Saeed Anwar: From Despair to Redemption at Eden Gardens

In cricket, as in life, the line between brilliance and failure is razor-thin. One moment, a batsman is a master of his craft, commanding bowlers with effortless grace; the next, he is a shadow of himself, struggling to reclaim the magic that once came naturally. Saeed Anwar, Pakistan’s most elegant opener of the 1990s, experienced both extremes during the high-voltage India-Pakistan Test series of 1999.

Before the tour, Anwar’s confidence brimmed with the arrogance of a master in form. He openly expressed his desire to notch a triple century, a feat that would cement his dominance over Pakistan’s fiercest rivals. The expectation was not misplaced. Two years earlier, he had tormented India in Chennai with a sublime 194, an innings of such ethereal beauty that it remains etched in cricketing folklore. His overall record against India was staggering, a testament to his penchant for delivering on the grandest stage.

More recently, in 1998, he had further solidified his status as an all-condition batsman. A polished 118 against the formidable South African pace quartet of Allan Donald, Shaun Pollock, Lance Klusener, and Jacques Kallis at Durban underscored his adaptability. Later that year, in a home series against Australia, he amassed 290 runs at an average of 96.66, including two masterful centuries. In the first Test at Rawalpindi, he stitched together a crucial 120-run ninth-wicket partnership with Mushtaq Ahmed, saving Pakistan from complete collapse.

Anwar was in prime form. His class was undisputed. But cricket has a way of humbling even the greatest.

A Series of Self-Doubt: The Collapse of a Titan

As the much-anticipated series against India began, Anwar, the artist with a bat, found his canvas barren. The rhythm that had once defined his game was absent, the fluidity of stroke-making replaced by hesitation. His high hopes of a historic series were quickly dashed as he struggled in the first two Tests, failing to impose himself. Each dismissal chipped away at his confidence, instilling the kind of self-doubt that can cripple even the finest of batsmen.

Then came the Asian Test Championship opener at Eden Gardens—one of the grandest stages in world cricket, a venue soaked in history, where the pressure of a Pakistan-India encounter is magnified by the presence of 85,000 fervent spectators. The cauldron of Kolkata was no place for the uncertain. It demanded resolve, brilliance, and a touch of defiance.

But for Pakistan, the match began in disaster.

Eden Gardens: A Cauldron of Humiliation

Batting first, Pakistan suffered a collapse so dramatic that it seemed destined for the record books. Within the first ten overs, they were reduced to 26 for six, their worst-ever start in a Test innings. The Eden Gardens crowd erupted in joy, relishing every Pakistan wicket that tumbled. The humiliation was compounded by their taunts directed at Javed Miandad, the Pakistani coach, who had recently called for drastic changes to the team in the wake of the ongoing match-fixing scandal.

Amidst the ruins, Anwar walked to the crease, burdened by expectation but devoid of form. Twelve balls later, he trudged back to the pavilion—a duck against his name. Pakistan's innings ended at a paltry 185, their pride shattered, their spirits crushed.

India, in response, looked poised to take a commanding lead. At 147 for two, they were cruising. Then, in a moment of sheer brilliance, the match flipped on its head. Shoaib Akhtar, raw, ferocious, and unstoppable, produced a spell that would be remembered for years. He bowled Rahul Dravid with a searing yorker and, in the very next delivery, shattered Sachin Tendulkar’s stumps with an express in-swinger. The twin strikes stunned the Eden Gardens crowd into silence. India collapsed, folding for 223, managing only a slender 38-run lead.

The game, once lopsided, was now alive.

Anwar’s Redemption: A Masterpiece Amidst Ruins

Pakistan’s second innings began with trepidation. Wajahatullah Wasti, pushed up the order to his natural opening position, departed early. The tension on the field mirrored that in the stands. An altercation between Prasad and nightwatchman Saqlain Mushtaq further fueled the already volatile atmosphere. South African umpire David Orchard was forced to intervene, warning India’s wicketkeeper, Nayan Mongia, for excessive appealing.

Amidst the chaos, Anwar survived a massive stroke of luck. On just two, he edged Srinath to first slip, where Mohammad Azharuddin got both hands to the ball—only to let it slip through. It was a moment of reprieve that would alter the course of the match.

The next morning, a different Anwar emerged. The hesitancy that plagued him earlier dissipated. His bat, once tentative, now met the ball with certainty. The initial movements were precise, the stroke play crisp, the footwork assured. It was vintage Saeed Anwar—fluid, elegant, and composed.

Teaming up with Mohammad Yousuf, he steered Pakistan towards stability. Their fourth-wicket stand of 115 in little over two hours frustrated India, sapped their energy, and pushed the hosts onto the defensive. The once-dominant Kumble, fresh off his historic 10-wicket haul in Delhi, looked ordinary. His final figures of one for 138 were a stark contrast to his previous heroics.

But Pakistan, true to their mercurial nature, found a way to self-destruct. From a promising 262 for three, they crumbled once more, losing their last seven wickets for just 54 runs. Yousuf’s dismissal—hooking Srinath straight to fine leg—triggered another collapse. The fragility of Pakistan’s middle and lower order was exposed yet again.

A Lone Warrior in the Storm

Yet through all the chaos, Saeed Anwar remained unshaken. He played with the fluency and grace that had once defined him. The drives through cover, the effortless cuts, the delicate flicks off his pads—every stroke was a reminder of his class. More than half his runs came behind the wicket, a testament to his immaculate timing and shot selection.

When the innings ended, Anwar stood unbeaten on 188, having carried his bat through—a feat only two Pakistanis before him, Nazar Mohammad and Mudassar Nazar, had achieved. His score accounted for 60% of Pakistan’s total of 316, a staggering individual contribution in a Test match of such intensity.

Though Younis Khan would later surpass this record with a 267 in Bangalore in 2005, Anwar’s innings at Eden Gardens remained one of the finest ever played by a Pakistani batsman on Indian soil. What made it legendary was not just the runs but the circumstances under which they came.

From the humiliation of a first-innings duck to the artistry of his second innings, Anwar’s performance was a tale of redemption, resilience, and sheer class. It was the story of a batsman who, when faced with doubt and adversity, rediscovered his greatness and answered his critics with his bat.

In the grand narrative of India-Pakistan cricket, where emotions run high and history is written in moments of brilliance, Anwar’s 188* stands as a testament to the power of perseverance. It was poetry in motion, a symphony of batsmanship that turned despair into triumph.

Thank You 

Faisal Caesar 

The Dawn of a New Storm: Shoaib Akhtar’s Arrival on the Grand Stage

The year 1998 was one of transformation for Pakistan cricket. The golden generation of fast bowlers—Wasim Akram and Waqar Younis—was no longer at its devastating best as injuries, age, and off-field distractions took their toll. Wasim, Pakistan’s premier left-arm magician, had endured a difficult period marred by injuries and external controversies. Waqar, the other half of the legendary “Two Ws,” found himself burdened with leading the pace attack, a responsibility that had once been equally shared.

Though Waqar remained a formidable bowler, he was not the same force of nature that had terrorized batsmen in the early 1990s. His searing pace had diminished, and his pinpoint accuracy—once his hallmark—became inconsistent. As the 1998 season progressed, Pakistan cricket found itself at a crossroads, seeking the right balance between experience and renewal.

When Wasim Akram was reinstated as Pakistan’s captain in late 1998, replacing Aamir Sohail, he inherited not just a team but an era in transition. His first major challenge was a historic series in India, a contest brimming with political, emotional, and sporting intensity.

For the first time, Indian crowds would witness the fabled “Two Ws” in their own backyard, as they prepared to take on the great Sachin Tendulkar. Wasim, rejuvenated, met expectations with his spellbinding swing and tactical brilliance. But Waqar struggled. Apart from one fiery spell in the second innings of the Chennai Test, his impact was minimal. His speed had dropped, his radar was inconsistent, and his aura of intimidation had begun to fade.

As the teams moved to Kolkata for the inaugural Asian Test Championship, Wasim Akram faced a defining moment. Sentiment and loyalty pointed towards persisting with Waqar. But Pakistan cricket had always been ruthless in its pursuit of success. And so, a bold decision was made—Waqar Younis, one of Pakistan’s greatest fast bowlers, was dropped.

In his place, a raw, untested force was unleashed upon the world: Shoaib Akhtar.

The Wild Card Enters the Arena

At the time, Shoaib Akhtar was an enigma—a talent largely unknown to the wider cricketing world but a name whispered among Pakistan cricket circles. His reputation, however, extended beyond his cricketing ability. He was a free spirit, a restless maverick who had already gained notoriety for his off-field antics.

During Pakistan A’s 1997 tour of England and South Africa, Shoaib had made headlines for breaking curfews and indulging in the night-time thrills of the Western world. He spent the previous summer playing club cricket in Ireland, returning with a passable Dublin accent and an endless stream of stories from O’Connell Street’s pubs.

But beyond the theatrics, Shoaib possessed something extraordinary—raw, untamed pace.

The cricketing world had caught glimpses of his ability during Pakistan’s Test series in South Africa earlier in 1998. In the second Test at Durban, Shoaib delivered a match-winning spell, helping Pakistan secure a rare victory. His thunderbolts drew comparisons with Allan Donald, South Africa’s premier fast bowler. Wasim Akram, who had faced both, made an emphatic declaration:

"Waqar was as fast in his heyday, but Shoaib’s bouncer is much quicker."

Yet, despite these promising flashes, Shoaib remained untested on the biggest stage. That was about to change.

Kolkata’s Eden Gardens, one of cricket’s most electrifying venues, was about to witness the birth of a new phenomenon.

Setting the Stage for an Earthquake

Day 1 of the Kolkata Test provided an early hint of what was to come. As the evening light faded, Shoaib steamed in and shattered VVS Laxman’s stumps with a searing inswinging delivery. A warning shot had been fired.

But the true storm was yet to arrive.

As Day 2 dawned, India was in control. Rahul Dravid and Sadagoppan Ramesh were methodically grinding down Pakistan’s modest first-innings total of 185. With the score at 147 for 2, drinks were taken.

Session breaks can be deceptive. Batsmen, even those well-set, can lose their rhythm in the brief pause. Wasim Akram, ever the astute leader, sensed an opening. He tossed the ball to Shoaib Akhtar, hoping the young speedster could break the deadlock.

What followed was not just a breakthrough—it was an earthquake.

Shoaib charged in with his trademark long run-up, his energy still high despite the Kolkata humidity. His first delivery to Dravid, a full-length inswinger, seemed to move with an intelligence of its own. The ball started straight, then suddenly dipped and curled towards the leg stump. Dravid, a master technician, tried to bring his bat down in time—but the ball was too quick, too well-directed.

Leg stump cartwheeled.

Boom.

Dravid, the man who would later become “The Wall,” had been breached. Kolkata’s murmurs of discontent were growing. But the real drama was yet to unfold.

Sachin Tendulkar emerged from the dressing room, greeted by a thunderous ovation. Ninety thousand fans rose in unison, chanting his name. In India, Tendulkar was more than just a cricketer—he was a deity. And now, he stood between Shoaib Akhtar and history.

The crowd roared as Tendulkar took his guard. Shoaib, already in motion, barely waited.

The delivery was full, reversing viciously in the air. Tendulkar, ever composed, adjusted slightly, looking to drive. But the ball swerved late, as if obeying a hidden command, and slipped past his bat.

Middle stump lay uprooted.

For a moment, silence.

A silence so profound it felt unreal in a stadium bursting with life just seconds earlier.

Boom.

Sachin Tendulkar, the greatest batsman of his era, had fallen for a golden duck—the first in his Test career.

Shoaib Akhtar, arms outstretched, tilted his head to the sky, absorbing the moment. He had not just dismissed two of the world’s finest batsmen—he had done it in successive deliveries, in their own backyard, on the grandest stage.

The Changing of the Guard

As if scripted for maximum drama, the next batsman in was India’s captain, Mohammad Azharuddin. If Shoaib’s deliveries to Dravid and Tendulkar had been masterpieces of swing, his delivery to Azharuddin was an exhibition of raw hostility.

A bouncer, fast and steep, crashed into the back of Azhar’s helmet. The message was clear—this was a different breed of fast bowler.

By the time Shoaib’s spell ended, his figures read 4 for 71, his final victim being Venkatesh Prasad, beaten by yet another scorching yorker. But numbers only tell part of the story.

In the stands, Waqar Younis watched. He had built his career terrorizing batsmen with toe-crushing yorkers, reverse swing, and sheer pace. And now, before his eyes, a successor had emerged.

Shoaib Akhtar was not just another fast bowler. He was a force of nature, a whirlwind of pace and personality. His career would be marked by brilliance and controversy, by breathtaking spells and moments of recklessness. But on this day in Kolkata, none of that mattered.

Cricket had found its next great fast bowler.

And Pakistan had found its new storm.

Thank You 

Faisal Caesar 

A Collapse for the Ages: South Africa’s Nightmare Against Australia

Cricket is a game of skill, temperament, and endurance, but occasionally, it produces moments of sheer devastation that leave teams searching for answers. The final Test between Australia and South Africa, played before the latter embarked on their tour of New Zealand, was one such occasion. In a match that lasted just a little over two days of actual play, Australia secured victory by an innings and 72 runs, despite posting a modest total of 153. The encounter, however, would be remembered not for Australia’s triumph, but for South Africa’s historic batting collapses—totaling just 81 runs across two innings, the lowest aggregate ever recorded in Test cricket.

A Ferocious Introduction: The Rise of Laurie Nash

One of the most significant developments in this Test was the debut of Laurie Nash, a Tasmanian fast bowler who had caught the selectors' attention with a devastating performance against the touring South Africans. Playing for Tasmania, Nash had taken seven wickets for just 50 runs, showcasing a lethal ability to extract awkward bounce from the pitch. Though short in stature, he was powerfully built, and his deliveries frequently reared up to head height, making him a formidable opponent.

Teaming up with the left-arm spinner Bert Ironmonger, Nash played a pivotal role in South Africa’s first innings debacle. The visitors found themselves on a slightly damp wicket, and within a mere 90 minutes, they were routed for an abysmal 36 runs. This was not their lowest Test total—having twice been dismissed for 30 by England (in Port Elizabeth, 1895-96, and Birmingham, 1924)—but it was their worst performance against Australia, surpassing their previous lowest score of 80 at Melbourne in 1910-11.

Only South African captain Jock Cameron managed to reach double figures, while Ironmonger produced an astonishing spell, finishing with figures of 5 for 6. The conditions were undoubtedly challenging, but South Africa’s inability to counteract the movement and bounce exposed deep flaws in their batting technique.

Australia’s Struggles: A Low-Scoring Affair

If South Africa’s batting had been dismal, Australia’s reply was not much better. They were dismissed for 153, a score that, despite being over four times larger than South Africa’s first innings, was still their lowest ever against the Proteas. Prior to this, their poorest total against South Africa had been 175, made at Johannesburg in the 1902-03 series.

The pitch had eased slightly, yet South African bowlers Bell, Quinn, and McMillan exploited it effectively, generating movement and troubling the batsmen. Bill Woodfull fell to the very first ball of the innings, a sign of the challenges to come. However, Jack Fingleton and Ron Rigg provided some stability with a 51-run stand, the highest partnership of the innings. The only other significant contribution came from Alan Kippax and Laurie Nash, who added 37 runs together.

At the close of play, South Africa, trailing by 117 runs, had already lost a wicket for just five runs. As rain poured overnight and continued into the next afternoon, no play was possible on Saturday. The downpour raised speculation that South Africa might be spared further humiliation due to the weather, but the storm that awaited them on Monday was far worse than any that nature had conjured.

Monday’s Massacre: South Africa’s Historic Collapse

When play resumed on Monday afternoon, it was already evident that conditions had deteriorated further. The pitch, having absorbed the rain, was treacherous, and when the sun emerged, it dried just enough to create a surface of uneven bounce and exaggerated turn.

South Africa, already in deep trouble at 5 for 1, found themselves completely unable to handle the relentless attack of Ironmonger. In just under 90 minutes, their last nine wickets tumbled for an additional 40 runs, leaving them with an appalling second-innings total of 45.

This meant that across two innings, South Africa had amassed a mere 81 runs, setting an unenviable record—the lowest combined total in Test cricket history at the time. Five South African batsmen failed to score, and only Victor Curnow managed to reach double figures.

Once again, it was Ironmonger who proved to be their chief tormentor. Exploiting the deteriorating pitch masterfully, he returned figures of 6 for 18, completing match figures of 11 wickets for 24 runs—one of the most remarkable bowling performances ever seen in Test cricket.

The Sun and the Final Collapse

Though South Africa were already struggling, the final unraveling came in dramatic fashion. At 25 for 3, the pitch—baked by the emerging sun—became almost unplayable. The drying surface caused deliveries to behave unpredictably, with some gripping and turning sharply while others skidded through at pace.

From that moment on, South Africa's last seven wickets fell for just 20 more runs, completing one of the most one-sided demolitions in Test history. The ferocity of the collapse was not merely a testament to Ironmonger’s skill but also an indictment of South Africa’s vulnerability against high-quality bowling in difficult conditions.

Legacy of a Lopsided Encounter

This match would forever be remembered for the sheer dominance of Australia’s bowling attack. The numbers spoke for themselves:

- Lowest ever aggregate for a team across two innings in Test history (81 runs).

- South Africa’s worst total against Australia (36).

- Ironmonger’s match figures of 11 for 24—one of the most economical and destructive performances ever.

For Australia, this Test reaffirmed the strength of their bowling, particularly Ironmonger’s mastery of difficult pitches and Nash’s emergence as a fearsome fast bowler. But for South Africa, the match was a sobering experience. Their batting weaknesses, exposed so ruthlessly, would demand deep introspection as they prepared for the next leg of their tour in New Zealand.

Cricket has often been called a game of glorious uncertainties, but on that fateful day in 1932, there was no uncertainty at all—South Africa had been outclassed, overwhelmed, and obliterated in one of the most lopsided contests in Test match history.

Thank You 

Faisal Caesar 

Chaos and Cricket: The Tear Gas Test at Sabina Park

Test cricket has long been a stage for high drama, but few encounters have descended into the kind of turmoil witnessed on the fourth day of the second Test between England and the West Indies at Sabina Park. It was a day when the sport itself seemed almost secondary, when bottles replaced bouncers, when riot police and players found themselves retreating to the same pavilion, and when the invisible hand of politics weighed as heavily on the game as any tactical decision made on the field. The headlines of the day, like John Thicknesse’s immortal one-liner, captured the mayhem in a way no scorecard ever could.

The drama began with a simple, uncontested dismissal. Basil Butcher, the elegant Guyanese batsman, was caught low behind by Jim Parks off Basil D’Oliveira. There was no need for an umpire’s intervention—Butcher knew he was out and walked without hesitation. Yet, as his figure disappeared into the pavilion, the mood in the stands darkened.

The Cauldron of Sabina Park

Sabina Park, nestled in Kingston, is an intimate cricket ground, an elliptical amphitheater where sound ricochets and emotions simmer just below the surface. On this particular day, the crowd, packed tightly in the sweltering heat, was beginning to turn restless. The West Indies, following on, were still 25 runs adrift, and tensions, as they often did in those days, found their way onto the field.

The first projectiles—bottles and discarded food wrappers—were lobbed from the stands in the direction of John Snow, England’s combative fast bowler. It was an ominous sign, a ripple on the surface before the storm. But Snow, never one to retreat from confrontation, made the fatal mistake of engaging. Advancing toward the crowd, he gestured for calm, a move that only provoked greater hostility. The ripple became a wave, as more debris rained onto the field.

Colin Cowdrey, England’s dignified captain, intervened, striding purposefully toward the boundary in an attempt to pacify the crowd. Even Garry Sobers, a man revered across the Caribbean, stepped forward, his presence a plea for reason. For a brief moment, it seemed as though order might be restored. But then, in an act of heavy-handedness that would turn the chaos into calamity, the police moved in.

Tear Gas and Turmoil

Kingston’s riot police, clad in white helmets and brandishing long truncheons, stormed across the playing field, a force as conspicuous as it was ill-prepared. Their attempt to control the situation backfired spectacularly. With tensions still simmering, the order was given to fire tear gas into the stands—a desperate, indiscriminate measure that only inflamed the chaos.

As the canisters burst, the crowd scattered, panic spreading through the bleachers like wildfire. Spectators tumbled over one another in a frantic bid to escape the acrid fumes, some suffering minor injuries in the process. But fate, always cruel in such moments, had one final twist. The prevailing winds, strong and unrelenting, carried the gas back toward its source, enveloping the police in the very cloud they had unleashed.

Worse still, the noxious mist was sucked into the stadium’s ventilation systems, seeping into the press box where legendary cricket writer E.W. Swanton found himself battling both his own confusion and the suffocating air. “Typing this with more than a whiff of tear gas making things unpleasant in the press box, one is confused by events,” he later wrote in the Daily Telegraph, his understatement almost comic in retrospect.

Yet the most poetic justice was reserved for the dignitaries. The tear gas drifted inexorably toward the pavilion, where Jamaica’s Governor-General, Clifford Campbell, sat with his entourage of government officials and West Indies Cricket Board members. Their regal composure was soon shattered by streaming eyes and choking lungs. It was a tableau almost too absurd to believe—those who had sanctioned the heavy-handed policing found themselves its most immediate victims.

A Test Match on the Edge

By the time the gas had dissipated and a semblance of order restored, the pitch had been overrun by fans, the players had retreated indoors, and cricket itself seemed like an afterthought. It took an hour of deliberation before an announcement over the public address system confirmed that play would resume at 4 PM.

The game, remarkably, continued. But what followed was a test not just of skill, but of endurance. The West Indies, facing certain defeat at 204 for 5, dug in for a fightback of Herculean proportions. Over six grueling hours, they clawed their way back, their bats carving runs out of a pitch that was beginning to crack under the unrelenting sun. By the time Sobers declared, England needed only 159 runs to win, but the psychological scars of the day’s events loomed as large as the physical ones.

What followed was a collapse worthy of its own chapter in cricketing history. England, rattled and uneasy, stumbled to 19 for 4 by stumps, their once-assured victory suddenly in grave peril. The next morning, wickets continued to tumble. By the time David Brown fell with the score at 68 for 8, a West Indies victory seemed inevitable.

But then came a moment of bizarre gamesmanship, one final twist in a match already overflowing with them. Amidst the confusion, Basil D’Oliveira—perhaps the only man on the field who had been keeping an eye on the clock—realized that the additional 70 minutes of play had elapsed. With England still in trouble, he seized his opportunity. Tucking his bat under his left arm, he beckoned to Brown and together they strode off the field, leaving the umpires momentarily dumbfounded. Once the realization set in, the match was over—England, through a combination of wit and sheer fortune, had escaped with a draw.

The Legacy of Sabina Park 1968

The aftermath of the match was as murky as the tear gas that had hung over the ground. No arrests were made, no official disorder recorded, and yet the chaos had been undeniable. Cecil Marley, chairman of the West Indies Cricket Board, privately admitted his regret—he had agreed to an additional 70 minutes of play rather than a fixed number of overs, a detail that ultimately saved England. The records, ever malleable, were later adjusted to show five balls bowled in the final over rather than four.

Was it a riot? Perhaps not in the strictest sense. There were no mass arrests, no widespread destruction. And yet, the events at Sabina Park left an indelible mark on cricketing history—a match in which the boundary between sport and spectacle dissolved, where the forces of passion, politics, and sheer absurdity converged on a single field.

For the 15,000 who had braved the turmoil, the true victory was not England’s escape or even West Indies’ valiant fightback. It was the knowledge that they had witnessed something truly unforgettable—a Test match where cricket, for better or worse, became a battle far beyond the boundary.

Thank You 

Faisal Caesar 

Dunedin 1985: A Test of Will, Wit, and War

Cricket, at its finest, is more than just a contest of skill; it is a battle of endurance, intelligence, and, at times, sheer defiance. The two-wicket thriller between New Zealand and Pakistan at Dunedin in February 1985 remains one of the most riveting Test matches ever played in the southern hemisphere. It was an encounter that saw milestones achieved, tempers flare and a final-wicket partnership etched into folklore. It was a match where the future and the past collided—Richard Hadlee celebrated his 250th Test wicket, Javed Miandad surpassed 5,000 Test runs, and an 18-year-old left-arm seamer named Wasim Akram stormed into international cricket with a breathtaking ten-wicket haul. Yet, despite these towering individual feats, the game is best remembered for its tension-filled final act and Miandad’s fiery exchange with the umpire.

A Storm Named Wasim Akram

From the moment he marked his run-up, Akram had only one plan—ferocity. His approach was simple yet devastating: relentless short-pitched deliveries that made survival an ordeal for the batters. Lance Cairns, one of New Zealand’s most seasoned players, bore the brunt of Akram’s onslaught, leaving the field with a hairline fracture on his skull after misjudging a bouncer. With Cairns incapacitated, New Zealand’s hopes rested on their final pair—Jeremy Coney, the experienced all-rounder, and Ewen Chatfield, a man known more for his doggedness than his batting ability.

On paper, the match seemed all but over. Chasing 278, New Zealand had run out of recognized batters, and standing before them was a rampant Wasim Akram, a bowler too young to comprehend fear but experienced enough to instil it in his opponents. Pakistan, sensing imminent victory, tightened their grip, while Miandad, ever the strategist, sought to manipulate the game to his advantage.

A Battle of Attrition

Recognizing Coney’s superior batting ability, Miandad devised a tactical ploy—allow him the single, and expose Chatfield to Akram’s fury. It was a classic manoeuvre, one that had broken countless tail-enders before. Yet, in the face of Pakistan’s unyielding assault, Chatfield refused to wilt. He absorbed blows like a prizefighter in a ring, his resolve hardening with each delivery that struck his body.

But cricket, especially Test cricket, is as much about the mind as it is about skill. The battle between bat and ball soon morphed into a battle of nerves. Akram, relentless in his pursuit, began overusing the short-pitched deliveries, falling into a predictable rhythm. The umpires, sensing the excessiveness, stepped in—only to find themselves drawn into Miandad’s combative orbit.

The exchange between Miandad and the umpire was not just an argument; it was a clash of ideologies. To Miandad, cricket was a game where every strategic advantage had to be maximized, and his aggressive interrogation of the umpire reflected his refusal to cede ground. He questioned the legitimacy of the warnings, arguing that Akram was merely exploiting a bowler’s natural weapon. The umpire, unmoved by his protests, issued an official warning. The decision enraged Miandad, but he had already committed to his strategy. Akram, perhaps fueled by his captain’s defiance, launched another ferocious bouncer that once again thudded into Chatfield’s helmet. This time, the umpire had had enough—an official warning was given.

The Crawl to Glory

While Pakistan remained fixated on their aggressive approach, Chatfield and Coney, like soldiers in a besieged fortress, slowly mounted their resistance. They knew they had no choice but to endure, to grind out every run with the patience of sculptors chiselling away at the stone. Each single, each defensive stroke, each minute that passed, sapped Pakistan’s energy.

Coney, later reflecting on the defining moments of that innings, admitted that the temptation to break free was ever-present. “There was always the temptation to hit out, get a few fours, and reduce the gap, but you just had to plug on and let the runs pile up,” he said. “He [Chatfield] had it under control. He shielded me from the bowling for quite a long time.”

And so, in one of Test cricket’s great ironies, it was not the express pace of Akram, nor the tactical nous of Miandad, that had the final say. It was the sheer resilience of two men, one a seasoned all-rounder, the other a bowler of limited batting ability, who outlasted the storm.

As Chatfield and Coney crawled to victory, they did not merely win a Test match; they epitomized the essence of cricket’s greatest format—where triumph is not always about dominance, but sometimes about the ability to simply outlast, to stand when everything else is falling apart. Dunedin 1985 was not just a victory for New Zealand—it was a testament to the human spirit’s unyielding defiance in the face of overwhelming odds.

Thank You 

Faisal Caesar