It started as any other low profile ICC event. And suddenly, nearly, it became something the sport is yet to understand.
You might have guessed at the very outset that Mahboob Alam had discovered something. The beat was present–the same old smooth run-up, a little faster burst, and the same old vexing line that is keeping batters on the edge of their seats. But none in the ground, nor even the players, appeared to know what was happening. Not yet.
Nepal had to be disciplined and with the humble sum of money on the table at that 2008 ICC World Cricket League Division Five 2008 game, discipline was required. Their reward was a single-man tempest. Alam moved early, a sharp thrust that caused a moment of triumph on the part of the fielding. Then another followed. And another. It seemed at first a good spell–the one bowlers dream. Three wickets. Then four.
There was a change after that fourth. You might have read it in the opposition dugout, there was a lot of restlessness, little talking, on and off, helmets. Batters coming in with a touch of indecision. And Alam? He just kept going. Equal length, equal patience. No theatrics.
Before he was five the fielders had got in. Each cry was more sharp, more piercing. A slip catch here, an ill-judged shot there. The score board started to appear weird. Six wickets. Seven. The mutterings in the earth became a disbelief.
But still he was not finished.
At one point in the spells such as these, it all seems to be unavoidable. The batters seemed in a fix–whether to protect themselves or to attack. Alam was not even providing them with choices. He had been different enough, and stood his ground, and left the strain to do the rest. Eight wickets. Then nine. Even the opposition players by this time felt that they were involved in something out of place.
The last wicket didn’t come with fireworks. No dramatic send-off. One more delivery, one more mistake, one more firing. and in a flash it was all.
All ten.
In less than eight overs.
At first he was virtually expressionless and dashing in teammates. An unspoken man in the middle of the mess. Ten wickets at a handful of runs–figures which are impossible to believe even on paper. The opposition? Bowled out with a score that hardly had a chance to resist.
In the press room, you could sense the bewilderment better than anything. Was that ten all? Did not any other get a wicket? Scorecards were checked. Heads shook. Then the dawning of the truth came upon him–this was not a rarity, it was something unheard of in the format.
ODI cricket is by design unable to permit such dominance. Bowlers are limited, batters are violent, and conditions are generally in favor of runs. There is celebrating of five wickets. Six becomes historic. But ten? That is in another world altogether.
What makes this record so special?
Decades have gone by, formats have changed and all that has changed is that cricket has become friendlier to batters. Powerplay, heavier bats, no-fears strategies, all this stuff makes spells such like these more difficult to conceive, not to mention play.
And that is what makes the performance of Alam a category in its own right.
It wasn’t just about the wickets. It was the control. The economy. How the innings were folded with no opposition when the tide turned. No lost opportunities, no distractions– merely a charm that was closing in until it was gone.
This record is still talked of differently even today when almost every season, a record is broken. It was not with excitement, but with a sort of disbelief. Like it is more a part of folklore than of modern cricket.
Players jokingly mention it occasionally, they refer to it as video game stats. And truly it does sound like one.
But it happened. On a real ground. Against real batters. In a medium which seldom admits of such stories.
And that is the reason it lives on, not only as a record, but also as a count of every now and then, cricket gives birth to something that makes no sense at all.