Crab-like and collar up, the batsman has pushed, prodded and clipped all day. He has seen his team collapse in the first innings and taken it upon himself not to allow the same again. Another nonchalant push to the offside results in a saunter through for a second run, with time for a celebratory mid-pitch fist clench.
The helmet is ripped off to reveal an adolescent face peppered in stubble. A grin as wide as the Indus River. Pure joy. A kneel towards the almighty before the customary helmet and bat are raised in exaltation. A congratulatory embrace from the captain. Nothing overly extravagant, surely plenty more opportunity for that.
We’re in 2009. Barack Obama has euphorically been sworn in as US President; a flu-like pandemic is sweeping the world and Michael Jackson has moonwalked his last.
All the while, Pakistani youngster Fawad Alam is alerting the cricketing world to his extreme potential. Swatting his way to a stirring century on debut in the sticky heat of island coastal town Colombo. He spends over six hours at the crease, but his team still go on to lose.
Fast forward 11 years and the euphoria has dissipated. We are back to the norm of centuries past. Watching two old white men battle it out for the US presidency. A flu-like pandemic is again sweeping the world and too many have died to count.
It’s 2020 and Fawad Alam has again reached those glorified three figures. The symmetry is unavoidable. Again, it’s a coastal town on a small island, again Alam spends over six hours at the crease and, once again, it’s in a losing cause.
You’d be forgiven for presuming these bookend a decade of metronomic Test century making. But between the end of 2009 and the beginning of 2020, Fawad Alam played a grand total of zero Tests. Sure there were international white-ball honours, but it’s Test cricket where your name will endure long after you are gone.
In the period between his two landmark scores, Alam plied the domestic first-class scene with runs in historic fashion. Bizarrely it was never enough to bring a Test recall. Like the medieval cupbearer constantly nagged to pour more wine and eventually deciding to just waterboard the king “More runs you want is it, Sire? Have all the runs you want...mwhahahahaha”.
Reasons for exile have remained elusive and will be left for more informed experts to debate. However, the increasing clamour from Pakistani fans each time a Test squad was announced spoke volumes. Having doubled down and dug their heels in so often, it appeared a recall would never materialise.
Perhaps the bizarreness of 2020 permeated the selectors. Out of the blue Misbah-Ul-Haq et al were stirred into reason and recalled Alam. The long-overdue return arriving in the Test series against England last summer.
However, this isn’t a celebration of triumph over Pakistani cricketing politics but more a celebration of defiance over time and age.
Ten years is a long time. So long that a wedding anniversary is marked with a diamond. It can span someone's entire primary and secondary schooling, multiple heads of state and the majority of a professional sports persons career. For our protagonist, it must have felt like a lifetime. Ten years of national rejection all played out in full view of the public. A constant knockback being broadcast to the world. The first few years spent probably assuming it would come around again. Another few years and the doubt creeps in, perhaps you’ve assumed wrong. Eventually resignation. Your time is done.
For most this would be too great a pressure to withstand. The endless mental battles. The nights of lying awake wondering where it went wrong. Who had you pissed off? Questioning if you could have done any more. The temptation to just jack it all in. The thoughts of just burning your bridges and publicly dragging those who have brought the pain upon you. Better to have never tasted it than to have that intoxicating one time sip.
It makes the triumph all the sweeter.
The facts may remain similar but the aesthetics certainly aren’t. The stance has become even more extreme, now an explicit front on invitation to the bowler to simply bring it on. The stubble has sprouted, bringing with it the appearance of a quintessential hipster barista. Although not visible, the body has undoubtedly changed. Ten years worth of crouching, crabbing and swinging will have taken its toll. Muscles and fibres stretched to breaking point in the strive for a return to the top table. But critically, the heart and soul remain the same.
New Zealand, the place where it had all come to a shuddering halt, was the venue for a second coming. The strike rate has slowed down, acknowledging the precariousness of the present opportunity. One slip and it could disappear as quick as a genie in a bottle. Caress the lamp with care and all your wishes may still come true.
The triple digits are slowly crept towards. Clip by clip. Flick by flick. There’s a heart in mouth moment as a wild square cut is top-edged fractionally over the keeper. Then it arrives. Another cut backwards of square. This time it connects. Dissecting the field and creeping past the outstretched boundary rider.
The head lifts to the skies as if God is tugging at it on a string, directing the eyes towards him. The body sags understandably weighed down. 4218 days of wondering. 4218 days of waiting. 4218 days of doubting. No rushing this time. The helmet is slowly unclipped and a wry knowing smile peaks out amongst whiskers. A long embrace with the captain, head resting on his shoulder as tears take hold. The helmet and bat now removed before a celebratory dance. This one will be savoured. Who knows if it will arrive again.
The narrative is pure Hollywood. Young prodigy announces themselves on the world stage; they then encounter stumbling block after stumbling block; they work their way back through hard work (cue training montage) and the story arc is complete with final victory and fulfilment of potential. Sylvester Stallone managed to spread that whole narrative over five blockbuster films. It made him millions. We are suckers for that type of story because it’s devoid of reality. It just doesn’t happen. But here we are.
There’s an alternate universe somewhere where Fawad Alam isn’t cast aside at the first stage of failure. He becomes a lynchpin of Pakistan’s batting, slotting alongside Misbah and Younis, to form one of the most formidable Test line ups in the first half of the decade. He is there to bridge the period between the end of those great champions and the welcoming of new blood: Babar Azam, Shan Masood and Imam Ul-Haq.
He is there to pass on the wisdom of numerous Test centuries made, struggles overcome and how to bat in the worlds most difficult conditions. He is talked about as a candidate in all those unnecessary discussions of who makes a “Test Team of the Decade”. However, that is nowhere near as good a tale, certainly for the neutral, as this one.
Pakistani Test cricket was ostracised between 2009 and 2019. Banished to the dusty soulless bowls of the Arabian desert. In the same period, Fawad Alam was condemned to the reverse. Only granted the opportunity to display red ball skills domestically. Both seemed equally unlikely to change. However, a decade of hard work reaps rewards. Thankfully, both exiles appear over, and Test cricket is all the better for it.