The Hindu : Inzamam and the interplay of opposites

Online edition of India's National Newspaper
Friday, Apr 02, 2004

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Sport - Cricket

Inzamam and the interplay of opposites

Sitting in front of the telly in London, I could imagine the collective sigh of despair being heaved across Pakistan. The captain and home-town hero had just run himself out for a duck. This crucial wicket brought India a giant step closer to its first ever Test win across the border, but the Pakistani sigh was a response not merely to the fact but also to the manner of the master's going. Its sheer familiarity. Run-out, ball-watching - after 91 Tests and 312 one-day internationals.

Inzamam-ul-Haq is one of my favourite cricketing characters, not least because he's the kind of character only cricket could produce. Compared to other sports, the game displays a remarkable variety of human physiques: fat and thin, tall and short, people with long legs or long arms, people with delicate hands or labourers' hands. Although modern cricket's fitness regime has narrowed the spectrum (and eliminated the hopeless tubbies), it still leaves room for an Inzamam. Over the years his changing body shape has attracted the kind of critical commentary usually reserved for Hollywood divas and super-models.

What's marvellous about Inzamam is the interplay of opposites. Facing the bowler, he seems both utterly relaxed and utterly focused. So heavy and yet so light. One moment a study in leaden inertia, the next all quick-footed grace. Capable of sustained concentration, adept at the art of building an innings, an efficient as well as an elegant batsmen, yet when it comes to running between the wickets hesitant and downright dozy. Not always, of course, but often enough to have acquired legendary status in the world game.

The British comedian and cricket lover Rory Bremner used Inzie's misadventures between the wickets as the basis for a memorably surreal TV sketch (in which Inzie's inner ball-by-ball commentary is delivered in the Yorkshire accent of Geoff Boycott, another batsman whose high Test average was accompanied by a persistent proclivity for the run-out).

After being unjustly given out in the first innings - when he seemed set fair for his 19th Test century - Inzamam walked from the crease at a pace so funereal that one wondered if he'd ever make it back to the dressing room. The sense of grievance was palpable. Had any other player put on this display, the implied dissent would have been undeniable and a fine would have been issued. But Inzie can slow himself down so that even his life-signs are barely visible, and all one could fairly say about this stroll was that it was even slower than usual. After the humiliating second-innings run-out, the captain's exit was brisker, but only slightly.

I love Inzamam for his run-outs as well as his stroke-play - but then, I'm not Pakistani. The fallibility of great players may be maddening, but it's also one of cricket's charms, a concomitant to the wonderful range of distinctive individualities that flourish in and through the game. On the other hand, this might just be my personal predilection for flawed genius. The unflawed kind sometimes seems too remote.

Inzamam sees the ball early and plays it late. He makes his decisive adjustments in the last possible fraction of a second, yet never looks forced or surprised. Watching Inzamam bat, I understand why fans called Eric Clapton, the blazing blues guitarist, "slowhand". There's something deliciously mysterious in the apparently lazy mingling of power and delicacy, the way a mere caress of the ball sends it speeding to the boundary.

Inzamam has always been one of those players people will pay to watch. In 1996, when he scored a ravishing century against England at Lord's, an English friend of mine who was present told me in awestruck terms that his life as a cricket fan was now complete.

Inzamam's mixture of the lumbering and the refined brings to mind the legendary Czech tennis maestro Jaroslav Drobny, Wimbledon champion in 1954 and a great crowd favourite. Like the Pakistani captain, Drobny was a burly man with wrists strong and flexible enough to contrive winning shots from the most unlikely court positions. Going back further in time, you can see something of Inzamam in the old clips of Babe Ruth, baseball's seminal power-hitter, heavy of girth but spry on his feet, able to despatch the ball into the furthest stands with a flick of the forearms. Inzamam's captaincy will come under increased critical scrutiny after the disappointing performance at Multan, where Rahul Dravid appeared far more effective in marshalling his available forces. This phlegmatic, shy, easy-going, fallible, almost childlike personality never looked like natural captaincy material. But he has always played for the team, and in Pakistani cricket over the last decade that has been a rare and estimable virtue.

Inzamam's form with the bat has already proved one of the delights of the one-day series, and I'm looking forward to seeing him score yet more delicious runs in the remaining two Tests, along, of course, with the ever-present prospect of a preposterously avoidable run-out.

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