Shahid Afridi’s 37-Ball Mayhem: A Knock That Redefined Power-Hitting

Nairobi, Kenya – October 4, 1996.

The KCA Centenary Tournament had reached a decisive stage. Four teams—Pakistan, Sri Lanka, South Africa, and hosts Kenya—were battling for supremacy. South Africa had already secured a spot in the final. That left one slot, to be decided by a high-stakes clash between Pakistan and Sri Lanka.

For Sri Lanka, the equation was slightly in their favor. Even if they lost, as long as the margin wasn’t too heavy, they could qualify on net run rate. Pakistan, however, had no such cushion—they had to win, and win convincingly.

What unfolded that day would not just decide a finalist, but also alter the trajectory of modern batting forever.

A Stage Set for Brilliance

Cricket, like history, is often shaped by moments of genius—those flashes of brilliance that transcend the ordinary and etch themselves permanently into memory. Some innings are built brick by brick, crafted with patience and precision. Others arrive like a thunderstorm—explosive, audacious, and revolutionary.

In Nairobi, Pakistan unleashed such a storm. The man at the center of it was just 16 years old, relatively unknown, and playing only his second ODI. His name: Shahid Afridi.

Opening the batting, Afridi walked out with an air of fearless freedom. What followed was nothing short of carnage. In just 37 balls, he raced to a century—the fastest ever at the time. Boundaries rained, bowlers wilted, and spectators gasped as cricket’s traditional rhythm was torn apart

This wasn’t merely an innings; it was a declaration. Afridi wasn’t going to play by the old rules. He was going to rewrite them.

The Arrival of a Phenomenon

Shahid Afridi was a name barely known to the cricketing world before this match. At just 16 years and 217 days, he had made his debut in Pakistan’s previous fixture against Kenya. He didn’t get to bat but showcased his bowling skills with an economical 10-over spell. Even his inclusion in the squad had raised eyebrows—he was, after all, primarily considered a leg-spinner at the time. No one anticipated that within 24 hours, he would become a global sensation.

When Pakistan faced Sri Lanka, their batting order saw an interesting change. Instead of sticking to a traditional buildup, the team management made a bold decision: Afridi, who had yet to play an international innings, was promoted to No. 3 to inject aggression into the innings. When he walked to the crease, Pakistan were 60 for 1 in 10.1 overs. What followed was not just a counterattack—it was an obliteration.

A Statement of Intent: The Dharmasena Assault

The early exchanges set the tone. With just his second delivery, Afridi launched off-spinner Kumar Dharmasena over midwicket for six, sending an instant message to the Sri Lankan camp: he wasn’t here to consolidate; he was here to dominate. That was just the beginning. In Dharmasena’s next over, Afridi cleared the ropes twice more, stamping his authority on the game.

Sri Lanka, initially in a position of control after dismissing Saleem Elahi, now looked bewildered. The shift in momentum was palpable—their bowlers, who had arrived with confidence, were suddenly scrambling for ideas. The scoreboard, which had read 94 for 1 in 13 overs, was now ticking at an alarming pace.

Jayasuriya vs. Afridi: The Over That Changed Everything

Sanath Jayasuriya was, at that time, considered the most dangerous limited-overs batsman in the world. He had revolutionized ODI cricket with his fearless approach at the top of the order. Ironically, on this day, he was about to be humiliated in the very manner he had made famous.

With Afridi already in full flow, Jayasuriya was brought into the attack, presumably to restore some control. Instead, he found himself at the mercy of a teenager who played as though he had no concept of pressure.

The first ball of the 14th over disappeared straight down the ground for six. The second followed suit. The third ball produced two runs, offering a brief respite, but the next three deliveries reignited the onslaught. A full toss on leg stump was summarily dismissed over the fence. Then, another six. A boundary followed.

By the time the over ended, Afridi had plundered 28 runs, setting a new record. He reached his half-century in just 18 balls, narrowly missing Jayasuriya’s record of 17. The poetic justice was undeniable: Jayasuriya, the pioneer of modern power-hitting, had just been upstaged by a teenager with a broader stroke range and even less regard for convention.

The Fastest Hundred in ODI History

At this point, Sri Lanka were already shell-shocked, but Afridi was far from done. Over the next five overs, he continued his ruthless assault, treating world-class bowlers with utter disdain. Even Muttiah Muralitharan, the wily off-spinner who would go on to become the highest wicket-taker in Test cricket, could do nothing to stop the rampage.

Afridi’s innings was a paradox—brutal yet beautiful, chaotic yet precise. Every shot was executed with an uncoachable instinct, an ability to pick the right ball and dispatch it without hesitation.

On 98 not out, the moment of destiny arrived. Facing Muralitharan, Afridi played an effortless sweep that raced to the fine-leg boundary. In just 37 balls, he had reached a century—a record that would remain untouched for nearly two decades. The Nairobi crowd, mostly unaware of the magnitude of what they had just witnessed, erupted in celebration.

Pakistan’s innings eventually concluded at a staggering 371 for 9, with Saeed Anwar also contributing a magnificent century. Yet, despite Anwar’s brilliance, the game belonged entirely to Afridi. His knock of 102 off 40 balls included eleven sixes, equaling another record set by Jayasuriya.

Sri Lanka’s Doomed but Brave Chase

For Sri Lanka, the match was not entirely lost. They had one final lifeline: if they could reach 290, they would still qualify for the final on net run rate. But their hopes were crushed almost instantly as Waqar Younis delivered a devastating opening spell, reducing them to 27 for 4.

Yet, amidst the ruins, Aravinda de Silva stood tall. He crafted a counterattacking 122 off 116 balls, stitching crucial partnerships with Ranatunga and Dharmasena. Slowly, Sri Lanka clawed their way back into contention.

As the final over arrived, they needed 11 runs to qualify. The tension was suffocating. Facing Waqar Younis, Chaminda Vaas swung with desperate optimism. The first ball soared over the ropes for six. The next delivery was slashed for four. With one run needed for qualification, the dream was within touching distance.

But fate had chosen its script. Waqar Younis, Pakistan’s death-bowling maestro, delivered a searing yorker that shattered Vaas’s stumps. Pakistan had won not just the match but a place in the final.

A Knock That Transcended Eras

Afridi’s 102 off 40 balls was not just a record-breaking innings—it was a seismic shift in cricketing perception. Before this knock, explosive batting was a luxury, a weapon used sparingly. After Afridi, it became a necessity.

This innings propelled Afridi into superstardom, shaping the trajectory of his career. He would go on to play for decades, earning a reputation as one of the most mercurial and entertaining cricketers of all time. There were inconsistencies, controversies, and moments of sheer madness, but through it all, one truth remained: Afridi’s 37-ball century in Nairobi was his magnum opus.

Cricket would never be the same again.

Thank You 

Faisal Caesar 

Pakistan’s Triumph in Sharjah against South Africa Final, 2000: A Comprehensive Analysis of Batting and Bowling Mastery

In the world of cricket, the phrase "when it rains, it pours" often rings true, and for Pakistan in the Sharjah Tri-nation Tournament 2000, this could not have been more accurate. After a series of frustrating performances, Pakistan found themselves in a winning frame of mind, with both bat and ball clicking seamlessly. Their remarkable performance in the final against South Africa was a testament to their clinical execution in all departments. With a blend of explosive batting, strategic middle-order consolidations, and disciplined bowling, Pakistan sealed a well-earned victory by 16 runs.

Afridi’s Explosive Start: Setting the Tone

Shahid Afridi’s presence at the crease in any match is often a signal for the fans to expect fireworks. Known for his attacking style and ruthless hitting, Afridi embraced the batting conditions offered by the final with characteristic flair. The pitch, a flat, lifeless surface that offered no lateral movement, was perfect for a batter like Afridi, whose approach revolves around taking on bowlers with unrelenting aggression.

Afridi's innings was a masterclass in controlled aggression, as he blasted his way to 52 runs off just 46 balls. His half-century, brought up with a flick past mid-wicket, was a clear indicator of his dominance on the day. Each shot struck with power and precision, racing through the off-side and past the fielders. He appeared unstoppable, and Pakistan's total was taking shape quickly, much to the frustration of the South African bowlers.

However, Afridi's stay at the crease was cut short when he attempted an ambitious shot against Lance Klusener, looking to clear the boundary with a lofty drive. But the delivery didn’t come off the bat as intended, and the ball ballooned into the air. Jacques Kallis, a man of exceptional athleticism, sprinted back and, in an acrobatic display, completed what was easily the best catch of the tournament. Afridi's departure at 52, although disappointing, had already set a blazing tempo for Pakistan.

Imran Nazir and the Middle-Order Consolidation

Despite losing Afridi early, Imran Nazir continued to lead the charge for Pakistan. A composed and technically sound knock of 69 runs by Nazir provided Pakistan with the ideal foundation. His aggressive strokeplay, paired with good running between the wickets, put pressure on South Africa’s bowlers. Nazir's style was more measured than Afridi's, but no less effective.

However, his dismissal was a moment of frustration for the Pakistanis. A clever piece of bowling from Crookes, an off-spinner, saw Nazir venture down the wicket too early. Crookes, reading his movement, directed the ball down the leg side, and Mark Boucher, the South African wicketkeeper, was swift to dislodge the stumps. Nazir's departure, although unfortunate, had set the stage for Pakistan’s more measured middle-order to take charge.

Inzamam and Youhana: The Calm in the Storm

Following Nazir’s dismissal, the onus fell on two of Pakistan's most reliable batters: Inzamam-ul-Haq and Mohammad Yousuf (then Youhana). The pair consolidated the innings with a blend of maturity and calculated aggression. Their partnership was crucial in guiding Pakistan to a strong total, as they focused on rotating the strike and ensuring that the scoreboard kept ticking over.

Inzamam, known for his calm demeanour and ability to read situations, played the anchor role. His approach was one of controlled restraint, pushing the ball into gaps and picking off singles, with an occasional boundary to keep the pressure off. As the innings progressed, he steadily reached his half-century, never over-committing to risky shots.

On the other hand, Yousuf provided the necessary spark, playing the role of the aggressor. His ability to strike the ball cleanly and pick boundaries at critical moments ensured that Pakistan’s innings maintained momentum. One memorable moment saw Nantie Hayward, the South African pacer, dodge a fierce straight drive from Inzamam—a shot that was so powerful it forced Hayward to dive out of the way to avoid being struck.

However, Inzamam’s attempt to accelerate the innings led to his downfall. Seeking to break the shackles, he was clean bowled by Shaun Pollock, ending his steady knock at 50. Despite this, his contribution had been vital in stabilizing the innings.

Late Cameos from Razzaq and Akram: The Final Flourish

As Pakistan’s middle-order consolidated, the late overs became a critical phase for the team. Abdul Razzaq and Wasim Akram, both known for their aggressive batting, added the finishing touches to Pakistan's total. Razzaq, with his powerful hitting, and Wasim Akram, with his renowned prowess in the death overs, made sure that Pakistan’s score crossed 260. Their ability to find boundaries in the final overs ensured that Pakistan reached 263 for 6 after 50 overs, a total that would prove difficult for South Africa to chase.

Lance Klusener, with figures of 2/27 from 10 overs, was the standout bowler for South Africa, but even his efforts could not prevent Pakistan from finishing strongly. Pakistan’s innings, marked by Afridi’s blistering start and the steady contributions from Nazir, Inzamam, Yousuf, and the late-order, was a well-executed display of balance between aggression and control.

Pakistan’s Bowlers: Akram, Younis, and the Masterful Waqar Younis

Chasing a target of 264, South Africa faced an uphill task from the outset. Pakistan’s bowlers, led by Wasim Akram, immediately applied pressure. Akram, who was known for his ability to swing the ball both ways, used all the variations in his bowling armoury to trouble the South African batsmen. His first breakthrough came when Herschelle Gibbs, who had been in solid form, edged a delivery to Inzamam at the slips.

Gibbs’s departure, a loose shot that could have been avoided, set the tone for what was to come. The wickets continued to tumble as Pakistan's bowlers applied relentless pressure. The next to fall was the dangerous Jacques Kallis. Mohammad Akram, in his first over, managed to get the ball to rise off the pitch more than Kallis anticipated. A well-directed delivery found Kallis late on the shot, and he was caught behind by Moin Khan, leaving South Africa in a precarious position at 37 for 2.

The early breakthroughs forced South Africa into a period of consolidation, with captain Hansie Cronje and debutant Neil McKenzie finding themselves tasked with rebuilding the innings. The two played with caution, carefully rotating the strike and taking occasional singles and twos. Cronje, in particular, played a captain’s knock, moving to 79 off 73 balls. However, when he attempted to accelerate, his dismissal to an off-break from Arshad Khan was a turning point. Having just hit a six, Cronje attempted to repeat the stroke, but the ball stopped on him, and he was caught by Younis Khan at mid-wicket.

McKenzie, who had struggled to build any rhythm, was also dismissed in a crucial moment. A misjudged arm ball from Arshad Khan saw him offer a simple catch to Mohammad Akram at short cover, his 58 runs coming from a laborious 107 balls. South Africa, having lost key wickets, now faced a monumental task.

Waqar Younis: Destroying South Africa’s Hopes

With South Africa's hopes of chasing down the target hanging by a thread, it was Waqar Younis who dealt the final blows. Waqar, who had been exceptional throughout the match, returned to clean up South Africa’s lower order. His first scalp was Nicky Boje, who was caught behind by Moin Khan off a delivery that moved away sharply. Then, with South Africa's last hope, Klusener, at the crease, Waqar delivered the final nail in the coffin. With a delivery that came in sharply from around the wicket, Waqar clean bowled Klusener!

Despite a valiant effort from Boucher, who played a gritty knock, South Africa's chances of victory evaporated as the wickets continued to fall. Boucher, who had played an impressive innings, found ways to manufacture boundaries with intelligent shot selection. Still, Waqar’s return to the attack spelt the end of the contest when he bowled him out with a perfectly executed yorker.

In the final stages, Razzaq cleaned up the tail with a well-directed yorker to Nantie Hayward, and Pakistan sealed the win by 16 runs.

Conclusion: A Well-Rounded and Cohesive Performance

Pakistan’s victory in the Coca-Cola Cup 2000 was a culmination of several factors: Afridi’s explosive start, the steadying presence of Inzamam and Yousuf, the late flourish from Razzaq and Akram, and a disciplined bowling display led by the legendary Wasim Akram and the match-winning spell from Waqar Younis. The win was a testament to the team's resilience and cohesion, and the performance demonstrated the importance of balance in all facets of the game.

This victory was a complete team effort, a clinical display of the art of cricket, and a cherished memory for Pakistani cricket fans.

Thank You

Faisal Caesar 

Clash of the Titans: India vs. Pakistan, Chennai 1999 - Pakistan Script Dramatic Victory, Tendulkar's Heroics Fail

Three weeks before the highly anticipated cricket series was set to commence, an act of calculated sabotage unfolded at Delhi’s historic Ferozeshah Kotla Stadium. Approximately 25 supporters of the Shiv Sena, a right-wing political party wielding significant influence in Maharashtra, desecrated the pitch, effectively rendering it unplayable. This stadium, originally designated as the venue for the first Test, became a symbol of the fraught intersection between sport and politics. 

Barely a fortnight later, another incendiary incident shook Indian cricket. Vandals infiltrated the BCCI headquarters in Mumbai, wreaking havoc on property that included the nation’s cherished 1983 World Cup trophy. The desecration of this emblem of national pride evoked widespread anguish. "I cried all night," lamented Kirti Azad, a member of that victorious squad, his words underscoring the emotional toll of such an affront. The fallout prompted officials to reshuffle the venues for the first and second Tests, a logistical decision emblematic of the precariousness of the situation. 

Meanwhile, Shiv Sena leader Bal Thackeray, unrepentant and resolute, boasted of dispatching party operatives to Chennai to assess the security arrangements for the series. His rhetoric escalated ominously, with threats of deploying suicide squads and even releasing venomous snakes onto the field, a chilling metaphor for the venom coursing through the veins of political dissent. 

The tension reached a grim crescendo on January 24, just four days before the match. The Times of India in Chennai reported the tragic death of Palani, a 40-year-old autorickshaw driver who had self-immolated in protest against Pakistan’s participation in the series. His sacrifice, though extreme, laid bare the raw, visceral emotions the series had provoked among certain sections of the populace. 

As the match approached, the atmosphere in Chennai was suffused with unease. Journalists found themselves barred from entering the stadium until late on the eve of the game, a restriction emblematic of the heightened security apparatus. Photographers operated under strict surveillance, and parking zones around the stadium were subject to unprecedented scrutiny. “For the first time, every car parked in the stadium required a pass bearing the police commissioner’s seal,” recalled Keshav Sriraman, a member of the Tamil Nadu Cricket Association’s executive committee. Police officers stood vigil over the pitch, their unyielding presence a stark reminder of the fragile line between celebration and chaos. 

The Contest at Chennai Begins

The opening day of the Test saw Pakistan electing to bat, but their innings began on a precarious note, teetering at 91 for five. Amid the ruins, Yousuf Youhana and Moin Khan staged a gritty counterattack, each crafting resilient half-centuries that steadied the innings. Wasim Akram added a defiant 38, his strokes marked by characteristic audacity, before Anil Kumble, in a masterful display of precision and guile, dismantled the tail to claim figures of six for 70. 

India’s reply was buoyed by the debutant Sadagoppan Ramesh, who, alongside VVS Laxman, stitched together a brisk opening stand of 48 on his home ground. However, Wasim Akram, ever the wily campaigner, struck twice in quick succession after the evening's break, dismissing both openers and tilting the balance. Saqlain Mushtaq then began weaving his web, enticing Tendulkar into an uncharacteristic misjudgment. Charging down the track, Tendulkar mis-hit a looping delivery to backward point for a third-ball duck, an anticlimactic dismissal that underscored Saqlain’s mastery. 

Despite these setbacks, Rahul Dravid and Sourav Ganguly anchored India’s innings with poise, guiding their team to a slender 16-run lead. Yet, the spinners remained relentless. Shahid Afridi, better known for his exploits in limited-overs cricket, showcased his versatility with the ball, claiming the final three wickets with his leg-breaks, a precursor to his heroics with the bat. 

The third day belonged unequivocally to Afridi. Renowned for his blistering 37-ball century in one-day cricket, he defied his reputation as a mere dasher by constructing an innings of extraordinary discipline and flair. Over five hours at the crease, Afridi compiled a majestic 141, laced with 21 boundaries and three towering sixes. His partnerships with Inzamam-ul-Haq and Salim Malik seemed to place Pakistan in an unassailable position at 275 for four. 

But the game, like fate, can be capricious. After tea, the narrative took a dramatic turn. Joshi’s dismissal of Malik triggered a collapse of epic proportions. Venkatesh Prasad, in a spell of breathtaking precision, tore through the lower order with five wickets in 18 balls, conceding not a single run. His final figures of six for 33 stood as a career-best, encapsulating a spell that transformed the match. 

India faced a daunting target of 271, a total that loomed large against the weight of history. Their highest successful fourth-innings chase at home—a nervy 256 for eight against Australia in 1964-65—seemed an eternity away. As the players departed the field, the air was thick with anticipation, the outcome poised delicately between possibility and improbability. 

Waqar Younis Strikes, Sachin Tendulkar Stands Firm

 As the shadows lengthened late on the third evening, India found themselves at a precarious 6 for 2, chasing a daunting 271. The atmosphere in the stands was a volatile mix of hope and apprehension when a helmeted Sachin Tendulkar emerged from the pavilion. VVS Laxman, his brief stay at the crease cut short by a venomous in-ducker from Waqar Younis, was still within earshot as Tendulkar strode to the middle. The crowd, a sea of rising bodies and fervent voices, seemed to channel a collective plea: “Score if you can, but for heaven’s sake, don’t get out.”

The first two deliveries Tendulkar faced were dots, but they carried a weight far beyond their numerical insignificance. Years later, he would recount this moment in *Playing It My Way: My Autobiography*: "Waqar welcomed me to the crease with a couple of bouncers and even walked up to me on one occasion to say, 'Ball nazar aayi?' (Did you see the ball?) I didn't say a thing, but my eye contact was enough to give him the message. I hardly moved, and he was soon walking back to his bowling mark. I remember muttering to myself, 'You are not bowling that quick, my friend.'”

The tension in the air was almost tangible, and when Tendulkar finally opened his account with a well-judged two, the crowd exhaled in unison, a brief respite from their collective anxiety. Four more dot balls followed, each one steadying the nerves, until Tendulkar produced a moment of sublime artistry. Facing Waqar, he unfurled a cover drive that seemed to transcend the game itself. The movement was poetry in motion: the right leg back and across, the left leg hovering momentarily above the ground, the bat meeting the ball with a crisp, resonant crack. The red blur scorched the grass, and as the left leg returned to the turf, Tendulkar completed the stroke with a delicate sideways hop, a knight in shining armour prancing across the diagonal.Ball nazar aayi?

The shot elicited a spontaneous outpouring of admiration. "What a shot," Harsha Bhogle exclaimed on commentary, his voice tinged with awe, carrying the moment into millions of homes. It was a shot that encapsulated not just technique but defiance, a declaration that the battle was far from over. 

As the day drew to a close, India stood at 40 for 2, still 231 runs adrift. The target loomed large, but with Tendulkar at the crease, hope flickered, fragile yet persistent, like a candle resisting the wind. 

The Thrilling Fourth Day – Story of Drama, Heartbreak and Joy

On the warm morning of January 31, 1999, the MA Chidambaram Stadium in Chennai stood as a cauldron of tension and anticipation. Half an hour before the fourth day’s play, a police cordon encircled the pitch, a fortress of security amid the fervent crowd. Among the spectators, a group chanted provocatively in Hindi, *“Harega bhai harega, Pakistan harega”*—a linguistic affront in Tamil Nadu, as pointed as the taunt itself. The air carried a mix of salty breeze and the faint, pungent aroma from the nearby Buckingham Canal, a reminder of the city's unique character. After 12 long years, an Indo-Pak Test on Indian soil was poised to deliver high drama. 

This was the ground where Sachin Tendulkar had orchestrated symphonies with his bat. In 1993, he had dismantled England here; in 1998, he had reduced Shane Warne to a spectator, slog-sweeping the leg-spinner’s around-the-stumps delivery into the midwicket stands. Ian Chappell, then on commentary, would later declare that shot a turning point in the series. Now, playing his fifth Test against Pakistan and his first as a fully realized batsman, Tendulkar had entered the fray with a mission. 

But the wily Pakistanis, led by the indomitable Wasim Akram, were not inclined to surrender. On the second day, Tendulkar’s attempt to dominate Saqlain Mushtaq ended in ignominy—a mistimed loft off a doosra, ballooning to backward point. Out for a third-ball duck, he left the stage under a cloud of disappointment. 

Day four brought another chapter of attrition. The crowd roared as Wasim Akram unleashed a spell of artistry that seemed to transcend the limitations of a subcontinental dust track. Against Rahul Dravid, the ball danced to his command—seaming in, seaming out, as if choreographed. Akram had trapped Dravid lbw earlier, only for the umpire to miss the pad-first contact. Undeterred, he returned with a delivery that pitched on middle and clipped off-stump, leaving Dravid bewildered. Years later, Dravid would reflect on this moment in Sultan: A Memoir: “Wasim was a real inspiration for fast bowlers all over the world, especially in the subcontinent. When he was bowling, you were captivated. Easily one of the most skilful bowlers I have played against.”

The collapse continued. Mohammad Azharuddin misjudged a straighter one from Saqlain and was trapped leg-before. Sourav Ganguly’s square drive ricocheted off silly mid-off, bounced awkwardly on the pitch, and landed in the wicketkeeper’s gloves—a bizarre double-pitch catch. Umpires Steve Dunne and Ramaswamy deliberated briefly before sending Ganguly on his way, prompting cries of “Ramaswamy down, Steve Dunne up up” from the stands. India were reeling at five down, and the mood in the dressing room during lunch was sombre. 

Nayan Mongia, India’s wicketkeeper, recalled the silence and a single technical insight that changed their approach: *“Saqlain Mushtaq had created havoc in the first innings. Most of us hadn’t read his variations. But Mohinder Amarnath had written that Saqlain’s ball from close to the stumps would go away from the right-hander, while the one from wide of the crease would turn in. Once we learned this, it became easier.”

Saqlain was at the zenith of his powers, his doosra a weapon of deception. His first three Test wickets in India—Tendulkar, Azharuddin, and Dravid—were scalps of the highest pedigree, each a master of spin, each undone by his guile. Yet, his triumphs came amidst personal turmoil. His father’s recent passing and a family tragedy had cast a shadow over his form. Questions about his suitability for Tests loomed, but Saqlain found solace in Wasim Akram’s camaraderie. “Wasim brings out the best in me,” he admitted. 

After lunch, Saqlain and Wasim bowled in tandem, a relentless assault on India’s hopes. Tendulkar, burdened by expectation, faced the challenge with steely resolve. At the other end, Mongia battled his own demons—a fever of 102 degrees, a saline drip, and injections to keep him on his feet. “It was so hot, I was batting in a sweater!” he later recalled. Meanwhile, Akram, battling groin pain, admitted to taking *“six to seven painkillers” to keep going. 

Tendulkar Conquers Pain o Esaay and Epic

As the second session wore on, Sachin Tendulkar’s body began betraying him. He frequently walked toward square leg, his movements laboured, his hand instinctively clutching his lower back. Each over seemed an ordeal, each delivery a test of will. By the time tea arrived, his condition had worsened; his grimaces were no longer fleeting but etched into his expression. Yet, India survived the session without losing a wicket, reducing the target from 185 to 126. 

In the dressing room, Tendulkar lay flat on a towel, cold compresses covering him in a desperate attempt to lower his body temperature. Cramping and exhaustion wracked his body, and the thought of batting for another two hours seemed insurmountable. Meanwhile, the Pakistan dressing room was steeped in tension. A Channel 4 documentary captured Wasim Akram sitting alone, running his fingers through his hair, his usually unflappable demeanour showing cracks. Someone muttered, *“Joh ho gaya woh ho gaya”* (Whatever has happened has happened), a resigned acknowledgement of missed opportunities. 

 

Azhar Mahmood later reflected on that moment: “We had so much respect for Sachin. Watching him play Saqlain and Wasim with such ease that day was unbelievable. Reverse swing, bounce, turn—everything was in our favour. And yet, he got a hundred.”

The third over after tea brought Tendulkar’s response. Saqlain Mushtaq, bowling with his trademark drift and guile, delivered the first ball. Tendulkar pulled it to midwicket for four. The next ball was paddle-swept for another boundary. Sunil Gavaskar, on commentary, couldn’t contain his admiration: “Even as he played that shot, my fellow commentator [Ramiz Raja] had his hands up in applause.”* 

Then came a moment of fortune. Tendulkar charged Saqlain, misjudging the length of a doosra, and got a bottom edge that ballooned toward Moin Khan. The wicketkeeper had three opportunities—catch, stump, or silence the crowd with a lullaby—but he fluffed them all. Saqlain, already mid-celebration, froze in disbelief and slumped to the ground. Moin stood motionless, hands on hips, a vice-captain bereft of words. Yet, Akram clapped immediately, a gesture of encouragement and reassurance. 

Two balls later, Tendulkar paddle-swept Saqlain for another four, followed by a cross-batted smack to the boundary. Sixteen runs off the over. The target now stood at 103. 

Pakistan opted for the new ball with 95 runs still required. Tendulkar’s back had “all but given up,” but he and Nayan Mongia decided to take calculated risks. Mongia, a former opener, felt more comfortable against the hardness of the new ball than the treachery of reverse swing. The next five overs yielded 33 runs. Tendulkar was all elegance, driving straight and through the covers. Mongia played the aggressor, whipping and chipping over the infield. A bouncer from Akram flew over both Mongia and Moin to the boundary, while Saqlain’s flighted delivery was dispatched over midwicket. 

“The thing with that Pakistan team,” Mahmood later said, “was that we always had options. Wasim and Waqar were masters of the new ball and reverse swing, and Saqlain could bowl with both. With such a lethal attack, you always had hope.”

Hope flickered to life when Mongia slogged Akram across the line. The top edge spiralled toward the covers, the ball seemingly suspended in time as the crowd screamed in vain. Waqar Younis steadied himself and completed the catch, silencing the stands. 

Sunil Joshi walked into a cacophony of nerves, greeted by Tendulkar’s anguished admission: “Jo, mera back is getting stiffer and stiffer. I can’t take it anymore. I’m going to swing.” Joshi reassured him: “You just stay here. I’ll score.” True to his word, Joshi took on Saqlain, lofting him for six over long-on.“I always felt I could read Saqlain,” Joshi later said. 

But Tendulkar’s body was breaking down. Every movement was agony, every shot a crescendo of pain. Desperation overtook calculation. Facing Saqlain, he attempted to hit a doosra over mid-off. The ball bounced more than expected, taking the leading edge and soaring skyward. 

Akram, standing at mid-off, steadied himself under the skier. On commentary, Harsha Bhogle captured the moment with poetic finality: “Oh dear… he’s got the leading edge… man’s under it… it’s taken… what have we got here… Sachin Tendulkar’s knocked on the door… it’s still closed…”

As Akram clasped the catch, the door indeed remained shut. Tendulkar’s heroic innings, one of defiance and grit, had ended. For Pakistan, the game was once again theirs to lose. 

India Collapse, Pakistan Win

The silence was fleeting. In moments, the Chennai crowd rose in unison, not in despair but in reverence, to honour a monumental innings. Tendulkar had fallen, but as the poet Balakumar once wrote, the Chepauk faithful laid out a bed of cotton for their fallen hero. 

Before departing the stage, with India still 17 runs adrift, Tendulkar turned to his partner with a parting message, a blend of hope and expectation: *“Jo, match finish kar ke aana”* (Jo, finish the match and come back). Sunil Joshi, now entrusted with the task, stood alongside three fellow Karnataka players, ready to script the final act. 

"I told Anil, avanu thirugsalla [he won’t turn it]. Saqlain is only bowling doosras. I’ll take the scoring chances; you just play out Wasim,” Joshi later recalled. 

But fate had other plans. Anil Kumble, playing for the team’s hopes, misjudged a Wasim Akram delivery that straightened after pitching. The umpire’s finger went up, and Kumble was gone for 1 off 5 balls. 

When Javagal Srinath joined Joshi at the crease, the strategy shifted again. “We thought Srinath could chance his arm against Saqlain,” Joshi recounted. “I told him: anything pitched up, swing. If it’s short, just block it. I’d take the single and give him the strike.” 

Yet the pressure mounted. In his attempt to steer India closer, Joshi miscued a shot, offering a simple return catch to Saqlain. He walked back for 8 off 20 balls, his disappointment palpable. “That dismissal still haunts me,” he admitted years later. “I wanted to be there at the end. I wanted to finish it.” 

In the stands, disbelief turned to resignation. The once-roaring crowd now sat in stunned silence, as though watching a car hurtling downhill, its brakes long gone. The wreckage was inevitable; the only question was how soon. 

“The moment Sachin got out, you could feel the air shift,” said Venkitasubban, a spectator. “The fielders seemed revitalized as if victory was now a certainty.” Saqlain Mushtaq emboldened, zipped through his overs, each delivery tightening the noose. At the other end, Akram surged in, his strides longer, his pace sharper, the aura of inevitability growing with each ball. 

For those in the crowd, memories of Bridgetown 1997 resurfaced unbidden. Then, too, India had been tantalizingly close, chasing 120 only to crumble for 81. The parallels were inescapable. The narrative of collapse had taken hold. 

Srinath, playing with a heavy burden, succumbed to Saqlain, and bowled for 1 off 8 deliveries. 

The scoreboard told the cruel story: Tendulkar out at 254. India all out for 258. 

As the Pakistan players celebrated, the Chennai crowd, ever gracious, rose once more. This time, the applause was for the game itself—a contest of skill, grit, and unrelenting drama that had left them breathless, even in heartbreak.

The Aftermath

The crowd at Chepauk, initially struck silent by the cruel twist of fate, rose to its feet in unison. Their applause was not wild or frenetic, but steady, deliberate, and heartfelt—a collective gesture of respect for a contest that transcended rivalry. Sensing the moment, the Pakistan team began a victory lap, acknowledging the grace of their hosts. For anyone familiar with the emotional and often volatile world of India-Pakistan cricket, it was a profoundly moving scene, a testament to the shared humanity beneath the fierce competition. 

VVS Laxman, reflecting on that day in his autobiography, wrote: “I saw Sachin weep like a child [...] None of us knew how to console him.” 

Tendulkar himself would later confess, “My world seemed to collapse around me [...] I just couldn’t hold back the tears. It was the only time I refused to go out and accept the Man of the Match award. [BCCI president] Raj Singh Dungarpur tried to persuade me, but I told him I was in no state, physically or mentally.”

In the Pakistani dressing room, joy erupted without restraint. High-pitched cheers and celebratory cries filled the air, mingled with moments of quiet prayer and reflection. Some players knelt in gratitude, their emotions as raw and intense as the game itself. 

Wasim Akram, speaking to Channel 4 years later, summed up the sentiment succinctly: “We needed one wicket. We needed Sachin’s wicket.” That dismissal, a moment of triumph for Pakistan, had turned the tide irrevocably in their favour. 

The celebrations extended well beyond the field. That evening, the team visited a mosque to offer thanks, followed by a celebratory cake at the hotel. The national anthem was sung with pride, its verses echoing their sense of unity and achievement. Some players ventured out for a quiet meal, their smiles now relaxed, their shoulders lighter. 

The next day, life began to return to its ordinary rhythms. Saqlain Mushtaq, the architect of India’s collapse, was seen strolling through the streets of Chennai, shopping for a sari for his wife—a poignant reminder that even in the most intense rivalries, human moments endure. 

Thank You

Faisal Caesar

 

The Myth and Reality of Shahid Afridi: Pakistan’s Last Folk Hero

Shahid Afridi's popularity is an enigma, one that cannot be measured in mere records or statistics. He was not just a cricketer but a phenomenon, a cultural touchstone who embodied the aspirations, contradictions, and chaotic brilliance of Pakistan. If we were to trace his significance, we might say he was the first cricketing superstar born in an era when the sport had no competition in the nation's imagination. No longer did hockey, squash, or even cinema command the public’s adulation—cricket had become the singular heartbeat of Pakistan, and Afridi was its most unpredictable, most exhilarating rhythm. 

His arrival felt almost prophetic, as if Pakistan cricket had always been waiting for someone like him—a fresh-faced teenager plucked from obscurity, conquering the world at the first time of asking. The image of that 37-ball century in Nairobi became frozen in time, playing out in the collective memory of millions. His legend was built not just on what he did but on what he represented: a figure of uncompromised innocence, an untamed force of nature. Yet to reduce Afridi to innocence alone would be naïve.  

The Power of Popularity

Afridi's popularity translated into power, a rare commodity in Pakistan cricket. The sport has seen chairmen, selectors, and captains rise and fall with the frequency of tides, yet Afridi stood immune to the same forces that undid others. When Ijaz Butt, the then PCB chairman, survived scandals that would have buried lesser men—including a terrorist attack on a visiting team and the spot-fixing saga—it was not moral outrage, political pressure, or even media scrutiny that finally unseated him. It was Afridi. When he declared that he would not return to cricket until Butt was removed, the writing was on the wall. Afridi remained. Butt did not. 

His influence extended beyond cricket. When Pakistan’s army chief, a figure routinely listed among the most powerful people in the world, learned that Afridi was in town, he cleared his schedule for a meeting. Imran Khan, the nation's most celebrated cricketer turned political leader, pleaded for Afridi’s endorsement, leveraging ethnic ties to appeal to him. Afridi declined. His people still adored him. Even in matters of life and death, where militant extremism made it dangerous to support polio vaccination efforts, Afridi's involvement managed to sidestep controversy. His charisma could penetrate the hardest ideological barriers. 

The Afridi Equation: Chaos or Conspiracy?

The temptation to frame Afridi and Misbah-ul-Haq as opposites—instinct versus discipline, chaos versus control—is simplistic. Afridi is not misunderstood because he defies definition but because he is constantly defined in opposition to others. Some see him as a perfect random-number generator, where patterns emerge only by statistical inevitability. But is he truly random? 

We know his batting: a reckless heave at the first or second ball, a dab to third man if he’s feeling generous, and an inevitable dismissal that purists find infuriating. His career average remained astonishingly stable—by his 30th ODI, it was 23.5, and it barely moved for over 350 more matches. This suggests not randomness but a calculated equilibrium. He knew when to succeed—just enough to keep faith alive. His bowling, on the other hand, was a study in adaptation, improving over time, and stabilizing when his batting remained erratic. 

If Afridi’s batting failures seemed inevitable, his rare moments of restraint—Sharjah in 2011, the 2009 World T20 final—revealed a different truth. He could be patient. He could be precise. He simply chose not to be. Was it a lack of ability, or was it self-preservation? Did he refuse to evolve because evolution might erode the myth? 

The Decision That Defined Him

Nowhere is this contradiction clearer than in his decision to retire from Test cricket. By 2006, he was flourishing as a Test all-rounder, averaging over 30 with the bat and offering match-winning spells with the ball. And yet, in 2006, with Pakistan’s greatest format within his grasp, he walked away, citing pressure and expectations. He returned briefly but played just one more Test. Why abandon a future that promised substance for a format that traded in spectacle? 

Perhaps the answer lies in how people perceive themselves. When faced with the opportunity to transcend, we often cling to the version of ourselves that is easier to understand. Afridi, a cricketer who could have been many things, chose to be what the people already believed him to be. The decision to leave Test cricket, rather than elevating himself, entrenched his image as the ultimate ODI and T20 firebrand. 

And yet, even in that format, he played a balancing act. His bowling carried him when his batting faltered. His numbers fluctuated wildly, always falling back into place just before his reputation crumbled entirely. Was this luck, or was it the work of a man who knew exactly when to deliver? 

The Absence of Suspicion

One of the most remarkable aspects of Afridi’s career is the absence of fixing allegations against him. In Pakistan, where accusations of match-fixing are as routine as match reports, Afridi remains curiously untouched. Every great player—Wasim, Waqar, Inzamam, Imran—has faced whispers, yet Afridi has emerged unscathed. 

This is not because he was above suspicion. His batting failures were often ridiculous, his shot selection laughable, his dismissals predictable. And yet, in a nation conditioned to view incompetence as corruption, Afridi was given the benefit of the doubt. We never saw his failures as sinister because, deep down, we saw ourselves in them. 

The Last Folk Hero

In Saad Shafqat’s words, the Pakistani psyche is shaped by “laziness, impatience, and latent brilliance.” Afridi embodies all three. He does not represent what Pakistan aspires to be but what it already is—reckless, impulsive, inexplicably brilliant at just the right moment. 

Where India had Tendulkar and Australia had Bradman—icons who reflected their nations' discipline and ambition—Pakistan had Afridi, a man whose genius was intermittent, whose failures were familiar, and whose appeal was primal. He was not loved for his achievements but for the promise of what he could achieve. 

His legend is not a story of greatness fulfilled, but of greatness glimpsed—just enough to keep hope alive. And that, more than any six he ever hit, is why Afridi remains immortal.

Cricket, Flags, and Fanhood: The Bangladesh Cricket Board’s Controversial Decision

Bangladesh’s cricket fans have always been celebrated as some of the world’s most passionate and vibrant. They bring colour and life to stadiums in Mirpur, Chittagong, Khulna, and Fatullah, where their support transcends borders. Their cheers and flags wave with equal vigour for teams from India, Pakistan, Sri Lanka, and Afghanistan, creating an atmosphere where every team feels at home. This lively hospitality was on full display during the recent Asia Cup in Dhaka. There, flags of different nations fluttered alongside Bangladesh’s own in a show of cricket’s unifying power – turning the stadium into a symbol of shared passion and sportsmanship.

However, in a surprising turn of events, the Bangladesh Cricket Board (BCB) issued a directive on the eve of the country’s 43rd Independence Day, threatening to ban Bangladeshi fans from carrying foreign flags at World Twenty20 matches. BCB spokesman Jalal Younis explained that local fans carrying flags of competing teams were violating Bangladesh’s “flag rules.” Security personnel were ordered to enforce this rule and ensure that fans displayed only the Bangladeshi flag.

This directive has shocked many cricket enthusiasts, myself included. Such a sudden rule feels strangely restrictive, especially in the context of cricket. Sporting events, particularly international ones, are about fostering camaraderie and respecting the spirit of sportsmanship. In many other cricketing nations – England, Australia, South Africa – fans routinely wave the flags of competing teams. During Bangladesh’s tour of England in 2005, English fans proudly displayed Bangladeshi flags. Similarly, in the 2009 World Twenty20, fans from various countries waved Bangladeshi flags to support Shakib Al Hasan, recognizing his skill and passion.

So, why this abrupt change from the BCB? Why should Bangladesh, a democratic nation that values freedom of expression, impose restrictions on how fans express their support? Supporting another team while one’s national team isn’t playing should be seen as an expression of sportsmanship, not as an affront to national pride. This decision risks stifling the authentic and inclusive spirit that makes Bangladeshi fans admired around the world.

The question also arises as to whether the BCB is encroaching on an area typically overseen by the International Cricket Council (ICC). In an ICC event, standards for fan behaviour are usually set by the global body, aiming to maintain a celebratory and inclusive environment. Some critics speculate that this flag rule was prompted by increased Pakistani support during the Asia Cup, which may have reminded certain quarters of the complex historical relationship between Bangladesh and Pakistan. But conflating political history with sports is counterproductive and risks alienating fans who view cricket as a unifying force rather than a divisive one.

To demand that fans only cheer for their national team borders on an intrusion into personal expression. The fans waving Pakistani or Indian flags aren’t endorsing political figures or historical conflicts; they’re celebrating players who inspire millions with their skill and dedication. Cricket, at its essence, is a game meant to transcend politics, uniting people through shared passion. It’s shortsighted to let political grievances eclipse that unity. Neither Virat Kohli nor Shahid Afridi represents political institutions or historical conflicts; they represent the beauty of the game itself, spreading joy and excitement wherever they play.

The BCB’s directive may have been born of patriotic intentions, but it risks turning patriotism into an instrument of control, one that dims the vibrant spirit that makes Bangladeshi fans unique. As ambassadors of cricket, fans should have the freedom to support, wave flags, and express their love for players of any nationality. Let us keep cricket a pure celebration of skill, camaraderie, and mutual respect.

Thank You

Faisal Caesar

An Evening with Legends: A Cricket Fan’s Unforgettable Encounters at the Asia Cup

The sun had set over Dhaka, and the city buzzed with the energy of the Asia Cup. For cricket fans, it was a festival of heroes—a chance to encounter the players they admired, players who inspired them to stay glued to matches and revere each boundary and wicket. For me, that Asia Cup wasn’t just a spectacle on TV but a rare chance to meet a friend from Sri Lanka and get a glimpse into the world of cricket's legends, a privilege for any devoted fan.

That friend was Kanagasabapathy Arulmoly, or Arul, as I fondly call him. Arul had come to Dhaka for work, yet he shared my love for cricket as if it were part of his very spirit. We bonded on Facebook through our mutual admiration for the game, each respecting the other’s nation’s strengths and players. When Arul invited me to meet him at the Pan Pacific Sonargaon Hotel—the very hotel where Asia Cup teams were staying—I could hardly contain my excitement.

Braving Dhaka’s relentless traffic from Mirpur to Sonargaon Hotel was no small feat. But, as any cricket fan knows, traffic is a small price to pay for an evening spent in the company of a friend and the mere possibility of meeting the cricketers we idolized. I arrived a bit late, yet my spirits were high, and Arul greeted me with the warmth of an old friend. As we took our seats in the lounge, our conversation flowed effortlessly, every word a celebration of our shared love for cricket.

To our surprise, we spotted Rahul Sharma, the tall Indian leg spinner, engaged in a phone call. Arul, ever the optimist, nudged me and said, “Who knows? Maybe we’ll get a chance to meet the others.” I laughed, imagining the barriers—security, player protocols, and the very aura that separated fans from the world of their cricketing heroes.

We moved to the dining area and spotted a cluster of Indian players—Gautam Gambhir, Suresh Raina, Virat Kohli, and the Pathan brothers, all sharing a meal with Praveen Kumar. Arul and I shared a quiet, shared thrill. Kohli stood up to get dessert, and Arul encouraged me to approach him. I greeted him with a “Salaam,” but he appeared uninterested, as did Gambhir. I retreated, half-disappointed yet still exhilarated at just being in their presence. 

It was then that we noticed MS Dhoni sitting alone, lost in thought. As I watched him, I felt an inexplicable connection—here was the calm, steadfast leader who had steered his team to countless victories. Despite the opportunity, I hesitated to disturb him, but Arul and I speculated—was he seated alone by choice, or did he prefer a quiet moment to himself amidst the team’s usual camaraderie?

As we were about to leave the dining area, we encountered Azhar Ali, the rising Pakistani batsman. With a respectful “Salaam,” I asked if we might take a photo together, and he graciously agreed, leaving me touched by his warmth and generosity. Our excitement only grew as we walked toward the poolside, where we found Younis Khan. Ever the gentleman, Younis greeted me with a bright smile, and, with my friend’s help, we captured a treasured moment in a photograph. Younis soon departed, but Arul and I continued exploring the poolside, captivated by each player encounter.

We soon came upon Misbah-ul-Haq, Saeed Ajmal, and Umar Gul, relaxed and unwinding. While Ajmal was busy on a call, Misbah graciously allowed us to take a picture, though his demeanour was reserved. But it was Umar Gul who left a lasting impression. Friendly and welcoming, he invited us to sit beside him for the photo. As we thanked him and moved on, we both felt a deep appreciation for the kindness that these players showed to their fans.

Back at the dining area, Dhoni was still seated alone. Summoning courage, I approached him and asked, “Sir, may I have a snap with you?” To my delight, Dhoni agreed, inviting me to sit with him. Despite some camera troubles, he patiently waited for his calm and humility a testament to the respect he held for fans. His humility amazed me—a player of his stature, treating a fan as if they mattered.

The memories from that evening are some of my most cherished, not just because I met these players but because I glimpsed a side of them that transcended their on-field personas. Each encounter reminded me that cricket is as much about humility, respect, and connection as it is about skill and triumph. Though the Asia Cup of that year ended with the heartbreak of a narrow loss for Bangladesh, it left me with memories that I will carry with me forever. And while this year I couldn’t recreate the experience, the lessons of that night remain clear: cricket is not just a game; it’s a shared language, bridging cultures, and bringing together hearts.

Thank You

Faisal Caesar 

 

Afridi’s Blitzkrieg and Pakistan’s Grit: A Night of Records and Redemption

In a match that will be etched in the annals of cricketing history, Pakistan orchestrated their highest-ever successful run chase in ODIs, surging past Bangladesh’s formidable 326/3 to secure a place in the Asia Cup final. It was a game that encapsulated the raw emotion and unpredictability of limited-overs cricket, a contest where fortunes swayed violently before Shahid Afridi’s unparalleled onslaught sealed the deal. 

A Chase for the Ages 

Pakistan’s pursuit of the mammoth total was initially guided by Ahmed Shehzad, whose 103 off 123 balls provided a stabilizing force amidst the turbulence. His century, though composed and methodical, lacked the explosive intent required to match the increasing demands of the chase. The 105-run stand with Fawad Alam at 6.70 runs per over was a crucial phase, but when Shehzad fell in the 39th over, the equation remained daunting—102 runs needed off just 52 balls. 

The team’s decision to promote Abdur Rehman as a pinch-hitter proved a tactical misstep, and with every passing delivery, the required rate threatened to spiral beyond reach. Then, as if scripted for drama, entered Shahid Afridi. 

Afridi: The Eternal Maverick

Few cricketers have embodied the spirit of high-stakes cricket like Afridi. He is not merely a player but a phenomenon, capable of summoning destruction at will. His 25-ball 59 was an innings of unparalleled aggression, striking at an astonishing 236. His arrival turned despair into hope, and then into unrelenting carnage. 

Between overs 41.2 and 46.5, Afridi launched an offensive that defied reason. Seven sixes rained down on Mirpur, clearing long on, extra cover, long off, midwicket, and fine leg with disdainful ease. His first nine balls yielded five sixes, an assault so sudden that it left Bangladesh’s bowlers bereft of answers. Mahmudullah, Shakib, Shafiul, and Razzak all crumbled under the storm, their overs leaking 16, 20, 16, and 18 runs, respectively. 

Even as Afridi succumbed to cramps and was eventually run out, the damage was done. Pakistan still required 33 off 19, but Fawad Alam, often the quiet anchor, stepped forward to launch Razzak over midwicket twice, ensuring that Afridi’s masterpiece found its grand finale. 

Bangladesh’s Batting Brilliance Undone 

It was a cruel loss for Bangladesh, especially after a batting display that had promised so much. Anamul Haque’s chanceless 132-ball century set the tone, his partnerships with Imrul Kayes (150-run stand) and later with Mushfiqur Rahim and Mominul Haque exemplifying a perfect ODI blueprint. Shakib Al Hasan’s blistering 44 off 16 balls had ensured a staggering 121 runs in the final ten overs, pushing Bangladesh past their previous best ODI total. 

Yet, the psychological scars of past failures resurfaced when it mattered most. The fielding unit faltered, most notably Mushfiqur Rahim, who dropped Afridi on 52—a moment that ultimately defined the contest. Their bowlers, so disciplined early on, melted under pressure, unable to defend a 300-plus score for the first time in four attempts. 

The Bigger Picture 

For Pakistan, this victory reaffirmed their penchant for pulling off last-over heists, having done so against both India and Bangladesh in this tournament. This chase marked only the fifth time in their ODI history that they had successfully hunted down a 300-plus total—four of those coming against India, making this the first instance against a different opposition. 

Afridi’s 18-ball fifty—his third at this pace—placed him alongside the great Sanath Jayasuriya, second only to the Sri Lankan’s 17-ball record. His innings joined the ranks of the fastest fifty-plus scores in a chase, a list already topped by his own 18-ball 55 against the Netherlands in 2002. 

Legacy of the Night

What transpired in Mirpur was more than just a game; it was a testament to cricket’s enduring unpredictability. For Bangladesh, it was heartbreak, another instance of promise undone by pressure. For Pakistan, it was vindication, a declaration of intent ahead of the final against Sri Lanka. 

And for Shahid Afridi, it was yet another night where he reaffirmed his legend—not just as a power-hitter, but as cricket’s ultimate chaos agent, a player who thrives when others falter, a reminder that in the world of limited-overs cricket, nothing is over until Afridi says so.

 Thank You

Faisal Caesar 

Shahid Afridi: The Last Great Unpredictable

No other cricketer of his generation blends genius so liberally with lunacy as Shahid Afridi. And in Mirpur, in a moment of incandescent drama, he reminded the world why his name is etched in the folklore of the game. In a sport increasingly dictated by data, strategy, and meticulously crafted formulas, Afridi remains cricket’s last great mystery. And in a manner only he can, he lifted Pakistan into the Asia Cup final with two colossal blows in the final over, sending his fans into rapturous celebration.

The India-Pakistan rivalry deserved a climax befitting its grandiosity, and it arrived with Pakistan chasing 245. What should have been a composed finish turned into a nerve-shredding spectacle. Mohammad Hafeez and Sohaib Maqsood had diligently stitched together an 87-run partnership for the fifth wicket, stabilizing Pakistan’s innings after early stumbles. But cricket, much like fate, has an appetite for chaos. They departed in quick succession, leaving the fate of an entire nation’s hopes in the mercurial hands of Afridi.

Having already run out Maqsood in a moment of comedic miscalculation and played his trademark no-look slog early in his innings, Afridi then chose to bat with the one thing he has often been accused of lacking—intelligence. Partnering with Umar Gul, he reeled in the target through calculated risks. When 11 were required off the final 10 balls with four wickets in hand, Pakistan seemed to be coasting. Then, in a heart-stopping collapse, three wickets fell in five balls.

As the equation boiled down to nine off four, Afridi took strike. Across him stood R Ashwin, India’s best spinner, who had bowled beautifully all night. But in the face of Afridi’s tempestuous brilliance, Ashwin was rendered a mere mortal. Afridi backed away and hammered the first ball over extra cover, a stroke that roared defiance into the night. Then, with three needed off three, he dared to dream bigger. Again, he swung with audacity, sending the ball soaring over long-on. The shot seemed miscued, the ball hung in the air longer than Pakistan’s collective breath, but in an act that defied logic, gravity, and cricket’s growing obsession with science, it cleared the rope. Pakistan had won, and Afridi had once again authored a script no screenwriter would dare to conceive.

The Art of Madness

Earlier, when Pakistan bowled, Saeed Ajmal had initially gone wicketless, but his mastery was evident. India, unable to read his doosra, chose discretion over aggression. In his shadow, Mohammad Talha, making his ODI debut, claimed two wickets in a spell marked by raw pace and youthful exuberance. Hafeez contributed as well, dismissing Dinesh Karthik just as Ajmal’s relentless spell tightened the noose. Then, as if realizing it was time to claim what was rightfully his, Ajmal struck thrice in the death overs, dismantling India’s lower order.

For India, Rohit Sharma had played with fluidity early on, his 56 providing a launchpad. Ambati Rayudu’s patient 58 and Ravindra Jadeja’s late onslaught (an unbeaten 52 off 49) propelled them to a respectable 245. On a surface offering no lateral movement for the seamers, Rohit punished anything loose. He flicked Junaid Khan imperiously over deep midwicket before driving him over extra cover with a languid ease. Yet, when Ajmal and Talha applied the brakes, Rohit’s aggression became his undoing.

Jadeja’s late surge, however, was not without fortune. Twice he should have been dismissed early—first, an LBW shout waved away, and then a simple catch spilt by Hafeez. Those lapses cost Pakistan 40 additional runs, runs that seemed decisive until Afridi took centre stage.

The Triumph of Chaos

Every Afridi innings is a paradox. His career is an enigma wrapped in a hurricane, a constant battle between recklessness and genius. Some may seek to explain what happened in Mirpur, to ascribe method to his madness, to believe that his heroics were calculated. Even Misbah-ul-Haq, ever the rationalist, attempted to justify Afridi’s innings as part of a plan. But Afridi is not a product of planning; he is a force of nature, unbound by convention, unpredictable even to himself.

Sport is meant to be ordered, analyzed, and categorized into patterns and probabilities. Coaches pore over algorithms, broadcasters saturate screens with statistics, and players refine techniques to near perfection. And yet, the very essence of sport—the moment that grips the soul and lifts the spirit—is found in the inexplicable, the unknowable, the defiant act against probability. Afridi exists in that space, where reason surrenders to magic.

Javed Miandad once famously likened his own brain to a computer in the moments before he launched Chetan Sharma’s final delivery into the Sharjah stands. Afridi, in contrast, operates in a realm beyond logic. His brain is not a computer; it is a storm, brewing unpredictability, where no stroke is preordained and no moment is safe from the extraordinary. To witness him at his best is to watch the last vestiges of chaos reign supreme in an era increasingly dominated by order.

Afridi’s genius is not in his power-hitting alone; it is in the unshakable belief that the impossible is merely an opinion. It is in the anticipation that he might do it again. It is in the realization that, for all of cricket’s growing precision, there will always be space for the inexplicable.

The Age of Enlightenment may have given us understanding, but the Age of Ignorance, as Afridi proves time and again, throws a pretty damn good party. And for those who were fortunate enough to witness Mirpur, it was a party like no other.

Thank You

Faisal Caesar

The Resurgence of Shahid Afridi: Pakistan's Prodigal Enigma Finds His Form Again

Shahid Afridi’s career has been marked by brilliance as volatile as it is magnificent. Few players in cricketing history have drawn the kind of polarized scrutiny he has faced. Critics, who have so often dismissed him, began penning his obituaries once again after his exclusion from Pakistan’s Champions Trophy squad. Television channels portrayed him in humorous parodies, and for a moment, it seemed as though Pakistan’s cricketing world was ready to close the book on one of its most fascinating chapters. Yet, Afridi's story refuses to end. A player whose talents erupt like thunder, fleeting but awe-inspiring, Afridi is a reminder of the capricious beauty of cricket itself. It’s a fallacy to ever underestimate a player like him.

Afridi embodies a certain wild charm that transcends traditional cricketing aesthetics. The game comes alive when he’s at the crease, his pugnacious cover drives and audacious sixes painting an unrestrained, passionate canvas. Afridi doesn’t just play cricket; he transforms it into a spectacle. When it’s his day, everything else fades away, and all eyes are on his mercurial form, as his immense power and occasional wizardry turn the game into an untamed force of nature.

After Pakistan’s disappointing campaign in the ICC Champions Trophy in England, whispers surfaced: was it finally time for Afridi to step aside? With stalwarts like Younis Khan, Shoaib Malik, and Imran Farhat already axed from the squad, few expected Afridi to make the cut for the tour of the West Indies. But selectors, perhaps sensing the need for an unpredictable spark, chose to recall him—and Afridi quickly demonstrated why such gambles are worth taking.

In the opening ODI at Providence, Guyana, Pakistan’s fragile top order stumbled once again, reduced to 47 for 5. The situation was bleak, and fans braced for yet another collapse. But with Afridi still to bat, a thrill of anticipation rippled through the stands. Taking the field with Misbah-ul-Haq, who played his customary anchor role, Afridi transformed into the unstoppable force as he is capable of becoming. Unfazed by the precarious situation, he unleashed a fury of blistering shots, striking five sixes and six boundaries in a ferocious 76 off just 55 balls. Misbah later described the Providence pitch as one of the toughest he’d faced, yet Afridi, ever the maverick, seemed impervious to the challenges as he pummeled the Caribbean bowlers and reignited hope in the stands.

With the ball, Afridi’s magic was equally indomitable. Called on as the sixth bowler, he demolished the West Indies batting order, claiming an astonishing 7 wickets for a mere 12 runs—one of the finest ODI bowling performances in history. In that single game, Afridi silenced the critics, reestablishing himself as an enigma Pakistan cricket could not afford to overlook.

The final ODI at Saint Lucia provided yet another reminder of Afridi’s capacity for dramatic impact. In a tense, close finish, he struck a quick-fire 13 off 6 balls, helping Pakistan secure the series in style. And when the first T20I at Saint Vincent came around, Afridi’s bat once again spoke volumes, with a critical 46-run knock that propelled Pakistan to a thrilling victory. Throughout the West Indies tour, Afridi's contributions with both bat and ball rekindled the spark that his supporters had long cherished.

In Afridi, Pakistan has a player who thrives when the stakes are highest. His comebacks are an echo of his unyielding spirit, a tenacity that, despite inconsistency, resonates deeply with fans. There is a certain poetic justice in Afridi’s triumphs, a defiance of conventional expectations that appeals to Pakistan’s cricketing soul. For years, his place in the squad has been questioned, yet players like Imran Farhat and Shoaib Malik have come and gone while Afridi’s relevance endures. His vivacity, his ebullient style, is not just entertainment—it’s an essential ingredient in Pakistan’s cricketing recipe. 

If Pakistan wants to field a team capable of igniting the thrill of international competition, they need the irrepressible flair of Afridi. His contribution goes beyond runs and wickets; it’s a spirit of exuberance, an embodiment of raw potential and the visceral joy of the game. Shahid Afridi may be inconsistent, but his allure lies precisely in that unpredictability. As Pakistan’s prodigal Pathan, Afridi remains one of cricket’s enduring spectacles, a player who, despite the ups and downs, is a gift to his team and to the fans who understand that some talents defy conventional judgment. With Afridi in the lineup, the thrill of possibility is always just a swing away.

Thank You
Faisal Caesar

Shahid Afridi: The Daydream That Cricket Sometimes Allows

Who writes your scripts?

It’s the question that was once famously asked of Ian Botham when he conjured yet another improbable miracle on his Test comeback in 1986. It could just as easily have been posed today to Shahid Afridi. On a drizzly morning in Providence, Afridi returned to the international fold and delivered a performance so staggering that it seemed written by a mischievous dramatist: 76 runs off 55 balls, then 7 wickets for 12 runs. It was one of the greatest all-round shows ever in one-day internationals.

A Comeback Overshadowed by Skepticism

Afridi’s return to Pakistan’s ODI side had been met with raised eyebrows, even quiet derision. In recent months, Pakistan had purged the experienced ranks — Younis Khan, Shoaib Malik, Kamran Akmal all axed — and many wondered if Afridi, with no wickets in his last six ODIs and a self-conception more as a bowler these days, deserved yet another resurrection.

Those doubts were crushed under the weight of Afridi’s own audacity. This was not a cricketer tentatively seeking redemption; this was a comet blazing defiantly across a skeptical sky.

First, The Bat — Reckless and Sublime

The stage was set for disaster. Jason Holder’s menacing spell (8-4-8-4) had reduced Pakistan to 47 for 5. Misbah-ul-Haq was in his usual monk-like vigil, inching along at barely a run an over. Into this ruin walked Afridi, who on his third ball lofted a nonchalant six over long-off. A man of lesser ego might have dug in. Afridi swung again, sending the ball and West Indies’ plans into orbit.

Chris Gayle dropped a tough chance at slip, and after that Afridi simply galloped. Samuels offered long hops, Sammy was dabbed cheekily then driven mercilessly, and Sunil Narine — the mystery spinner deemed West Indies’ best threat — was bludgeoned out of the attack, taken for 32 runs in three overs.

On a pitch where Pakistan’s other batsmen ground out 120 off 245 balls, Afridi breezed to 76 from 55. His innings was both an act of liberation and madness, the reckless poetry that only he can script.

Then, The Ball — Sorcery and Ruin

The real genius of Afridi’s day lay not only in what he did, but when he did it. Pakistan’s 224 seemed a formidable score once West Indies slumped to 7 for 3 — their second-lowest ever after three wickets down in an ODI. Mohammad Irfan’s thunderbolts did early damage, but it was Misbah’s direct hit that sent Chris Gayle trudging off, a fatal blow to Caribbean hopes.

Still, Samuels and Simmons mounted a cautious, slow crawl. The required rate crept past six. Enter Afridi as Pakistan’s sixth bowler — and the game dissolved under his spell. Simmons was stumped, Bravo trapped plumb next ball. Afridi wheeled away in his star-man celebration, arms aloft, face aflame with childlike triumph.

His legbreaks, sliders, the odd googly and even an offbreak — each was a riddle too complex for West Indies’ batsmen. Pollard, starved of confidence after three ducks in four innings, was caught for three. Samuels fell lbw to a ball that bit sharply. Roach offered a tame return catch to give Afridi five-for.

By the time he returned for one final over, Sammy and Narine — who had miraculously survived the other bowlers — perished swiftly. West Indies folded for 98, their lowest ever ODI total at home. Afridi’s final figures: 9 overs, 2 maidens, 12 runs, 7 wickets.

The Symbolism — Folly, Genius, and the Intoxicating Unknown

Afridi’s cricket has always danced on the knife’s edge between genius and self-destruction. Dare to dismiss him as a fluke, a casino dice-roller masquerading as a cricketer, and he replies with days like this. He holds the record for the fastest ODI hundred. He helped Pakistan lift a World T20. His shelf groans under Man-of-the-Match awards.

Yet no one — least of all Afridi himself — knows what comes next. That is his singular magnetism: the thrill of living a daydream, so absurd it belongs to boys on dusty grounds, not men on international stages.

The Larger Lament — West Indies’ Brittle Promise

Amid this theatre of Afridi, spare a thought for West Indies. Always a side on the cusp of renaissance, always a side slipping backward again. Their bowlers had Pakistan on the mat on a pitch Misbah called “one of the toughest” he’s ever played on. Yet their famed big-hitters mustered only 98 in 257 balls, flailing against both spin and psychology.

Providence Stadium had not seen international cricket for two years, owing to administrative wranglings. The local fans, starved of spectacle, were finally treated to one — though it was Pakistan’s flamboyant mercenary who provided it, not their own.

The Question of Legacy — What now for Afridi?

Afridi was dropped from the Champions Trophy, much to his chagrin. His social media missives and media sound bites since then have brimmed with desire to sign off on his terms — by playing the next World Cup. In fairness, his batting against South Africa was vibrant too, though he was judged harshly on his bowling in a series unsuited to spinners.

Why was Afridi overlooked while others of dubious merit went to England? Perhaps because with Afridi, there is never certainty — only the guarantee that when he does perform, it is seismic.

How long will this last? Not even Afridi can tell you. But for one electric day in Guyana, he gave cricket lovers the sort of soaring escape normally reserved for dreams.

Thank You 

Faisal Caesar 

Echoes of Despair and Determination: Pakistan's Champions Trophy Heartbreak

The Oval witnessed a match that will be remembered for its nerve-wracking suspense. Cricket lovers around the world were drawn into the drama of a low-scoring thriller as Pakistan and the West Indies clashed in a contest that tested patience, passion, and skill. Pakistan’s fragile batting lineup was held up by the strength of their bowlers, who crafted a display of skill and grit that almost pulled off the impossible. Yet, in the final moments, the West Indies clinched the win, maintaining their unbeaten record against Pakistan at this historic venue. 

Days later in Cardiff, Sri Lanka delivered another spellbinding low-scorer against New Zealand, a game where fate seemed to tease, almost mocking Sri Lanka's valiant efforts. Chasing a modest target of 138, Sri Lanka's bowlers turned the tables on the Kiwis, transforming what appeared a simple chase into a labyrinthine ordeal. But just as the finish line came into sight, the Kiwis edged across to claim victory. The scoreboard may have favoured New Zealand, but it was Sri Lanka’s fighting spirit that left a lasting impression on fans.

These games were reminders of cricket's essence—that often, the thrill is greatest when batters struggle against bowlers. When the balance tilts towards the ball, the game sheds its one-dimensionality and transforms into an intricate battle of resilience and wits. Yet, amidst these memorable matches, it was not just the contests themselves that captured attention; it was the unwavering spirit of Pakistan’s fans. At the Oval, as Wahab Riaz’s pace electrified the crowd and Misbah-ul-Haq’s solitary fight drew cheers, the supporters erupted in roars that could have easily belonged to Karachi or Lahore. These fans, their hearts brimming with dreams, projected faith in their team, a fervor undeterred by setbacks on or off the field.

In their second match against South Africa at Edgbaston, Pakistan’s fans once again brought the thunderous spirit of home to a foreign land. The chants of "Pakistan jite ga" and "Pakistan Zindabad" turned the stadium into a cauldron of emotion. Pakistan's bowlers took this energy to heart, keeping South Africa’s batting in check with a disciplined attack. Yet, as the run chase of 235 began, Pakistan’s batting crumbled once more. What should have been a straightforward task quickly devolved into frustration, with batsmen faltering against a South African bowling lineup lacking their key fast bowlers, Steyn and Morkel. Misbah’s lone resistance could not prevent what became another tame surrender.

As the crowd looked on in disbelief, the dreams of millions of Pakistanis were dashed, their hopes betrayed not by a superior opponent but by a string of self-inflicted wounds. This performance left an ache in the hearts of Pakistan’s fans, their faces reflecting the disappointment of a nation that expected its heroes to rise to the occasion.

Yet, while their losses were disheartening, it was the systemic flaws in Pakistan’s approach that cast a shadow over their campaign. Selection decisions, like the continued choice of Imran Farhat, defied logic. Despite repeated failures, Farhat was trusted yet again, while proven talents like Asad Shafiq were left on the sidelines. Shafiq, with his versatility, would have brought much-needed stability to the lineup—an attribute lacking in his replacement, Umar Amin. Equally perplexing was the inclusion of Shoaib Malik, whose contributions had dwindled in recent years. Neither with bat nor ball had Malik justified his place, yet he was chosen over more deserving players. 

Pakistan’s approach to building their team has become increasingly myopic. Rather than balancing a side with both batting and bowling strengths, the selection committee appears fixated on an endless quest for fast bowlers. While Pakistan’s pace legacy is well-earned, the team needs a balanced roster to compete at the highest levels. A solid batting lineup is not a luxury; it’s a necessity, and the lack of investment in finding or nurturing batting talent has left Pakistan’s batsmen consistently underprepared for the international stage.

The team’s management must take a hard look at its priorities. Rather than focusing solely on nurturing bowlers, Pakistan should invest in finding and fostering batting talent, implementing a batsman-hunting program to unearth and develop players who can carry the team forward. Pakistan is a land rich in cricketing potential; its players have the natural flair and instinct that can rival the best in the world. What’s missing is not talent but the vision to recognize it and the commitment to nurture it.

Finally, there’s the question of coaching. The history of Pakistani cricket tells us that some of the country’s finest moments have come under the guidance of Pakistani coaches who understand the cultural nuances, the temperament of the players, and the soul of Pakistan cricket. Foreign coaches bring valuable experience, but it’s often under a Pakistani coach that the players find the freedom to excel, motivated by a sense of shared identity and purpose.

Pakistan’s Champions Trophy campaign may have ended in disappointment, but it is a wake-up call to take bold steps for the future. True progress will come not from isolated victories or fleeting moments of brilliance but from a concerted effort to cultivate a balanced and resilient team. Only then will Pakistan be ready to deliver performances that match the boundless passion of its fans and bring pride to a nation that holds cricket close to its heart.

 

Thank You

Faisal Caesar