Brisbane 1960-61: When Cricket Refused to Choose a Winner

The Run That Slowed Time

They did not so much run as steal—singles pinched between breaths, twos stolen from panic. The Australians touched the ball and ran like whippets, light on their feet, defiant against the gathering thunder of Wes Hall. Slowly, almost imperceptibly, the stranglehold loosened.

Alan Davidson had walked in with Australia reeling at 57 for 5, Hall raging like a force of nature. Richie Benaud joined him later, at 92 for 6, calm as a man who understood that the game had not yet revealed its final intention. Their plan was deceptively simple: scatter the field, scatter the minds. Push and run. Risk and reward.

Around them, belief flickered. In the dressing room, Wally Grout chain-smoked for two hours. Tailenders Ian Meckiff and Lindsay Kline watched the clock, the scoreboard, and their own mortality with growing dread. Even the commentators were unconvinced—Alan McGilvray left the ground at four o’clock, certain it was over. Sydney-bound spectators boarded planes. Many would later call it the greatest mistake of their lives.

Cricket, that afternoon at Brisbane, was preparing to defy certainty.

A Match Balanced on a Knife Edge

For four days, the first Test of the 1960–61 series had swung like a pendulum.

West Indies struck first through Garry Sobers, whose 132 was not merely an innings but an act of spellbinding theatre. Years later, when Lindsay Kline complimented him on “that wonderful 130,” Sobers corrected him softly: “It was 132.” Of all his hundreds, this one lingered closest to his heart.

Australia replied through attrition and courage. Norman O’Neill absorbed punishment to score 181. Bobby Simpson compiled 92. Colin McDonald limped to 57. And Alan Davidson—relentless, mechanical, inevitable—contributed everywhere: runs, wickets, control. Australia led by 52.

Then Davidson tilted the match entirely. His 6 for 87 in the second innings gave him 11 wickets in the game and set Australia 233 to win in 310 minutes. On paper, routine. In reality, fate was sharpening its blade.

Wes Hall was fresh. “Marvellously fresh,” he later wrote. New boots blistered his feet, but his pace burned hotter. Simpson fell for a duck. Harvey for five. O’Neill for 26. Mackay undone by Ramadhin. At 92 for 6, Australia teetered.

And then, Davidson and Benaud began to rewrite the afternoon.

Leadership Under Fire

At tea, Don Bradman approached his captain.

“What is it going to be?”

“We’re going for a win.”

“I’m very pleased to hear it.”

This was not bravado; it was doctrine. Bradman had urged positive cricket—play for the spectators, for the survival of the game itself. Benaud believed him.

The partnership that followed—136 runs—was constructed not only with strokes but with audacity. Davidson unfurled bold drives. Benaud harassed the field with restless feet. Overthrows followed. Tempers frayed. Frank Worrell alone remained serene, marshalling his men with calm authority.

This was leadership mirrored: Benaud’s aggression against Worrell’s composure, both men committed to attacking cricket, both refusing retreat.

With minutes remaining, Australia stood on the brink. Seven runs to win. Four wickets in hand.

And then—disaster.

Joe Solomon’s throw ran out Davidson. The man who had defined the match was gone. Momentum shifted. Nerves screamed.

Eight Balls That Shook the Game

Six runs were required from the final eight-ball over—an Australian peculiarity that now felt like destiny.

Hall struck Grout painfully. Benaud called him through for a single. Then Hall disobeyed his captain and bowled a bouncer. Benaud hooked—and gloved it to Alexander.

Five runs needed. Two wickets left.

What followed bordered on madness.

A bye stolen through chaos. A top edge ballooning in the air. Hall colliding with Kanhai and dropping the catch. A desperate two saved by uncut grass. Conrad Hunte’s throw—flat, fierce, perfect—ran out Grout. Scores tied.

Last ball. Last wicket.

Worrell whispered to Hall: “Don’t bowl a no-ball.”

Hall complied. Kline nudged. Solomon swooped. One stump visible. One throw required.

It hit.

Pandemonium erupted. Players celebrated, mourned, argued. Radios announced a West Indies win. Others whispered uncertainty. Only slowly did the truth emerge.

It was a tie.

Don Bradman told Davidson quietly, “You’ve made history.”

Beyond the Result: Why This Match Mattered

There have been only two tied Tests in cricket history. Brisbane, 1960. Chennai, 1986. Both unforgettable. Yet Brisbane stands above, not merely because it was first—but because it changed the trajectory of the game.

Test cricket, in the late 1950s, was drifting toward irrelevance. Crowds were thinning. Administrators worried. Then came five days at the Gabba that restored belief.

Frank Worrell’s appointment as the first non-white West Indies captain was itself revolutionary. His insistence on unity over island loyalties forged a team greater than its parts. Richie Benaud’s Australia, emerging from post-Bradman decline, embraced attack as philosophy.

Together, they produced not just a classic match—but a manifesto.

Jack Fingleton called it “Cricket Alive Again.”

The Australians won the series 2–1. The West Indies won something larger: hearts, respect, and immortality. Melbourne gave them a ticker-tape farewell. A peanut farmer kept the match ball, refusing £50 for history.

Epilogue: When Cricket Refused to Die

If cricket ever needed saving, it was saved here—not by victory, but by balance; not by domination, but by courage.

On a day when spectators left early, when commentators surrendered, when certainty seemed assured, cricket refused to choose a winner.

And in that refusal, it found its soul.

Viv Richards’ 192 Against India in Delhi: A Portrait of Genius in Its Infancy

 

In cricket’s vast and storied chronicles, few innings resonate with the raw vitality of Viv Richards’ 192 against India at Delhi in 1974. It was more than an innings; it was a harbinger of a revolution in batting. Here, on the uneven terrain of the Feroz Shah Kotla, a 22-year-old Richards etched a performance that was both an act of defiance and a statement of destiny.

Richards, not yet the regal figure who would dominate the 1980s, was still in his formative years. Yet, this innings bore all the hallmarks of the legend to come: fearlessness, elegance, and an almost visceral understanding of the game’s rhythm. It was as though the cricketing gods had momentarily unveiled their plans for the young Antiguan, allowing the world a glimpse of his impending greatness.

The Stage and the Context

The mid-1970s West Indies team was at a crossroads. The Garry Sobers era had ended, leaving behind a legacy difficult to emulate. However, a new generation—Richards, Gordon Greenidge, and Andy Roberts—was beginning to rise, bringing with it a fresh wave of optimism.

India, under the leadership of Ajit Wadekar, had grown formidable at home. Their historic triumphs in England and the West Indies in 1971 had elevated their status, and the Kotla, with its dusty, unpredictable pitch, had often been a graveyard for visiting batsmen.

The series, however, had begun disastrously for India. In the first Test at Bengaluru, the West Indies dismantled the hosts by 267 runs. The absence of Sunil Gavaskar, India’s batting colossus, due to a finger injury, further weakened their chances. In Delhi, the Indian batting faltered once again, managing only 220 on the first day. Parthasarathy Sharma’s gritty 54 and Naik’s 48 were the lone bright spots in an otherwise dismal display.

The West Indies, on a slow and uncertain pitch, began cautiously. The Indian spinners—Bedi, Prasanna, and Venkataraghavan—worked tirelessly, reducing the visitors to 123 for four. It was then that Clive Lloyd, with a whirlwind 71, shifted the momentum, paving the way for Richards to take centre stage.

The Innings: A Symphony of Patience and Power

Richards’ innings was a study in contrasts. It began with restraint, an acknowledgement of the pitch’s challenges and the quality of India’s spinners. Yet, even in his caution, there was an air of authority. His footwork was nimble, his judgment precise. Against Bedi, he advanced down the track with the confidence of a man unburdened by doubt, driving with elegance through the covers. Against Prasanna, the wily purveyor of flight and guile, Richards’ defence was impenetrable, his occasional attacking strokes decisive.

As his innings progressed, Richards shed his initial caution. The latter half of his knock was a spectacle of controlled aggression. His last 92 runs came at a brisk pace, punctuated by five towering sixes and a flurry of boundaries. Each stroke seemed to carry a message: the young Richards was not merely surviving; he was thriving, dictating terms to bowlers who had humbled many before him.

The Psychology of Dominance

Beyond the runs, it was the psychological impact of Richards’ innings that stood out. Even as a novice, he exuded an aura of invincibility. His body language—calm, assured, and commanding—unnerved the Indian bowlers. The quick singles, the disdainful flicks, and the occasional audacious six over long-on were acts of both artistry and intimidation.

Richards’ dominance was not confined to the scoreboard; it extended to the fielders’ minds. India’s famed spinners, accustomed to dictating terms on their home turf, seemed increasingly bereft of ideas. The Kotla crowd, known for its vocal support, grew quieter with each stroke that pierced the field.

The Narrative of Triumph

Richards’ 192 was more than a display of technical brilliance; it was a narrative of triumph over adversity. The Kotla pitch, with its capricious behaviour, symbolized life’s unpredictability. The Indian bowlers, masters of their craft, represented the formidable obstacles one must overcome to achieve greatness. The young protagonist, Richards met these challenges with a blend of artistry and defiance.

His cover drives were like brushstrokes on a canvas, each a testament to his aesthetic sensibilities. His hooks and pulls were acts of rebellion, a refusal to be confined by the conditions or the opposition’s plans. The innings, punctuated by moments of audacity and brilliance, promised the greatness that lay ahead.

The Aftermath and Legacy

India, chasing an improbable target after conceding a 273-run first-innings deficit, showed some resistance through Engineer and Sharma. However, a rain-affected pitch on the final day sealed their fate. Lance Gibbs, with his match haul of eight wickets, ensured a comprehensive victory for the West Indies.

Richards’ 192 remains a landmark innings, not merely for its statistical significance but for its symbolic value. It was the knock that announced his arrival on the world stage, a precursor to the dominance he would exert over bowlers in the decades to come.

A Reflection

In the words of CLR James, “What do they know of cricket who only cricket know?” Richards’ innings was not just a sporting achievement; it was a cultural moment. It transcended the game, becoming a work of art that continues to inspire. Like a young artist discovering his medium, Richards, in Delhi, found his voice—a voice that would echo through the corridors of cricketing history for years to come.

Even today, as we revisit that innings, it stands as a testament to the power of youthful ambition and the timeless appeal of cricket as a narrative of human endeavour. It was, and remains, a masterpiece of its time.

Thank You 

Faisal Caesar

Mohali 1994 - A Contest of Resilience and Ruthlessness

The West Indies, unbowed since March 1980, restored parity in the series, while India suffered the sting of their first home defeat in nearly seven years—a rupture in a proud fortress that had held since November 1988. What began as a contest delicately poised, with the West Indians scraping a meagre lead of 56 on first innings, transformed into a tale of ruthless intent, scripted by Walsh’s wounded body and Benjamin’s sudden fury.

Courtney Walsh, who had seemed more a doubtful participant than the captain of destiny, carried into Mohali the ache of a recurring whiplash injury. The neck brace that had threatened his place was discarded on the eve of battle, and fate rewarded the gamble: victory at the toss gave him rest, and the pitch—the truest surface of the series—gave him weapons.

A Stage Set for Endurance and Elegance

The third Test unfolded in Mohali, where the strip invited both patience and pace. The West Indies reverted to their elemental strength—four fast bowlers—at the cost of batsman Chanderpaul, while India entrusted Aashish Kapoor’s off-spin to supplement their attack. The stage was set for attrition, and yet the narrative swerved repeatedly between collapse and endurance.

Carl Hooper and Keith Arthurton nearly squandered the advantage of batting first, their impetuosity punished by a stand-in wicketkeeper, Sanjay Manjrekar, as illness sidelined Nayan Mongia. But Jimmy Adams, stoic and immovable, anchored the innings with a monumental 174 not out—his finest hour, a meditation on survival rendered in strokes rather than pads. Even Kumble, dulled but not defanged, found four wickets and edged towards his hundredth scalp.

For India, Manoj Prabhakar emerged as the counterpoint. Struck down once by Walsh’s ferocity—bowled cruelly off his helmet—he responded with defiance stretched across 405 minutes, crafting his maiden century after 36 Tests. When Srinath and Raju stitched together a record last-wicket stand, India crept within touching distance of the West Indian 443, their resistance a mixture of grit and stubborn pride.

The Counterattack of Caribbean Fire

The balance of the match tilted not in India’s endurance but in the Caribbean blaze of the second innings. Brian Lara, elevated to opener, unleashed his most dazzling innings of the tour—a 91 fashioned from audacity and counterpunches, his blade flashing against the Indian seamers. His dismissal, self-proclaimed by his own walk after a faint edge, only highlighted his command. Adams and Arthurton then quickened the pace, their unbroken stand of 145 in little more than an hour and a half giving Walsh the luxury of declaration.

Set 357, India were ambushed not by treachery in the pitch—still true, still honest—but by the menace of pace and the specter of injury. Walsh, bursting a ball through Prabhakar’s helmet grille to break his nose, unsettled more than bone: he fractured Indian confidence. What had been a game of patience now became a theatre of fear.

Collapse and Catharsis

The fifth morning was merciless. Walsh and Benjamin, operating like paired executioners, dismissed Tendulkar and Manjrekar within four overs. Short-pitched yet never reckless, their assault balanced cruelty with calculation, threading the two-bouncer-per-over law with surgical precision. By 68 for eight, India were reduced to rubble. Only Srinath and Raju, again, dared to resist, dragging the innings into a semblance of defiance. But when Cuffy entered the fray, his first over ended the final stand, and with it, India’s fortress fell.

Epilogue: The Weight of Legacy

This was more than a Test match; it was a reminder of West Indies’ undimmed muscle and India’s vulnerability beneath the veneer of invincibility at home. Walsh, once doubtful, emerged as both strategist and destroyer. Adams’ monumental innings stood as the anchor, Lara’s brilliance as the spark, Benjamin’s burst as the dagger thrust. For India, Prabhakar’s stoic vigil and Srinath’s defiance offered fleeting dignity in a narrative otherwise dominated by Caribbean pace and purpose.

History recorded numbers: 174 not out, 405 minutes, 91 from 104 balls, 68 for eight. Yet the deeper memory was of a contest where endurance met violence, patience bowed to power, and the truest pitch of the series became the truest mirror of the sides’ characters.

Thank You 

Faisal Caesar 

153: The Day Pace Bowed — Viv Richards’ Masterpiece at the MCG, 1979

A chronicling of authority, artistry, and audacity against Australia’s fiercest fast-bowling trinity.

On a December afternoon in 1979, before a crowd of 39,183 at the Melbourne Cricket Ground, pace—Australian pace—met an opposition it could not intimidate. Its conqueror stood alone, injured, defiant, and unyielding: Isaac Vivian Alexander Richards, 29 years old, limping on a damaged right hip, yet wielding his bat like an absolute monarch reclaiming territory.

What followed was not merely a cricket innings. It was a lesson in dominance, an exhibition of controlled aggression, and a performance that bent the one-day format into a new shape. Richards’ unbeaten 153 from 131 balls, blazing with 16 fours and a towering six, remains one of the most authoritative ODI innings ever played.

A Target Too Tall: West Indies Rise to 271/2

The match, part of the Benson & Hedges World Series Cup, saw the West Indies hammer 271 runs in 48 overs, an imposing total in the era before field restrictions, oversized bats, or boundary ropes pulled in for spectacle.

Richards’ assault found its anchor in a monumental 205-run stand with Desmond Haynes, whose own superb 80 was destined to be overshadowed by genius unfolding at the other end.

Haynes was fluent; Richards was transcendent.

Playing Against Pain, Against Medical Advice

That Richards played at all bordered on reckless bravery.

He was advised not to play the Brisbane Test due to a severe hip injury.

He played anyway, scoring 140.

He was then due for two weeks of intensive treatment in Sydney.

Instead, sensing West Indies needed his presence, he boarded a flight to Melbourne.

He received two injections the day before the game and refused a third before walking out to bat.

What he produced under physical duress belonged not to a medical report but to mythology.

“We have to start thinking of putting Viv in cotton wool,” captain Deryck Murray would later remark—an understatement after witnessing what a half-fit Richards could do.

When Pace Lost Its Power

Australia unleashed its trinity of menace:

Dennis Lillee

Jeff Thomson

Rodney Hogg

supported by the ever-reliable captain Greg Chappell.

Yet the MCG pitch that afternoon—heavy, slow, offering neither pace nor lift—proved deceptive. It was not a batting paradise; it was an arena where timing and balance mattered more than brute force. Many batsmen would have been undone by its uneven tempo. Richards used it as a stage.

He cut, pulled, hooked, caressed, and bludgeoned with equal composure. He struck boundaries not out of desperation but out of inevitability. His technique was stripped of flourish, reduced to essential stillness. Bowl to the pads—midwicket or mid-on would be pierced. Bowl wide—cover or mid-off would be bisected.

Fielders became spectators. Bowlers became supplicants.

Greg Chappell, beaten yet admiring, said:

 “Viv couldn’t play any better. It would have to be close to the best innings I have seen in a one-day game.”

Even Hogg, wicketless but valiant, could not restrain him. One shot became emblematic: Richards dancing down to Hogg, checking a drive mid-motion, then pulling him to the fence with casual disdain. It was improvisation elevated to art.

Melbourne Witnesses a One-Day Revolution

Richards’ 153 not out was the first ODI score above 150 outside England, a milestone that expanded the sport’s imagination. It was also one of the earliest demonstrations that one-day cricket could be dramatic, destructive, and deeply expressive.

When he reached 151, he finally offered a half-chance—Chappell misjudging a catch at deep mid-on. By then, the contest had already slipped far beyond hopes of revival.

Australia’s chase limped to 191/8, with Allan Border’s 44 the lone display of resistance. The West Indies won by 80 runs, but the margin mattered less than the memory.

Richards, typically understated, refused to glorify his performance:

“I wouldn’t really rate it. I’m just happy we won. Today is history—you’ve got to look forward all the time.”

Yet history had already been written.

A Perfect Ten: The Definitive ODI Innings

To call the innings flawless is not hyperbole; it is reportage. There was no better option Richards left unexplored, no alternative method that could have yielded more. His command of space, time, and pace was absolute.

Even if he had not scored another run that summer, this performance alone would have stamped his authority across the season. As the MCG crowd watched Hogg, Lillee, and Thomson rendered ineffective, they were witnessing something rare:

A batsman so supreme that conditions, reputation, and pain became irrelevant.

The Symbolism of That Afternoon

Richards’ innings transcended numbers. It challenged long-held assumptions:

That pace intimidates.

That injury weakens.

That conditions dictate.

That a one-day innings cannot be perfect.

Viv Richards shattered each notion with stillness, certainty, and elemental destruction.

On that Melbourne afternoon in 1979, pace met its match—and the match had a name.

Viv Richards.

Pakistan’s Historic Whitewash of the West Indies: A Systematic Dismantling

The West Indies tour of Pakistan was nothing short of a cricketing catastrophe for the Caribbean side. Once a dominant force in world cricket, the visitors were handed a resounding 3-0 whitewash by Pakistan, a result that not only exposed the deepening cracks in West Indian cricket but also underscored Pakistan’s growing supremacy in home conditions. The series played in a mix of overcast and bright conditions across three venues, highlighting the contrast between a disciplined, tactically astute Pakistan and a West Indian side in decline.

First Test: A False Dawn for the West Indies

The series opener set the tone for what was to come. Electing to bat first, the West Indies found themselves in early disarray at 58 for seven, with only a late fightback from wicketkeeper David Williams (31) and Curtly Ambrose (30) lifting them to a modest 151. Pakistan’s response was both methodical and ruthless. Saeed Anwar (69) and Ijaz Ahmed (64) built a solid foundation with a 133-run partnership before Inzamam-ul-Haq’s gritty, unbeaten 92 guided Pakistan to a formidable total. Inzamam, batting with a runner due to an ankle injury, was dropped thrice—mistakes that proved costly for the visitors.

Trailing by 230, the West Indies stumbled yet again. Brian Lara provided a brief spark with a fluent 36, but his dismissal to Azhar Mahmood on the second morning extinguished any hopes of a fightback. Opener Sherwin Campbell’s patient 66 was the only other resistance against Pakistan’s relentless bowling. Mushtaq Ahmed claimed a 10-wicket match haul, including five wickets in the second innings, while Wasim Akram’s devastating late in-swingers ensured Pakistan secured an emphatic victory by an innings and 19 runs within four days.

Second Test: Sohail and Inzamam Seal the Series

A chance for redemption turned into another painful lesson for the West Indies. Despite their best batting display of the series—303 in the first innings—Pakistan responded with sheer dominance. Sohail (160) and Inzamam (177) forged a monumental 323-run third-wicket stand, the largest ever conceded by the West Indies in Test cricket. Their marathon partnership ensured Pakistan amassed a massive lead, making the visitors’ fightback nearly impossible.

The West Indies began their second innings shakily, crumbling to 26 for three before Campbell and Hooper offered brief resistance. Hooper’s 73, highlighted by three towering sixes off Mushtaq, was the only bright spot in an otherwise familiar collapse. Waqar Younis, returning to form, claimed crucial wickets, including Lara’s with a searing in-swinging yorker that sent the left-hander tumbling to the ground. Pakistan wrapped up the match inside four days yet again, clinching their first Test series win over the West Indies in 39 years.

Third Test: The Final Nail in the Coffin

By the third Test, any lingering hopes of a West Indian revival had vanished. Pakistan’s opening pair of Sohail and Ijaz Ahmed shattered records with a 298-run stand, effectively batting the visitors out of the match. Their total of 417 was built on patience and discipline, attributes sorely lacking in the West Indies’ approach.

The Caribbean team’s batting woes continued as they collapsed from a promising 109 for one to 216 all out, unable to cope with the dual threat of Wasim Akram’s swing and Saqlain Mushtaq’s off-spin. Saqlain, making his first appearance in the series, made an immediate impact with nine wickets in the match, bamboozling the West Indian lineup with his variations.

Carl Hooper’s exhilarating 106 off 90 balls provided momentary entertainment, but the familiar pattern of West Indian collapses resumed soon after. Wasim’s late burst ensured that Pakistan only needed 12 runs to complete a historic whitewash, which they chased down with ease on the fourth morning.

Key Takeaways from the Series

1. West Indies’ Decline in Batting Standards

The series brutally exposed the technical and mental frailties in the West Indian batting lineup. Despite boasting world-class names like Lara and Hooper, the visitors failed to construct meaningful partnerships, often crumbling under pressure. Their collective inability to counter Pakistan’s varied attack was the defining factor in their defeat.

2. Pakistan’s Bowling Depth and Tactical Brilliance

Pakistan’s bowlers exploited conditions masterfully, with Mushtaq Ahmed leading the charge in the first two Tests and Saqlain Mushtaq proving unplayable in the final encounter. Wasim Akram and Waqar Younis provided relentless pace, while Azhar Mahmood’s timely breakthroughs further tilted the balance in the hosts’ favour.

3. Inzamam and Sohail: The Stars of Pakistan’s Batting

Inzamam-ul-Haq’s resilience, particularly in the first two Tests, proved crucial in building Pakistan’s commanding leads. His century in the second Test, after missing out in the first, showcased his ability to convert starts into match-winning innings. Sohail, under scrutiny due to earlier controversies, responded with two centuries and a record partnership, reaffirming his status as a top-order mainstay.

4. A Historic Whitewash and the Shift in Power

For Pakistan, this 3-0 triumph was not just a series win but a statement to the cricketing world. Defeating the West Indies in such a commanding fashion signified a power shift, as Pakistan reinforced its reputation as an emerging cricketing powerhouse. For the Caribbean side, however, the series served as a stark reminder of their waning dominance and the pressing need for introspection and rebuilding.

Conclusion

The West Indies arrived in Pakistan with aspirations of reversing their fortunes but departed with a chastening reality check. Pakistan’s clinical efficiency, strategic brilliance, and superior depth proved too overwhelming for the visitors, who struggled to cope with the relentless pressure. While individual flashes of brilliance from Hooper, Campbell, and Chanderpaul provided momentary relief, the overarching narrative remained one of Caribbean decline and Pakistani ascendancy.

This series was more than just a whitewash—it was a symbolic passing of the torch, as Pakistan emerged stronger, more disciplined, and more lethal, while the once-mighty West Indies were left to ponder their fall from grace. The echoes of this series would linger in cricketing discussions for years, a tale of dominance, decline, and the relentless evolution of the game.

Thank You

Faisal Caesar

The Lost Art of Resistance: Justin Greaves and the Day Test Cricket Remembered Itself

In an age where Test cricket increasingly borrows the impatience of limited-overs formats, the idea of batting for survival—once the game’s highest form of discipline—often feels antiquated. Defensive mastery, the ability to dull the ball, drain the bowlers, and stretch time until it bends, has become a rarity. Innovation, aggression, and risk-taking dominate modern narratives; attrition is frequently dismissed as anachronistic.

Yet at Christchurch, Test cricket briefly reclaimed its oldest truth. And the reminder came from a West Indies side many believed had forgotten how to play the longest format.

The Long Stand That Rewrote Momentum

Set an unprecedented target of 531 at Hagley Oval, West Indies appeared destined for defeat when they slipped to 92 for 4. What followed instead was an innings steeped in patience and resolve, anchored by Justin Greaves—a knock that resisted not just the bowling, but the assumptions of the era.

Greaves’ effort was monumental in both scale and symbolism. Facing 388 deliveries—more than half the balls he had encountered in his 12-Test career—he ground New Zealand’s attack into exhaustion. West Indies batted 163.3 overs in the fourth innings, their longest such occupation in 95 years, to secure their first points of the 2025–27 World Test Championship.

Initially playing second fiddle in a vital 196-run stand with Shai Hope, Greaves emerged as the fulcrum once Hope (140) and Tevin Imlach departed in quick succession. From that moment, the innings became his - unmistakably.

A Double Hundred Carved in Stone

Greaves’ maiden Test double century arrived fittingly late—in the penultimate over—when he sliced Jacob Duffy over backward point. It was only his second boundary of the final session. Teammates rose in unison, acknowledging an achievement built not on flourish but fortitude.

Finishing on 202 not out, Greaves transformed an innings that began with flair into one of pure steel. He absorbed blows to the body, suppressed instinctive attack, and batted with a single-minded clarity rarely seen today. Cramps forced multiple interventions, yet even the lure of personal milestones failed to provoke recklessness.

This was defence not as retreat, but as control.

Roach, the Veteran Ally

If Greaves was the architect, Kemar Roach was the immovable pillar. In his comeback Test at 37, Roach produced the finest batting display of his career: 58 not out off 233 balls, astonishingly scoring just five runs from his final 104 deliveries.

It was, at times, painful to watch—and glorious for that very reason. Under a baking Christchurch sun and on an increasingly docile surface, Roach played with the desperation of a man who understood time as his greatest weapon.

New Zealand’s frustration was unmistakable. Missed chances piled up: a dropped catch on 30, a missed run-out on 35, and a near-holing-out on 47—each reprieve deepening their misery. Even potential dismissals off Michael Bracewell slipped away, aggravated by reviews already squandered.

When the Pitch Offered Nothing—and Time Offered Everything

New Zealand entered the fourth innings already understaffed, with Matt Henry and Nathan Smith injured. By the final sessions, they were operating with two weary quicks—Zak Foulkes and Jacob Duffy—and two part-timers, all bowling beyond comfort without meaningful assistance from the surface.

Fields tightened, bodies crowded the bat, but breakthroughs refused to come. Even as Hope fell to a moment of brilliance from Tom Latham, and Imlach succumbed shortly after, the moment for decisive separation had passed.

By the final hour, West Indies—needing 96 from 15 overs—made their calculation. The impulse to chase gave way to realism. Defence became doctrine.

Numbers That Tell a Story

The scoreboard alone struggled to capture the magnitude:

202 made Greaves the fourth West Indian—and seventh overall—to score a fourth-innings double century.

He became the first visiting batter ever to do so in New Zealand.

His 388 balls are the most faced by any West Indies batter in a fourth innings, surpassing George Headley’s 385 in 1930.

West Indies’ 457 for 6 is the second-highest fourth-innings total in Test history, behind only England’s 654 for 5 in 1939.

Voices from the Middle

Greaves described the innings simply as resilience—a word echoed repeatedly within the dressing room.

“Once you get in, stay in; it’s a good pitch,” coach Floyd Reifer told him.

“So for me, being there at the end was really important. Anything for the team.”

Roach, whom Greaves credited as his guide through the closing stages, embodied that team-first ethic. Captain Roston Chase later confirmed the decisive call—to shut shop—was taken when survival clearly outweighed ambition.

New Zealand captain Tom Latham was gracious in defeat, acknowledging not just his team’s missed chances and injuries, but the quality of resistance they encountered.

 “Sometimes you have to give credit where it’s due,” Latham said.

 “The way West Indies played that fourth innings was pretty outstanding.”

Why This Draw Will Matter

In the end, West Indies did not win the match—but they won time, belief, and respect. The manner of this draw may prove more valuable than many victories: proof that Test cricket still rewards patience, that resistance remains an art, and that endurance can still command awe.

Christchurch did not produce a result. It produced something rarer—a reminder of what Test cricket looks like when courage outlasts momentum.

And on that long, sunburnt day, Justin Greaves reminded the game how to remember itself.

Thank You

Faisal Caesar 

Brian Lara’s Magnificent Redemption: The 2001 Sri Lanka Series

Cricket is a game of numbers, but its soul is shaped by narratives—tales of struggle, brilliance, and redemption. Among the sport’s greatest stories is that of Brian Charles Lara, a batsman whose genius was as uncontainable as it was unpredictable. The Trinidadian maestro, revered for his flamboyant strokeplay and audacious shot-making, carved his name into cricketing history with records that seemed almost mythical. His 375 against England in 1994, his unparalleled 501 not out in county cricket, and his reclaiming of the Test record with 400 not out in 2004 are etched into the annals of the game.

Yet, even the most dazzling stars endure periods of darkness. By late 2001, Lara’s brilliance had dimmed, his form erratic, his Test average slipping below the hallowed 50-mark. His last Test century had come nearly a year earlier, in December 2000, when he crafted an imperious 182 against Australia in Adelaide. Doubts crept in, critics questioned his fitness, and whispers of decline grew louder. It was against this backdrop that Lara embarked on the West Indies tour of Sri Lanka, seeking not just runs but redemption.

Setting the Stage: Lara’s Daunting Challenge

Lara, never one to back down from a challenge, set himself an audacious goal—he needed 647 runs in the three-Test series to restore his Test average to 50. Achieving this against Sri Lanka, in their own backyard, was a near-impossible task. The opposition was formidable, led by the mercurial off-spinner Muttiah Muralitharan and the ever-reliable Chaminda Vaas. Murali, who had evolved into one of the world’s finest spinners, would be operating on slow, turning tracks tailor-made for his craft.

The stage was set for an epic showdown. The West Indies were fragile, their batting unreliable, their bowling toothless on unresponsive wickets. Lara, however, remained their greatest hope—a solitary warrior against overwhelming odds.

The First Test: Galle - A Century of Defiance

The series commenced at Galle, a venue that would prove to be a battleground for cricketing artistry. When Lara walked out to bat, the West Indies were precariously placed at 95 for 2. He started cautiously, showing uncharacteristic restraint against Murali’s guile. But once settled, he unfurled the full repertoire of his strokes. His cover drives were exquisite, his late cuts delicate, and his footwork against the spinners masterful.

Despite carrying a hamstring injury, Lara appeared insatiable. He dominated Muralitharan and Vaas, reaching his 16th Test century on the opening day. By the time his innings ended at 178, he had reminded the world of his genius. However, with little support from his teammates, his efforts proved futile. The West Indies crumbled, and Sri Lanka secured victory.

Adding to the frustration of fans worldwide, the first two Tests were not broadcast in many countries, depriving millions of the chance to witness Lara’s resurgence. In cricket-crazy India, his legion of admirers could only follow updates, imagining the master at work.

The Second Test: Kandy - A Lone Battle Against Rain and Umpires

The second Test in Kandy was marred by rain, reducing the contest to a fragmented affair. When play was possible, Sri Lanka continued to dominate. Yet Lara stood firm, crafting a resilient 74 in the first innings. His hunger for runs remained evident, and his ability to counter Murali grew with each passing day.

In the second innings, with the West Indies battling to save the match, Lara seemed set for another defining knock. However, an umpiring error saw him dismissed for 45—an unjust end to an innings that could have turned the tide. With Lara gone, the West Indies had no answer to Sri Lanka’s attack, and the match ended in another defeat.

The Third Test: Colombo - A Masterclass in Vain

With the series already lost, the final Test at Colombo’s SSC ground presented one last chance for Lara to salvage pride. The West Indies faced the grim prospect of a whitewash, and expectations once again centred on their talismanic left-hander.

What followed was one of the most dominant individual performances in modern cricket. The same Murali who had troubled him in Galle was now at his mercy. Lara was in complete control, his shot selection impeccable, his aggression calculated. He amassed a breathtaking 221 in the first innings and followed it with a sublime 130 in the second.

It was a masterclass of batsmanship—an exhibition of resilience, artistry, and sheer determination. He had outclassed Muralitharan on his own turf, an accomplishment few batsmen in history could claim. Yet, despite Lara’s herculean effort, the West Indies once again fell short, succumbing to a 3-0 series defeat.

A Record-Breaking Feat Amidst Defeat

Lara’s final tally for the series was staggering—688 runs in six innings at an average of 114.66. More importantly, he had achieved his pre-tour goal: his Test average was restored to 50. It was an extraordinary personal triumph, yet for Lara, the joy was incomplete. As he received the Player of the Series award, his expression was sombre. “I’d give up all these runs for a Test win,” he admitted, encapsulating his team-first mentality despite his individual brilliance.

Legacy of the Series: Lara vs. Murali - A Rivalry for the Ages

This series will forever be remembered not just for Lara’s resurgence but for the fascinating battle between two cricketing titans—Lara and Muralitharan. Few players in history have dismantled Murali with such dominance, and fewer still have done so in Sri Lanka. Lara’s ability to counter the greatest off-spinner of his era reaffirmed his place among cricket’s immortals.

Conclusion: The Eternal Genius of Brian Lara

Lara’s career was a symphony of breathtaking highs and heart-wrenching lows. If cricket is a rollercoaster, then he rode it with exhilarating brilliance, scaling peaks that no one dared to imagine. His innings in Sri Lanka in 2001 was more than just a statistical marvel—it was a statement, a reaffirmation of his genius, and a reminder that true greatness is defined by the ability to rise again.

Though the West Indies lost the series, cricket gained one of its most unforgettable performances. Lara, the artist, the warrior, and the genius, had once again painted a masterpiece, proving that no matter the circumstances, class is eternal.

Thank You

Faisal Caesar 

A Tour in Disarray: The West Indies’ 1998 South Africa Crisis

By the late 1990s, the West Indies were living on the fading embers of an empire. The side that had once crushed opponents with the inevitability of a rising tide had been dented by successive defeats: Australia home and away, and a chastening 3–0 demolition in Pakistan. They had slipped to No. 4 in the ICC Test rankings, yet their aura lingered. Their first-ever Test tour of South Africa in the autumn of 1998 carried genuine anticipation—on paper, it promised a contest between equals.

Instead, it became one of the most lopsided and tragicomic episodes in Test history, the cricketing equivalent of a great ship sailing straight into a storm of its own making.

A Crisis Long in the Making

The seeds of collapse were planted long before the team boarded their disparate flights. For years, West Indies cricket had lived under the shadow of disputes over players’ pay and the board’s administrative fragility. These tensions simmered beneath the surface, waiting for the right spark. In early November 1998, that spark arrived.

The tour party was meant to converge on Johannesburg from several points—many flying directly from a one-day tournament in Bangladesh. But on November 5, during a stopover in Bangkok, nine players including captain Brian Lara informed tour manager Clive Lloyd that they were heading not to Johannesburg, but to London. Allowances—training, meals, and the minutiae of touring life—proved the final trigger in a row that had been festering for months. Security concerns also hung uneasily in the air after Pakistan’s troubled visit to South Africa earlier that year.

Most assumed this was another episode in the familiar soap opera of West Indies cricket—fiery words, brief brinkmanship, then reluctant compromise. This time, however, board incompetence and player defiance fused into something more existential.

The Board Strikes Back—And Fumbles

When WICB president Pat Rousseau learned of the mutiny, he moved swiftly—and disastrously. Lara and vice-captain Carl Hooper were summarily sacked by fax. The remaining players were fined 10% of their tour fees. Rousseau seemed convinced that this show of force would break their resolve.

It had the opposite effect.

Behind the scenes, Rousseau even floated the idea of reinstalling Courtney Walsh as captain, instructing Jackie Hendriks of the Jamaican Cricket Board to test the waters. Walsh refused. The plan sank without a ripple. Selectors quietly named Keith Arthurton and Sherwin Campbell as replacements for Lara and Hooper, but that too fell apart.

In Johannesburg, the handful of players who had already arrived waited in a kind of suspended animation. South Africa’s board, led by Ali Bacher, offered diplomatic support while privately fearing the financial catastrophe of a cancelled tour. When the remaining West Indians flew back to London “to show solidarity,” that fear intensified.

Publicly, the players maintained they wanted to tour—but not under humiliation. The WICB insisted its finances were dire after the loss of a key sponsor. Each statement deepened the stalemate.

Mandela’s Shadow Enters the Room

The crisis now transcended cricket. On the advice of Professor Jakes Gerwel, an anti-apartheid intellectual and cricket lover, Bacher approached the one man whose moral authority could not be ignored: President Nelson Mandela.

Gerwel drafted a letter urging the players to continue with the tour, emphasising the symbolic significance of their visit to South Africa’s young democracy. Mandela signed it.

Bacher carried the letter to London “in his back pocket,” like an envoy bearing a diplomatic scroll. His arrival at Heathrow at dawn on November 6 set the stage for an extraordinary scene. Kept waiting in the foyer of the Excelsior Hotel for over an hour, he eventually showed the letter to reporters—one quipped he resembled Neville Chamberlain returning from Munich.

When Walsh finally appeared, he read Mandela’s words, conferred briefly with Bacher, and retreated to his teammates. Bacher, ever the optimist, insisted that if South Africa’s political adversaries could reconcile, surely West Indies cricket could do the same.

But hope soon gave way to stalemate.

Negotiations in Circles

November 7 and 8 dissolved into an absurd cycle of meetings that began, disintegrated, and restarted without progress. Joel Garner, representing the players’ association, admitted flatly: “We’re nowhere near resolving this.”

The players raised new demands—the reinstatement of Lara and Hooper chief among them. Walsh made their stance clear: “We want the entire sixteen, the way they were selected.”

Rousseau realised he had to fly to London himself. When he arrived on November 8, he met with Lara, Hooper, Walsh and Jimmy Adams for hours. Still nothing. Bacher joked to journalists over lunch that if the crisis wasn’t settled by nightfall, he would foot the bill. He ended up paying.

A new sponsor had emerged, one that could ease the financial side of the dispute—but only if Lara and Hooper were reinstated. The irony was striking: the board’s initial punishment had become the very obstacle to solvency.

A Fractured Peace

By November 9, the hotel lobby resembled a war zone of journalists, couriers, and exhausted administrators. Adams appeared alone for meetings. The media were even given their own room—until it was needed for a wedding reception.

Finally, at 8:35pm, a press conference was called. Rousseau announced the tour would proceed. But the board’s attempt to portray the resolution as a mutual misunderstanding bordered on farce.

No, fees hadn’t changed. No, discipline hadn’t been compromised. No, the board hadn’t capitulated. It was, Rousseau insisted, a series of “misunderstandings.”

Common sense had prevailed, Bacher declared, though even he sounded unconvinced.

That night, the squad took the short bus ride to Heathrow and boarded a flight to Johannesburg. The farce wasn’t quite over—Jimmy Adams severed finger tendons after a mishap cutting bread during the flight, ruling him out of the tour.

Lara, upon arrival in South Africa, refused to discuss the crisis beyond praising Mandela’s letter as “food for thought.” Years later, Rousseau claimed Mandela was “peeved” that Lara never acknowledged his appeal. “There are men who would jump off buildings for Mandela,” Rousseau said. “Brian never answered him.”

Aftermath: A Team in Pieces

If the off-field saga was chaotic, the on-field product was catastrophic. West Indies were whitewashed 5–0, only the sixth side to suffer such a fate in a five-Test series.

Wisden’s verdict was cold: the team was divided throughout the tour; Lara admitted, “we are not together as a team.” Even that, Wisden noted, was an understatement.

The opening tour match—against the Nicky Oppenheimer XI—was cancelled. Lara’s batting slump deepened, his drought without a Test century stretching to 14 matches. The tour report later cited “weakness in leadership,” demanding significant improvement.

In a grim postscript, Rousseau—who had spent the week assuring players of South African safety—was held at gunpoint in Soweto on November 26.

Legacy: A Warning Ignored

Caribbean newspapers were scathing. The Jamaica Gleaner condemned the board for either mismanaging the crisis or surrendering to expediency. The Nation warned that West Indies cricket had come perilously close to losing its soul.

In truth, the 1998 crisis was not merely a narrow escape. It was a portent. The turbulence of that week—administrative weakness, player mistrust, leadership vacuums—foreshadowed the decade of decline that followed.

What should have been a historic first tour of South Africa instead became a defining symbol of erosion: a once-mighty team swallowed not by an opponent, but by its own dysfunction.

A Test of Unforeseen Chaos: West Indies Triumph at Feroz Shah Kotla

The Feroz Shah Kotla, a venue long associated with docile pitches and towering run-fests, turned into an unexpected cauldron of destruction. In a match where both sides succumbed to their lowest-ever totals against each other in the first innings, the traditional rhythms of Test cricket were abandoned in favour of raw, unrelenting drama. What unfolded was a contest shaped by capricious conditions, unrelenting fast bowling, and, in the final act, the genius of one man—Vivian Richards.

The Unraveling of India’s First Innings

Dilip Vengsarkar, leading India for the first time in Test cricket, won the toss and, against the lurking evidence of early moisture, chose to bat. His decision was rooted in long-term strategy—anticipating the pitch’s transformation into a fourth-innings spinner’s paradise, he entrusted India’s fate to a three-pronged spin attack, including debutant off-spinner Arshad Ayub. But within hours, that strategic foresight crumbled in the face of an unforgiving reality.

What followed was carnage. India’s innings, a mere 145-minute procession of despair, was gutted for 75—their lowest total in a home Test. The West Indian fast bowlers, armed with seam movement, lift, and a relentless off-stump line, preyed on tentative techniques. Winston Davis set the collapse in motion, but it was a collective masterpiece of pace bowling. Eight Indian batsmen were caught behind the wicket, mere puppets in the hands of a ruthless Caribbean quartet. The two who escaped that fate were bowled, their defences breached entirely.

If the bowlers orchestrated the destruction, the fielders completed it with impeccable catching. The arc between the wicketkeeper and gully became a graveyard for India’s hopes, as every edge was snapped up with surgical precision. The scoreboard, stark and damning, told the story of a side unprepared for conditions that offered pace, movement, and menace.

West Indies Wobble but Haynes Stands Tall

Kapil Dev, who had watched helplessly as his teammates fell in a heap, responded with a spell of breathtaking aggression. The West Indies, so dominant minutes earlier, found themselves floundering at 29 for six. Kapil’s mastery of seam and swing, combined with Chetan Sharma’s probing lines, sent shockwaves through their batting order.

Yet, in the wreckage, one man stood unshaken. Desmond Haynes, without a run to his name when the sixth wicket fell, embarked on an innings of sheer defiance. He absorbed pressure with the calm of a veteran and manipulated the strike with calculated precision. The lower order, in contrast to India’s, did not disintegrate in a blind panic. Davis, Benjamin, and Walsh played their parts in eking out invaluable runs. By the time Haynes, the last man to fall, departed after 211 minutes of measured resistance, West Indies had forged a vital lead of 52. His innings, punctuated by eleven boundaries, was not just one of survival but one of defiant control.

For India, the frustration was evident. Had they possessed a third seamer, the damage could have been contained earlier. Instead, their bowling efforts, commendable as they were, lacked the final cutting edge needed to press the advantage.

India's Second Innings: From Collapse to Redemption

The hosts’ second innings threatened to be a repetition of their first. Patrick Patterson, bowling with raw hostility, scythed through the top order, leaving India in dire straits. At 41 for three, and only 30 runs ahead, another humiliating defeat loomed.

Arun Lal’s resolute 40 provided some resistance, but it was Kapil Dev’s counterattacking brilliance that truly altered India’s fortunes. Unfazed by the perils of the pitch or the hostility of the bowlers, Kapil launched a dazzling counteroffensive, smashing 44 off just 41 balls. His partnership of 73 with Vengsarkar injected life into an innings that had been gasping for breath.

Vengsarkar himself was living on the edge, repeatedly troubled outside off stump, his survival dependent on a crucial drop by Dujon when he was 21. But he capitalized on his reprieve, steadying the innings with More in a 96-run stand. By the time he brought up his sixteenth Test century—after 405 minutes of grit and determination—India had clawed their way to a position of strength. It was a captain’s innings in every sense, layered with patience, occasional strokes of elegance, and above all, an unwavering will to restore dignity to his team.

The tail, inspired by the fightback, refused to fold. When the last wicket fell on the third morning, India had set West Indies a target of 276—a total that, on a pitch now beginning to favor spin, was far from trivial.

The Richards Masterclass

The final innings was always going to be a test of temperament and technique. India’s spin trio, with Ayub at its core, was expected to exploit the surface. And for a brief period, it seemed they might.

The West Indian openers put up a sturdy 62-run stand, but once the breakthrough was achieved, the wickets began to tumble. From 111 for four, the chase was teetering on the edge. Enter Vivian Richards.

What followed was less an innings and more a statement. A masterpiece in controlled destruction. Richards did not merely counter the Indian spinners; he overwhelmed them. His 109* off 102 balls was an exhibition of dominance—stroking the ball with authority, threading gaps with precision, and pummeling anything loose. The pitch, which had so tormented others, seemed to obey only him.

There was responsibility in his batting, but also the unmistakable flair that had made him the most feared batsman of his generation. Thirteen times the ball raced to the boundary, each stroke a dagger into India’s fading hopes.

Logie and Dujon provided able support, ensuring that Richards’ artistry was not in vain. But the day belonged to the maestro himself. His 21st Test hundred—his seventh against India—was the decisive blow in a match that had swung wildly from collapse to resurgence.

A Test That Defied Expectations

This was a Test that shredded assumptions. The Feroz Shah Kotla, known for drawn-out affairs, had become a stage for ruthless fast bowling, stunning collapses, and a chase orchestrated by one of cricket’s finest batsmen. India had fought back after their disastrous start, but in the final analysis, they were undone by their own frailties against pace and by the sheer brilliance of Richards.

Vengsarkar’s century, Kapil’s flair, and Ayub’s promising debut would be remembered in isolation. Still, the match belonged to the West Indies—first to their fast bowlers, who exposed India’s weaknesses, and ultimately to Richards, who turned a precarious chase into an emphatic triumph.

It was Test cricket in its purest form—unpredictable, volatile, and unforgettable.

Thank You 

Faisal Caesar 

When the King Met the Lion at Gujranwala, 1985

As 1985 wound towards its reluctant close, Pakistan cricket stood at a crossroads. The year had been a carousel of captains, a blur of instability, and a bruising reminder of what inconsistency could do to a gifted side. Then the selectors did something rare—they chose conviction over confusion. They handed the reins back to Imran Khan. And, almost instantly, the winds shifted.

Imran’s second era as captain began with catharsis: breaking the jinx against India at Sharjah and matching the mighty West Indies blow for blow in the same desert arena. The ghosts of the WCC and Rothman’s Trophy were buried; Pakistan now turned to a fresh frontier—a home 5-match ODI series against the greatest cricketing machine the sport had ever seen.

The Juggernauts Arrive

If Imran embodied Pakistan’s renaissance, Viv Richards embodied West Indian supremacy. Newly anointed captain, Richards inherited a dynasty forged by Clive Lloyd and powered by four of the most fearsome fast bowlers ever assembled: Marshall, Holding, Garner, Walsh.

Gujranwala was about to witness something more than a cricket match. It was a collision of temperaments—Pakistan’s rising self-belief versus the Caribbean empire at its imperial peak.

The first ODI was a 40-over shootout. Richards won the toss and unleashed his pace cartel on a moist morning pitch. If there was ever a moment for Pakistan to wilt, this was it.

Instead, they punched first.

Pakistan’s Counterpunch: Fire Against Fire

Mudassar Nazar and Mohsin Khan emerged with surprising aggression. Mohsin, elegant yet murderous, carved Marshall and Holding with audacity, sprinting to 22 of the opening 29 runs. Walsh finally broke the stand, but Pakistan had announced their intent: they were not going to be bullied.

Mudassar played the long game. Ramiz Raja guided the innings with calm control. And then came Javed Miandad—cricket’s eternal street fighter—whose brief stay was a burst of sharp cuts, pulls, and drives at a run-a-ball tempo.

But the real theatre began when Imran Khan walked in.

Imran didn’t bat—he detonated. With a strike rate of 145.6, a rarity in the mid-1980s, he dismantled Holding, Garner, and Marshall with strokes that belonged to a future era. Six boundaries, one soaring six, and a spellbinding 45 off 31 sent the Gujranwala crowd into a frenzy.

When the dust finally settled, Mudassar held the Pakistan innings together with a monk-like 77.

Pakistan finished at 218 for 5—scoring at over 5.4 an over. In 1985, this wasn’t just competitive; it was revolutionary.

Then Came the Storm From Antigua

Pakistan struck early—Mohsin Kamal removing Richie Richardson cheaply. Desmond Haynes and Gus Logie attempted to rebuild, but Wasim Akram’s youthful burst dismissed Haynes and summoned the inevitable.

Viv Richards walked in.

If Pakistan had played the morning in technicolour, Richards brought the night in blazing neon. Pressure? For Richards, pressure was oxygen. As the run rate climbed, so did his brutality.

Wasim tried the yorker. Mudassar tried the wobble seam. Tauseef looped it wide. Qadir—Pakistan’s ace—was greeted with the kind of disdain only Richards could muster. Twenty-four runs in one over turned the leg-spinner into a spectator of his own spell.

Only Imran Khan, chest out and eyes narrowed, appeared momentarily capable of holding back the avalanche.

But even he could not rewrite destiny.

Viv Richards finished with an astonishing 80 off 39 balls—10 fours, 4 sixes—and a strike rate that belonged to T20, not 1985. The West Indies roared to victory in 38.3 overs, scoring at six an over, as if to remind the world: we are still the rulers of this game.

A Day When Legends Crossed Paths

Gujranwala 1985 was not merely a match—it was a drama of shifting powers and unshakeable greatness. Pakistan showcased its rebirth under Imran Khan: brave, modern, willing to challenge the unbeatable. Yet the West Indies, led by Richards in full imperial swagger, answered with a reminder of their unmatched dominance.

On that day, the world witnessed two truths:

- West Indies were still the best in the World. 

- And cricket still had only one King! 

Viv Richards left Gujranwala like a King. Imran left with something more enduring—a team beginning to believe in itself again.

Both would shape history in their own ways.

Thank You 

Faisal Caesar 

Hero Cup Triumph: India’s Redemption at Eden Gardens

The CAB Jubilee Tournament, later branded as the Hero Cup, secured sponsorship from Hero, yet this initial success was quickly overshadowed by a series of complications. The first blow came when Pakistan withdrew from the tournament, citing security concerns. This reduced the competition to a five-nation contest featuring hosts India alongside West Indies, South Africa, Sri Lanka, and Zimbabwe. The tournament’s structure, however, was perplexing—ten league matches merely to eliminate one team before proceeding to the semi-finals and final. Yet, a historic milestone was set, as the last three matches were scheduled to be the first played under floodlights at Eden Gardens.

Jagmohan Dalmiya, the mastermind behind the Hero Cup, soon found himself embroiled in a deeper battle—one that transcended the boundary ropes and entered the realm of broadcasting rights. On March 15 of that year, CAB sent a letter to the Director-General of Doordarshan, India’s state-run broadcaster, which had long enjoyed an unchallenged monopoly over the telecast of cricket matches in the country. In an era when the BCCI had once paid Doordarshan to air matches, a seismic shift was underway.

The emergence of private broadcasters, spearheaded by Star, brought a new dimension to the equation. CAB awarded the exclusive telecast rights of the Hero Cup to Trans World International (TWI), an international broadcasting company that outbid Doordarshan with an offer that was significantly more lucrative. While Doordarshan’s bid stood at a mere INR 10 million, TWI guaranteed a minimum of INR 17.6 million along with 70% of the gross revenue. Even after factoring in an INR 1.5 million payment to VSNL for facilitating satellite transmissions via Intelsat, the deal was financially irrefutable.

Doordarshan, however, was not prepared to relinquish its stronghold without a fight. In a retaliatory move, the state broadcaster declared that it would not telecast the matches across India. This decision had immediate repercussions: when India faced Sri Lanka at Kanpur, advertising within the stadium dwindled, resulting in significant financial losses for CAB. Desperate to salvage the situation, CAB urged Doordarshan to broadcast the tournament, only to be met with a counter-demand—a steep INR 0.5 million per match.

The crisis deepened when TWI’s equipment was seized at Bombay Customs under the pretext of lacking requisite government permissions. As a result, the highly anticipated clash between West Indies and Sri Lanka at Wankhede went unseen by the masses. The disruptions persisted as TWI’s crew was barred from broadcasting South Africa’s encounter with Zimbabwe at Chinnaswamy Stadium.

Public interest, already dampened by Pakistan’s withdrawal, suffered further due to the initial lack of telecast. However, a flicker of excitement was reignited when South Africa and West Indies, arguably the two strongest teams on paper, engaged in a riveting contest where Jonty Rhodes' spectacular five catches stunned the Caribbean giants.

Yet, controversy continued to mar the tournament. When India faced West Indies at Motera, the hosts collapsed for a paltry 100 in response to West Indies’ 202 for 7. Frustration among the Ahmedabad crowd escalated to such an extent that play was halted for 40 minutes. Mohammad Azharuddin later remarked that it was “the worst crowd I have ever seen.”

Indore provided another dramatic moment when India and Zimbabwe played out a thrilling tie marred by chaotic scenes. However, the tournament largely remained devoid of consistently competitive cricket, with matches often leaning towards one-sided affairs. Despite media-fueled hype, public enthusiasm remained inconsistent. That was until an unforgettable night at Eden Gardens, where India clashed with South Africa in a pulsating contest that recaptured the nation’s imagination. The stage was then set for a grand finale against the West Indies, still regarded as the finest team in the world. In the end, amid all the off-field turmoil, the Hero Cup delivered a dramatic climax, cementing its place in cricketing folklore.

 A Masterclass in Indian Domination

The final at Eden Gardens was expected to be a fierce contest, with the West Indies carrying the weight of favouritism. But cricket, ever the great equalizer, had its own narrative. India outclassed the Caribbean side with a staggering margin of 102 runs, a testament to their supremacy. Richie Richardson, graceful in defeat, could offer little protest. India had simply outplayed the West Indies in every department.

From the very outset, there had been murmurs—was it time to drop Kapil Dev? Had Sachin Tendulkar, prodigious yet inconsistent, become a liability? Could Ajay Jadeja handle the pressures of international cricket? Did Vinod Kambli possess the technique to withstand the thunderbolts of the West Indian pace attack? Every question found its emphatic answer under the gaze of 90,000 roaring spectators and millions glued to their television screens. Kapil, Tendulkar, Jadeja, and Kambli played pivotal roles in scripting India’s triumph.

The Kumble Hurricane

If one moment encapsulated the final, it was Anil Kumble’s spell—a bewitching display of leg-spin that left the West Indies in ruins. His figures, 6 for 12 in just four overs, were not just extraordinary but transformative. In a mere 24 balls, he spun a web of deception, dismantling the opposition with clinical precision. The West Indians, historically vulnerable against spin, found themselves ensnared yet again, despite Richardson’s persistent assertion that their frailty against the turning ball was a mere “myth.”

The Crucial Turning Point: The Roland Holder Controversy

Yet, amid the heroics, controversy lingered. Roland Holder’s dismissal became a subject of heated debate. Television replays confirmed he was bowled, yet his departure carried an air of ambiguity. The West Indies sought intervention, but Bishan Singh Bedi, the adjudicator, refused to reconsider the decision. The International Cricket Council Chairman, Clyde Walcott, upheld the verdict. Richardson later pointed to this moment as the game’s turning point, but in truth, the collapse had already begun. Holder’s exit merely hastened the inevitable as Kumble ran riot through the lower order.

The Art of Building an Innings

Before the carnage, India’s batting had laid the foundation for an authoritative total. The start was wobbly, but Jadeja and Kambli stitched together a crucial partnership, steering the innings from 161 for two to a precarious 161 for five. A moment of brilliance from Curtly Ambrose—an instinctive kick onto the stumps—cut short Kambli’s fluent 68. Shortly after, Azharuddin perished attempting an audacious steer, followed by Pravin Amre’s departure in quick succession. A promising innings was at risk of unravelling.

It was then that experience and youthful audacity combined. Kapil Dev and Tendulkar, both under scrutiny, rose to the occasion with a vital 46-run stand. Their partnership not only steadied the innings but provided the launchpad for a defendable target on a sluggish wicket. Kambli’s audacious stroke play, Jadeja’s calculated aggression, and Azharuddin’s finesse—including a sublime cut off Phil Simmons—underscored India’s tactical acumen.

The Bowling Symphony

When the West Indies began their chase, the Indian bowlers delivered in unison. Manoj Prabhakar struck early, removing Simmons in the very first over. The Caribbean innings, though dented, found resilience in Richardson and Brian Lara’s partnership. As the duo threatened to shift momentum, it was Tendulkar—already a hero from the semifinal’s final over—who prised out Lara, breaking the crucial stand. Richardson, growing in stature with every stroke, appeared to be the last bastion of hope, until Kapil Dev, with his characteristic guile, engineered a collapse. Arthurton was trapped in front, and Richardson was deceived by the slower ball. With the lower order exposed, Kumble’s magic unfolded, and within moments, the contest was over.

A Celebration Like No Other

As the final wicket fell, Eden Gardens erupted into a carnival of lights, bonfires, and euphoric celebrations. For two consecutive nights, the historic venue had witnessed cricket in its most dramatic form, and now, as the final chapter concluded, the air was thick with the scent of victory.

The journey to the trophy had been turbulent—two wins, a loss, and a tied game in the group stage reflected India’s inconsistency. But when it mattered most, the team peaked. Ajit Wadekar, the quiet architect of India’s resurgence, had his moment of fulfilment. As the celebrations swirled around him, he remained pragmatic. “This is just the beginning,” he mused, already looking ahead to the next challenge against Sri Lanka. 

Ajit Wadekar stood that night with a quiet sense of triumph, his broad smile a reflection of vindication. Every decision he had made, every call he had taken, had come to fruition. Against prevailing scepticism, he had backed the very team that had faltered in Sri Lanka’s one-day series. As Mohammed Azharuddin lifted the Hero Cup under the floodlit Kolkata sky, it was evident that Wadekar’s ability to extract the best from his players had orchestrated this resounding success.

The cricket manager, bat in one hand and ball in another, would return to his role of a perfectionist, ensuring India’s fielding—the only chink in the armour—was sharpened for future battles.

For now, though, the Hero Cup belonged to India, and Kolkata had its fairytale night.

Thank You

Faisal Caesar

The Tears of a Captain: Kim Hughes and the Collapse of Australian Cricket's Old Order

The Myth of Invincibility: An Australian Illusion Shattered

Australian sportsmen are often mythologized as paragons of toughness — "hard as nails," impervious to pressure. But on November 26, 1984, that myth cracked before the world's media when Kim Hughes, captain of the Australian cricket team, stood at a podium and wept as he announced his resignation. His public breakdown was not just personal: it symbolized a wider unravelling within Australian cricket, scarred as it was by the divisions of the post-World Series era.

A Batsman of Elegance, A Captain in Chains

Kim Hughes was a cricketer of rare natural talent, capable of innings that lingered in memory — none more so than his masterclasses at Lord’s during the 1980 Centenary Test. Yet, despite his luminous strokeplay, Hughes never fully transcended his inconsistencies. More damningly, he was thrust into a leadership role amid a fractured dressing room, a side still bleeding from the World Series Cricket schism.

As Gideon Haigh later observed, Hughes, though "identified with the cause of the board by former Packer signatories," was tolerated rather than embraced as captain. Loyalty, both from selectors and teammates, was fragile and conditional — an unsteady foundation upon which to build an international career.

The Caribbean Collapse: Seeds of a Breakdown

The 1983-84 tour of the Caribbean laid bare Hughes’ isolation. Leading a squad he neither trusted nor believed in, Hughes presided over a demoralizing 0-3 defeat. His own form collapsed under the weight of responsibility: ten Test innings yielded a paltry 213 runs, with no innings surpassing 33.

When Australia hosted West Indies the following season, the wounds only deepened. Another two defeats followed, and Hughes’ personal returns — 79 runs across four innings — invited a media onslaught of unprecedented savagery. Criticism was no longer confined to his tactics; it grew viciously personal.

The Breaking Point: Brisbane and the Final Bow

The second Test defeat at Brisbane was the end of the road. In the post-match press conference, Hughes, visibly trembling, began to read a prepared resignation statement:

"The constant speculation, criticism and innuendo by former players and sections of the media have taken their toll," he said.

Yet he could not finish. Tears streaming down his face, Hughes handed the statement to team manager Bob Merriman and, head bowed, exited the room. In that moment, Australia saw a captain not broken by a single defeat, but by years of accumulated betrayal.

Later, Hughes reflected on his breakdown without regret: "It was an emotional thing to do and I don't regret doing it. There was no media manager then; you had to fend for yourself."

Enemies Within: The Isolation of Kim Hughes

While West Indies captain Clive Lloyd shrugged and advised resilience — "You have to learn to take the good with the bad," — the more astute observers, like John Woodcock of The Times, recognized deeper fault lines.

Woodcock identified the venomous influence of Ian Chappell, Hughes’ relentless public critic, and noted the disloyalty festering within the Australian dressing room itself. Vice-captain Rod Marsh and strike bowler Dennis Lillee, in their ghostwritten columns, scarcely missed a chance to undermine Hughes.

Hughes would later admit: "I just couldn't get along with Lillee and Marsh at all... the chemistry wasn't good at all." Ironically, friendships healed in later years, but at the time, the fractures were terminal.

A Captain Without a Kingdom: The Systemic Betrayal

In hindsight, Hughes’ resignation was less an abdication and more a forced exile. Selectors had already informed him before the season began that he was a lame duck, unfit to lead. Worse, he was compelled to endure post-match interviews with Ian Chappell — the very man orchestrating much of the public hostility.

At Brisbane, when Hughes finally offered his resignation, neither Merriman, ACB chairman Fred Bennett, nor chief selector Greg Chappell lifted a finger to dissuade him. Only Dave Richards, the ACB’s chief executive, made a half-hearted attempt. By then, Hughes knew: he was utterly alone.

A Bitter Aftermath: Playing On Without Purpose

Though he wished to continue as a player, Hughes' declining form betrayed his fading spirit. In the two Tests that followed, his scores — 0, 2, 0, and 0 — testified to a man spiritually spent.

Despite missing out on the 1985 Ashes squad, Hughes still clung to faint hopes of revival. But conversations with ACB officials Bob Merriman and Dave Richards left him disillusioned. He realized that Australian cricket had become a political battleground, where merit often mattered less than factional loyalty.

The final insult came via selector Bert Rigg, who revealed that three members of the England-bound squad had been blacklisted from actual Test selection. "The more you go, the sicker it gets," Hughes said, resigned to his fate.

The Call to South Africa: An Irreversible Step

In April 1985, Hughes made his decision. Having already rejected a covert offer in March, he now telephoned Ali Bacher in South Africa. The lure of a rebel tour, and the financial security it promised, outweighed his dwindling loyalty to the ACB.

By year’s end, Kim Hughes was leading the Australian rebel side in apartheid South Africa — a pariah in the official cricketing world. His decision closed the final door on his mainstream cricketing career.

A Tragic Hero in a Fractured Landscape

Kim Hughes' tearful resignation was not merely the story of a sensitive man undone by criticism. It was the symptom of an Australian cricket system riven by political factionalism, poisoned loyalties, and unresolved scars from the World Series Cricket split. Hughes, talented but isolated, emotional but principled, became the perfect tragic figure for an era when Australian cricket devoured its own.

Years later, we recognize his downfall not as a personal weakness, but as the inevitable end of a leader fighting battles he could never hope to win alone.

Thank You 

Faisal Caesar 

A Test of Nerve and Endurance: How Pakistan Defied the West Indian Juggernaut

In the fading light of a tense final session, two unlikely figures—Imran Khan and Tauseef Ahmed—stood as immovable sentinels, shielding Pakistan from certain defeat. As the umpires finally offered the light with nine overs left, Pakistan’s resistance was not just a tale of stonewalling—it was a statement of defiance against one of the most fearsome sides in cricket history. For a full day, Pakistan clawed, sweated, and endured, denying West Indies their eighth consecutive series triumph by the narrowest of margins.

The match had opened with Viv Richards, that regal commander of Caribbean cricket, playing a rare innings of restraint and gravitas. Having won the toss, Richards anchored the middle order for nearly three hours with an innings that was more about steel than swagger—authoritative but stripped of his trademark flamboyance. It was a captain's knock forged not in fire but in granite, aimed at constructing a foundation rather than dazzling the gallery.

Yet the following morning shattered that foundation. West Indies' last three wickets crumbled within 40 minutes. Pakistan’s reply was immediately jolted—both openers gone swiftly—but then came the slow, determined heartbeat of Ramiz Raja. In an age that often prized flamboyance, Ramiz chose patience as his sword. His partnership of 111 with Miandad was sullied only by Miandad's rash run-out, yet Ramiz refused to be rattled. His half-century—compiled in an astonishing 317 minutes—etched his name beside Bailey and Tavaré as one of the slowest in Test history. But it wasn’t sloth; it was a siege.

Yousuf, ever the quiet artisan, stitched together valuable runs, helping Pakistan concede only a single run on the first innings. Yet, as day three ebbed, the initiative tilted. Pakistan’s generosity in the field—offering lives to Greenidge, Haynes, and Richardson—was an invitation West Indies gladly accepted.

Imran Breathes Fire with the Ball

The rest day brought more than recovery. It revived Imran Khan. No longer gripped by the stomach upset that had troubled him the previous afternoon, Imran returned with venom. In a six-over spell that will sit among the great fast bowling spells of the decade, he took five wickets for 10 runs—twice striking with consecutive deliveries. His dismantling of the West Indies top order was surgical, relentless, and inspired. Only Desmond Haynes, stoic and resolute, withstood the fury. In doing so, he became only the third West Indian to carry his bat through a Test innings—a feat of lonely magnificence amid the ruins.

The Stubborn Resistance of Pakistan led by Imran 

Pakistan’s chase of 213 began with a sense of urgency but quickly turned to trepidation. In just five overs before stumps, West Indies struck twice, throwing Pakistan onto the back foot. And when Marshall removed Mohsin and Miandad the next morning, it appeared the script would follow its familiar arc—another West Indies victory carved out by their fearsome pace battery.

But Ramiz, once more, stood as a bulwark, batting for 236 minutes for a meagre but priceless 29. Mudassar Nazar joined him in the grim enterprise, and by tea, the scoreboard read a fraught 97 for seven. Victory for the visitors seemed inevitable.

And yet, as they had done in the series opener, Imran and Tauseef walked out again—guardians of the improbable. Where others had fallen to pace, these two resisted with cunning and composure. Every block was a punch to West Indian dominance; every leave was an act of revolution. When the umpires offered the light, the scoreboard told only part of the story. The true tale lay in the grit of a captain who would not bow and a tailender who became a folk hero. The match was drawn. The series was drawn. But for Pakistan, it was as good as a victory.

Thank You 

Faisal Caesar

A Three-Day Rebuttal: West Indies Strike Back with Pace and Precision

Given a surface tailor-made for their fast-bowling artillery, West Indies did not so much win as restore the natural order, finishing the job inside three days to level the series. The irony, of course, is impossible to ignore: in an attempt to strengthen variation, they left out the raw pace of Patterson for the off-spin of Butts—ending a run of 58 Tests with no more than one frontline spinner. Yet such was the hostility of the pitch, and such the fragility of Pakistan’s technique against lift and lateral movement, that those two specialist spinners combined for just a single over. The game hardly paused long enough to justify their selection.

Pakistan, having won the toss, walked into a tempest of their own making. Asif Mujtaba, handed his debut in the injured Salim Malik’s stead, spent 25 anxious minutes in search of a first Test run—an early demonstration of the uncompromising environment he had entered. Only the imperturbable Javed Miandad, armed with three hours of defiance, looked capable of negotiating the barrage for any length of time.

West Indies themselves were not immune to examination. Imran Khan and Abdul Qadir probed relentlessly, and once the early shine of confidence waned, it was Gordon Greenidge alone who steered the innings from turbulence towards respectability—a total just over 200 that felt more strategic than insufficient.

Yet cricket often reveals that the decisive moment isn’t always spectacular. Trailing by only 87 in first innings, Pakistan retained a foothold—brief, but tangible. Then the foothold crumbled. Courtney Walsh struck Qasim Omar a brutal blow to the face, and with his dismissal went Pakistan’s last thread of poise. What followed was a collapse in its starkest form: all out for 77, their second-lowest score in Test history and their lowest ever at home. An hour after tea, the contest was gone.

Fast bowling had reclaimed its narrative. The selection gamble had proven irrelevant. And the series—suddenly and violently—was back on level.

Thank You

Faisal Caesar