Javed Miandad was born on this day, 1957. We are unlikely to see another of his kind.
Miandad scored 8,832 runs for Pakistan, at 52.57.
Throughout that career his Test batting average never dropped below fifty.
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There were also 7,381 ODI runs including a World Cup record (at that point) of 1,083.
He remains the only batsman to score nine consecutive ODI fifties.
And there are too many achievements in First-Class cricket to list.
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He is probably the greatest batsman Pakistan has ever produced. Or probably not. But definitely one of the greatest.
And definitely the scariest.
Part of his greatness lies in the psychological pressure he put on the opposition – while batting.
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Viv Richards could demolish an opposition with his willow – and body language.
Miandad did the same, perhaps a tad more, as Gideon Haigh would tell you: "Richards merely made it look as though you weren't good enough to bowl to him. Miandad said it to your face.."
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It was psychological pressure of a different kind.
He looked at ease before he faced the first ball.
Then, once there, he sang, laughed, whistled, chatted with the fielders, all the while making batting look ridiculously easy.
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And before you could figure out what he had been up to, he was on hundred, and the match was Pakistan's.
Miandad also led Pakistan before Imran Khan.
His numbers as captain (14 wins, 6 defeats) make better reading than Imran's (14 and 8).
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One must remember that Miandad almost never opted out when Imran led, Imran did not always return the favour.
Miandad used to sledge *while batting*.
Dilip Doshi was a favourite, but then, Doshi was not a difficult "target". We also know the stories.
Ian Chappell was.
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During a World Series match, Tony Greig put Miandad right under Chappell's nose.
Miandad kept talking in loud Urdu, using the words "Ian Chappell" from time to time.
None of the Urdu was abusive, but that was not important.
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Chappell did not know Urdu.
He *thought* Miandad had been abusing him.
Chappell holed out to deep mid-wicket.
We know about the ugly clash with Dennis Lillee (who had started it) all too well.
On another occasion, Rodney Hogg played the ball to Miandad at point.
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He walked out to tap the pitch. Miandad ran him out.
Hogg kicked the stumps before leaving. Miandad taunted Hogg as he left.
And we have seen how he went overboard during his tussle with Kiran More.
Was he a tad too competitive?
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He answers that – to some extent – in his autobiography: "As far as I was concerned, cricket was war and I was at war whenever I played."
Miandad saved his best for the Indians.
Ask any Indian cricket fan from the 1980s.
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They will tell you that no blow had hit them harder than that last-ball six off Chetan Sharma.
Until then India had won 8 matches against Pakistan and lost 7.
From then, until the 1997 Sahara Cup (a year after Miandad quit), the head-to-head read 26-8 in Pakistan's favour.
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Heck, his autobiography has a chapter called Wars With India.
I sometimes narrate a story about my mother, who had introduced me to cricket.
India were running away with the match in the 1996 World Cup quarter-final.
Miandad was struggling in his last ODI innings.
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His strike rate was around 60.
But my mother still refused to believe: "Do not be complacent. This man can win every match."
My mother was not a cricketer. But the television commentators had been.
And they did not sound too enthusiastic either...
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I feel foolish when I watch the reruns of that match.
Star Sports showed it during last year's lockdown.
Pakistan would not have won it. The match was over. Done. Dusted.
But we still could not believe because of that one man. A man past his prime.
It made no sense.
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The psychological impact seems absurd today.
But I was not alone in this. The television commentators were with me.
And whenever I narrate this story, some Indian fan of the era agrees. They tell me they had the exact same feeling.
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I realise how many people across India believed that Miandad could win the match from that near-impossible situation that night.
No logic.
The ghosts of that six were not exorcised until the man retired.
We Indians loved to see his back.
We hated his presence at the crease.
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And that was because we were, unknowingly or otherwise, in awe of his batsmanship.
We refused to admit to it, but we knew, every time, what we were up against. His was the wicket to take.
And what annoyed us most that he did not seem to feel one bit of the pressure.
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He would smile and whistle his way to glory.
And yet, when the willow flashed, you could almost see the bayonet behind it every time.
I love that he has retired.
I hate that he has retired.
Never another like Javed. Never ever.
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Rabindranath Tagore's birthday will be celebrated twice this year, on May 7 (today) and Baishakh 25 (tomorrow).
Yes, he had tried to play cricket.
No, he was not quite successful at it. He did not like it either.
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On January 3, 1962, Jagadish Chandra Roy wrote a first-person account to Anandabazar Patrika. Here is a crude translation.
This was reproduced by Sankari Prasad Basu in his book.
(By the way, Satyendranath, elder brother of Rabindranath, was the first Indian to join the ICS.)
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"Satyendranath Tagore used to reside in 19, Store Road. He used to spend every paisa of his pension for the country. One of his missions was to hire bodybuilders to help train little children. Rabindranath used to participate thrice a week."
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