In loving memory: Mohammad Amir

Broken wings, clipped

It is restful, tragedy, because one knows that there is no more lousy hope left. You know you're caught, caught at last like a rat with all the world on its back. And the only thing left to do is shout -- not moan, or complain, but yell out at the top of your voice whatever it was you had to say. What you've never said before. What perhaps you don't even know till now. - Jean Anouilh

Tragedies are painful to bear. Even more so when they are accompanied with a misery-ridden letdown. They hit with a force so instantaneous and ferocious that enduring them becomes a strenuous battle. A coherent mix of self-denial, shredded emotions and an essence of failure instills in you and it takes time for you to absorb all of it till the reality sinks in eventually. I don't really know what exactly to write here. I have been trying to bring myself to it but I just keep losing the gist of all that has been coalescing with my thought processes. Maybe, its my inability to deal with a loss of something dear, be it in the form of sports; or perhaps the interminable suffering that comes with it.

One can term the story of Mohammad Amir as The calamity of cricket or anything one could relate his catastrophic narrative with, I know it would not suffice. Even all the Shakespearean tragedies feel mellow somehow when I compare them with his. And some of them even have a second coming. But at the end of the day, that is mostly fiction and his is an actuality. However, I can't help but wish the truth that circumscribes all this is stranger than the reality which has surfaced. The inscription on his cricket epitaph has potentially been done, ultimately terminating an embracing attachment on personal level. 

So what precisely is it that makes a person like me take him with such reverence?
His prodigious yet scarcely believable life story? Him being a product of a village unknown to the world, the life threatening dengue fever when he was 15 and having glucose drips 24 hours a day, the cricket upbringing under local coaches and the rest that's related to him coming into the international scene. For most people it maybe, but for me, it was just a filling for the backdrop of what was to be a scintillating affiliation for couple of cricket seasons. Maybe, a simple Wikipedia entry of him may help to complete the thorough picture. It was the Wasim Akram analogy, yes. 

Reliving the legend

If the selection of Amir by Wasim in 2007 for the England U-19 tour was anything to go by, watching him in the 2009 T20 World Cup was the point where he became a subject of genuine interest. In all honesty, it was this reverse swing spell (into 6 mins) in Dunedin, late 2009, that cast the demeanor of permanence in him. Moving it both ways and with remarkable precision, he had already learnt to make the old ball talk like a gnarled old pro, alongwith a shrewd control over the new one. Even the old masters of reverse swing would have been proud of it.  It was mesmerizing to watch and there was a widespread belief already that the cricket world has the next great southpaw after Wasim in making. Till this day, he had been giving hints of what he had to offer, be it the 2009 T20 World Cup in England where he was unearthed for the first time or the test series against Sri Lanka, but this was special. It was simply Wasim-like. This did it for me.

MCG was set alight the very next month with a five-for and made the Aussies notice him, and who better than them to evaluate a rising star in the game? He was easily the lone positive of a shambolic Pakistan tour down under. The T20 World Cup in West Indies and Asia Cup followed, and he was constantly getting polished and rising up the rating scale.

Then came the English summer which was being tipped as the most significant in Pakistani cricket history. With multiple series lined up against two of the world's best sides, he could not have asked for a more grand stage to play on. It started at Edgbaston in the T20 and I was there to watch the kid. He spearheaded the attack in presence of Akhtar and Gul, and we knew we had the best fast bowling line up in the world, and it sure was. Watching him knock those stumps and sending the Aussies back was an absolute treat. They were knocked off the perch with a series sweep 2-0. It was sweet mayhem.

On the electronic scoreboard at Headingley.
Photo by Masuud Qazi

And now it was time for the real examination of his monumental cricketing talent - white clothes, red duke cherry, overcast English summer and a world class  opposition. He didn't take long to make waves, sending one exocet after another, demolishing the Aussies at Headingley with such command that they were on their knees and every single wicket of his still remains a treasured memory. Who would forget the consecutive cleaning up of Smith and Johnson? It was a relentless display of an outrageous and overwhelming talent. It was sheer raw flair and natural brilliance. Pakistan won a test match after 15 years against Australia and he was the fulcrum of that victory. And I was in the stands seeing him speak in the post-match ceremony. At my cricket club, folks of all ages were talking about his genius; it was soothing and it all felt like a perfect script for the cricket summer.

By experience and numbers in years and matches, he was dominating, outwitting and seducing men into batting blunders who were years and, in some cases, decades senior to him. It felt he was doing poetry with that ball so masterfully that it would move in whichever direction where he wanted it to. His intimidation of the opposition was so brutally awe-striking that you could be sure it was a divine wonder to behold. It was so visible that the world was his oyster. He had lit up a cricket summer in one hemisphere of the planet few months back and he was doing it in an even better way in the other just a few months later. His name was being inked in the record books and was anticipated to write them for years to come. He was blowing opposition batting line ups, be it The Oval or Lord's, with merciless zest. On track to become the poster boy of world cricket and of many a bedrooms walls, he had the world at his feet.

There was nothing he couldn't wish for and do

Television commercials and product endorsements were all lined up for him. Kids and men were awestruck with his precocious talent and mastery at such a tender age. Women of all age were going crazy on him and he was the latest obsession of Pakistanis. Wasim bhai was being made proud with every performance of his. Everything was as perfect as it could be in the world encircling an 18 year old prodigy.

Then disaster struck at the very home of cricket. Amidst a surreal spell of fast bowling in which he sliced and diced the English top order in a manner rarely seen in modern cricket, he committed a cardinal sin which was to have severe repercussions later on, ones which would never make him perform on any cricketing platform practically. Maybe I will fail to address what and why he committed the dreadful career suicide by overstepping that white line though the world may talk forever what it was. Whether it was the fallacy of a few thousand quids casting the devilish spell of whose ramifications his fledgling head couldn't decipher, only Amir knows. Or was it the moronic grooming of the dirty bastard Salman But and the serial absconder Asif under both of whom he was during those damned days and horribly became a prey of, every citation seems secondary. The mind goes numb when he and his aura are envisaged. He came across as a harmless soul bent only to perform at his best in those flannels. Like a schoolboy who was punctual, tidy and efficient in his grades and extra-curricula. Like a young folklore hero destined to achieve greatness and creating a unparalleled legacy. And somehow everything fell apart.

That Saturday of August 28 will forever haunt; it just has too much of pain buried in it. Apart from the day being a devastating one for Pakistan cricket performance-wise, the night theoretically broke the psychedelic bond between him and me, the music of another coming of Wasim Akram died for me, and my revived hallucinogenic passion for the game took a massive hammering. Practically, all this culminated on February 5th, 2011. It signaled the heartbreak for an intimate love affair of the sincerest form which had connections on a spiritual level and subsequently reopened cracks which will bleed perpetually.

Amir, I will be deadly honest with you. I have tried a lot in the last 5 months or so of giving my mind the maximum luxury of digression off you, conjuring countless thoughts related to the abundance of cricketing talent Pakistan has and that there won't ever be a stoppage of world class fast bowlers production but here my mind ceases to imagine; and that is when I make miserable attempts that there maybe another Amir waiting in the ranks. No, its just not practically possible. I know it, we all know it who felt you cast those holy essences. You were special to the world for what you were. It may get over and forget you, and never allow you a go at redemption but buddy, you will remain dear to me. As dear as anything in cricket I could relate to. Thanks for giving the immortal memories and for making me and millions relive Waz.

So long, champ.

-

This BBC interview added a day later.
This one isn't easy. For you, I'll just ask to look into his eyes. Maybe he really doesn't know what's happened and is happening (in another interview to Geo news, his state was similar- shell shocked). This is a heartbreak of a lifetime.

- This post was first published here at Clear Cricket.

One for the motherfuckin' fixer

Smell it, bitch! What you gonna do when they come for you?

Mazhar Majeed,

Hope this one finds your godzillish dick face in the most demented of its shapes and with you bleeding through random paper-cuts of your last night's overdosing on ganja. All this may make you feel as a valuable subject, but swear by your mum's noxious womb, it goes a bit beyond it.

Let's start this with what we know about you: A high quality penny pincher, a fuckin' crumudgen and an obsessive lunatic scrooge.  To cap it off, you are one moronic abhorrent piece of cunt. You are the classic example of the suffocating sickness that prevails in the psychologically distraught ends of any society. Here in your case, its a merger of two massively polarized societies and that is what makes you such an interesting subject. Wonder how much stakes of Faisalabad's morality would have gone down with your unearthing by NOTW and how much Surrey, its council and its people would like to vehemently disown and  then lynch you in the car porch of your 1.8 million £ mansion. Who you are, what you do, almost everyone who knows a bit about cricket is aware of. So lets make this clear - you are an acclaimed human shame, neuropsychiatric phenomenon and yes, a bull-massive dickhead.

Now let's get down to the thrust of this tribute. Well, its pretty simple. Apart of it being a hateful vociferation of the syphilitic madarchod you are (for reasons apparent and understandable to any Pakistani or a cricket follower), this is a supportive gesture for the one man who you loathe and who Pakistanis and countless non-Pakistanis love to death: Shahid Khan Afridi.

You know the last few days have been enough to give an Afridi loyalist or a Pakistani cricket fanatic a mental seizure, mainly due to the word doing rounds of he being replaced just on the brink of the World Cup due in few days. And then the immense fuckall show by the boys in the 1st ODI against New Zealand compounded it a bit more. Hence, just when we thought lady luck and mr. karma were doing their most intimate orgy of bending Pakistan cricket over and fucking it for the upteenth time, you came to the party.

Just recently, you started tweeting at @Mazhar0000 (verified through credible sources) and amidst your footy club tweets, you came up with couple of tweets that were belching with vitriol and toxic. The "do not trust afridi" hit me, or let's say, hit many folks real hard. You should know why. Mainly because that man symbolizes us. He and his cricket are the microcosm of his nation and its people. His colossal fuckups epitomize their failures and his "I'll fuck your brains tonight if I'm in mood" successes remind everyone what they are made of. And just because amidst every disaster there still remains hope, resilience and the ever-present will to survive, we know Afridi is Pakistan.

So enlighten us, did an anaconda sized dick triggered such an impulsive gag reflex in you? Or because he has always wore his heart on his fuckin' sleeve? Or maybe he was the initial whistle-blower who pointed out to the team management of you screwing up his crooked boys before leaving for Pakistan after the Australia tests? Or perhaps because you just couldn't lock in the proud pathan?

Honestly speaking, I don't give a flying fuck if you go on buying the rogue bastards as long as they are exposed and you get your due share behind the bars. I don't care how you malign the image of the race or religion you belong to. Also, whatever be your sinful fetish be, it wouldn't appeal much. But maybe, I give a thought about the ones which you call family. Yes its time to get a bit personal now, you son of a bitch.

I feel your Indian missus must be tired of the ritual of walking up to the mirror every morning and slapping herself at least 20 times before her reflection laughs and pisses on her miserable face for having swallowed your filthy sediment cum the previous night. And I assume, by now she would have adapted fully to cursing her fate of marrying a mentally-inferior swine who utilizes her as a commercial latch and who isn't man enough to stand up to the fuckups he was caught up in. Here's an almighty tease: Ever wondered how bloody unholy the daily fucks would be which she burns with when your fart frosted hairy micro-penis penetrates her corrupt labials?

I feel sorry for her.

Maybe, your two young daughters will get reminded in a blissful manner on their first menopause that their father is a rotten vaginal scum whose sexual organ disintegrated belligerently in shape and size by the time they were conceived and whose human principles never existed. They will throw up on the thought of you being that motherfuckin' whore who, even on having iron nibs in his anus whilst doing illegal money-mongering and scams, had the rusty guts to preach his fuckin' corrupted morals to them. And one day, when they'll beg to God (which ever you have taught them to pray) for mercy on you, with the foremost plea being this:

Dear God, bless daddy with the path to righteousness. Show him the track that leads to chastity, not fuckin' disgrace. Save him from the painful weight of the countless sins that he has committed all his life, be it shagging binged women (we have a feel he did his mother too), selling his country(men), being the deceptive fucktard et al. Amen.

One day it is going to be like that.

And maybe one day, just maybe, you'll get blown up into smithereens in Croydon or at your Blue Sky office (or wherever the fuck you be), courtesy of an electrical short circuit or probably a cricket frenzy suicide bomber or preferably an Afridi-powered nuclear missile. So till the day you die fuckin' slow - with the hope that your arteries sneak out and piss all over the floor, and your spleen sliced into a zillion chunks - you'll remain a prodigious human humiliation. And here's to you.

Fuck you.

- If you enjoyed this loving gesture, here's a good read by Jrod on Majeed's fixing twitter.