The Pakistan Cricket Hangover


Here we go again.

Not the first time.  Definitely not the last.

It’s like having a painful, toxic romance. There are time where you despise them. Abhor every iota of their existence. But then they put on your favourite cologne, utter saccharine dipped words, and it is all butterflies and rainbows again.

These feelings hit you in the same tournament. Sometimes the same match. Heck, even subsequent deliveries.

Remember that six and scoop by Misbah?

Or that Naseem Shah blitz?

When it is over, you sit there. Pulse pounding. Heart racing. Your television and phone’s safety usually always on the line. Your Pakistani street slang on the tip of your tongue, sprinkled with salty cussing depending on how the previous few minutes have turned out.

If it’s one of those dreaded not so pleasant endings, the world can suddenly feel like what transpires the morning after you’ve had one too many drinks. You’re sick to the core, ruing every decision you made the previous night, but you still don’t want anyone bringing that up. Let me suffer in peace, please.

And then the usual happens.

You vow this was the last straw. No more nights out. No more over indulgence.

Or in the case of the topic at hand, no more cricket.

Wasim’s criticism is accurate. So is Waqar and Misbah’s. Heck, even Shoaib Malik’s own bitterness sponsored feedback makes sense. Mr.Bhangra rap likely hasn’t done any rap in ages, but his frustration is justified.

But you don’t care. You are done.

You have better things to do. This isn’t worth getting up for. Not worth cancelling plans for. Certainly not worth putting your happiness on the line for. It’s just a sport. Stupid, senseless sport that could last 5 days and still not tell you who won. A silly nonsensical game where these millionaires are too soft to play in a little rain.

Who cares what happens?

Those venomous attacks launched at them on social media don’t bother you.

You aren’t concerned by those WhatsApp forwards poking fun at them.

You promise to not let the sarcasm and laughing emojis tossed in on Facebook posts from the other side of the Wagah Border get to you.

Life is good. You don’t need Cricket.













But then Haris spits fire down the batter’s neck, wishing cricketing annihilation with every breath.

Shaheen swings one late back in the first over and leaves the stumps needing plastic surgery.

And Babar carves the off-side field like a warm knife through butter, rendering the English thesaurus devoid of relevance.

You are ready to get hurt again.

Drinks anyone?

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