Younis Khan and the Burden of Being Unbeautiful

  In the early 2000s, Pakistani cricket still believed in romance. It believed that batting was an act of beauty before it was an act of survival. The nation’s imagination was shaped by cover drives that lingered in the air, wrists that seemed to bend time, and batsmen who looked born, not built. The elegance of Mohammad Yousuf (then Yousuf Youhana), the audacity of Imran Nazir, and the lingering ghosts of Zaheer Abbas and Saeed Anwar defined what Pakistan wanted its heroes to look like.

Into this aesthetic ecosystem walked Younis Khan, and he did not belong.

He was awkward where Pakistan preferred elegance, rigid where it sought fluidity, uncertain where it demanded instinct. His backlift rose from improbable angles, his footwork often appeared hesitant, and his defensive technique offended the purists. To a cricketing culture that valued poetry, Younis wrote in prose functional, dense, and unadorned. He was not hated; he was worse. He was misunderstood.

And in Pakistan, misunderstanding is often more damaging than failure.

A Nation’s Bias: Why Younis Was Never Loved Early

Pakistan does not merely watch cricket, it aestheticises it. Batsmen are judged not only by runs but by how those runs are scored. A loose drive forgiven for its beauty; an ungainly block questioned for its intent. Younis, in this context, was burdened from the start. His innings rarely flowed. His runs did not come in bursts that lifted crowds. They accumulated slowly, stubbornly, without spectacle.

Early failures compounded the problem. He did not arrive fully formed, nor did he immediately justify his place with defining performances. Critics labelled him technically deficient, temperamentally uncertain, a stopgap rather than a solution. Even neutral observers sensed a collective impatience when he walked to the crease—an unspoken question hovering: Why him?

What Pakistan missed was that Younis was not auditioning for admiration. He was preparing for endurance.

The Shift: From Aesthetic Failure to Existential Strength

Younis Khan did not reinvent his technique; he reinvented his relevance.

The turning point in his career was not a stylistic transformation but a psychological consolidation. As others chased fluency, Younis learned control. As batting became increasingly aggressive, he mastered resistance. Over time, he evolved into something Pakistan had rarely celebrated but desperately needed: a batsman for collapse, crisis, and consequence.

Nowhere was this clearer than in the fourth innings of Test matches—the most unforgiving arena for a batsman. Chasing targets with deteriorating pitches, mounting pressure, and the weight of inevitability, Younis did not just survive; he dominated. Five fourth-innings centuries. An average above 57. A body of work that places him among the greatest pressure batsmen the format has known.

The 2015 run chase in Sri Lanka was not merely a victory; it was a thesis statement. It announced that this ungainly batsman, once tolerated at best, was Pakistan’s most reliable last man standing.

Adversity as Architecture

Younis Khan’s greatness cannot be separated from his suffering. His career unfolded amid extraordinary personal and professional turbulence. The tragic death of Bob Woolmer, in which he was unfairly scrutinised. Internal politics that culminated in his suspension in 2010. The loss of close family members. Repeated exclusions, humiliations, and returns.

These were not footnotes; they were structural forces shaping his character.

Where others fractured, Younis hardened not into bitterness, but into resolve. Each setback refined his relationship with failure. He learned not to react to noise, not to internalise rejection, not to seek validation from applause. His was a self-sustaining belief system, forged in isolation.

This is why his success feels heavier than statistics. It was not inherited; it was earned repeatedly.

The Mind Over the Method

Technically, Younis Khan remained imperfect. Mentally, he was unassailable.

His career validates a central truth of elite sport: technique is a tool; temperament is the engine. As Rahul Dravid once noted, performance is the product of how effectively the mind deploys skill under stress. Younis embodied this principle. He adapted endlessly altering tempo, shot selection, risk appetite not because of instinct but because of clarity.

His numbers over 10,000 Test runs at 52, a triple century, leadership in Pakistan’s 2009 World T20 triumph are impressive. But numbers alone do not explain why Younis mattered. He mattered because he redefined what success could look like for Pakistan cricket: not beautiful, but unbreakable.

A Reluctant Icon for an Uncomfortable Truth

Younis Khan was never Pakistan’s idealised hero. He lacked Yousuf’s grace, Afridi’s electricity, Miandad’s streetwise genius. Yet he offered something more durable a blueprint for survival in chaos.

In a cricket culture seduced by brilliance, Younis forced a reckoning with endurance. He reminded Pakistan that greatness does not always announce itself with flair. Sometimes it arrives quietly, absorbs punishment, and outlasts everyone else.

His journey from ridicule to reverence, from aesthetic failure to moral authority is not merely a cricketing story. It is a lesson in persistence, in dignity under doubt, and in the power of refusing to disappear.

Younis Khan did not fit Pakistan’s dream of a batsman.

In the end, he became Pakistan’s conscience.

And that may be his greatest innings of all.

The Chase That Rewrote Pakistan’s Relationship With the Impossible

Every great Test run chase is remembered not for the runs scored, but for the fears conquered along the way. Pakistan’s pursuit of 377 in Sri Lanka was not merely a statistical landmark, their highest successful chase, the second highest in Asia, the sixth greatest in the history of Test cricket it was a confrontation with everything that traditionally undoes touring sides in the subcontinent: fifth-day attrition, spin-induced doubt, and the quiet tyranny of inevitability.

At the heart of this defiance stood Younis Khan, playing the innings that ultimately defined his legacy: an unbeaten 171 that blended technical adaptability with rare psychological sovereignty. This was not a chase built on bravado. It was built on patience, selective aggression, and an unwavering belief that history is not something to be respected—but something to be challenged.

Context Matters: Why This Chase Was Supposed to Fail

No visiting team had ever chased a target of this magnitude in Sri Lanka. The pitch had slowed, the outfield had dulled, and the match had been repeatedly interrupted by rain, creating stop-start rhythms that favour bowlers. Angelo Mathews’ century had pushed Sri Lanka’s lead to an imposing 376, and the narrative seemed complete even before Pakistan began.

When Pakistan slipped to 13 for 2, the story felt familiar. Early wickets. A hostile new ball. The sense that survival, not victory, should be the ambition. Yet Test cricket’s greatest reversals begin precisely at the point where resignation feels logical.

The Partnership That Changed the Geometry of the Chase

The defining axis of this match was the 242-run partnership between Younis and Shan Masood, the highest fourth-innings stand Pakistan have ever produced. That Masood, playing his first Test outside the UAE, contributed 125 is not a footnote; it is essential to understanding how this chase became possible.

Masood began nervously, squared up repeatedly by Dhammika Prasad and Suranga Lakmal. The short ball unsettled him. The scoreline weighed on him. But the pitch, slow and increasingly unresponsive, offered a quiet reprieve—and Sri Lanka’s decision to lean heavily on offspinner Tharindu Kaushal proved decisive. Loose lengths bled pressure. Full tosses were punished. The partnership grew not explosively, but inexorably.

What Younis provided Masood was not instruction, but reassurance. Singles were prioritised. Strike was rotated obsessively. Boundaries were treated as opportunities, not necessities. In fourth innings chases, momentum is not seized—it is permitted to develop.

Younis Khan and the Art of Controlled Defiance

Younis’ innings was a masterclass in contextual batting. Early on, he was conservative, content to absorb the seamers and target the weakest link. After tea on day four, he shifted gears not recklessly, but deliberately jumping across to the fast bowlers, threading gaps through cover, and refusing to let Sri Lanka reset their fields.

His century, brought up with a sweep, carried historical weight: it was his 30th Test hundred and made him the first player to score five centuries in fourth innings. More importantly, it reasserted a fundamental truth about elite batting: technique bends to mindset under pressure.

Younis did not dominate Sri Lanka’s bowlers; he outlasted them.

The Fifth Morning: When Belief Became Structure

By the final morning, Pakistan still needed 147. Masood fell early, stumped while searching for release, and Sri Lanka sensed one final opening. But this chase had moved beyond fragility. The arrival of Misbah-ul-Haq completed the architecture of resistance.

Misbah’s contribution an unbeaten 59 was vital precisely because of its discipline. Against the second new ball, he denied Sri Lanka oxygen, going 22 deliveries without scoring. After lunch, he expanded judiciously, targeting spin, sweeping with authority, and dismantling Kaushal’s already fragile confidence.

Sri Lanka’s fast bowlers tried valiantly with the new ball, but the pitch no longer obeyed them. Their spinners lacked control. Their captain shuffled options, but belief had quietly migrated to the visitors’ dressing room.

The winning blow, a Misbah six, was symbolic. This was the second time he had finished a historic chase against Sri Lanka. It felt less like a coincidence than a design.

Sri Lanka’s Missed Window

This was not a collapse by Sri Lanka; it was an erosion. Their seamers were disciplined but toothless once the ball softened. Their reliance on Kaushal over Rangana Herath proved costly. Opportunities, like the unsuccessful review against Younis on 128, passed without consequence.

Angelo Mathews’ leadership throughout the match was commendable, but even sound decisions cannot overcome the absence of control. In the fourth innings, pressure must be relentless. Sri Lanka allowed release valves, and Pakistan exploited everyone.

What This Chase Really Meant

Beyond the numbers, this victory carried structural significance. It delivered Pakistan their first Test series win in Sri Lanka since 2006. It lifted them to third in the ICC Test rankings. But more importantly, it rewired Pakistan’s relationship with the improbable.

For decades, Pakistan’s Test identity had oscillated between brilliance and collapse. This chase did something rarer: it normalised patience. It suggested that Pakistani batting could be methodical without being timid, resilient without being passive.

And at its centre stood Younis Khan, the least romantic of Pakistan’s great batsmen, yet perhaps the most consequential.

A Chase That Outgrew the Scoreboard

Every generation gets one innings that reframes expectations. Younis Khan’s 171 not out was not merely an act of skill; it was an argument. An argument that history is negotiable. That pressure is survivable. That aesthetics are optional, but resolve is not.

Pakistan did not just chase 377 in Sri Lanka.

They chased down their own doubts.

And that, more than any ranking or record, is what made this victory immortal.

Thank You

Faisal Caesar

Tactical Brilliance: South Africa's Strategic Masterclass Against Bangladesh

Cricket is often celebrated for its moments of flair and individual brilliance, but beneath the surface lies a game deeply rooted in strategy and psychological warfare. South Africa’s performance in their recent encounter with Bangladesh was a testament to the power of meticulous planning and tactical execution. The Proteas showcased their ability to exploit opposition weaknesses, using a combination of precision and patience to dismantle Bangladesh’s batting order. 

Episode 1: The Trap for Tamim

South Africa’s plan for Tamim Iqbal was as audacious as it was calculated. In the very first over, the South African captain deployed a wide slip, positioned far from the wicketkeeper, signalling a clear intent. The strategy? Bowl short with just enough width on the middle-and-leg line, enticing Tamim into an aerial slash. 

Abbott executed this plan perfectly on the fourth delivery, only for Tamim to narrowly evade disaster as the ball sailed over the wide slip fielder. Undeterred, South Africa maintained their aggressive approach. Abbott targeted Tamim’s body with a short-of-length delivery, forcing him to fend awkwardly. The next ball, bowled on a similar line, tested Tamim’s patience. The Bangladeshi opener resisted the temptation, leaving the ball, which was called wide. 

But it was the extra delivery that sealed his fate. Abbott repeated the same ploy, tempting Tamim into a casual leg-side pull. This time, Tamim succumbed, edging the ball to the keeper. A needless shot to a ball he could have left untouched – a moment of triumph for South Africa’s planning and Tamim’s lack of discipline. 

Episode 2: Rabada's Patience with Soumya

Kagiso Rabada’s second-over assault on Soumya Sarkar was a masterclass in psychological cricket. The first five deliveries were relentlessly on a good length, aimed at suffocating Soumya’s natural attacking instincts. South Africa had done their homework, understanding that Soumya thrives on scoring opportunities. By denying him those, they created a sense of desperation. 

On the sixth ball, Rabada shifted his length subtly, targeting Soumya’s left shoulder with a short-of-length delivery. Soumya, in a moment of impulsiveness, attempted a pull shot without positioning himself properly. The result? A mistimed stroke that handed South Africa another wicket. 

This dismissal highlighted Soumya’s inability to curb his attacking instincts when needed. For players like him, the lesson is clear: adaptability is as vital as aggression. 

Episode 3: Breaking the Shakib-Mushfiq Partnership

The partnership between Shakib Al Hasan and Mushfiqur Rahim offered Bangladesh a glimmer of hope. Their resilience forced South Africa to recalibrate their approach. Sensing Mushfiqur’s penchant for targeting the midwicket and deep midwicket regions, the Proteas devised a cunning trap. 

In the eighth over, JP Duminy delivered a tight spell, restricting scoring opportunities. Mushfiqur, growing restless, sought to break the shackles. South Africa had anticipated this. They positioned David Miller at deep midwicket, perfectly aligned with Mushfiqur’s favored hitting zone. 

The turning point came on the fifth ball. Mushfiqur, stepping out of his crease prematurely, attempted an ambitious slog. Duminy, noticing this, altered his line to a straighter delivery on middle-and-leg. Mushfiqur’s shot lacked conviction, and Miller completed the catch. 

The dismissal marked the collapse of Bangladesh’s innings. With their most reliable partnership broken, recovery became an uphill battle. 

The Hallmark of Great Teams

South Africa’s performance exemplified their reputation as one of cricket’s most studious and disciplined teams. While they have often been labelled as “chokers” in high-pressure situations, this match underscored their ability to outthink and outmanoeuvre opponents in the tactical arena. Their preparation was reminiscent of the mental battles seen during the eras of Hansie Cronje, Graeme Smith, and now AB de Villiers. 

What separates teams like South Africa and Australia from the rest is their relentless focus on understanding the game beyond the surface. Every player’s strengths and vulnerabilities are analyzed, and every tactic is crafted with precision. Success against such teams demands not just skill but a deep comprehension of cricket’s mental and strategic dimensions. 

For Bangladesh, this match serves as a stark reminder: in the modern game, talent alone is insufficient. Teams must embrace the mental side of cricket, investing time in preparation, reading the game, and mastering the nuances of strategy. Only then can they compete with the best and emerge victorious in the psychological battles that define elite-level cricket. 

Thank You

Faisal Caesar 

A Test Match Won by Temperament, Not Talent

Test cricket is often reduced to numbers, targets, sessions, and partnerships, but the second Test between Sri Lanka and Pakistan at the P Sara Oval was decided by something far less measurable: temperament. Over five rain-disrupted days, the match unfolded as a study in control, patience, and the ability to absorb pressure when conditions refused to cooperate. Sri Lanka’s eventual seven-wicket victory to level the series was not the product of brilliance alone, but of sustained clarity amid chaos.

At first glance, a target of 153 looked routine. Yet Colombo's weather, a wet outfield, looming clouds, and early wickets ensured that nothing about the chase felt straightforward. Test cricket, especially in the subcontinent, has a way of turning modest targets into psychological traps, and for a brief moment, Pakistan sensed an opening.

Sri Lanka’s approach to the chase revealed both urgency and risk. The decision to promote the aggressive Kithuruwan Vithanage to open alongside Dimuth Karunaratne was a calculated gamble, shaped by weather forecasts rather than textbook logic. It was an acknowledgement that circumstances, not convention, were dictating strategy. Vithanage’s brief cameo—violent, reckless, yet effective—served its purpose. He unsettled Pakistan’s spinners, accelerated the scoring rate, and ensured that the game did not drift into the hands of rain or nerves.

But aggression alone does not win Test matches. When Vithanage fell, and Kumar Sangakkara followed immediately after, Pakistan’s hopes flickered. This was the moment where chases of 150 have historically unravelled. Instead, Sri Lanka leaned on composure. Karunaratne and Angelo Mathews restored order, not by shutting down scoring but by choosing the right moments to assert control. Their partnership was the calm after the storm, measured, assured, and quietly decisive.

Karunaratne’s fifty was not flamboyant, but it was authoritative. Mathews, once again, played the role of stabiliser-in-chief, guiding the chase with an unbeaten knock that reflected his broader influence across the match. By the time Karunaratne fell, the result was inevitable. Pakistan had competed; Sri Lanka had managed.

Yet the story of this Test cannot be told through the final innings alone. Pakistan’s resilience on the third and fourth days added depth to the contest. After collapsing to 138 in the first innings, their response required discipline bordering on defiance. The second-wicket partnership between Azhar Ali and Ahmed Shehzad was not exciting by modern standards, but it was essential. They resisted spin, rotated strike, and refused to be seduced by a pitch offering little pace and inconsistent bounce.

Azhar’s eventual century was a triumph of restraint. In an era where hundreds are often built on dominance, his was constructed through denial of opportunities, of impatience, of Sri Lanka’s attempts to force errors. It anchored Pakistan’s innings and momentarily tilted the momentum their way. But Test cricket is unforgiving. Partnerships must be extended, not merely started.

This is where Pakistan faltered. Once the Azhar-Younis stand was broken, the collapse was swift and damaging. The last six wickets fell for 55 runs—a familiar pattern, and a costly one. Pakistan’s middle and lower order failed to match Azhar’s discipline, exposing a recurring fragility that continues to haunt them in away Tests.

Sri Lanka’s bowling effort deserves equal credit. Dhammika Prasad’s performance was not spectacular in terms of raw pace or movement, but it was relentless. His accuracy, particularly with the new ball and against the tail, ensured that Pakistan were never allowed to settle. He probed patiently, drew mistakes, and exploited moments of hesitation. His career-best match haul was a reward for method rather than magic.

Rangana Herath, too, played a decisive supporting role. Though he was eased into the attack, his dismissal of Azhar, lured out and stranded was a turning point. It symbolised the contrast between calculated risk and fatal overreach. In subcontinental Tests, spinners often wait patiently; batsmen rarely survive impatience.

What also stood out was Sri Lanka’s adaptability. Leadership in Test cricket is often invisible, expressed through field placements, bowling changes, and trust in process. Mathews’ captaincy throughout the match reflected a deep understanding of tempo. He allowed his bowlers long spells, rotated attacks without panic, and trusted his batsmen to manage pressure situations.

The weather, ever-present and intrusive, shaped the match but did not define it. Rain delayed starts, erased sessions, and threatened to manufacture drama. Yet Sri Lanka refused to surrender control to external factors. Their willingness to adjust, whether through aggressive opening gambits or disciplined middle-order batting, proved decisive.

In contrast, Pakistan’s effort, while spirited, felt episodic. Moments of excellence were followed by lapses of concentration. Promising positions dissolved into missed opportunities. This is not a question of skill but of consistency—an area where Pakistan continue to struggle outside familiar conditions.

Ultimately, this Test was won not by flair but by balance. Sri Lanka neither rushed nor retreated. They absorbed Pakistan’s best phases, waited for mistakes, and capitalised ruthlessly when openings appeared. It was a reminder that Test cricket still rewards patience, clarity, and mental endurance.

As the series moved toward its decider, the lesson from Colombo was unmistakable: conditions may vary, talent may fluctuate, but temperament remains the most reliable currency in Test cricket. Sri Lanka understood that better—and that understanding carried them home.

Thank You

Faisal Caesar

From Glory to Grit: The Decline of Brazil's Beautiful Game

Brazil’s exit from the Copa America at the hands of Paraguay serves as a stark and sobering reminder of the Seleção’s diminished stature in the global footballing hierarchy. This was not a moment of shocking tragedy, nor a freak aberration that might be explained away by circumstance. It was, rather, a grimly predictable conclusion for a team that has, over decades, transitioned from the pinnacle of footballing artistry to a state of distressing ordinariness. A 1-1 draw followed by a 4-3 loss on penalties brought not heartbreak but resignation—a quiet acknowledgment of a fall from grace that now feels almost irreversible.

The loss carried a bitter symmetry. Four years prior, Brazil had been similarly ousted by Paraguay in a penalty shootout. Then, there had been whispers of hope, buoyed by the promise of Neymar and Ganso, two prodigies hailed as the torchbearers of a new golden age. Today, that optimism lies in ruins. Neymar, the solitary beacon in a sea of mediocrity, is burdened with a responsibility too immense for even his prodigious talent. He is not merely expected to lead but to redeem a team devoid of inspiration, a team that has forgotten how to create, innovate, and enchant.

The Myth of Jogo Bonito: A Broken Legacy

The myth of jogo bonito, once synonymous with Brazil’s footballing identity, has long since faded into a hollow marketing slogan. The beauty and creativity that defined the Seleção have been replaced by a mechanical pragmatism, a reliance on physicality and athleticism that emerged in the aftermath of Brazil’s humiliating first-round exit at the 1966 World Cup. That defeat marked the beginning of a technocratic approach to football, epitomized by the appointment of Cláudio Coutinho, a military physical trainer, as coach in 1978.

Though Telê Santana briefly rekindled the flame of artistry in the 1980s, his era proved to be an aberration. Since then, the drift toward utilitarianism has been relentless. The Gersons, Falcãos, and Toninho Cerezos—midfield maestros who once orchestrated the game with elegance and vision—have been replaced by runners and battlers, consigned to the flanks as industrious laterais. The central creative axis, once the heart of Brazilian football, now lies vacant.

Even Arsene Wenger, speaking before the infamous 7-1 defeat to Germany in 2014, lamented Brazil’s decline: “They don’t produce anything anymore. Even in midfield, they’re good—but they’re not the great Brazilians of the past.” His words, prescient and damning, underscored the growing chasm between Brazil’s storied past and its uninspired present.

The Exodus of Talent: A Nation Disconnected

The roots of this decline are tangled in the economic realities of modern football. Talented players are exported prematurely, severing the connection between the national team and its domestic leagues. In this Copa América squad, twelve players had not even played 50 league games in Brazil—a statistic that highlights the erosion of a once-vital pipeline of talent.

This dislocation has fostered a culture of expediency, a descent from pragmatism into outright cynicism. The reappointment of Dunga as coach was emblematic of this malaise, a retrograde step that betrayed a refusal to confront the systemic issues plaguing Brazilian football. Dunga’s conservatism, his obsession with defensive solidity at the expense of creativity, epitomizes the ethos of a team that has lost its way.

A Cynical Philosophy

The tactical fouling that has become a hallmark of Brazil’s play is a stark departure from the free-flowing football of their past. Before the quarter-finals, Brazil ranked fifth in fouls per game despite having the third-highest possession rate. In contrast, Chile and Argentina, who dominated possession, committed the fewest fouls. This propensity for fouling betrays a defensive mindset, a fear of engagement that is antithetical to the spirit of Brazilian football.

The nadir of this cynicism came late against Venezuela when Brazil fielded four center-backs, Dani Alves as a winger, and Elias as the advanced midfielder. The sight of Elias, with no options ahead, punting the ball into the corner to run down the clock was emblematic of a team bereft of ideas and ambition. This was not merely ugly football; it was losing football.

Neymar: A Lone Star in a Dark Sky

Neymar’s brilliance only serves to highlight Brazil’s systemic failings. His injury-time pass to beat Peru was a moment of individual genius that masked the team’s collective inadequacy. Against Paraguay, Robinho’s goal—Brazil’s sole touch in the opposition penalty area during the first half—was a damning indictment of their creative bankruptcy.

The burden placed on Neymar is both unfair and unsustainable. He is asked not just to inspire but to carry the weight of a nation’s expectations, a task that no player, however gifted, can fulfill alone.

The Death of an Aura

What remains of Brazil is a team stripped of its aura and respect. Paraguay, far from being intimidated, brazenly pumped long balls into the box, a tactic that would have been unthinkable against the Brazil of old. The jeers of the Chilean crowd as Brazil collapsed were a fitting soundtrack to their decline.

The beauty is gone. The aura is gone. And with them, the respect of a continent. Brazil’s fall from grace is not merely a footballing tragedy; it is a cultural loss, a fading echo of a time when the Selecao embodied the joy and artistry of the beautiful game.

As the echoes of their former glory grow ever fainter, one is left to wonder: can Brazil ever rediscover the magic that once made them the standard-bearers of footballing excellence? Or will the myth of Jogo Bonito remain just that—a myth, consigned to the pages of history?

Thank You 

Faisal Caesar