batsmen of his era, yet a cloud loomed over his record—his performances against the West Indies had been underwhelming. In eight previous Tests against them, he had never scored a century, averaging a modest 27. Imran, always a master motivator, had subtly reminded Miandad of this blemish, pushing him to rise to the occasion.

Miandad’s response was a display of grit, patience, and defiance. He faced a barrage of short-pitched bowling, took body blows, survived close calls, and even saw Dujon drop him at 87. But he did not falter. His determination was perhaps best illustrated when he spent 38 agonizing minutes on 99 before finally nudging a single to reach his century.

When he was eventually dismissed for 114 after batting for more than six hours, he had not only secured Pakistan’s lead but had rewritten the narrative surrounding his own legacy.

With crucial contributions from Saleem Yousuf (62) and the tail-enders, Pakistan pushed their total to 435, taking a 143-run lead. Interestingly, West Indies had gifted 71 extras—a reflection of their uncharacteristic lack of discipline under pressure.

The Final Blow

West Indies second innings began in turmoil, with Ijaz Faqih once again striking early, removing Haynes. The following day, Imran returned, his infected toe treated with antibiotics, and resumed his demolition act.

Qadir, Pakistan’s premier spinner, extracted just enough turn to send back Simmons and Richardson, while Imran dismissed Greenidge and Logie in quick succession. The mighty West Indies were crumbling.

A brief rearguard action by Hooper and Dujon slowed the inevitable, but in an inspired move, Imran tossed the ball to Shoaib Mohammad—a part-time off-spinner—for a change of ends. The unassuming Shoaib did the unthinkable, dismissing Dujon and Benjamin in successive deliveries.

The West Indian resistance had finally broken. Imran cleaned up the tail, finishing with 11 wickets for 121 runs in the match. Pakistan needed just 30 to win.

Patterson, bowling with frustration, struck Mudassar on the pads, but it was a mere formality. Ramiz Raja finished proceedings in style, hooking a short ball for six before driving Ambrose for four. Pakistan had won by nine wickets.

A Shift in Cricket’s Axis

This was not just a victory. It was a watershed moment in cricket history. The West Indies, for a generation, had been invincible at home. For the first time in ten years, they had been defeated on their own soil.

It also reaffirmed the significance of Imran Khan—not just as a player but as a force of nature. His return had lifted a struggling Pakistan side to historic glory. His leadership, tactical brilliance, and individual heroics had tilted the scales.

As he walked up to receive his Man of the Match award, the world took notice. The West Indies were still the best team in the world, but for the first time in a decade, they had looked mortal. And Pakistan, under the indomitable Imran Khan, had made history in their backyard.

Thank You

Faisal Caesar 

Dunedin 1985: A Test of Will, Wit, and War

Cricket, at its finest, is more than just a contest of skill; it is a battle of endurance, intelligence, and, at times, sheer defiance. The two-wicket thriller between New Zealand and Pakistan at Dunedin in February 1985 remains one of the most riveting Test matches ever played in the southern hemisphere. It was an encounter that saw milestones achieved, tempers flare and a final-wicket partnership etched into folklore. It was a match where the future and the past collided—Richard Hadlee celebrated his 250th Test wicket, Javed Miandad surpassed 5,000 Test runs, and an 18-year-old left-arm seamer named Wasim Akram stormed into international cricket with a breathtaking ten-wicket haul. Yet, despite these towering individual feats, the game is best remembered for its tension-filled final act and Miandad’s fiery exchange with the umpire.

A Storm Named Wasim Akram

From the moment he marked his run-up, Akram had only one plan—ferocity. His approach was simple yet devastating: relentless short-pitched deliveries that made survival an ordeal for the batters. Lance Cairns, one of New Zealand’s most seasoned players, bore the brunt of Akram’s onslaught, leaving the field with a hairline fracture on his skull after misjudging a bouncer. With Cairns incapacitated, New Zealand’s hopes rested on their final pair—Jeremy Coney, the experienced all-rounder, and Ewen Chatfield, a man known more for his doggedness than his batting ability.

On paper, the match seemed all but over. Chasing 278, New Zealand had run out of recognized batters, and standing before them was a rampant Wasim Akram, a bowler too young to comprehend fear but experienced enough to instil it in his opponents. Pakistan, sensing imminent victory, tightened their grip, while Miandad, ever the strategist, sought to manipulate the game to his advantage.

A Battle of Attrition

Recognizing Coney’s superior batting ability, Miandad devised a tactical ploy—allow him the single, and expose Chatfield to Akram’s fury. It was a classic manoeuvre, one that had broken countless tail-enders before. Yet, in the face of Pakistan’s unyielding assault, Chatfield refused to wilt. He absorbed blows like a prizefighter in a ring, his resolve hardening with each delivery that struck his body.

But cricket, especially Test cricket, is as much about the mind as it is about skill. The battle between bat and ball soon morphed into a battle of nerves. Akram, relentless in his pursuit, began overusing the short-pitched deliveries, falling into a predictable rhythm. The umpires, sensing the excessiveness, stepped in—only to find themselves drawn into Miandad’s combative orbit.

The exchange between Miandad and the umpire was not just an argument; it was a clash of ideologies. To Miandad, cricket was a game where every strategic advantage had to be maximized, and his aggressive interrogation of the umpire reflected his refusal to cede ground. He questioned the legitimacy of the warnings, arguing that Akram was merely exploiting a bowler’s natural weapon. The umpire, unmoved by his protests, issued an official warning. The decision enraged Miandad, but he had already committed to his strategy. Akram, perhaps fueled by his captain’s defiance, launched another ferocious bouncer that once again thudded into Chatfield’s helmet. This time, the umpire had had enough—an official warning was given.

The Crawl to Glory

While Pakistan remained fixated on their aggressive approach, Chatfield and Coney, like soldiers in a besieged fortress, slowly mounted their resistance. They knew they had no choice but to endure, to grind out every run with the patience of sculptors chiselling away at the stone. Each single, each defensive stroke, each minute that passed, sapped Pakistan’s energy.

Coney, later reflecting on the defining moments of that innings, admitted that the temptation to break free was ever-present. “There was always the temptation to hit out, get a few fours, and reduce the gap, but you just had to plug on and let the runs pile up,” he said. “He [Chatfield] had it under control. He shielded me from the bowling for quite a long time.”

And so, in one of Test cricket’s great ironies, it was not the express pace of Akram, nor the tactical nous of Miandad, that had the final say. It was the sheer resilience of two men, one a seasoned all-rounder, the other a bowler of limited batting ability, who outlasted the storm.

As Chatfield and Coney crawled to victory, they did not merely win a Test match; they epitomized the essence of cricket’s greatest format—where triumph is not always about dominance, but sometimes about the ability to simply outlast, to stand when everything else is falling apart. Dunedin 1985 was not just a victory for New Zealand—it was a testament to the human spirit’s unyielding defiance in the face of overwhelming odds.

Thank You 

Faisal Caesar 

Javed Miandad: The Undisputed Titan of Pakistan Cricket

Javed Miandad was a cricketer who approached the game with a singular focus: to win, regardless of the cost to camaraderie or decorum. His unrelenting mindset, often abrasive and unapologetically confrontational, was both his strength and his hallmark. While his demeanour on the field frequently provoked the ire of opponents, there was near-universal consensus among players and spectators alike about his brilliance as a batsman and his unmatched acumen as a strategist.

The 1996 World Cup quarter-final at Bangalore's Chinnaswamy Stadium was a vivid encapsulation of Miandad's legacy. The atmosphere had morphed into a volatile mix of cheers, jeers, and expletives as Pakistan’s innings unravelled after a blistering start from Saeed Anwar and Aamer Sohail. Amid the chaos and mounting pressure, a 39-year-old Miandad, battle-worn but resolute, stood as Pakistan’s last bastion against an Indian victory. His defiance, though valiant, could not stave off defeat. When he was eventually run out, leaving his side well short of the target, the partisan crowd erupted in derision, booing him off the field. It was a harsh farewell for a man whose illustrious career was ending on such a sombre note.

Indian historian Ramachandra Guha captured the moment poignantly: “I stood up to applaud the veteran, leaving the cricket field for the last time. ‘What are you clapping him for?’ yelled a man behind me. ‘You should clap him too. He is a truly great player and we shall never see him again.’ This was met with a curt, definitive reply: ‘Thank God I’ll never see the bastard again.’”

Miandad was the kind of cricketer who evoked extremes of emotion, especially if you were not rooting for Pakistan. He was a player you loved to hate, and he gave you ample reasons to do so. His unyielding resolve meant he would throw himself into every situation, stand between your team and victory, and unsettle opponents with his gamesmanship. Whether through bending the rules, absorbing blows and retaliating in kind, or wielding his bat like a weapon of psychological warfare, Miandad was a relentless competitor. Even while batting, he would sledge opponents, a rare and audacious tactic. His presence on the pitch was an embodiment of defiance, leaving an indelible mark on the game and its spectators, for better or worse.

The Discovery of a Diamond

The year was 1972, and Karachi was locked in a tense contest against a local club. With 18 runs required off the last three balls, the team’s cautious captain was at the crease, seemingly resigned to an inevitable defeat. Among the spectators, however, stood a precocious 14-year-old who saw opportunity where others saw despair. Gathering his courage, he approached the team manager with an audacious suggestion: call back the captain and send him in.

In an act that defied both convention and logic, the manager heeded the teenager’s request. The captain was retired out, and the boy, brimming with confidence and untapped talent, strode to the middle. What followed was nothing short of extraordinary. With three towering sixes, the youngster clinched an improbable victory, leaving an indelible mark on those who witnessed his heroics. This was Javed Miandad’s first brush with destiny.

The cricketing prodigy soon caught the attention of Abdul Hafeez Kardar, Pakistan’s first Test captain and a shrewd judge of talent. Kardar hailed Miandad as “the find of the decade,” and the young batsman quickly justified the acclaim. He made his Test debut against New Zealand in Lahore, where his innate brilliance shone through. Walking in at a precarious 55 for 4, Miandad joined forces with Asif Iqbal to orchestrate a remarkable recovery. Their 281-run partnership not only steadied the innings but also announced Miandad’s arrival on the world stage. His unbeaten 163 was a masterpiece of resilience and flair, capped off with a breezy 25 not out to seal the match—a fitting prologue to a storied career.

The third Test of the series, played in Karachi, further cemented Miandad’s place in cricketing folklore. While Majid Khan dazzled the crowd with a century before lunch on Day One, Miandad chose a more measured approach. His restraint bore historic fruit as he became the youngest player to score a Test double-century, compiling a monumental 206 at the age of 19 years and 140 days. In doing so, he eclipsed the long-standing record of George Headley, whose 223 had come at the age of 20 years and 308 days. Miandad’s exploits in the series were nothing short of remarkable—504 runs at an average of 126. A star had not merely emerged; it had blazed its way into the cricketing firmament.

Miandad’s early triumphs were a testament to his precocious talent, indomitable spirit, and unerring ability to seize the moment. His rise was not just the discovery of a diamond but the shaping of a legend.

A Relentless Competitor

Javed Miandad’s career is a testament to brilliance sustained over time, a symphony of consistency and audacity. With 8,832 runs from 124 Tests at an imposing average of 52.57, he remains Pakistan’s most prolific Test batsman. His record is unparalleled in the nation’s cricketing history: 23 centuries, six double-hundreds, and a career average that never dipped below 50—a rare feat, matched only by Herbert Sutcliffe over an extended period. Miandad achieved centuries in both his debut and 100th Test, an honour shared only with Gordon Greenidge, underscoring his penchant for delivering on the grandest stages.

In ODIs, Miandad was equally formidable, amassing 7,381 runs at 41.70 with eight centuries. He became the first player to appear in six World Cups, a milestone later equalled by Sachin Tendulkar. When he retired, Miandad was the leading run-scorer in World Cup history, with 1,083 runs at 43.32 from 33 matches. His consistency was staggering, as evidenced by his record of scoring fifties in nine consecutive ODI innings, a streak that remains unmatched.

At the domestic level, Miandad’s dominance was no less remarkable. He scored 28,863 runs at 53.37 with 80 centuries, demonstrating his mastery across formats and conditions. His versatility extended beyond batting—his leg-breaks earned him 191 wickets, including six five-wicket hauls, while his sharp fielding added 340 catches and three stumpings to his résumé. His contributions earned him the honour of being named a Wisden Cricketer of the Year in 1982.

For fans of India-Pakistan cricket, “Miandad’s six” is more than a phrase; it is a defining moment in the rivalry’s history. The 1986 Austral-Asia Cup final saw Pakistan needing 11 runs off the last over, with four required off the final ball. Facing Chetan Sharma, Miandad’s calculated genius came to the fore. Anticipating a yorker aimed at his legs, he stood well forward in the crease, leaned back, and unleashed a ferocious swing. The waist-high full-toss soared into the Sharjah night, sealing an improbable victory for Pakistan.

The aftermath of that six was seismic. Miandad later called it “the single most important achievement of my professional career,” a sentiment echoed by the accolades he received: a diamond-encrusted bracelet, a Mercedes, and a promotion at Habib Bank. Beyond material rewards, the shot became a symbol of Pakistan’s psychological ascendancy over India, a dominance that persisted until the late 1990s.

Miandad’s competitive spirit was legendary. His approach to batting was a paradoxical blend of relaxation and aggression. As Gideon Haigh observed, Miandad “sauntered to the centre like he was already 180 not out.” He laughed, chirped, and even whistled his way to centuries, infuriating opponents with his audacious confidence. Yet, beneath the jovial exterior lay a fierce competitor. While Viv Richards exuded dominance through elegance, Miandad’s style was confrontational. He wielded his bat like a weapon, cutting, driving, and reverse-sweeping with equal ferocity. His repertoire included strokes both inside and outside the MCC coaching manual, reflecting his adaptability and inventiveness.

Miandad’s performances against India and New Zealand stand as a testament to his dominance. Against India, he scored 2,228 runs at an average of 67.51, the third-highest tally against them in Test history. His record against New Zealand was even more extraordinary: 1,919 runs at 79.95, including seven centuries. At home, Miandad was imperious, averaging 61.38 with 14 centuries. However, his overseas record was more modest, particularly outside New Zealand, where his average dipped to 41.23.

His encounters with the formidable West Indies of the 1980s showcased his grit. Though his overall average against them was a modest 29.78, Miandad’s centuries in the 1987-88 series were masterpieces of resilience. At Bourda, his 114 anchored Pakistan to a crucial victory, while his 102 at Queen’s Park Oval nearly snatched another. These innings played against an attack featuring Marshall, Ambrose, and Walsh, were emblematic of his ability to rise to the occasion.

Miandad’s career was as much about his numbers as it was about his indomitable will. His chapter “Wars with India” in his autobiography encapsulates his approach to cricket—it was a battle, and he was a warrior. His psychological edge, combined with his technical brilliance, made him a colossus of his era. As the curtains fell on his career, so too did an era of Pakistani dominance, underscoring his unparalleled influence on the game. Miandad was not just a batsman; he was a phenomenon, a genius who fought, thrived, and left an indelible mark on cricket’s history.

The Little Devil From Karachi: A Portrait of Mischief and Combativeness 

Javed Miandad, the cricketing genius from Karachi, was as much a provocateur as he was a batsman of the highest class. His penchant for psychological warfare was legendary, and his antics often left opponents bemused, frustrated, or outright enraged. Dilip Doshi, the left-arm spinner who faced Miandad in 11 Tests, bore the brunt of this verbal barrage. Miandad would step out to block a ball and cheekily remark, “I should have hit that for a six!” Or, spotting Doshi in the field, he would yell, “Come on, there’s two! It’s only Doshi!” The psychological impact was evident—Doshi’s bowling average against Pakistan inflated to 38.67 compared to his overall career average of 28.25.

Even against seasoned sledgers like Ian Chappell, Miandad’s wit and audacity held sway. During Kerry Packer’s World Series Cricket, Miandad’s incessant chatter in Urdu, peppered with Chappell’s name, unnerved the Australian legend. Unable to decipher the words but sensing their intent, Chappell’s frustration boiled over, culminating in a rash dismissal. Miandad had won the battle without uttering a single abusive word, proving his ability to unsettle opponents through sheer guile. 

In his autobiography, Cutting Edge — My Autobiography, Miandad encapsulated his philosophy: “As far as I was concerned, cricket was war, and I was at war whenever I played.” For him, defeat was not just a setback but a personal affront, a source of “terrible embarrassment and shame” that left him shaken to the core. 

Gideon Haigh aptly described Miandad as “sledging, jesting, fighting, winning, and getting up people’s noses most of all.” He was a complex figure—provocative yet patriotic, abrasive yet brilliant. While opponents might curse his antics, they could not deny his greatness as a batsman and his unyielding will to win. 

On-Field Antics: Hilarity, Controversy, and the Edge of Chaos 

Miandad’s career was peppered with incidents that ranged from the hilarious to the controversial, underscoring his refusal to back down from any confrontation. One such episode unfolded in Melbourne during the 1978-79 series. After Rodney Hogg tapped the ball towards point and strolled to pat the pitch, Miandad seized the opportunity to remove the bails and appeal for a run-out. Despite Pakistan captain Mushtaq Mohammad’s protests, umpire Mick Harvey upheld the appeal. A furious Hogg kicked the stumps before storming off, while Miandad taunted him as he left the field. 

The infamous clash with Dennis Lillee during the 1981-82 WACA Test remains one of cricket’s most notorious moments. After Lillee blocked Miandad’s path during a run, tensions escalated when Lillee kicked Miandad on the knee. Miandad, incensed, raised his bat as if to strike Lillee, only to be restrained by Tony Crafter and Greg Chappell. The fallout was severe: Lillee was fined and suspended, though Miandad escaped punishment. Reflecting on the incident, Miandad remarked, “Everyone can see he is guilty,” underscoring his conviction that Lillee’s apology was insincere. 

Miandad’s wit often turned sledging into a theatre of humour. During the 1989-90 tour of Australia, Allan Border advised Merv Hughes to avoid sledging Miandad. Yet, Miandad couldn’t resist calling Hughes a “big, fat bus driver” during the Adelaide Test. Hughes dismissed him soon after and, in a moment of poetic revenge, sprinted past Miandad shouting, “Tickets, please!” It was a rare occasion when Miandad found himself outmanoeuvred in the verbal duel. 

The 1992 World Cup match against India at Sydney produced another iconic moment. Annoyed by Kiran More’s incessant appealing, Miandad finally snapped, mimicking More by jumping and yelling exaggeratedly. The spectacle stunned the crowd into silence, capturing Miandad’s ability to blend humor with his combative nature, even in high-pressure situations. 

Javed Miandad’s on-field antics were more than mere theatrics; they were an extension of his fiercely competitive spirit. Whether unsettling opponents with his words or standing firm in the face of aggression, Miandad embodied the ethos of a warrior. His actions, however polarizing, added a layer of drama to the game and cemented his reputation as one of cricket’s most unforgettable characters. For Miandad, the battle was never just about runs or wickets—it was about asserting dominance, both physically and psychologically, in the theatre of cricket.

The Rivalry Between Imran and Miandad: A Tale of Contrasts and Convergence 

The 1980s marked a transformative era for Pakistan cricket, a decade of extraordinary talent and towering personalities. Abdul Qadir revived the lost art of leg-spin, while the young duo of Wasim Akram and Waqar Younis began their ascent to fast-bowling immortality. At the heart of this golden age stood two titans: Imran Khan and Javed Miandad. Both were unparalleled in their cricketing prowess, yet their rivalry—rooted as much in personality as in performance—cast a shadow over their shared legacy. 

Their partnership on the field delivered triumphs, most notably the crowning glory of Pakistan’s cricketing history: the 1992 World Cup. Yet, beneath the veneer of camaraderie lay a simmering tension, a clash of ideologies and identities. It was not merely a contest between two greats; it was a collision of Lahore’s aristocratic sophistication and Karachi’s gritty street-smart resilience. As cricket historian Arunabha Sengupta observed, “One [Imran] oozed charisma, Oxford-chiselled sophistication, and a pride in his ability that often got interpreted as arrogance. The other [Miandad] was crafty, street-smart, with a crude penchant for getting under the skin of opponents. Both were icons, two of the greatest cricketers produced by Pakistan.” 

The Hyderabad Declaration: An Unspoken Rift 

The rivalry between Imran and Miandad often manifested in moments of discord, none more telling than the infamous Hyderabad declaration in 1982-83. Miandad, batting on a monumental 280 against a hapless Indian attack, was eyeing Garry Sobers’ record of 365 not out. Yet, without prior warning, Imran declared the innings overnight. Miandad’s shock and dismay were palpable: “Off the field at the end of the second day, there was no talk of a declaration. Imran never brought it up overnight and gave me no specific instructions. I took this to mean I was being given a chance to go for all possible records. How wrong I was!” 

For Miandad, the decision was more than a tactical call; it was a personal slight, emblematic of Imran’s high-handed approach. Yet, Imran, known for his strategic mind and singular focus on team success, likely saw the declaration as a necessary move to press for victory. This episode encapsulated the tension between Miandad’s individual brilliance and Imran’s overarching vision for the team. 

Leadership Clashes and Dressing Room Politics 

Miandad’s tenure as captain, though impressive, was cut short by a players’ rebellion, with Imran often cited as the instigator. The friction between the two extended beyond the field, fueled by contrasting leadership styles and off-field dynamics. Miandad accused Imran of orchestrating his removal as captain in 1993, a claim that reflected the deep-seated mistrust between them. 

Imran’s objections to Miandad’s leadership were seldom articulated publicly but hinted at underlying issues. As Sengupta noted, these objections revolved around Miandad’s “scheming mind, regular face-offs with one and all, and his political games in the dressing room.” Despite these tensions, Miandad’s decision to step down when Imran returned from retirement in 1988 revealed a grudging acknowledgement of his counterpart’s stature. 

Mutual Respect Amidst Rivalry 

Despite their differences, Imran and Miandad shared a profound respect for each other’s cricketing acumen. On the field, they were a formidable pair, their synergy often eclipsing their off-field discord. This dynamic was evident during the 1992 World Cup, where Miandad’s role as Imran’s trusted confidant was underscored in moments of crisis. After a rain-affected loss to South Africa, Imran’s fury was palpable, his bat flung across the dressing room. Yet, when photojournalist Iqbal Munir attempted to capture the scene, an alarmed Wasim Akram intervened: “Where do you think you’re going? The only person who can approach Imran right now is Javed.” 

The culmination of their partnership came in the final of the 1992 World Cup. In a symbolic reversal of their roles from the 1987 semifinal, where Miandad had top-scored, it was Imran who led with a captain’s knock of 72, supported by Miandad’s composed 58. Together, they added 139 runs for the third wicket, laying the foundation for Pakistan’s only World Cup triumph. 

A Legacy of Duality 

The Imran-Miandad rivalry was a study in contrasts, a narrative of two men driven by different motivations yet united by their shared pursuit of victory for Pakistan. Their clashes were as much about ideology as they were about cricket, reflecting the complex interplay of class, culture, and ambition. Yet, their on-field partnership remains a testament to their ability to rise above personal differences for the greater good. 

In the end, Imran and Miandad were not merely rivals; they were two halves of a whole, their combined legacy etched indelibly in the annals of Pakistan cricket.

The Captain: A Paradox of Leadership 

How does one reconcile the legacy of a captain who never retained his position for more than two years at a stretch, faced two players’ rebellions, and struggled with man-management? The answer lies in the paradox that was Javed Miandad. 

Miandad’s captaincy record, at first glance, appears respectable: 34 Tests, 14 victories, and only 6 losses. These numbers alone place him among the more successful captains of his era. Yet, his tenure was marked by turbulence, a reflection of his sharp cricketing mind juxtaposed against his inability to navigate the complexities of human relationships. 

A Brilliant Tactician, A Flawed Manager 

Few could rival Miandad’s cricketing intellect. He possessed an uncanny ability to read the game, anticipate strategies, and adapt to shifting dynamics. As a tactician, he was as astute as any in the history of the sport. However, leadership extends beyond strategy, and here Miandad faltered. His abrasive personality, coupled with his penchant for incessant sledging and provocative chatter, often alienated teammates and embroiled the team in unnecessary controversies. 

Despite his shortcomings as a manager of men, Miandad’s tactical brilliance earned him the reputation of being the ideal vice-captain. His willingness to step back into a supporting role whenever Imran Khan returned to lead highlighted his pragmatism and team-first mentality. Together, Imran and Miandad formed one of cricket’s most formidable think tanks. 

The Imran-Miandad Synergy 

The Imran-Miandad partnership was a study in contrasts yet yielded extraordinary results. Imran’s composed charisma and leadership complemented Miandad’s fiery intellect and combative spirit. This synergy transformed Pakistan into a cricketing powerhouse in the late 1980s, culminating in their crowning achievement: the 1992 World Cup. 

Former Australian captain Ian Chappell and renowned Pakistani commentator Chisti Mujahid hailed the duo as one of the most effective strategic combinations in cricket history. Their collaboration was not merely a meeting of minds but a fusion of contrasting ideologies that propelled Pakistan to unprecedented heights. 

A Masterstroke in England 

One of the most celebrated moments of this partnership came during Pakistan’s 1987 tour of England. Leading the series 1-0, Pakistan found themselves on the brink of losing the fifth Test, with England needing just 118 runs in 20 overs. Sensing the gravity of the situation, Imran and Miandad devised an unorthodox strategy to stem the flow of runs. 

Miandad took charge of marshalling the fielders on the off-side, while Imran, bowling tirelessly, orchestrated the on-side. The unusual tactic bewildered the English batsmen and caught the attention of legendary commentator Richie Benaud, who lauded the ingenuity of their approach. The plan worked, the match was saved, and Pakistan secured their first-ever series victory in England. 

Miandad’s captaincy remains a tale of contradictions: a brilliant tactician hindered by his interpersonal flaws, a natural leader who often found himself more effective as a deputy. Yet, his contributions to Pakistan cricket, both as a captain and as Imran’s trusted lieutenant, are undeniable. 

In the end, Miandad’s leadership was not defined by longevity or harmony but by his relentless pursuit of victory and his unparalleled cricketing acumen. His legacy as a captain, much like his career, is a testament to the complexity of greatness. 

A Legacy Beyond Talent

Despite the illustrious lineage of Pakistani batsmanship—embodied by legends such as Hanif Mohammad, Zaheer Abbas, Inzamam-ul-Haq, and Younis Khan—Javed Miandad stands peerless, a colossus whose influence transcended mere statistics. His genius not only redefined batting in Pakistan but also shaped the ethos of the nation’s cricketing identity. 

Miandad’s presence in the dressing room was transformative, his influence extending far beyond his own performances. Inzamam-ul-Haq, for instance, often credited Miandad’s guidance for honing his temperament under pressure, while Younis Khan inherited the tenacity and hunger for runs that Miandad exemplified. Miandad’s relentless drive and unyielding spirit became a template for subsequent generations, leaving an indelible mark on Pakistan’s cricketing psyche. 

Pakistan has always been a cradle of raw talent, producing cricketers of dazzling potential. Yet, many have flickered briefly before fading into obscurity, unable to endure the relentless demands of international cricket. Miandad, however, was an exception—a player who not only endured but thrived, standing as a beacon of consistency and resilience. His career was a testament to both his extraordinary skill and his unshakeable pride in his abilities and his nation. 

While the cricketing world has witnessed batsmen with more aesthetic grace or statistical dominance, few have embodied the spirit of their country as Miandad did. He was not just a batsman but a warrior, unafraid to confront the strongest of oppositions, both with his bat and his indomitable attitude. 

Miandad’s contributions elevated Pakistan cricket, firmly placing it on the global map. His legacy is not merely that of a great batsman but of a symbol of defiance, pride, and unyielding resolve. His career was a narrative of triumphs against odds, a saga of a man who gave as good as he got, never backing down from a challenge. 

No, there will not be another Miandad. His greatness was not just in the runs he scored but in the way he scored them—undaunted, uncompromising, and unapologetically proud. His legacy endures, not just in the record books but in the very fabric of Pakistan cricket, where his spirit continues to inspire.

Thank You

Faisal Caesar