the era of the radio, Majid Khan and Zaheer Abbas almost did for Pakistan what Imran and Javed would do later
Nothing quite scars like pathos, nothing endures like tragedy. It certainly makes a far more lasting impression than a happy ending. When pathos follows the promise of unimaginable glory, it becomes a condemned memory, anticipated with sweetness but re-lived with an aftertaste of blood and acid.
Twenty five years ago today — 20th June 1979 — Zaheer Abbas walked out to join Majid Khan on a sunlit afternoon at the Oval. They faced astronomical odds but still took up the challenge and eventually brought their team to within striking distance of the impossible. The story ends in bitter failure, but for a riveting couple of hours it had seemed Pakistan would end up pocketing the sky and all the stars in it.
With almost no footwork, a languid disposition and a modest defense, Majid Khan was an unlikely opening batsman. He had, in fact, entered the Pakistan team as a seam bowler. In 1967, during a side match for the touring Pakistanis against Glamorgan, he hit 13 sixes and realized his gift for timing. Majid had to be moved up the order, but Pakistan’s middle-order was packed, and so he was given the opener’s lot. With 3,931 career Test runs at 38.92, he certainly made good use of it. Majid was capable of the most sublime strokes that pushed
Majid’s batting talents took time to blossom, but with Zaheer the magic had been instantaneous. He broke into our hearts and minds in only his second Test, stroking his way to a fluent 274 at Edgbaston in 1971. He had so much talent that seasoned cricket writers would later compare him to Donald Bradman and W.G. Grace.
Zaheer was, foremost, an artist, and like any true artist his first commitment was to the pursuit of beauty in his craft. Narrow concerns like victory or defeat usually struggled to engage him. There was genius in his wrists and perhaps his finest legacy is being the artistic godfather to a lineage of exquisite subcontinental wrist artists.
Both Zaheer and Majid belonged to a talented, even masterly, generation but they never really learned the habit of winning. Which is why when Majid and Zaheer faced off against the West Indies that Sunday in June 1979, no one gave them a chance.
It is difficult for modern fans to imagine what West Indies meant in 1979. They were omnipotent and must have felt sadly tedious about the lack of challenge in their lives. For the 1979 World Cup, they were returning champions and it looked like nothing would stand in their way.
They entered the semifinal against Pakistan at a canter, easily done if you open with Greenidge and Haynes, send an all-time legend like Viv Richards 1-down, have Lloyd as captain, and throw the ball to Holding and Roberts, with Croft and Garner first and second change.
At the Oval on June 20th, Asif Iqbal won the toss but perplexingly elected to field. It was the kind of concession that a conquering battalion like the West Indies would not let you forget. The opening stand between Greenidge and Haynes was worth 132. Richards, Lloyd and the explosive all-rounder Collis King all got starts, plus 23 extras thrown in for good measure, and the target for Pakistan became 294. It made Pakistan supporters dizzy, but the real dizziness was yet to come.
Sadiq and Majid walked out like lambs to the slaughter. Michael Holding raced in like a gazelle and sent 95 mph rockets with an impeccable shape. Not for nothing was he called ‘Whispering Death’, and each time he ran in, he looked like a stealthy executioner come to claim the Pakistan batting line-up. It was all too much for Sadiq Mohammad, who never got his bearings and soon edged Holding to Murray to make it 10 for 1. It looked like the beginning of a precipitous slide.
It was time. Zaheer Abbas got up and walked down the steps of the Oval pavilion. At the bottom of the steps he pulled open a latch and flung the short gate open to step out to battle. Each stride that he took towards the wicket, thumped like a jackhammer in the hearts of Pakistani fans, which by this time meant most of the nation and the worldwide diaspora with it. Holding welcomed Zaheer with a second-ball bouncer that nearly took his head off.
To the Pakistani faithful the contest looked despairingly bleak, but the time for deliverance was now. Belief and desire had transformed into a sacred state of intense hope in which rational expectation had given way to a naked pleading to the cricket gods. We knew Zaheer and Majid had it in them to slay the giants. Would this finally be the day?
It was then that the few millions of us fastened to our radio sets did a double-take. Zaheer and Majid were making their shots. Zaheer was cutting for boundaries, Majid was finding the gaps. Both of them posted their fifties. The partnership went past 100 and made an entire nation vertiginous. Within striking distance of the unthinkable, it was a territory where Pakistan had never been before.
By the time the partnership went past 150, the West Indies were desperately fighting panic. It was now their turn to realize they were in a place they had never been before. Zaheer and Majid had put history’s greatest pace battery to the sword and the fabled West Indies stood facing elimination. This was before the days of live TV coverage in Pakistan and we followed the match through familiar Radio Pakistan voices drifting to us across the span of two continents. The commentators had long ago stopped being coherent and were now babbling giddily.
Where Asif’s captaincy had utterly lacked imagination, Lloyd’s now suddenly came alive with a spark. He decided to change the tempo by bringing on Richards for an over of off-breaks. That went for 12 runs but the rhythm had been disturbed and the spell was broken. Colin Croft was re-introduced in the next over and Zaheer, imperious on 93, flicked him down leg into Murray’s waiting gloves. Partnership of 166, score 176 for 2.
Soon the other shoe fell. Croft had Majid caught by Kallicharran for 81 and then trapped Miandad in front of the wicket for a first-ball duck. Colin Croft always bowled a threatening line and his albatross arms whipping around his head before delivery made him a real menace to bat against.
The overs were also running out. Asif Iqbal and Haroon Rasheed tried to fashion a recovery but the moment had passed. Haroon’s inexperience showed and he ended up wasting a good many deliveries as the fans stewed in mounting frustration. Finally, with the tail exposed, Andy Roberts moved in for the kill and Pakistan folded for 250. What at 176 for 1 had looked like the miraculous realization of an unattainable dream was now in tatters.
Back in Pakistan we tried to catch our breath. Exhausted, spent and despairing, everyone tried to imagine the incredible elation of what could have been.
Even the most optimistic Pakistan cricket supporter will readily admit they have had their share of battle traumas over the years, but this semifinal loss to West Indies in 1979 isn’t one of them. Traumas are supposed to bear the memory of pain, but this match is permanently perched in our minds on the edge of an euphoria. If there is a pain, it is sweet; if there is a scar, it is the kind to be worn as a badge of honour.
Perhaps more than half of Pakistan’s current fan base is too young to have followed that match live. It is for them to celebrate that Zaheer and Majid once looked the mightily invincible West Indies in the eye and had them scurrying around the Oval in shock and panic. It isn’t quite Hanif Mohammad standing at the Bridgetown wicket till the end of time, or Imran Khan cutting loose to take those 12 unforgettable wickets at Sydney, or Javed Miandad cracking the last-ball six at Sharjah that was heard around the world; but it is still a unique symphony of its own. Bittersweet, but a symphony all the same.
