To a Champion of Australian Cricket

 

Dear Michael Clarke,

The late 1980s marked an extraordinary period in cricketing history—a time of uncertainty and transformation for Australian cricket. It was during this era that I became an ardent admirer of the game’s enduring qualities, especially those embodied by the Australian cricket culture. Under the steady guidance of Allan Border and the astute mentorship of Bob Simpson, Australia rebuilt itself from the ashes of mediocrity. They rekindled a lost ethos, a culture of resilience, adaptability, and unrelenting ambition. This foundation not only defined Border’s era but also became the cornerstone for the golden reigns of captains like Mark Taylor, Steve Waugh, and Ricky Ponting. 

I was privileged to witness this rise—an evolution that transformed Australia into a global cricketing powerhouse. The never-say-die attitude, the ruthless precision in execution, and the relentless hunger to dominate left an indelible mark on cricket’s history. These qualities weren’t merely inherited; they were cultivated through a robust cricketing culture that valued excellence, temperament, and technical finesse. 

In 2004, when I watched your maiden Test century against India, I saw in you the embodiment of that legacy. It was not just the mastery with which you handled Anil Kumble and Harbhajan Singh, but the audacious flair and confidence with which you came down the track, dismantling their spin attack. Your innings of 151 was more than a personal milestone; it was a declaration of Australia’s unyielding spirit—a message to the cricketing world that here was a future great, destined to carry forward a rich tradition. 

Over the years, you became a stalwart—a leader whose steady hand guided the team through fluctuating fortunes. Your captaincy began at a time when the invincibility of Australian cricket had started to wane. Yet, under your leadership, the team found moments of redemption: a series win in Sri Lanka, the dramatic resurgence to reclaim the Ashes in 2013, and the ultimate triumph at the 2015 World Cup. These victories underscored your resolve and your commitment to the values that define Australian cricket. 

However, the journey wasn’t without its trials. By 2013, teams like India, South Africa, and England had exposed vulnerabilities within the Australian ranks. Those defeats, though painful, seemed temporary—challenges to overcome rather than signals of decline. And indeed, you led a remarkable revival. Your efforts to steer the team back to prominence were nothing short of heroic, especially given the physical toll your back problems exacted. 

Yet, as I reflect on the events of 2015 and your sudden decision to retire, I am filled with a deep sense of disquiet. The Ashes defeat in England was undoubtedly a bitter pill, a moment that rattled the core of Australian cricket. But for you to walk away at such a juncture seemed out of step with the very ethos you so often exemplified. Australian cricket, as I have come to know it, thrives on resilience—on facing adversity head-on, refusing to yield until the battle is truly lost. 

Your departure felt abrupt, almost un-Australian in its timing. You had weathered storms before, so why not this one? Was there not another chapter to write, another mountain to climb? Your continued presence, I firmly believe, could have steadied the ship during these turbulent times. It could have served as a bridge, easing Steven Smith into leadership while allowing the team to regroup and rebuild. Instead, your absence left a void, one that could have been filled with your wisdom, your grit, and your unshakable belief in the Australian way. 

I cannot ignore the critics who might argue that your decision was prudent or inevitable. They might point to the toll of captaincy or the personal sacrifices it demanded. But to me—and perhaps to many others—you still had so much to give. A leader of your calibre, forged in the crucible of one of cricket’s richest traditions, does not leave the stage without a final act of defiance, a statement that adversity is merely an opportunity in disguise. 

Australian cricket still needs you. 

With unwavering admiration and respect, 

A Cricket Fan from Bangladesh  

Thank You

Faisal Caesar 

The Day the Ashes Burned Brightest: Broad’s Masterpiece and Australia's Collapse at Trent Bridge

Alastair Cook had asked his players to etch their names into history. He did not expect them to inscribe them in lightning.

On a morning hung heavy with anticipation and English cloud, the fourth Test of the 2015 Ashes series opened not with a battle but with a rout—swift, brutal, unforgettable. By the end of that first session at Trent Bridge, Australia were not just trailing in a Test; they were unravelled, undone, and perhaps unknowable even to themselves. A mere 111 balls were all they lasted. The scoreboard, stark and surreal, read 60 all out.

At its epicentre stood Stuart Broad, England’s blonde oracle of chaos, conjuring his career’s finest spell: 8 wickets for 15 runs. He entered the day searching for his 300th Test wicket. He exited the morning a national talisman, a slayer of myths, and the architect of a collapse that would be spoken of for decades.

The Opening Gambit: A Theatre of Collapse

If there is such a thing as poetic violence in sport, this was it. Broad bowled a length neither defensive nor overtly aggressive, hovering in that corridor where doubt thrives. His second ball kissed Chris Rogers' tentative bat and flew to slip—wicket 300. By the end of his fourth over, he held a five-wicket haul. In total, he took 5 wickets for 6 runs in 19 balls—the fastest five-for at the start of an innings in Test history.

The dismissals were not outrageous. They were, in fact, disturbingly routine: edges to slip, soft prods, panic sweeps at in-swingers. Michael Clarke, once the batting general of Australia, was among the worst offenders, playing an unrestrained waft outside off and falling to his opposite number, Cook, in the cordon. By the time the drinks trolley had rolled onto the field, six Australian wickets had fallen for 29.

This wasn’t swing bowling in the manner of 2005’s reverse-swing tempest. This was classic, upright seam bowling in overcast conditions on a fresh English pitch: disciplined, intelligent, patient. Broad was not reinventing himself—he was finally being fully understood.

The Slipstream Symphony: Fielding as Force

England’s slip cordon became a theatre of movement—sharp, sure hands catching everything on offer. Root, Stokes, Cook, and Bairstow turned Broad’s pressure into wickets. One catch, in particular—Stokes flying to his right to pouch a full-blooded edge from Adam Voges—belonged to legend. It was the sort of moment that punctuates entire series, entire careers. These were not mere chances. They were statements.

Trevor Bayliss, England’s newly appointed coach, had made slip catching a priority in pre-series camps. At the time, it was seen as a minor technical tweak. At Trent Bridge, it became a differentiator between chaos and control.

Broad’s Second Coming: The Quiet Evolution

If there had always been something slightly unrealised about Broad—the gifted but occasionally petulant enforcer, the fire without the furnace—this day laid those notions to rest. The transformation had begun earlier that year in the Caribbean, when Cook challenged his senior bowlers to lead not just in skill but in identity. Since then, Broad had adjusted—length fuller, mindset clearer, ego harnessed to responsibility.

No longer bowling short to protect his figures, he was pitching the ball up, inviting the drive, gambling for the edge. His strike rate had dropped; his effectiveness soared. This was maturity—measured not in years but in the ability to translate promise into mastery.

Australia’s Decline: From Hubris to Ruin

The collapse was not just technical; it was philosophical. Australia came into this series still basking in the warm glow of their 5-0 home Ashes whitewash. That confidence—bold, brash, and in places, careless—turned out to be brittle when removed from the hard tracks of Perth and Adelaide.

Steve Smith, the world’s No. 1 batsman at the time, had scoffed at the idea of England even getting close. Michael Clarke tried jaw-jutting defiance. But beneath the surface, Australia’s batting had begun to rot. The loss of Ryan Harris before the series had robbed them of balance; their refusal to play Peter Siddle, the quintessential English-conditions bowler, betrayed strategic arrogance. And their most reliable weapon—aggression—had no traction on pitches that required humility.

When they looked down at the Trent Bridge pitch that morning, coaches and selectors paused. They hesitated. They knew. And still, they did not change.

A Captain Falling, A Generation Fading

Michael Clarke, demoted to No. 5, seemed unsure of his place in the order and the game. His batting, once a blend of silken grace and unbreakable nerve, had grown desperate. The stroke that got him out was wild, not willful. He was chasing form like a man flailing in the dark. Soon after, he would announce his retirement.

Smith, too, faltered. His exaggerated movements and tentative strokeplay betrayed a mind clouded by the magnitude of the occasion. These two—the axis upon which Australia’s innings so often turned—were powerless.

Australia’s first innings lasted just 111 balls. The irony is painful: they didn't bat long enough to suffer the hard part of the conditions. By the time England came out, the sun was shining.

Root and Bairstow: A Partnership of Purpose

Joe Root, serene and luminous, responded with an innings of clarity—an unbeaten 124 filled with flowing drives and late cuts. He was ably supported by Jonny Bairstow, whose punchy 74 marked a personal turning point. England, with their lead swelling to over 200 by day’s end, not only capitalised but dominated. The Test was no longer a contest; it was an execution.

Starc took three wickets, but the burden on Australia’s four-man attack—especially with two strike bowlers ill-suited for long spells—was too great. Their gamble to strengthen the batting had collapsed under the weight of its own assumptions.

The Systemic Lesson: England's Adaptation, Australia’s Stubbornness

England’s reinvention had been swift and quiet. Trevor Bayliss, far from the fire-breathing motivator, had worked with Cook to instil calm, clarity, and purpose. The selectors gave youth a chance; the coaching staff emphasised catching, length, and responsibility. While Australia stuck to a model forged in the furnace of home domination, England prepared for conditions at home—and thrived.

Ben Stokes embodied that transformation. He was no allrounder in name only. His athleticism in the field, his relentless energy, his psychological presence—all recalled a young Flintoff. By contrast, Australia cycled through Watson and Marsh, eventually abandoning their five-bowler dogma out of desperation.

Marsh, talented but raw, found himself exposed. Watson, once Australia’s allround hope, may have played his last Test. Stokes, like Root, is the kind of player you build teams around.

A Day Etched in Ashes Gold

August 6, 2015, was not just a good day for England. It was one of the great days. The day Stuart Broad became folklore. The day Australia’s myth collapsed in 111 balls. The day Trent Bridge turned from a stadium into a sanctuary for English cricket.

When the sun finally set, Joe Root stood unbeaten, and Stuart Broad’s face was still flushed with disbelief and joy. The Ashes were not mathematically secured. But spiritually, emotionally, and irreversibly, they had come home.

In the long mythology of the Ashes, this was not merely a performance.

It was a reckoning.

Thank You
Faisa

 

Ashes 2015, Edgbaston: Where England Rose and Australia Wavered

Australia arrived at Edgbaston on the third morning not merely chasing a win, but clinging to the remnants of a fading narrative—a vision of resurgence that might reframe their 2015 Ashes campaign. Their dreams were vivid, almost cinematic, as they eyed the prospect of conjuring a comeback that would echo through the ages. But by afternoon, that dream had dulled into a haze of disappointment. England’s eight-wicket victory—sealed with clinical precision and carried by a mixture of nerve, craft, and spirit—has given them a 2-1 series lead. For Australia, this defeat has cast long shadows across a side ageing, disjointed, and increasingly uncertain of its place.

The Edgbaston pitch, grown under cannabis lights, had a strange kind of energy—saturated in movement, lively from the start. The match galloped. Day one produced 13 wickets, day two brought 14 more. Every hour felt like a session, every session like a day. The match was hurtling toward conclusion. Yet on day three, the pace finally slowed—not from fatigue, but from the tightening grip of inevitability.

The Bell Tolls: Ian Bell’s Grace Amid Chaos

Chasing 121 in the fourth innings of a Test match can often morph into an ordeal if the conditions are twitchy and the pressure is suffocating. Australia had a chance, if not quite a plan. And when Alastair Cook and Adam Lyth fell cheaply, the theatre of uncertainty briefly flickered to life.

But Ian Bell—stylish, enigmatic, quintessentially English—strode out to take command. His counterattack wasn’t reckless. It was calculated, elegant, and laced with intent. Five boundaries in his first nine balls, all against Mitchell Starc, sent a message: England weren’t going to tiptoe to victory. They would seize it.

Then came the moment. Michael Clarke, so often Australia's saviour in years past, shelled a regulation catch at slip. Bell was on 20. The symbolism was potent—Clarke dropping Bell, and with him, perhaps the series. Bell would finish on an unbeaten 65. Joe Root, ever the metronome of England’s middle order, added a steady 38. Together, they walked England to a win that felt more like a statement than a conclusion.

Finn’s Redemption Arc: From ‘Unselectable’ to Undeniable

But Bell wasn’t the only story. Steven Finn’s return to the Test fold after years in the wilderness was the emotional spine of England’s performance. Once touted as England’s future, then exiled as "unselectable," Finn returned with fire in his eyes and rhythm in his limbs. His second-innings 6 for 79 was more than figures on a scorecard—it was a vindication. A man who had once looked broken by the expectations of international cricket now stood tall, strong, and decisive.

It was Finn who delivered the final blow to Australia’s last hope. Peter Nevill, batting with defiance, edged behind on 59. It was a faint tickle, almost imperceptible. But enough. With that, Australia’s lead was capped at 120, and the path to England’s triumph was cleared.

Australia’s Fault Lines: A Team Unravelling

If England are a team taking shape, Australia are one coming apart at the seams. They were bowled out twice without passing 150. Their top order, once feared, now looks brittle and unsure. Only David Warner’s 77 provided any resistance of note among the specialist batters. The rest—Rogers, Smith, Clarke, Voges, Marsh—contributed only scattered fragments.

The lower order offered more steel. Nevill and Starc, with fifties apiece, managed to push England harder than anyone in the top six. Their eighth-wicket stand of 64 gave the illusion of hope. But it was an illusion, nonetheless. Even the best illusions cannot survive for long under the weight of cumulative failures.

Michael Clarke’s decline has become one of the most painful to watch. A player of immense class, who once scored centuries with broken bones and against broken odds, now looks distant, disconnected from his own greatness. Since the last Ashes series, he has passed fifty just twice in 15 innings. There is talk of discontent, of leadership fatigue, of a back injury that has twisted not just his technique but perhaps his authority within the team.

That drop off Bell’s bat wasn’t just a fielding lapse—it was a metaphor for a captain losing his grip.

The Exiles and the Unknowns

Peter Nevill was never meant to be here. A soft-spoken man, his career overshadowed by Brad Haddin’s, thrust into the furnace of the Ashes with the whispers of injustice nipping at his heels. Critics claimed Haddin’s omission was punishment for paternal duty. But Haddin’s record—with one fifty in 18 months and a critical drop in Cardiff—offered no refuge.

Nevill, however, made the most of his chance. A composed gloveman, he batted with clarity and purpose. He may not have turned the tide, but he showed he belongs in the current. His 59 was one of the few acts of Australian resistance that seemed rooted in method, not madness.

Others may not return. Adam Voges, a battler who forced his way in through sheer weight of domestic runs, is 35. His Ashes average—14—may spell the end. Ryan Harris, so pivotal to past victories, was felled before the series began. Shane Watson is now reduced to memory—a tragicomic figure who could never quite be what he promised.

The Allrounder Archetype: Stokes and Marsh

Ben Stokes and Mitchell Marsh stand at similar crossroads—both seen as the next great allrounders, both still raw and volatile. Stokes has had moments of brilliance: the brutal 50 at Cardiff, the resistance at Lord’s. But he remains statistically uneven. Marsh, still finding his feet, has shown glimpses but remains more promise than product.

Yet both are essential. Stokes, especially, brings a gladiatorial edge. At Edgbaston, with the match tipping, he threw himself into the fray—diving in the field, roaring in appeals, bowling with a snarl. His dismissal of Hazlewood may not be remembered for its technical excellence, but it crackled with intent.

The Fractured Fast Bowlers

Mitchell Starc and Mitchell Johnson—Australia’s twin missiles—represent the duality of potential and panic. Starc can swing the ball like a scythe but struggles to maintain discipline. Johnson, whose career has been a pendulum between greatness and collapse, looked haunted. The crowd bayed. He fumbled a ball in the field, rushed his throw, and abandoned a run-up. His final over was theatre, comedy, tragedy all at once. When he bowled a full toss outside off, the Hollies Stand erupted—not in fear, but derision.

The demons—always part of Johnson’s mythos—were back. At 2-1 down, they are no longer just whispers. They are marching in chorus.

Cook’s Quiet Evolution

Alastair Cook’s renaissance is not in runs alone. His batting remains understated—gritty rather than graceful—but his captaincy has grown roots. Once seen as reactive, he now leads with quiet certainty. He has endured criticism, axing, the sacking of coaches, and a volatile media. Yet here he is, three Tests in, leading a team that believes again.

Even if his own bat hasn’t caught fire, he’s earned respect—perhaps more now than ever.

Conclusion: The Series, the Soul, and the Stakes

With the series poised at 2-1, England need one more win—or two draws—to reclaim the urn. Australia must rewrite history. Only once in Ashes history has a team come from 2-1 down to win the series—that was Don Bradman’s Australia in 1936–37.

This side lacks a Bradman. But in Steven Smith, they possess a man capable of the extraordinary. His resurgence is not just desirable—it is essential.

This Test was more than a contest—it was a canvas. Bell painted strokes of elegance. Finn etched redemption into the pitch. Clarke faded in sepia tones. Nevill emerged in a careful pencil sketch. Johnson blurred at the edges. Cook stood as a figure carved from endurance.

As the players leave Edgbaston, the score reads 2-1. But beneath the numbers lies a deeper truth: England have found momentum, identity, and belief. Australia have found questions, ghosts, and time running out.

The urn still lies ahead. But only one team seems to be walking toward it with their eyes open.

Thank You

Faisal Caesar

Liton Das: A Beacon of Promise Amidst Chittagong’s Rain-Soaked Drama

In the humid embrace of a Bangladeshi summer, where the relentless sun exhausts both land and spirit, the arrival of rain is often celebrated as a divine reprieve. Yet, for cricket lovers, the monsoon often plays the antagonist, turning promising matches into soggy tales of what might have been. Such was the fate of the first Test between Bangladesh and South Africa in Chittagong—a game beautifully poised before torrential rain washed away the narrative of a potential historic triumph for the Tigers. 

While fans mourned the curtailed encounter, the preceding three days had already etched several positives into Bangladesh’s cricketing ledger. At the heart of these gains stood Liton Das, a young cricketer from Dinajpur whose steady rise through the ranks had culminated in a performance that silenced doubters and inspired dreams. 

A Rain-Drenched Glimpse of Promise 

The Test had unfolded with an unexpected twist: South Africa, a team known for their dominance, found themselves on the back foot from day one. Bangladesh, riding on improved tactics under Mushfiqur Rahim’s captaincy, showcased a level of discipline and resolve seldom associated with their Test performances against top-tier opposition. 

Among the standout contributions was Liton’s maiden Test fifty—a knock that transcended mere numbers. It was a statement of intent, forged in the crucible of pressure and adversity. Coming to the crease with Bangladesh still trailing by 53 runs and their top order back in the pavilion, Liton partnered with Shakib Al Hasan to stitch an 82-run stand that not only erased the deficit but handed Bangladesh a crucial lead. 

Liton Das: The Artist in the Making 

Liton’s innings was an exhibition of patience, composure, and technical brilliance. Gone were the flashy strokes and fleeting moments of brilliance that had once marked his game. Instead, he embraced restraint, meeting South Africa’s formidable pace attack with maturity beyond his years. 

Morne Morkel tested him with short-pitched deliveries, Dale Steyn probed with searing accuracy, and Vernon Philander sought to exploit any chink in his technique. Yet, Liton stood tall, his defensive technique as unyielding as the rainclouds above. His ability to read the game and adapt his approach was particularly striking—a clear sign of his evolution as a Test cricketer. 

As he settled, Liton unveiled his repertoire of elegant strokes. A cover drive off Morkel, timed so exquisitely that the ball seemed to glide through the covers, stood out as the shot of the day. It was not power but precision that defined him—a characteristic reminiscent of the legendary Mark Waugh. Liton’s back-foot play and wristy flicks, honed since his BKSP days, were on full display, reinforcing the belief that he is one of Bangladesh’s finest timers of the cricket ball. 

A Journey Rooted in Talent and Perseverance 

Liton’s journey to the Chittagong Test had been anything but straightforward. Hailing from Dinajpur, he first garnered attention during his time at BKSP, where his appetite for big scores set him apart. His performances in two consecutive Under-19 World Cups cemented his reputation as a technically sound batsman with a temperament suited for the longer format. 

His transition to domestic cricket was marked by consistency. By the 2014-15 season, he was the leading run-scorer in the National Cricket League and a standout performer in the Dhaka Premier League. These exploits earned him a national call-up, but his initial outings in limited-overs cricket revealed a penchant for flamboyance over consistency. 

However, the Liton who walked out at Chittagong was a transformed player. The weight of expectations, combined with competition for spots in the national team, seemed to have sharpened his focus. His ability to adapt to the demands of Test cricket—curbing his natural instincts and playing for the team—was evident throughout the innings. 

The Road Ahead 

Liton Das’s performance in Chittagong was not just a personal milestone but a testament to Bangladesh cricket’s growing depth. His solid technique, paired with an eye for timing, makes him a rare gem in Bangladesh’s batting lineup. While his drives and flicks evoke nostalgia for the artistry of Mark Waugh, his grit and adaptability speak of a player determined to carve his own legacy. 

As the rain robbed Bangladesh of a potential 1-0 series lead, it also left fans dreaming of what the future holds for Liton. He belongs higher up the order, where his technique and temperament can be fully utilized. If nurtured well, Liton Das has all the makings of becoming Bangladesh’s finest batsman—a player who doesn’t just perform but inspires. 

In the end, while Chittagong’s rain might have ended the match prematurely, it also heralded the arrival of a player destined to shine for Bangladesh, rain or shine.

Thank You

Faisal Caesar 

Barry Richards: The Lost Peak of Cricket’s Everest

Measured from its oceanic base to its apex, Mauna Kea soars an astonishing 10,200 meters—towering over Everest, yet largely unseen beneath the waves. In cricketing terms, Barry Richards was Mauna Kea incarnate. His visible legacy—508 Test runs across four matches—was but a fraction of the mountain of talent submerged beneath the turbulent waters of apartheid and international isolation. His name lingers in the shadows of the game’s history, a ghost of what could have been.

Unlike his contemporaries, Richards' greatness was never afforded the stage of longevity. In an alternate world, where politics had not erected barriers higher than any pitch could offer, his name might have been inscribed alongside the Bradmans, Tendulkars, and Laras of the sport. Instead, his artistry was confined to the fringes: the county grounds of England, the Sheffield Shield of Australia, the Currie Cup of South Africa. The echoes of his genius rippled across these arenas, but never quite reached the roaring amphitheaters of Test cricket.

The Brief Blaze of Test Cricket

When the doors of international cricket finally creaked open for him in 1970, Richards walked through with the grace of a master and the hunger of a man who had waited too long. His blade was volcanic—erupting for 508 runs at an average of 72.57. He dismantled the mystery of John Gleeson’s bowling with the forensic precision of a scholar, reducing the Australian to a mere mortal even as others struggled to decode his art. He raced to a century before lunch, set batting clinics alongside Graeme Pollock, and left a sense of unfinished business hanging in the air.

Then, just as quickly, the door slammed shut. South Africa’s exile from Test cricket banished Richards from the grandest stage, leaving his Test career an exquisite fragment, a sonnet cut short mid-verse.

Dominance in Exile

Denied a proper Test career, Richards did what any man of his gifts would do—he turned the lesser stages into his own personal dominion. In England, he accumulated over 15,000 runs for Hampshire, forming an almost mythical partnership with Gordon Greenidge. In Australia, he torched bowlers with an insatiable hunger. Against an MCC attack led by Dennis Lillee and Tony Lock, he played perhaps his most famous innings—325 runs in a single day at the WACA, an innings so effortless that it seemed to trivialize the very notion of difficulty in batting.

And yet, in the very midst of his supremacy, Richards often seemed to be battling boredom. The game, in its regular structure, was too easy. He created challenges for himself—playing an over with the edge of his bat, hitting six boundaries in a clockwise pattern around the field, even throwing his wicket away once a century seemed inevitable. Greatness, for him, needed a greater test.

The What-Ifs of Cricketing Fate

Don Bradman once declared that Richards was at least as good as Hobbs and Hutton. And yet, while those legends sculpted their legacies over decades, Richards was left with a mere four Tests. One can only speculate how he might have fared across the decades—against Holding and Roberts on the fire-laden pitches of the Caribbean, against Lillee and Thomson on the hostile decks of Australia, against Chandrasekhar and Bedi on the turning tracks of India.

Could he have amassed 10,000 runs? Would he have stood among the pantheon of the greatest openers? The sport was robbed of these answers, leaving behind only whispers of what could have been.

A Legacy of Longing

Richards eventually transitioned to the commentary box, his voice carrying the echoes of a career that never fully materialized. At times, his public persona has been one of bitterness—quick to criticize modern batsmen, sceptical of contemporary cricket’s evolutions. Perhaps it is the frustration of knowing that the cricketing world saw only the tip of the mountain, while the true peak remained submerged beneath the currents of history.

And yet, Bradman’s final endorsement—selecting Richards as the opener for his all-time XI—ensured that the lost giant was never truly forgotten. It was a recognition that, despite playing just four Tests, Barry Richards’ name deserved to stand alongside the immortals.

Like Mauna Kea, his greatness remains partially hidden beneath the waters of circumstance. But for those who know where to look, Barry Richards stands among the highest peaks the game has ever seen.

Thank You 

Faisal Caesar