July 25, 2006	Tuesday	Jumadi-ul-Sani 28, 1427

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THAT familiar whip of the wrists, the broad sweeping swing of the forearms preceding it, another goal; two games into his return, 18 months after announcing a surprise retirement from international hockey, it’s almost as if Sohail Abbas was never away.

Pakistan’s performances in the ongoing Champions Trophy in Terrassa, Spain have been typically Pakistan.

They lost points but no honour in the 3-2 loss to Australia on the opening day and despite snatching the shotgun from Germany, managed only to shoot themselves with it late in the day in a 3-3 draw.

On the performance and result of both matches though the imprint of Abbas was as omnipresent as that of KESC’s on this sweltering summer.

It isn’t just that he scored four goals (of Pakistan’s five) in two games, though that is itself an impressive statistic.

Three of them were, predictably, from short corners, a discipline which he has mastered as few others in the history of the game.

His range was frighteningly precise; against Australia he flicked low to the keeper’s right and against Germany he scooped higher, on both sides of the keeper, all flicked at ferocious speed.

But for the goal’s frame and a couple of outstanding saves he would have had more goals, and maybe points for Pakistan.

As important, though more subtle, was his assumption of the freeman role at the back, orchestrating proceedings, prompting attacks, an ingénue or muse of sorts for the team.

Footballers would call him sweeper — or libero — though the role is nearly defunct now. Abbas has spoken fondly of the role in the past, in particular of the vision it demands from the player to read a game.

That vision was embedded in a couple of outstanding, raking aerial diagonal passes against Germany, switching defence instantly into attack.

In Pakistan’s retaliation from 2-0 down against Germany, Abbas stood at the very core.

Given that he hadn’t played at international level since December 2004, his return has been remarkable, providing further evidence to the argument that he is already one of the greatest sportsmen this country has known.

No other — save Jahangir Khan perhaps — has been like him, has matched him purely for consistency of performance and achievement. No other has so perfected his craft internationally and dominated it so utterly.

With barely a pause in his stride, he has returned and continued what he has done forever: score goals (with a new stick enforced upon him by regulation).

Forget sports; in a country where few entities work as they are meant to — politicians, multinational or local firms, infrastructure, state institutions to name but some — Abbas is an anomaly.

Every time he steps on the field, we expect him to score. With 278 goals in 269 internationals, he always works, always produces.

Yet, he remains among the most scandalously under-celebrated personalities.

How many people would recognize him as he walks down a street?

How often is he seen on TV screens, magazine pages and billboards?

Despite being educated, eloquent and a marketer’s dream, why do sponsors rarely approach him?

Possibly it is because he doesn’t conform to our stereotype of great hockey players, which demands that they be lithe, tricky, wristy, full of running down wings and slaloming past defenders, scorers of wondrous goals.

He doesn’t have Samiullah’s speed, Shahbaz’s maverick artistry, Sardar’s nose for a grand occasion or Hanif’s penchant for playmaking.

Instead there is a more prosaic, mechanical charm about Abbas, of the kind well-crafted Swiss clockwork often evokes.

But more probably, it is because of the way hockey has steadily receded off the national radar, lacking success, money and ultimately, viewership.

In either case, it speaks more of our failings than it does of his.

Traditionally, some truisms have held true for retirements in Pakistani sports over time.

Rarely are they well-timed (or indeed final), intrigue is never distant and comebacks are generally unfortunate.

The first two applied to Abbas but appropriately, given his uniqueness, he might be a rare — and treasured - exception to the last.