The recent Davis Cup victory in Islamabad against the South Koreans is an event that deserved a bit more acknowledgement than it actually got. But life on the periphery of Pakistani sports universe has its own dimensions. It’s an existence where the high is never high enough, and the low is never too low. There is no interest and, as a consequence, there are no expectations. You win; that is positive news. You lose; who cares. Really, who cares!

Aisamul Haq Qureshi, Pakistan’s lone flag-bearer on the international tennis circuit, is 37. That he is still making waves both globally — howsoever feeble they may well be — and nationally is a testament to his fitness and commitment. Just to put it in a readily relevant context, just recall the travails of any cricketer past age 35. And professional tennis is much harder on the human body than anything a cricketer has to undergo.

Aqeel Khan, the man who partnered Aisam at the Davis Cup, is a year senior. He has been a real workhorse on the national scene for the last couple of decades since 1998 when he turned professional. It is amazing just to get into the mind of players like him. What keeps them going in the face of almost blanket apathy of media and society at large? It is probably what we can call, rather pompously, the true love of the game.

Pakistan’s sporting universe has many galaxies roaming the vastness and converting it into emptiness. It is not good for the games or the players, but it is wonderful for administrators

If Abid Ali Akbar, the third member of the team that registered a 4-0 score line against the South Koreans, can take either Aisam or Aqeel as his role model, it will be good for him for he is rather young at 27, and has a decade ahead of him. But it is some reflection on how things stand that following in the footsteps of his seniors will be good for him; not for Pakistan because Pakistan is hardly bothered by his choices. For God’s sake, he plays tennis, and, remember, who cares!

While life on the periphery of this universe is not quite bright for the players, it is unnecessarily cheerful for the administrators. Life below the radar has wonderful connotations for these gentlemen — and ladies of course. The federations, the boards and the departments running the affairs of these sporting disciplines are the galaxies of this universe; bright and shining. As is the nature of galaxies, each one has stars, and our federations — and the boards and the departments — have administrators to keep the parallel going.

They have funds and powers within their domains and all they need to do is to keep the paperwork straight. The recipe is quite simple and, to their eternal credit, the federations — and the boards and the departments — execute it with utmost professionalism. The definition of professionalism remains under the proverbial cloud for there comes hardly anything consistent on the surface in terms of progress … the progress of the respective games, that is.

Take, for instance, squash. Does anybody have any idea what is happening there? Does anybody feel bothered enough to want to know what is happening there? Squash happens to be an apt example in this scenario. After all, it was the first game that marked Pakistan’s presence in the sporting world. It was the British Open in 1951, much before hockey made its mark in the 1960 Olympics, that a Pakistani registered the maiden landmark victory. From Hashim Khan to Jansher Khan, we had a glittering list of players who kept the flame alive.

The federation concerned did not have anything to do with any of those individuals. They were gifted souls coming from a blessed clan. The moment we started our downhill journey, the federation was caught napping. It just did not have any plan to stem the tide. When it had no role in the life of the high tide, there was no point in expecting it to do something meaningful in low tide. To date, all we have are elections to run the affairs of the federation.

If things are that bad — and they, indeed, are — in a sport where we once excelled, it is not hard to imagine what things would be like in areas where we have never made it big. But, here also, we have one wonderful example to set our sights on. Any guesses? Of course, it is football. We have millions watching, but hardly a few hundreds actually playing.

We have never done anything worthwhile in football except for bronze medals continuously for five editions of what was called the RCD Cup. It was held every two years from 1965 onwards and featured member states of the Regional Cooperation for Development (RCD). While Pakistan did play to its potential, the key element that ensured a bronze-medal finish was the number of RCD states; it only had three members — Turkey, Iran and Pakistan. We could have had our medal without even playing!

But the failure of the federation concerned to harness the enthusiasm and following of the game in the country is utterly sad. And yet we have high-profile people contesting elections to run the federation. It recently paid the price for flying above the radar for a while, and is under suspension by FIFA, the international governing body that has massive development funds at its disposal.

This is how the universe of Pakistani sports functions. Those in the limelight have their share of fun. But the lesser mortals do not have it too bad either.

humair.ishtiaq@gmail.com

Published in Dawn, EOS, February 11th, 2018