The Faisalabad Test: A Battle Without a Winner

 A Test match can sometimes resemble a long novel: a slow burn punctuated by sudden violence, characters shaping and reshaping their own destinies across five days. Faisalabad 2005 was one such story—richly textured, chaotic in its detail, yet ultimately unresolved. At its center stood Inzamam-ul-Haq, serene in a storm of controversy, conjuring twin centuries that carried the aura of an elegy for a victory Pakistan could not quite engineer.

England survived at 164 for 6, and the series rolled on to Lahore. But the match, which could so easily have become a Pakistani epic, closed instead on the quiet note of what-might-have-been.

The Final Day: Pakistan’s Breathless Charge and Inzamam’s Defiance

By the last morning, the Test still sat precariously on its fulcrum. Pakistan’s innings had wobbled early, wickets falling around Inzamam like leaves shaken from a branch. Resuming on 41 with only the tail for company, Inzamam responded not with desperation but with craft.

He did something quietly subversive: he inverted tail-end tradition.

Instead of farming the strike, he often handed it to Shoaib Akhtar—Pakistan’s new “Matthew Hoggard” with the bat, maddeningly immovable, expertly wasteful. Shoaib consumed 49 balls for seven runs, while Inzamam scored 59 of the 85 they added in 27 overs. He took singles early in overs, slowed the rhythm of the game, and removed defeat from the table. And when he needed the flourish, he produced it—lofting Harmison into the Faisalabad haze to complete his second century of the match and surpass Javed Miandad’s national record of 23 Test hundreds.

When he declared Pakistan 284 ahead, he had done everything to save the match—and just enough, perhaps, to win it.

For the next hour, it seemed he had lit the fuse.

The Fast-Bowling Storm: Shoaib and Rana’s Hour of Fury

If Inzamam’s oeuvre across the match was an act of stately domination, Shoaib Akhtar and Rana Naved-ul-Hasan provided its violent counterpoint.

After lunch, in a spell that felt ripped from the pages of Pakistan’s fast-bowling folklore, the pair shredded England’s top order:

Trescothick bowled shouldering arms.

Strauss undone by a ball that kept low.

Bell flashing ambitiously to Akmal.

Vaughan trapped by Naved, one of the few straightforward umpiring calls in a match littered with controversy.

England, staggering at 20 for 4, were staring at Multan 2.0.

For twenty-five minutes, Faisalabad breathed fire. Every appeal carried the weight of a series. Every dot ball seemed a step closer to Pakistan’s first home Test series win in years. Had there been another hour of daylight—had the 55 overs lost to bad light been available—Pakistan might have seized their moment.

 

But England’s lower middle order, with Flintoff’s uncharacteristically sober fifty at its core, held fast. The pitch—benign to the point of parody for a fifth day—refused to deteriorate. And as the light dimmed again, salvation arrived for England in the form of the umpires’ raised arms.

Pakistan had done almost everything right. Almost.

Inzamam’s First Act: High Craft, Higher Drama

The seeds of frustration were planted much earlier. On the first two days, Inzamam’s batting carried both inevitability and improvisation. His first hundred mixed classical cuts with muscular straight hits, including a majestic six off Harmison. Yet it was also shaded by chance—a few leg-before shouts the previous evening, a dropped catch by Strauss on 79.

Around him, the match danced with theatre:

Shahid Afridi’s entrance triggered carnival energy, the crowd roaring as he launched Udal onto roofs and stands in a blaze of 67-ball brilliance.

His follow-up assault—a 92 off 85 balls—turned the second morning into spectacle before he perished to slip.

 Inzamam’s run-out, awarded after agonizing deliberation, ignited a debate still remembered: under Law 38.2, moving to avoid injury should have protected him.

Then came the surreal interruption: a gas cylinder explosion near the boundary, raising fears of something darker before being diffused. During the confusion, Afridi, never one to avoid mischief, attempted to scuff up the pitch—caught on camera, earning a ban.

The match swung like a pendulum, its narrative always one incident away from combusting entirely.

 

England’s Resistance: A Day of Drift, a Night of Revival

Day three felt like a comedown after Afridi’s theatrics. Pietersen and Bell, dropped repeatedly, stitched together 154 with contrasting styles: Pietersen flamboyant, Bell monastic. But as the match lulled into torpor, Shoaib revived it with a ferocious post-tea spell—breaking Flintoff’s bat and then his stumps with a 91mph thunderbolt.

England finished only 16 behind Pakistan’s first-innings total thanks to a comedy-laced last-wicket stand, Harmison reverse-sweeping Kaneria and Udal clubbing Shoaib into submission. Pakistan, for all their command, could not quite prise the door open.

The fourth morning revealed the first real fissures in Pakistan’s approach:

Malik and Salman Butt crawled to 50 in 18 overs. The tension of leading a series—an unfamiliar landscape for Pakistan—paralyzed them. Butt’s contentious dismissal, following Darrell Hair’s dead-ball call, further soured tempers.

Indecision had replaced intent.

Where Pakistan Lost Their Win

The match’s analytical heart lies here: Pakistan had control, yet control did not translate into victory.

Two moments defined the missed opportunity:

The First-Innings Fielding Lapse

Pakistan dropped multiple catches—simple and difficult—that would have buried England far earlier. The pressure of leading the series, as Inzamam later admitted, crept into their hands.

The Slow Crawl on Day Four

With a lead to build and overs disappearing to bad light, Pakistan drifted. Safety first, then ambition—it proved a fatal ordering. By the time they attempted to accelerate, the light had begun its predictable retreat.

The match was Pakistan’s to decide—not the pitch’s, not England’s. They dictated its tempo, its mood, its narrative. And yet, at the decisive moment, they stepped gingerly when they needed to stride.

Inzamam’s Reflections: Triumph Without Victory

In the aftermath, Inzamam radiated serene pride. His twin centuries had elevated him into a new pantheon: only the fifth Pakistani to score hundreds in both innings of a Test, and now, statistically, Pakistan’s greatest century-maker.

He spoke modestly of Miandad:

“I would not like to say I broke his record; I learned from him. He contributed to each of my 24 hundreds.”

He praised Shoaib’s menace, Rana’s craft, his team’s spirit. And yet, between the lines, there was the quiet ache of a captain who knew the moment had been there to claim.

“At 20 for 4, we had a chance. But the pitch was still good, and their middle order played very well.”

Pakistan could no longer lose the series, but they had failed to win it here. The Lahore Test remained, but the glorious opportunity for a decisive home triumph had slipped away.

Legacy of the Faisalabad Test: A Moral Victory, an Unfinished Epic

In cricket’s vast archive, Faisalabad 2005 sits as a match of high incident and higher symbolism:

A contest shaped by fast bowling of vintage Pakistani fire.

A captain’s personal odyssey, rendered in twin hundreds of contrasting mood.

A Test whose atmosphere, controversy, and drama evoked the famous Gatting–Shakoor Rana confrontation on the same ground two decades earlier.

It was a match Pakistan controlled but could not conquer.

A moral victory – Yes!

A cricketing masterpiece, certainly.

A victory denied—painfully, inevitably—by light, hesitation, and the faint tremor of nerves that comes when a team unused to leading suddenly sees the summit within reach.

Thank You

Faisal Caesar

A Test of Nerves: England’s Collapse and Pakistan’s Grit

Cricket has a way of exposing not just talent, but temperament. It does not simply reward dominance; it tests resilience, punishes lapses, and, at times, delivers verdicts that defy logic. In Multan, under a sky heavy with expectation, England—a team that had conquered the mighty Australians—found themselves unravelling in a Test match they had controlled for four days. 

Victory had seemed inevitable. And yet, as the dust settled on the final afternoon, it was Pakistan, the side so often labelled as mercurial, that stood victorious by 22 runs. The vanquished, stunned and disbelieving, could only ponder how a match seemingly in their grasp had slipped through their fingers. 

A Collapse That Defied Explanation

The morning of the final day dawned with England needing 198 to win—an achievable target on a surface that had offered little demons. At 64 for one, they were well on their way. But then, in a passage of play that will be etched in memory as one of England’s most inexplicable implosions, they lost five wickets in the space of ten overs. 

Suddenly, 101 for six loomed on the scoreboard. The once assured pursuit had turned into a desperate salvage operation. This was not a case of unplayable deliveries or a deteriorating pitch conspiring against them. It was something far simpler: lapses in judgment, reckless aggression where patience was required, and a collective loss of nerve. 

So often in the previous year, England had wrung out victories from tight situations. This time, the vice had tightened around them. 

Trescothick’s Burden and England’s Early Promise

With Michael Vaughan absent due to a knee injury, Marcus Trescothick was entrusted with leading England. His captaincy had been questioned before the match, but any doubts were swiftly silenced by his actions with the bat. In a performance of sheer dominance, he crafted a magnificent 193—an innings so commanding that it towered over every other contribution in the match. 

Yet, unknown to most at the time, Trescothick was carrying a private anguish. His father-in-law lay critically injured in a Bristol hospital after a severe accident. The weight of that crisis, coupled with the demands of leading his country, made his innings all the more remarkable. 

His 305-ball vigil, laced with 20 fours and two soaring sixes off Danish Kaneria, was a masterclass in control. When he was finally dismissed just after lunch on the third day, England had a lead of 144—substantial, yet not insurmountable. The score could have been far greater; they had been 251 for two before squandering opportunities in a way that would prove costly. 

Pakistan’s fielding—rusty from a lack of Test cricket since June—had gifted them 22 no-balls and several lapses. But there were no such allowances when Pakistan came out to bat again. 

Pakistan’s Fightback: The Captain’s Composure and a Turning Point

Pakistan’s second innings was a study in contrast. While England’s discipline in the field remained intact, Salman Butt and Inzamam-ul-Haq, two batsmen of different generations, set about ensuring Pakistan clawed back into the contest. 

Butt’s batting was built on self-awareness. He understood his strengths, played within his limits, and worked the gaps with quiet precision. At the other end, Inzamam, ever the enigma, cut an unmistakable figure. Even in the rising heat, he refused to take the field without his signature sleeveless sweater—a curious contradiction for a man whose strokeplay was all silk and ease. 

And then, with the game hanging in delicate balance, the second new ball changed everything. 

Hoggard, England’s tireless workhorse, sent down his second delivery with the fresh cherry and found Inzamam’s pad in front of the stumps. The Pakistan captain, so often their rock in troubled waters, was gone. Panic set in. 

Flintoff, sensing blood, pounced. He removed two more in rapid succession. Harmison, inconsistent but always a threat, claimed the final two. Pakistan had been blown away in a flurry of wickets, their innings folding at 341. 

The target for England? 198. 

A Chase That Became a Nightmare

On a Multan pitch that still bore no treachery, England’s path to victory seemed straightforward. Even after losing Trescothick late on the fourth evening, they resumed the final morning in a position of strength at 64 for one. 

And then, the recklessness began. 

Ian Bell, patient in the first innings, threw away his wicket in a misguided attempt to dominate Kaneria. He was the first of three wickets to fall in the space of eight balls. 

The collapse sent ripples of anxiety through the England camp, but they still had their power hitters in Flintoff and Pietersen. Surely, one of them would stand up? 

Flintoff’s response was cavalier—too much so. In a moment of impetuous abandon, he launched into a wild heave that found the hands of deep midwicket. It was not the shot of a man trying to win a Test match, but of one caught between instinct and responsibility. 

Pietersen, England’s talisman throughout the Ashes, flailed at a delivery he had no business chasing. The edge was inevitable. The English dressing room, which had exuded confidence hours earlier, was now a study in disbelief. 

The last semblance of hope came in the form of Geraint Jones. He fought valiantly, bringing England within 32 runs of victory before Shoaib Akhtar—a rejuvenated force in the second innings—produced a devastating delivery that crashed into his stumps via bat and pad. 

Ten balls later, it was over. 

A Lesson in Test Cricket’s Cruelty

As Pakistan celebrated, England were left to reflect on a bitter truth—one bad hour can undo four days of dominance. 

For Pakistan, this was a victory carved from resilience and opportunism. They had not been the superior side for the majority of the match, but they had seized the decisive moments. Inzamam, ever the reluctant warrior, had marshalled his team with quiet authority. Kaneria had learned from his first innings and struck when it mattered. Shoaib Akhtar had risen to the occasion in his second spell. 

For England, it was a humbling reminder that even the most well-drilled unit can succumb to pressure. They had carried the aura of Ashes conquerors into this series, but in Multan, they encountered a team that refused to bow. 

The defeat stung all the more because of its suddenness. There was no slow disintegration, no drawn-out battle of attrition—just an hour of madness that turned an expected victory into a painful lesson. 

As they walked off, England’s players wore the look of a team that knew they had let something slip. Pakistan, so often cast as the unpredictable ones, had instead been the side that held their nerve. 

In the end, it was a reminder of why Test cricket remains the purest form of the game. It does not simply reward skill—it rewards composure. And in Multan, it was Pakistan who had more of it when it mattered most.

 Thank You

Faisal Caesar