The pursuit was only over and the sound had not quieted down yet, and yet–there was something wanting in the room. Then came the question which turned all about.
It was a night in the Pakistan Super League when the match is decided till the final ball and every run counts more than the last one. Babar Azam was there, captain of Peshawar Zalmi, having witnessed a narrow escape just now. Still, relieved glances were still passing among the teammates near the boundary ropes, and some of them were half smiling half exhausted. You could feel it up in the press box–this was no comfortable win though it might be recorded as such.
The question of Babar had long been familiar, and his own knock had served its purpose in patches. Why is he at times incapable of closing games in the manner that fans would want him to? It’s not new, this conversation. It trails him, as background music that comes out of nowhere and becomes loud.
And then on time it did.
One of the reporters raised the analogy–a straight one, a near blunt. His finishing performance compared to Virat Kohli? There was a pause a second. Not very long, but something to notice. Babar changed his position, gazed forward and his face altered–not very much, but enough. The type of transition that you can only notice when you are paying attention.
He replied briefly. Firm. No trying to put it about.
He shut it down.
No protracted description, no circuitous route. Nothing but a vigorous protest against the analogy with which we have trailed him so long since. A handful of heads swiveled about the room. One of the people in the background ceased typing in mid-sentence. It wasn’t dramatic, but it didn’t need to be. The tone was already different.
This was not a question of that one only.
The context had developed by this time. Babar is a long time batting backbone in Pakistan, and there is much more to his numbers than numbers. Each innings is broken down. Any strategy is evaluated. And when you happen to be always in a team with such a player as Kohli–some one who is generally considered one of the best chasers of the modern day game–the examination is increased.
Out there in the middle out there in the middle, in the chase, there were moments which spoke their own tale. A single quick call became a sharp call. A look at the dugout on a dot ball. Briefly place hands on hips and resume position. The little things, yet significant. He was not out of it, but in it, computing, taking in the strain.
But that is it. It is not about involvement to many spectators, it is about endings. Finishing games. At the end of the time.
It was all that weight when the question came.
His response was not so much irritation as it was resistance. A denial of a story that diminishes his game to comparisons. Not because the comparison is not just in a superficial way–but because it disregards the context, functions, and circumstances.
There’s also something else you could sense in that room. A player who is conscious of the noise, and who does not want to join in playing along with the noise each and every time.
What hereupon this moment says.
Small as they are, these flashpoints can in many cases tell more than performances. To Babar, this was not about self defense, but a line was to be drawn.
As the tournament progresses, the spotlight won’t dim. On the contrary it will increase in intensity. All the near escapes, all the reckonings, all the misses of a finish will come back to the same discussion. That is the way of the present day cricket–figures, stories, and parallels all the time.
But as this moment revealed, Babar is not interested in being crated into the template of another person.
He will not be judged any less. That won’t change. The expectations will remain, the comparisons will reoccur, and the questions will continue–some more keen than others.
Now, you can better feel the way he will take them on.
Short. Direct. And according to his own words.
