Tendulkar's Flourish, Ganguly's Grace, and England's Stubborn Persistence: A Stalemate in Nottingham

The portents of disruption proved false. Forecasts of showers marring the final Test faded into irrelevance, though the other prediction—a slow, docile pitch refusing to yield a result—unfolded with clinical accuracy. This was a Test that leaned toward the inevitable from the outset, and it ended in a draw. Yet, within the apparent stasis lay compelling personal dramas, debuts of promise, innings of artistry, and the quiet persistence of a home side unwilling to bow to inevitability.

India, bowing out 168 ahead, left behind more than just a scoreline. The fifth day saw England compress 69 overs into a commendable exhibition of perseverance, dismissing India entirely—if not to tilt the match, then to reclaim initiative and pride. The match will linger not for its result, but for the names it elevated: Sachin Tendulkar, effortlessly majestic; Sourav Ganguly, elegant and assured; and, for England, Nasser Hussain and Michael Atherton, stewards of defiance at the top.

Series and Shadows of History

Before the match began, the odds heavily favoured a draw. History, too, whispered its own verdict. In 37 previous Test series in England, no visiting side had squared the series in the final match after trailing. India’s ambition, despite flashes of brilliance, never truly escaped that precedent. England’s eight-wicket win at Birmingham thus secured the series—only their fourth home series triumph out of the last 14 (excluding one-off wins)—an indictment of a generation’s faltering dominance since the Ashes glory of 1985.

For Mohammad Azharuddin, the pressure was far more personal. The charismatic captain, increasingly scrutinised, won the toss on a blustery, overcast morning and had no hesitation in batting. It was a pragmatic choice—the surface at Trent Bridge had already driven bowlers to exasperation that summer. India, recognising the slow nature of the pitch, dropped the seam bowler Mhambrey in favour of Venkatapathy Raju’s left-arm spin, and recalled the experienced Sanjay Manjrekar in place of Jadeja. England, in contrast, blooded Kent’s Mark Ealham and Min Patel in place of Irani and Martin.

A Partnership of Poise and Potential

England struck early—removing Rathore just before a brief rain delay, and Mongia soon after. But the breakthrough failed to morph into collapse. Tendulkar, reprieved before he scored when Atherton spilled a sharp gully chance, settled into a trance-like rhythm. At the other end, Ganguly, cool and debonair, matched him stroke for stroke. By stumps, the pair had crafted a sublime, unbroken 254-run stand.

The pitch, predictably, had turned into a “shirtfront”—benign and unthreatening. Yet within that docility, Tendulkar’s tenth Test century shimmered. It was his fourth against England and came laced with 15 boundaries, each more silken than the last. Ganguly, meanwhile, etched his name into rarefied company, becoming only the third player to score centuries in his first two Test innings—after West Indians Lawrence Rowe and Alvin Kallicharran in 1971-72. His reaction was typically unflappable: “What’s important is how well I do in the rest of my Test career.”

He added nothing the next morning. Alan Mullally, in a rare burst of hostility, pinned Ganguly’s hand to the bat handle with a sharp lifter. The next delivery was quick and fuller; Ganguly drove loosely and edged to Hussain at third slip. It ended a six-hour vigil of elegance and composure. Tendulkar continued, unhurried and unflinching, until he fell for a masterful 177. Manjrekar added solidity with a half-century, and Rahul Dravid followed his Lord’s 95 with a poised 84. If this series was to be remembered for anything, it would be the arrival of a generation—Ganguly and Dravid, twin pillars emerging in the twilight of a defeat.

India’s 521 felt commanding, but not unassailable. England ended the day on 32 without loss, having endured probing spells from Srinath and Prasad. Dravid shelled a tough chance at slip to reprieve Atherton on nought—just as Atherton had done for Tendulkar. The symmetry was poetic, the consequences tangible.

The Art of Endurance

Atherton grafted through England’s reply with customary tenacity. A batsman of the grindstone, he survived multiple plays and misses, twice edging through slip, but refused to yield. Stewart looked composed before being dubiously given caught behind. Hussain, in contrast, was the epitome of assertiveness—stroking 25 off his first 16 balls and eventually reaching his second hundred in three Tests. The Indians were certain he had nicked one off Tendulkar on 74, but luck stayed with him.

Hussain’s innings ended not with dismissal but with misfortune—a fractured index finger sustained in the final over of the third day. He would not resume. Atherton, left to anchor the innings, compiled 160 across seven and a half hours—a monument of will, if not fluency. England averted the follow-on and meandered to a narrow lead of 43. Ealham, on debut, chipped in with an assured 51—underscoring England’s continued investment in all-rounders.

A Futile Pursuit of Closure

The match, by this point, had entered a formal rehearsal toward a draw. Yet there were moments to cherish. Ealham, brimming with energy, claimed four wickets in India’s second innings. Tendulkar, again, stroked his way to 74, never hurried, always in command. Ganguly, chasing the unprecedented feat of three consecutive centuries in his first three innings, fell to Cork—ambition thwarted, but reputation intact.

England’s bowlers toiled to dismiss India on the final day—commendable, given the pitch’s indifference. The effort came too late to change the course of the match but did serve to restore a sense of pride.

The curtain fell not with drama, but with a muted applause—an acknowledgement of artistry, grit, and transitions. England won the series 1–0, but the true inheritance of the summer lay in the emergence of a new Indian middle order. The Ganguly-Dravid era had begun. Tendulkar, already monarch of the Indian game, had found his court.

Thank You 

Faisal Caesar 

The Elegy at Lord’s: Debutant Brilliance, Russell’s Resistance, and Dickie Bird’s Last Bow

There are cricket matches that turn tides, and others that etch themselves into memory not for results, but for resonances. The Lord’s Test of 1996, nestled amid the roars of Euro ’96 and England’s footballing fervour, was one such match—a contest where endings and beginnings danced side by side. The occasion marked the farewell of Dickie Bird, the beloved umpire whose presence had for decades personified the soul of cricketing fairness, even as it witnessed the luminous arrivals of two Indian debutants who would go on to define an era.

Few gave India a chance. Just days earlier, they had folded meekly against Derbyshire in a tour match that barely lasted two days. The Lord’s pitch, tinged with green and uncertainty, had drawn a suspicious eye from captain Mohammad Azharuddin. Yet, from this malaise rose a stirring performance powered by two untested but unflinching young men—Sourav Ganguly and Rahul Dravid—who, with willow in hand, reimagined the temperament and poise of Indian batsmanship on foreign soil.

Bird’s Last Stand, and a Decision of Boldness

As the match began, attention drifted not toward any player, but toward a figure in the white coat who walked out through a guard of honour: Harold “Dickie” Bird, in his 66th and final Test. His exit would be ceremonial; his authority, as unwavering as ever. In the very first over, he sent England’s captain Michael Atherton back lbw, and in his final act, gave Jack Russell out leg-before—his decisions framing a Test career that symbolized impartiality amidst increasing spectacle.

Overshadowed by Bird’s farewell was Azharuddin’s bold and contentious decision to bowl first—for the second time at Lord’s. His previous attempt, in 1990, had led to Gooch’s triple-century and England’s colossal 653. But this was a different surface, draped in cloud and humidity, offering promises to seam. More tellingly, Azhar seemed unconvinced by his own batting line-up.

Russell and the Revival

It looked, for a time, a masterstroke. England tumbled to 107 for five, their innings held together not by pedigree but perseverance. Jack Russell, the eccentric yet unflappable wicketkeeper-batsman, anchored the innings with a century built on grit and patience. He batted for over six hours, his posture and stance betraying every convention, yet surviving every examination. The innings was as much performance art as sporting endeavour. It wasn’t just that Russell scored 124—it was the way he denied India momentum, balancing fragility with tenacity.

India’s seamers—Srinath and Prasad—were relentless, but lacked the support of a reliable third option. Mhambrey struggled with consistency; Kumble, uncharacteristically toothless, failed to exert control. Worse still, India’s perennial difficulty with bowling to left-handers allowed England to stretch to 344, an innings that lasted deep into the second afternoon and veiled more than it revealed.

The Arrival of a New Generation

What followed altered India’s cricketing trajectory.

Sourav Ganguly walked in at No. 3 on debut, the iconic slope of Lord’s before him, history behind. Composed, assured, and elegant, he batted as if the weight of Indian batting failures overseas had no claim on him. His 131—laced with 20 fours—was not just an innings, but a manifesto. Raised in the low-bounce dust of Calcutta, where the ball often whispers off the surface, Ganguly’s comfort on the slow, seaming pitch made a mockery of his exclusion from the First Test.

If Ganguly was flourish, Rahul Dravid was foundation. The Bangalorean, all caution and clarity, constructed a near-century of substance. His 95 was a study in Test-match temperament. Had he reached the milestone, it would have marked the first time two debutants from the same team had scored centuries in a single Test—a record narrowly denied. Yet the pairing had already written a chapter of Indian cricket’s future.

India took a slender but significant lead of 85. Yet in a puzzling turn, rather than press for a result, the Indian camp sent out Prasad to bat after Dravid’s dismissal, instead of declaring and exploiting England’s mental fatigue. That decision—to chase certainty over opportunity—may have cost India more than just time.

The Slow Burn and the Missed Win

England’s second innings was no rescue act, but a measured battle for survival. At 168 for six, only 83 ahead, they were again on the brink. Alec Stewart, returned to the XI in place of the injured Nick Knight, scored 66—an innings that silenced doubts about his recall. But it was Russell, again, who held the line. With another half-century, he ensured England did not collapse under the weight of their own vulnerability.

The match drifted, not so much towards a stalemate as an exhibition of attritional cricket. India lacked the final thrust. The third seamer problem haunted them, and even as their opponents sat at the edge of defeat, they could not push them over.

By the time Dickie Bird raised his finger for the final time, Russell had spent over nine and a half hours across two innings at the crease—an anchor England had sorely needed in a stormy summer.

Overshadowed and Underappreciated

The match ended in a draw, but in truth, it was Ganguly and Dravid who had won. They had wrestled the narrative from England’s slow grind and inserted a new plot line for Indian cricket abroad—one based not on fear or fragility, but fearlessness and fortitude.

Still, the contest never truly captured the national imagination. On the Saturday afternoon, play paused—crowd and players momentarily entranced—not by cricket, but by the news from Wembley: England’s footballers had defeated Spain on penalties in the Euro '96 quarter-final. In that moment, it became clear that for much of the domestic audience, the beautiful game had temporarily eclipsed the longer one.

Epilogue

The Lord’s Test of 1996 was not a spectacle of dramatic finishes or emphatic victories. It was a subtle symphony—of arrivals, farewells, and nearly-forgotten heroics. Bird exited cricket’s grandest stage with the dignity of a statesman. Russell reinforced his status as the understated saviour. And two Indian youngsters—one princely, the other monk-like—quietly changed the language of Indian Test cricket forever.

Thank You 

Faisal Caesar 

Sourav Ganguly: The Prince, the Provocateur, and the Paradigm-Shift

In the epic theatre of Indian cricket, few characters have inspired as much polarisation, reverence, and scrutiny as Sourav Ganguly. He was not merely a cricketer; he was a disruptor — a man who challenged orthodoxy with a rakish smile and wielded leadership like a rapier. You could not be indifferent to him. He provoked passion, adulation, and fury in equal measure. He was either your prince or your pariah. There was no middle ground.

The Making of a Prince

The Ganguly saga began, fittingly, in the grandeur of a Ranji Trophy final. At 17, thrust into Bengal's XI by Sambaran Banerjee — replacing his elder brother no less — Ganguly arrived not merely as a player but as a symbol of bold intent. That he bowled only six overs and scored 22 runs mattered little. His strokes between point and cover shimmered with promise. A new star had whispered its arrival.

In the years that followed, Ganguly's legend took root not through consistent public appearances but through whispers, stories, and anecdotes from Park Street to St. Xavier’s — of regal arrogance, monstrous sixes, and unbowed defiance. The nickname "Maharaj" was not without cause.

From Promising Talent to Exile

His initial foray into international cricket was ignominious — a forgettable Gabba ODI and tales of insubordination. He returned home, branded spoilt and overhyped. It would be four years before redemption came — and when it did, it came at Lord's, the very cathedral of cricket, in the form of an immaculate 131 on debut. The off-side was his kingdom, and he ruled it like a monarch. Then came a second hundred at Trent Bridge. Indian cricket, long steeped in hierarchy and restraint, had found a left-handed counterpoint to its classical right-handed maestros.

The Great Partnership and the Rise of a Modern India

Ganguly’s alliance with Tendulkar in ODIs became the stuff of legend. Together, they rewrote the language of opening partnerships — not through brute force, but through elegance and calculated aggression. Their 8,000+ runs as a pair remain unmatched. While Tendulkar was the stoic monk, Ganguly was the passionate warrior — unafraid to dance down the pitch or pick fights with the world's fiercest bowlers.

This new Indian side — loud, fearless, confrontational — was moulded in Ganguly’s image. He made Steve Waugh wait at the toss, bared his chest at Lord’s, and batted with a flourish that could be both reckless and regal. His leadership wasn’t just strategic; it was symbolic. India was no longer submissive. Under him, they went toe-to-toe with Australia, dominated Pakistan, and believed they could win overseas.

The Stylistic Soul of Sourav Ganguly: A Study in Contrasts and Conviction

Sourav Ganguly’s love affair with cricket was born not from brute force or volume of statistics, but from the seduction of style. It began with a televised vision — the elegant, nonchalant strokeplay of David Gower, whose artistry first drew the young boy from Behala into the game. Ganguly confessed to watching Gower’s videos repeatedly, mesmerised by the left-hander’s grace — the soft tap of willow on leather, the flourish of a cover drive. The image lingered, and it shaped the aesthetic foundations of his own game.

But Gower was not alone in that pantheon of early influences. From the gritty defiance of David Boon, the enduring composure of Mohinder Amarnath, the lion-hearted swagger of Kapil Dev, to the pragmatic resilience of Allan Border, Ganguly absorbed a composite cricketing philosophy — one that prized flair but was grounded in fight. It would serve him well in the turbulent years to come.

The Monarch of the Off-Side

To call Ganguly merely a left-handed batsman is to do a disservice to the poetry he could script through the off-side. His batting, particularly in his prime, was an ode to precision and timing. Debashish Dutta, in his biography Sourav Ganguly: The Maharaja of Cricket, captured it succinctly: Ganguly’s dominion was the off-side — the square cut, the square drive, and the imperious cover drive were weapons he wielded with imperial command. Few field settings could stifle him; fewer bowlers could contain him once he found his rhythm.

Rahul Dravid, never one to bestow praise lightly, famously remarked that Ganguly was “next to God on the off-side.” It wasn’t hyperbole — Ganguly’s ability to carve boundaries through packed covers or pierce backward point with minimal backlift made him one of the most dangerous stroke-makers of his era. His balance allowed him to play those shots both off the front and back foot, and when in flow, he looked as if he were sketching his strokes onto the canvas of a summer afternoon.

Yet for all his elegance on one flank, demons were lurking on the other.

The Flaws That Humanised the Hero

The hook and pull — those necessary tools against the hostile fast bowling of Australia and South Africa — remained Ganguly’s Achilles heel, particularly in the early stages of his career. His attempts at horizontal-batted counterpunches often resulted in mistimed misadventures, and his vulnerability against the short-pitched ball became a well-documented tactic for opponents. But to his credit, Ganguly never allowed pride to cloud learning. After his much-publicised exile and subsequent comeback in 2007, he consciously worked on these deficiencies. While he never quite mastered the short ball, he certainly became more measured in how he addressed it.

Another flaw, less technical and more instinctive, was his running between the wickets. Amrita Daityari, in Sourav Ganguly: The Fire Within, described him as “notorious” for erratic calling — a trait that often endangered, and occasionally sacrificed, his partners. The most infamous of these mishaps came when Ganguly, on 99 in an ODI against Australia, failed to ground his bat despite having crossed the crease, resulting in a run-out that was equal parts tragic and telling. Ganguly would later admit, with characteristic candour, “I love to watch myself hit a cover drive, to watch myself hit a hundred.” That admission encapsulates the paradox of the man — an aesthete chasing milestones, sometimes at the cost of the mundane but essential details.

The Science of Aggression and the Dance Against Spin

In limited-overs cricket, Ganguly transformed his aestheticism into aggression. As an opener, he sought to dominate the bowlers during fielding restrictions, often using his feet to loft fast bowlers over extra cover and mid-off — a rare and audacious choice for his era. Against spin, particularly **left-arm orthodox**, he was a force of nature. His sharp eye and quick feet allowed him to dance down the pitch and deposit the ball — with a high, disdainful flourish — deep into the stands over mid-on or midwicket. His battles with the likes of Ashley Giles and Daniel Vettori became compelling subplots in India’s batting narrative.

Still, for all his elegance, he was never a complete athlete in the modern sense. While he took 100 catches in ODIs — a feat many athletic fielders have not achieved — his ground fielding was often sluggish. **Vinod Tiwari**, in his biography of Ganguly, admired his catching tally but lamented his lack of agility and his tendency to succumb to minor injuries during fielding stints. This duality summed up Ganguly well: spectacular in moments, flawed in motion.

The Wright Partnership: A Symbiosis that Reshaped Indian Cricket

Perhaps one of the most critical partnerships in Ganguly’s journey came not with bat in hand, but through strategy and structure — his alliance with **John Wright**, India’s first foreign coach. Their relationship, often described as “symbiotic,” changed the culture of Indian cricket. Together they recognised that talent alone was insufficient. They championed fitness, discipline, and scientific preparation, building a system that could endure beyond brilliance.

Dubeyin his assessment of the era, credited Ganguly and Wright — alongside veterans like Tendulkar and Dravid — with ushering in a revolution. For the first time, India acknowledged the limitations of its domestic coaching model and embraced global best practices. Wright's method and Ganguly’s aggression coalesced into a vision — one where young players were nurtured, expectations were raised, and mediocrity was no longer acceptable.

Sourav Ganguly was never perfect — and that was precisely what made him magnetic. His career was a mosaic of contradictions: regal and rustic, poetic and political, flamboyant and flawed. He brought artistry to aggression and rebellion to a game long ruled by silence. Through every cover drive, every misjudged single, every captains’ toss mind-game, he shaped modern Indian cricket not just through numbers, but through narrative.

The Swinging Arm of a Part-Time Disruptor

As a bowler, Ganguly was an opportunist. His right-arm medium pace wasn’t intimidating, but it was useful — particularly when breaking partnerships or drying up runs. He could swing the ball both ways, often outwitting batsmen with his subtle variations and surprising movement. While his bowling average never entered the realm of the elite, his knack for timely wickets often changed the course of games.

Captaincy and the Transformation of Indian Cricket

It is here that Ganguly's true legacy lies. He took over a side reeling from match-fixing scandals and rebuilt it brick by gritty brick. He backed young, unproven talents — Harbhajan, Sehwag, Yuvraj, Dhoni, Zaheer — and gave them long ropes. He wasn’t afraid to defy the seniority-based culture. His biggest achievement was cultural: he made India believe that victory abroad was not a dream but a demand.

Yet, his captaincy was often defined more by symbolism than statistics. Only one Test series win outside Asia — in Bangladesh. A 2003 World Cup final, but no title. His sides often rose to the occasion but faltered at the final hurdle. Still, in the broader canvas of Indian cricketing history, Ganguly was the Renaissance king — not the one who finished the masterpiece, but the one who brought the brush and shattered the old frame.

The Fall, and the Chappell War

Every icon meets a nemesis. For Ganguly, it was Greg Chappell — an austere Australian with little room for sentiment. The battle was not just personal; it was philosophical. Ganguly, by then insecure in form and influence, found himself under siege. Chappell’s leaked email to the BCCI, scathing in tone and damning in content, portrayed a captain who had lost the dressing room.

What followed was theatre — injuries real and imagined, threats of withdrawal, dressing room intrigues, and nationwide protests. Kolkata erupted. Chappell became a villain, Dravid was seen as the silent enabler, and Ganguly was cast in the tragic role of the ousted king.

The Resurrection: One Last Roar

But Ganguly was never one to fade quietly. He clawed his way back, remoulded his technique, and reasserted himself in 2006–07. He scored over 1,100 Test runs in 2007 — his finest year — including a double hundred against Pakistan and impactful tours of England and Australia. His 87 at Kanpur against a red-hot South African pace battery was a vintage exhibition of grit and class.

Then, as all great tales demand, he bowed out on his own terms in 2008 — with a century against Australia and a farewell befitting a warrior-turned-elder statesman.

Legacy of a Contradictory Giant

Statistically, Ganguly sits comfortably among Indian cricket’s elite: 11,000+ ODI runs, over 7,000 in Tests, and countless memorable moments. But his greatness transcends numbers. He was India’s attitude shift. He made the team walk with shoulders squared, eyes levelled. He challenged traditions, poked the bear, and made pride a weapon.

But he was also flawed — politically reactive, sometimes insecure, and prone to vanity. His battles with coaches and teammates, his public jabs at Dravid, his alleged favouritism — these are scars on an otherwise glittering career.

Yet, even in those contradictions lies his greatness. He was not a cardboard hero. He was human — passionate, emotional, and fiercely devoted to Indian cricket’s growth.

Coda: The Maharaj Remains

Today, as a commentator and administrator, Ganguly continues to provoke, entertain, and lead. His voice — blunt, bold, and free from diplomatic varnish — remains relevant in an age of media-trained dullness.

To quote Boycott, he was indeed the "Prince of Calcutta" — not merely for where he came from, but for how he ruled the narrative. For better or worse, he brought fire to Indian cricket. And for that alone, his place in history is secure — not as the perfect cricketer, but as the irreplaceable one.

Thank You

Faisal Caesar 

 

The Somerset Symphony: Ganguly and Dravid’s Masterclass Against Sri Lanka

The 1999 ICC Cricket World Cup witnessed its fair share of drama, but few encounters captured the imagination like India’s emphatic victory over Sri Lanka at Taunton. With both teams facing must-win scenarios to keep their campaigns alive, the stakes were high. What unfolded was a batting masterclass that etched Sourav Ganguly and Rahul Dravid’s names into cricketing folklore.

The Context: A Battle of Redemption

Both India and Sri Lanka entered the match with their World Cup hopes hanging by a thread. The defending champions, Sri Lanka, had endured a torrid start, including a humiliating defeat to England in the tournament opener and a subsequent loss to South Africa. Though they managed to defeat Zimbabwe, their campaign lacked the spark that had defined their 1996 triumph.

India’s journey was no less turbulent. A loss to South Africa at Hove was followed by an emotional defeat to Zimbabwe, compounded by the absence of Sachin Tendulkar, who had returned home to mourn his father’s passing. Tendulkar’s return against Kenya brought a century that reignited India’s hopes, but the clash against Sri Lanka remained a do-or-die encounter. Adding to the pressure was India’s dismal World Cup record against Sri Lanka, having lost all three previous encounters.

The Stage is Set

The picturesque County Ground in Taunton, with its short boundaries and firm pitch, promised runs. Sri Lanka’s captain, Arjuna Ranatunga, chose to bowl first, banking on his bowlers to exploit the early conditions. Chaminda Vaas struck early, producing a classic delivery that moved late to bowl Sadagoppan Ramesh. At 6 for 1, India’s innings could have unraveled. Instead, it marked the beginning of a partnership for the ages.

Dravid’s Early Carnage

Known for his stoic approach, Rahul Dravid surprised everyone by launching a counterattack. After a cautious start, he unleashed a flurry of boundaries, driving, flicking, and cutting with precision. Ganguly, typically the aggressor, played the supporting role as Dravid raced to 38 off 25 balls. By the 10th over, India had surged to 71 for 1, forcing Ranatunga to remove Vaas from the attack after a costly five-over spell.

Dravid’s assault set the tone, but it was Ganguly who would dominate the latter stages of the innings.

The Ganguly-Dravid Show

As the partnership grew, so did the run rate. Dravid reached his century off 102 balls, showcasing his ability to adapt to the situation. Ganguly, meanwhile, shifted gears with surgical precision, lofting Aravinda de Silva and Muttiah Muralitharan for towering sixes. His hundred came off 119 balls, and what followed was pure carnage.

Murali, Sri Lanka’s ace spinner, bore the brunt of the assault. His second spell went for 39 runs in three overs as Ganguly and Dravid dismantled the bowling attack with disdain. The pair added 264 runs for the second wicket, breaking the record for the highest second-wicket partnership in ODI history.

The Final Flourish

The dismissal of Dravid, run out for a scintillating 145 off 129 balls, did little to halt India’s momentum. Ganguly continued to dominate, smashing boundaries and clearing the ropes with ease. His innings of 183 off 158 balls included 17 fours and 7 sixes, equaling Viv Richards’ record for most sixes in an ODI innings at the time.

India finished with a mammoth 373 for 7, the second-highest total in World Cup history at that point. The last nine overs yielded an astonishing 122 runs, underscoring the ferocity of the Indian assault.

Sri Lanka’s Faint Response

Chasing 374 was always going to be a daunting task, and Sri Lanka’s hopes were dashed early. Javagal Srinath ran out Sanath Jayasuriya in the third over, while Romesh Kaluwitharana fell leg-before shortly after. Marvan Atapattu and Aravinda de Silva provided brief resistance, but the target was insurmountable.

Robin Singh emerged as the unsung hero with the ball, claiming 5 for 31 in 9.3 overs. His efforts ensured Sri Lanka were bowled out for 216, handing India a resounding 157-run victory and a much-needed boost to their net run rate.

A Tale of Redemption and Records

This match was more than just a victory; it was a statement. Ganguly’s 183 remains one of the greatest innings in World Cup history, while Dravid’s back-to-back centuries underscored his adaptability. The partnership of 324 runs not only shattered records but also symbolized India’s resurgence in the tournament.

Robin Singh’s bowling heroics, though overshadowed by the batting fireworks, played a crucial role in securing the win. His five-wicket haul, the best by an Indian in a World Cup at the time, highlighted the team’s all-round performance.

In the annals of cricket, the Taunton epic stands as a testament to the power of partnerships, the unpredictability of the sport, and the resilience of a team determined to fight against the odds. It was a day when Ganguly and Dravid turned the cricket field into their canvas, painting a masterpiece that would be remembered for generations.

Thank You 

Faisal Caesar 

Bangladesh’s Journey to Test Cricket: A Dream Forged in Resilience and Passion

On November 10, 2000, Bangladesh made its long-awaited entry into the prestigious realm of Test cricket, playing its first match against India. For many Bangladeshis, it was a deeply emotional moment—a dream nurtured through decades of struggle, passion, and unrelenting perseverance. Cricket, which had once struggled to gain a foothold amid the nation’s soccer obsession, now stood on the grandest stage of all. This was not just a victory on the field but a triumph of spirit for a country that had fought many battles, both sporting and existential, since its independence in 1971.

Skepticism and Struggles: The Road to Recognition

When the ICC granted Bangladesh Test status on June 26, 2000, the decision was met with widespread scepticism. Renowned ex-cricketers and critics around the world questioned the ICC’s move, dismissing Bangladesh as ill-prepared for the challenges of Test cricket. Few understood the arduous journey this small nation had undertaken—a journey built on love for the game despite systemic neglect and an uphill battle for recognition.

In the aftermath of independence, cricket’s presence in Bangladesh was fragile at best. Soccer dominated the sports scene, and cricket struggled to survive in its shadow. Even seasoned cricket observers doubted the game’s future here. In an article for The Sunday Times, the eminent writer Robin Marlar reminisced about the golden days at Dhaka Stadium during the East Pakistan era, expressing sorrow that cricket seemed to have vanished from the newly independent Bangladesh. To him, cricket in this part of the world was lost to history.  

But Syed Ashraful Haq, a passionate cricket enthusiast and later a key figure in the Bangladesh Cricket Board (BCB), knew otherwise. At the time pursuing his studies in England, Haq responded to Marlar’s article, informing him that cricket still thrived in Bangladesh, albeit away from the spotlight. This exchange sparked a meaningful relationship between the two men, culminating in Marlar’s 1978 visit to Bangladesh with an MCC team, marking a key milestone in the nation’s cricketing revival.  

Building the Foundation: Bangladesh’s Early International Forays

The late 1970s were pivotal for Bangladesh’s cricketing journey. Marlar’s tour with the MCC squad to Rajshahi Stadium was greeted by an overwhelming crowd, demonstrating that the nation’s passion for cricket had never truly waned. Young Raqibul Hasan’s valiant innings in that match signalled Bangladesh’s entry into international cricket, reigniting hope that the sport had a future in the country. With support from the government, cricket began to flourish, and in due course, Bangladesh gained associate membership in the ICC.  

Throughout the 1980s, Bangladesh played against visiting provincial Indian teams, MCC squads, and emerging cricket nations like Sri Lanka. These matches, though limited in scope, provided crucial exposure to international cricket. However, the results often highlighted the gulf in class between Bangladesh and its more established counterparts. Dilip Doshi, leading a Bengal team to Dhaka, candidly remarked that Bangladesh lacked quality off-spinners and struggled against spin—a sobering reminder of the work that lay ahead.

A Turning Point: Imran Khan’s Pakistan Visit in 1988 

The watershed moment in Bangladesh’s cricketing evolution came with Pakistan’s 1988 tour. Led by the charismatic Imran Khan and featuring stars like Wasim Akram and Abdul Qadir, the visitors completely outclassed the Bangladesh side. However, the tour ended on an unexpected high. Rafiqul Alam, a mercurial talent, unleashed a blistering counter-attack on Pakistan’s bowlers, thrilling the Dhaka crowd and leaving a lasting impression.  

At the end of the series, Imran Khan made a remarkable prediction: Bangladesh cricket was on the rise and, with time, would make its mark on the international stage. He praised the potential of players like Golam Nawsher Prince and Azhar Hossain Shantu, fueling newfound optimism within Bangladesh’s cricketing community. Imran’s words sparked a cultural shift—players, officials, and fans began to believe that Test cricket was an achievable dream, provided the team was given enough exposure.  

Close Calls and Heartbreak: The ICC Trophy Campaigns

Throughout the 1990s, Bangladesh’s progress was steady but often thwarted at the final hurdle. In successive ICC Trophy finals, the team came agonizingly close to qualifying for the World Cup, only to be denied by a dominant Zimbabwe side. These near-misses were painful reminders that history is not made without struggle.  

The heartbreak continued in 1994 when a highly favoured Bangladesh team faltered against the emerging sides of Kenya and UAE. Despite these setbacks, the team showed promise by competing well in the SAARC tournament against the second-tier sides of Pakistan, India, and Sri Lanka. Beating India A in the group stages and finishing as runners-up signalled that Bangladesh was closing the gap with more established teams.  

A Dream Realized: The 1997 ICC Trophy Victory

Finally, in 1997, Bangladesh exorcized its demons with a historic victory in the ICC Trophy final against Kenya in Kuala Lumpur. Led by Akram Khan, the team held its nerve in a tense finish, earning qualification for the 1999 World Cup—a defining moment in the nation’s cricketing journey. The victory was a symbol of the team’s resilience and determination, as well as a testament to the growing cricket culture in Bangladesh.  

Bangladesh’s World Cup debut in 1999 was a mixed campaign, but the victory over Pakistan sent shockwaves through the cricketing world. The win proved to sceptics that Bangladesh belonged on the global stage and prompted the ICC to seriously consider the Test status of the country. Inspections of the domestic structure revealed a sound infrastructure and the relentless lobbying by BCB officials further strengthened Bangladesh’s case.  

The Final Step: Test Status and Beyond

The journey to Test status was not merely the result of one or two standout performances. It was the culmination of years of lobbying, persistence, and belief—a collective effort involving players, coaches, and administrators. Key figures like Eddie Barlow, the national coach at the time, played an instrumental role in shaping the team and presenting Bangladesh’s case to the ICC.  

Finally, on June 26, 2000, the ICC granted Bangladesh full Test status, opening a new chapter in the nation’s cricketing history. The journey had been anything but smooth—marked by setbacks, heartbreaks, and relentless hard work. November 10, 2000, when Bangladesh took the field in their first Test, was not just the start of a match; it was the culmination of decades of passion, struggle, and belief.  

Conclusion: A Journey Worth Remembering

Bangladesh’s rise to Test cricket is not just a story of sporting achievement—it is a tale of resilience, cultural transformation, and unwavering passion. From being dismissed as underdogs to proving their worth on the global stage, the nation’s journey was long and arduous, filled with moments of despair and triumph. The critics who questioned Bangladesh’s entry into Test cricket failed to grasp the depth of its cricketing roots and the intensity of its aspirations.  

This was not a victory won overnight but the result of decades of tears, toil, and tenacity. It stands as a testament to the power of dreams—dreams that were forged in the hearts of those who refused to let the flame of cricket die, even when the odds seemed insurmountable.

Thank You

Faisal Caesar