The Longest Day: When Sri Lanka Scaled the Summit but Missed the Stars

The morning broke not with tension, but with inevitability.

At Colombo’s Premadasa Stadium, the promise of a world record loomed just 50 runs away. Thousands gathered under the blazing sun, drawn by the magnetic pull of cricketing history. The scoreline had become a gravitational force of its own — Sri Lanka, with only a single wicket lost, was poised to eclipse everything that Test cricket had previously known about dominance, endurance, and glory.

And yet, this wasn’t an ambush. This was the logical conclusion of two days of unsparing brilliance. If the pitch was a stage, then it had long stopped offering any surprises, let alone the possibility of a fall. Wickets in this Test had become mythic, like the rains in a desert — and so when Nilesh Kulkarni, on debut, dismissed Marvan Atapattu with his first ball in Test cricket, he was not just writing his own folklore, but unknowingly marking India’s last successful gasp with the ball for an agonizingly long stretch.

What followed was a siege.

On the third day, Sanath Jayasuriya — all languid wrists and iron resolve — accumulated 163. Roshan Mahanama, precise and unobtrusive, compiled 115. Their partnership of 283 blossomed into something far more audacious the following day: Jayasuriya added another 151, Mahanama 96 more, and Sri Lanka, at an absurd 587 for 1, seemed to have not so much batted as dissolved all traditional metrics of attrition.

As Jayasuriya resumed on the fifth morning with 326 to his name, the stadium stood in hushed reverence. For the faithful from Matara — his hometown — who had travelled 160 kilometres to witness their native son sculpt greatness, this was more than sport. It was a spiritual experience. Jayasuriya was not just batting; he was representing the crest of a nation's pride, the idea of what it meant to endure and excel.

The Indian fielders, meanwhile, walked out with the hollow gait of men condemned to participate in their own public defeat. The centuries by Sidhu, Tendulkar, and Azharuddin — once stirring declarations of intent — now felt like footnotes in a narrative they no longer controlled. The ball was old, the pitch lifeless, and the bowlers looked like they had been sentenced rather than selected.

Then, as the score ticked to 615 and anticipation reached fever pitch, the script broke. Mahanama, now on 225, misread a Kumble delivery, missed the line, and was adjudged lbw. A partnership of 576 — the highest for any wicket in Test history — came to an end, cruelly one run short of the First-class record held by Hazare and Gul Mohammad.

As fans dismissed the loss as a mere formality, fate stepped in with theatrical precision. Two deliveries later, Jayasuriya, undone by a touch of extra bounce from Rajesh Chauhan, lobbed a simple catch. After 799 minutes of marathon concentration, 340 runs off 578 deliveries, 38 boundaries and two sixes, he walked back — exhausted, perhaps even relieved, but unmistakably short of the historic mark that had suddenly seemed within reach.

It was not just the end of a partnership. It was the end of a myth-in-making.

Jayasuriya later confessed that he had not chased the record — not until he was told, on the fourth evening, that he was just 50 runs shy. That changed everything. He came out burdened not by ambition but by history. And history, as it often does, recoiled.

But the dismantling of the twin centurions did not halt the Sri Lankan juggernaut. Arjuna Ranatunga, reading the pitch better than any curator, deemed any pursuit of victory senseless. Instead, the innings became a slow-burn exhibition of psychological domination. Aravinda de Silva, padded up for nearly 13 hours, uncorked a hundred of pure flair. Ranatunga nearly joined him, falling short only due to a run-out. A 19-year-old debutant named Mahela Jayawardene — whose name would become etched in similar epic scale nine years later — added a silken 65.

By the time Sri Lanka declared at 952 for 6 — the highest team total in Test history — the Indian bowlers looked like survivors of a long war. Kumble's figures of 1 for 226 seemed generous. Rajesh Chauhan's 0 for 276 was a slow bleeding. And poor Nilesh Kulkarni, who had once stood on a pedestal with a wicket from his first ball, now bore the cruel burden of 1 for 195 across 70 overs — the most poetic descent from debut euphoria to historical punishment.

And yet, it wasn’t just numbers that this match offered. It was a study in the mind: of how greatness inches forward and how fatigue, expectation, and ambition each play their part in shaping the destinies of men.

For Jayasuriya, the record that slipped through his fingers will forever linger like a half-remembered dream. “I wasn’t going after the record,” he said, “not until someone told me I was only 50 short.” In that moment, what had been natural became deliberate. What had been free-flowing turned heavy. What had been joy became a burden.

And that — perhaps more than the mountain of runs, the shattered records, or the numbing exhaustion — is the great irony of sport. The closer one gets to immortality, the more human one becomes.

Thank You 

Faisal Caesar 

Brothers in Arms: South Africa’s Triumphant Return and the Pollock Legacy

After a decade of yearning and near-misses, South Africa’s long-awaited Test victory on English soil arrived not with a whimper, but with a bold, resounding flourish. At Trent Bridge, they authored a performance of clinical brilliance and raw resolve — but above all, it was a tale written in blood and kinship by two brothers: Graeme and Peter Pollock.

Their fraternal dominance — Graeme with the bat, Peter with the ball — found no equal in the annals of Test cricket. Graeme, aged only 21, carved a sublime 184 across two innings and snatched a key wicket at a vital hour. Peter, fiery and relentless, ripped through England’s line-up in both innings, finishing with ten wickets for 87 — an exhibition of stamina, precision, and predation. Together, they didn’t just win a Test match; they etched a dual performance unmatched in its balance of grace and menace.

Weather, Wickets, and a Broken Thumb

The drama unfolded under overcast skies that made bowlers lick their lips and captains hesitate. When South Africa’s skipper Peter van der Merwe won the toss and batted, England quickly found their rhythm. Led by Tom Cartwright, included for his only Test of the season, England reduced South Africa to 80 for five. Cartwright’s swing bowling — subtle and suffocating — returned figures of six for 94. Yet fortune proved cruel: a fractured thumb, sustained while fielding a sharp return, ended his spell — and England’s control.

Then, into the breach stepped a young left-hander with an aura beyond his years. Graeme Pollock, tall, composed, and all timing, was initially cautious — feeling out the pitch before lunch with a circumspect 34. But what followed after the interval was cricket of a different plane. In just seventy minutes, he summoned a whirlwind of strokes, making 91 off the next 102 runs scored. With 21 boundaries and no discernible flaw in his execution, his 125 in just 140 minutes was one of the most incandescent innings ever seen in Test cricket — a masterclass in tempo, balance, and controlled aggression.

The Counterattack Falters

England’s reply began with a sense of urgency, but was quickly quelled by Peter Pollock’s incisive new-ball spell. In the dying minutes of day one, he removed Boycott and Barrington — England’s spinal batsmen — for a paltry 16. A defiant stand by night-watchman Titmus and the resilient Barber followed, but only Colin Cowdrey, England’s most polished technician, mounted a true response. In his 78th Test, he struck his 17th century with elegance undiminished — 104 runs in just over three hours, carved with eleven fours and trademark serenity.

But Cowdrey alone could not rescue the innings. Once the second new ball was taken at 220, England's lower order was dismantled swiftly, collapsing from 234 to 254. Pollock and Botten shared the spoils — and South Africa claimed a slender but crucial lead of 29.

Grit, Grit, and Graeme Again

In their second innings, South Africa’s fortunes fluctuated. Lance departed early, but Eddie Barlow, hobbling on a bruised toe and having not fielded, played a stoic innings of 76 across three grinding hours. His contribution was less about flair and more about anchoring. Graeme Pollock returned with another sparkling 59, though his innings this time was more of a counterpoint to Barlow’s restraint.

England, short of Cartwright’s containment, turned to Boycott for control — and he delivered miserly figures: 19 overs, 10 maidens, 25 runs. But the decisive moment came with the second new ball. Snow and Larter summoned renewed pace and precision. Larter, whose promise had flickered inconsistently until now, found his rhythm and took 5 for 68 — arguably his finest spell in national colours. South Africa, bowled out for 289, left England needing 319 to win.

The Collapse and a Late Fury

If the target was daunting, England’s approach was disastrous. In a repeat of the first innings, two wickets fell in the twilight: Barber and Titmus, both undone before the pitch had time to settle underfoot. Then came the inexplicable — Snow, the fast bowler, was sent in as night-watchman, a decision that baffled pundits and crowd alike. As a result, Jim Parks, a brutal hitter and seasoned campaigner, was relegated to number nine.

On Monday morning, Snow fell with the score still at 10, and England’s innings unraveled. Peter Pollock, tireless and disciplined, accounted for Barrington with a well-directed bouncer. Boycott, so often stoic to the point of sedative, occupied the crease for over two hours for just 16 runs — a monument to indecision when urgency was needed. His slow-motion vigil sapped the innings of momentum, and even the ever-dependable Parfitt could muster only glacial resistance.

England languished at 127 for seven. Rain and poor light offered a glimmer of reprieve — but it was Parks and Parfitt who sparked a sudden storm of counterattack. In a single over, Parks smashed 10 off Dumbrill. The second new ball only emboldened them. They flayed 27 from its first three overs and added 93 in an hour that stunned the crowd into belief.

It didn’t last. Parfitt, attempting a heave across the line, was bowled, and Parks was left stranded. The final collapse came swiftly. England were all out, and their 15-match unbeaten streak under M.J.K. Smith was broken.

A Captain's Touch, A Nation's Moment

For South Africa, it was a victory rooted in grit, guided by the keen leadership of Peter van der Merwe, whose tactical clarity and fielding prowess helped steer his side through moments of tension. The team, led by the brilliance of the Pollock brothers, had not just defeated England — they had announced their resurgence on the world stage.

In Peter, South Africa had their warrior spearhead; in Graeme, their poet with a bat. Together, they rewrote the script of the match, perhaps even of a generation.

And for a cricketing nation so long exiled from triumph in England, it wasn’t just a win. It was redemption, renewal — and a promise that South African cricket had come not just to compete, but to define the contest itself.

Thank You 

Faisal Caesar 

The Crown of the Caribbean: Sobers and the West Indies Conquer England in Majestic Style

By the time the final wicket fell just after 3 o’clock on the fourth day at Leeds, the narrative was complete — emphatic, irrefutable, and, for England, deeply chastening. The West Indies had triumphed by an innings and 55 runs, with a day to spare. It was not just a victory, but the culmination of a glorious chapter: three years of Caribbean ascendancy, marked by two resounding series wins in England, and, for the first time, a series conquest of Australia. The Wisden Trophy had changed hands — yet again — as if it belonged by birthright to these island cricketers.

At the heart of this cricketing supremacy stood one man — Sir Garfield Sobers.

The statistics from this Test alone boggle the mind: a magisterial 174 with the bat, eight wickets for 80 runs with the ball, and an exhibition of leadership that was both intuitive and surgical. Over four Tests, Sobers had accumulated 641 runs at an average of 128.20, seized 17 wickets, and claimed ten catches — all while carrying the mantle of captaincy with serene authority. His performance was not merely dominant; it was transcendent.

For England, the match was less a contest than a reckoning. Their response to the drubbing was swift and ruthless — Cowdrey, Milburn, Parks, Titmus, Underwood, and Snow were all dropped. It was as if the selectors, shaken into wakefulness, decided that nothing short of revolution would suffice.

A Match Begins in Gloom

The first day, curtailed by rain and poor light to a paltry three and a quarter hours, seemed to hold some promise for England. Lashley, Kanhai, and Hunte fell for a modest total of 137. When Butcher was dismissed early the next morning — the fourth wicket falling at 154 — English hopes stirred briefly.

But then, the floodgates opened. What followed was not so much a partnership as an assertion of sovereignty. For four unrelenting hours, Sobers and Seymour Nurse constructed a cricketing edifice of monumental proportions. Sobers, a craftsman of rare genius, unfurled his 17th Test century — his seventh against England and third of the series — with a fluent inevitability. He reached 100 between lunch and tea, a rare and poetic feat, and when his innings ended at 174, it was a declaration of mastery over both conditions and opponents.

With that innings, Sobers became the first man to surpass both 5,000 Test runs and 100 wickets — a dual milestone that placed him firmly in the pantheon of cricket’s immortals. It was also his 1,000th run of the summer, achieved in his 18th innings — a staggering testament to consistency.

Nurse’s contribution, though overshadowed, was substantial. His 137 — his first century against England — was carved with patience and precision, occupying five and three-quarter hours and containing two towering sixes and fourteen boundaries. The pair’s 265-run stand for the fifth wicket became a new benchmark in West Indies-England encounters.

England’s Collapse and Controversy

Sobers declared at 500 — West Indies’ highest total of the tour — and England’s opening reply quickly collapsed under the weight of raw pace. Wes Hall, bowling at a searing tempo, delivered an 80-minute spell that ripped out Boycott, Cowdrey, and Graveney. Milburn was forced to retire hurt after taking a painful blow to the elbow, and by the time Sobers entered the attack, England were a listing vessel.

Amid the maelstrom, controversy emerged. Griffith, whose pace had unsettled England earlier in the series, was warned for an illegal action after delivering a particularly hostile bouncer to Graveney. The umpires conferred; a warning was issued. The psychological impact was immediate — Griffith’s venom abated, and with it, England found a temporary reprieve.

It didn’t last.

Sobers removed Parks and Titmus in quick succession, reducing England to 83 for six. Only D’Oliveira, with a fighting 88 that included four sixes, and Ken Higgs, in his longest and most resolute innings (49), provided resistance. Their 96-run partnership offered a glimmer of resistance but not salvation. Sobers returned with spin to wrap up the tail, completing a triple blow in four deliveries, and England were dismissed for 240 — 260 runs adrift.

The Final Resistance Flickers

Following on, England’s troubles resumed under dimming skies. Lashley, bowling his first spell in Test cricket, removed Boycott with only his third ball. Only Barber and the injured Milburn offered anything resembling resilience on the final day. Barber’s measured defiance and Milburn’s brief blitz — including a massive six over the square-leg pavilion — were England’s final gestures of resistance.

But the end came quickly, as Lance Gibbs wove his artistry. Eschewing a sharp turn for flight and cunning, he took six for 39. The last five wickets fell in under an hour for just 77 runs — a disintegration as much mental as technical.

Legacy and Aftermath

The scoreboard tells one story — an innings victory for the West Indies, forged on the back of brilliance and brutality. But beneath the numbers lies something more profound. This was not just a cricket match; it was a meditation on greatness, on the limits of endurance, and on what it means for a team — and a man — to stand at the apex of their art.

Garfield Sobers didn’t just dominate; he orchestrated. He didn’t just defeat England; he humbled them with a blend of elegance and ruthlessness rarely witnessed in sport.

As England turned to rebuilding, the West Indies basked in a legacy affirmed. A golden generation had reached its peak — and at the summit, like a colossus, stood Sobers, both craftsman and conqueror.

Thank You 

Faisal Caesar 

The Stoic in Shadows: An Analytical Tribute to Graham Thorpe

In the annals of English cricket, greatness is often conflated with flamboyance. Yet, there are some whose excellence resided in quietude, in resilience rather than spectacle. Graham Thorpe, who died by suicide on August 4, 2024, was such a figure—an emblem of understated brilliance and inner complexity, both on and off the field.

A Player of Crisis and Clarity

With bat in hand, Thorpe was a craftsman of tenacity. His career was punctuated by innings of defiance rather than dominance, with an uncanny ability to rise when the pressure threatened to engulf the rest. Few moments capture this quality better than his unbeaten 64 in Karachi in 2000—an innings that helped secure England's mythical “win in the dark” against Pakistan. In a match defined by hostile conditions and cynical delays, Thorpe’s calm precision stood as a rebuttal to chaos. Long after the city’s crows had returned to roost and light had faded, Thorpe remained, unmoved.

Often, his best came under duress. Against Sri Lanka in 2001, on a spinning track in stifling Colombo heat, Thorpe’s scores of unbeaten 113\ and 32 carried England to a barely believable victory over Muralitharan and company. Of the 17 other Englishmen who batted in that match, none exceeded 26. The contrast was brutal and illuminating.

Elegance by Restraint

Unlike his stylistic forebears, like David Gower or his successor Kevin Pietersen, Thorpe’s greatness was built not on flair but on discipline. He was England’s batting conscience through a dismal era, a quiet axis in a revolving door of mediocrity. His final tally—6,744 runs in 100 Tests at 44.66, with 16 centuries—is testimony to a player who seldom chased glory but often salvaged dignity.

His style, compact and grounded, echoed that of Allan Border: no high-risk bravado, just a few trusted shots and an impenetrable defence. Dependable rather than dazzling, Thorpe was a teammate's cricketer, a batsman for rainy days and crumbling innings. He may not have sought the limelight, but nor did it ignore him entirely.

Obscured Luminary: A Career of Subtext

For all his achievements, Thorpe remained curiously under-feted. Among the 17 Englishmen to win 100 Test caps, he may be the least lionised. That obscurity, however, seemed to suit him. He was not built for centre stage but for grit and resolve in the wings.

His omission from the historic 2005 Ashes series—despite averaging 101 in his last three Tests—symbolised a shift in England’s cricketing ethos. Michael Vaughan opted for Pietersen’s swagger over Thorpe’s stoicism. The decision paid off, but in hindsight, it marked the end of an era defined more by survival than supremacy.

The Man Behind the Technique

Thorpe’s emotional intricacy was both his strength and struggle. A self-confessed brooder, he had open rifts with journalists and episodes of inner turmoil that culminated in a breakdown in 2002. Following the collapse of his first marriage and a period of depression, he disappeared from the England side for over a year.

His return in 2003, marked by a hundred against South Africa at The Oval—his home ground—was met with a rare public outpouring of affection. For once, English fans let go of reserve and said aloud what had long been felt: “I love Graham Thorpe.” In that vulnerable moment, Thorpe transcended cricket; he became a mirror for others wrestling their own storms.

A Pioneer in Mental Health Discourse

In an era when silence about mental illness was the norm, Thorpe’s candour was radical. His 2005 autobiography was not a redemption tale but a raw excavation of despair. “All the skeletons in the cupboard came out,” he wrote. “I was drinking lots and I was insular, bitter and lonely.” He did not seek pity—he sought understanding.

His openness paved the way for others. Nasser Hussain, Marcus Trescothick, Jonathan Trott, and later Ben Stokes—all benefited from the ground Thorpe broke, often in isolation. “He was always there for me in my darkest moments,” Hussain said after Thorpe’s death. “And that’s probably what I feel the saddest about now, that I wasn’t there for him in his.”

Coach, Mentor, Enigma

After retiring in 2005, Thorpe became a batting coach, first in Australia and then for England. His methods were sometimes tough but always purposeful. A young Ben Stokes learned Thorpe’s doctrine of responsibility the hard way—being made to take off and reapply his pads every time he was dismissed in practice. The lesson was ineffable: value your wicket. Respect the game. Fight for every inch.

As England’s batting coach, Thorpe’s experience was immense, but the sport’s changing rhythms and England’s own inconsistencies ultimately led to his dismissal in 2022 following a failed Ashes campaign.

A Life Not Just Lived, But Felt

Thorpe’s final years, sadly, saw echoes of the same burdens that haunted his playing days—media scrutiny, career instability, and mental health challenges. The coroner cited potential failings in his care, a tragic coda to a life that had given so much to others but had often found solace elusive for itself.

Yet Thorpe left something more enduring than numbers or titles. On the second day of the Oval Test in 2025—what would have been his 56th birthday—“A Day for Thorpey” was held in his memory, raising funds for the mental health charity Mind. His trademark sweatband was reimagined as a symbol of solidarity—a small token for a man who carried so much quietly.

The Cricketer as Everyman

Thorpe was not a legend in the mythic sense, but a profoundly relatable one. In an England team often battered and overmatched, he was the man sent in at 30-3, the silent warrior walking toward the wreckage. He was not perfect, not untouchable—but plausible. He bore the weight of adversity in ways that made others feel seen.

Watching Thorpe, you didn’t dream of becoming a cricketing god. You dreamed of standing your ground, of not being defeated by life’s unrelenting seam and spin. His story reminds us that fortitude does not preclude fragility. That greatness can walk with a limp. That heroism can look a lot like survival.

In the end, Graham Thorpe was not just a batsman. He was a beacon—of how to endure, how to fail, how to rise again. And though he is gone, the grace with which he carried his burdens remains a template for the rest of us.

Thank You

Faisal Caesar

The Gods Watched, Then Laughed: A Six-Run Saga at The Oval

There are endings that feel ordained and others that feel orchestrated by cosmic mischief. The conclusion of the fifth Test between England and India at The Oval was emphatically the latter. It unfolded like a fever dream—delirious, improbable, and unspeakably human.

India’s six-run victory, their narrowest ever in Test history, emerged not simply from the hands of Mohammed Siraj or the missteps of England’s middle order, but from the alchemy of sport itself—the convergence of exhaustion, absurdity, brilliance, and error into something that can only be called Test cricket.

This series, already heavy with subplots—injuries to Jofra Archer and Jasprit Bumrah, the emotional entropy of Ben Stokes, the volcanic emergence of Shubman Gill as captain, the absurdist pantomime of the Fortis-Gambhir spat—found its crescendo on Day Five, where the players limped into history on bloodied boots and blistered willpower.

The morning began as it often does in English cricket: with the gods asleep or drunk. The sun, out too late. The rain, gone but threatening. The crowd, half-believing. England needed 35 runs, India four wickets. Somewhere, in the bowels of the Oval, the ghosts of Cowdrey, Botham, and Laxman were shifting nervously in their invisible seats.

And then came Siraj.

This was not a spell of cricket. This was penance made flesh. His face still bore the psychic scar of stepping on the boundary rope the day before, turning a wicket into a six, a moment that might have defined the match had Siraj not insisted on writing a different ending. He began the final act like a man late to his own redemption, conjuring both movement and menace as the old ball kissed and cut its way back into the game.

His first scalp—Jamie Smith, drawn into a wide drive and caught behind—was surgical. But it was the aftermath, the shift in air, the sudden awareness that this game had become alive in a new, more volatile way, that truly changed the tone. Every ball thereafter felt like a coin flipped at the gods’ mercy.

It’s easy to romanticise Test cricket’s fifth days, but seldom does one deserve it so completely. This wasn’t just attrition or skill—it was performance art. Jamie Overton’s boundaries off Krishna were defiant, but Siraj struck back, his lbw dismissal of Overton squeezed from the cold stone of a DRS review. Then came Josh Tongue, yorked by Krishna, the stumps splintered like narrative finality. And then there was one.

Chris Woakes, one-armed and freshly bandaged, walked to the crease like a Shakespearean ghost—symbolic, tragic, nobly doomed. Much like Colin Cowdrey in 1963, he arrived to bear witness more than to wield influence. But what theatre it made. Each of his flinches, the wince on his face as his arm jostled from its sling, was worth volumes. At the other end, Gus Atkinson swung hard and missed harder. England crept toward the total. Each run now felt weightier than the innings that preceded it.

And then—fittingly, brutally—Siraj bowled the perfect ball. A full, arcing yorker, straight and swift. Atkinson missed. Off stump splayed. Victory. Catharsis. Pandemonium.

Siraj, the Series' Soul

If a single figure could personify the mad beauty of this series, it would be Siraj. In a contest bursting with characters—Brook the elegant outlaw, Gill the patrician stylist, Root the quiet surgeon—it was Siraj’s blood-and-thunder presence that provided its emotional core. His figures—30.1 overs in the final innings alone—reflected a stamina that bordered on spiritual. There is no stat for a man refusing to lose.

And yet the match was not his alone.

Harry Brook’s 111 in the fourth innings was a modern-day masterpiece—a collage of invention and abandon, of risk made rational. The lofted cover drive off Akash Deep, one of the more surreal moments in the annals of cricketing aggression, was less a shot than a declaration of belief. A conviction that scoring, even in such tension, was not only possible but necessary.

In contrast, Root played the long symphony—technically assured, emotionally unflustered, his 105 a reassertion of classical virtues amidst the din. But both fell, and with them, England’s hopes.

Bazball: A Philosophy Under Trial

What will be said of this era—this high-octane, lurching revolution that calls itself Bazball? Is it bravado or brilliance? Does it summon glory or fragility?

Here, perhaps, we found the limits of the aesthetic. For all its dazzle and daring, it leaves little room for compromise. The absence of Stokes’ fielding, the multiple dropped chances, the gaps in composure—these were not just tired bodies but also the product of a doctrine that sometimes trades tension for thrill. You live fast. You fall hard.

And yet, what theatre. What gall.

England’s collapse—47 for 4 from a position of command—wasn’t a failure of method as much as a failure of margin. India held tighter lines. England blinked first. Sometimes it’s that simple.

Of Groundsmen and Gods

It would be a mistake not to mention the strangest subplot of them all: Lee Fortis, the Oval groundsman, catapulted from the periphery of cricket’s subconscious into the cultural spotlight following his confrontation with Gautam Gambhir. The incident was comic, yes, but also deeply telling. In an era where cricket is increasingly commodified, where power resides with boards, broadcasters and brands, this was a turf war in the literal sense. And how ironic that Fortis’ pitch, green and uncompromising, produced a final act for the ages.

A Test series to Relish 

The 2025 England-India series, by any measure, now joins the pantheon of modern epics. From Headingley to Manchester, the storylines have multiplied—comebacks, centuries, injuries, rainbreaks, politics, pitches, dropped catches, and divine reversals. The cumulative emotional toll has been extraordinary.

And yet, what end could be more fitting than one that tips into myth? 35 runs needed. Three wickets in hand. One arm in a sling. And a man with unfinished business steaming in to bowl.

The gods, it seems, were not angry after all. They were just waiting for a better story.

Thank You 

Faisal Caesar