Champions Trophy: Pakistan’s bewildering naivety leads to morale-crushing defeat against New Zealand

The thousands that thronged Karachi’s National Stadium returned home heartbroken as New Zealand inflicted a crushing blow on the hosts in the Champions Trophy opener. It was not so about the margin of defeat (60 runs when hunting 320) as it was about the manner of the surrender. The lingering feeling would be that they lost not because they were the inferior side, but because New Zealand exuded a streak of clarity and purpose, as they always do, that the hosts couldn’t fathom.

There was a bewildering naivety about the defeat, in their inability to seize the moments and deliver the knockout blows, in their shuddering strategies, in their lack of exigency plans, or in their sheer stage fright. The enormity of the occasion, big-ticket cricket returning to the country after nearly three decades, swamped them. The disconsolate fans could reflect on individual brilliance, the splendour of Khushdil Shah’s shot-making, Salman Agha’s audaciousness, the life-affirming serenity of Babar Azam., the bark and bite of Naseem Shah, the magic of Abrar Ahmed’s finger-flickers. But Pakistan had only moments to cling on, a shard of optimism that they could bounce back and the balm of history that they channel their finest cricket when they start clutching at the straws.

Their victorious adversaries had more concrete outcomes to nurse title dreams. There is a sense of serene decisiveness, as though they are wearing panic-proof jackets; there is no temptation to project false bravado, no lofty ideologies or ideologues. They go with the flow, but with the awareness of the tides and currents of the water. Will Young, the cussed Test opener, didn’t panic when his placement deserted him. He would block a few balls, regather his wavering focus, and devise other methods to tick the run-rate along. The centurion, who laid the foundation for New Zealand, was not unfazed by Abrar’s variations, the carrom ball flicked with the ring finger, or the wrong’un that spat off the surface more than the skiddier leg-break.

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As he does in Test cricket, he waited for the loose ball to wink by, whereupon he displayed a ruthlessness that his still boyish face masks. A clip off the legs, a bunt through covers, a slap through point—he executed those same strokes that had bred a majority of his runs in international cricket. Even the pulled maximum of Haris Rauf was not a statement of an aggressive intention, but just the coincidence of the right ball to pull at the right time.

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A throwback charm embodied his batting. He batted at a pace more in tune with those in the mid-2000s than in the post-pandemic milieu. The strokes pleased, rather than marvelled. Here was a batsman resistant to the improvised imagination and daring impulses of post-modern batsmen. He found an ideal partner in Tom Latham, a veteran of many battles. His game is limited but he finds answers to every riddle posed to him. En route to his eighth ODI century, Latham relied on harnessing the pace of both the seamers and spinners, picking the region behind the square for a lion’s share of his 118.

He blossomed with his sweeps, employing those to dishevel the lengths of the spinners, especially Salman Agha. Latham would retreat to his nudge and nurdle mode, before in a sudden shift of mood, he would crunch a four or heave a six. Like Young, his strokes don’t live in memory—the flicked six of Naseem perhaps would—but even before bowlers realise, he would be strolling into his 60s. By the time you comprehend how he accrued those runs, he is in the 90s, batting almost run-a-ball.

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Only after the pair built a sturdy house that they decided to quickly add a few more storeys. They could expend all their energy on setting the base, knowing fully well that they have Glenn Phillips, Michael Bracewell and Mitchell Santner down the order to flick on the afterburners. The roll of the dice fell on Phillips, who reeled out a pugnacious 61 off 39 balls, scoring the bulk of the 113 runs ransacked in the last 10 overs.

So irresistibly simplistic were New Zealand’s plans that Pakistan tried to copy them and failed magnificently. The priority was on preserving wickets and cashing in later, while batting steadily and eschewing risks. So conscious of conserving wickets that they eked out only 22 runs (trading two wickets) in the first 10 overs. From then on, Pakistan inevitably jostled to the heartbreak junction.

But even to reach there, they took a circuitous and confused road. Nothing embodied it more than the curious case of Fakhar Zaman. The swashbuckler opener sustained a muscular sprain when aborting a four near the fence of the game’s second ball, came later on in the innings and even grabbed a catch. But after the dozy start, worsened by the departure of Saud Shakeel and Mohammed Rizwan, he strode in with the purpose of lifting his team from the shambles. His will shone, but the body rebelled. He winced and grimaced, and wore an apologetic face every time he turned down a single or two. New Zealand’s spinners exploited his immobility by bowling either on the leg side or outside the off-stump, reducing their pace, floating the ball and suffocating him. Some of his gamble paid off, but he lived a charmed life. The 47-run stand with Babar stabilised Pakistan, but the 65 balls they consumed made the equation steeper and effectively a futile cause. Salman, Babar and Khusdhil infused fleeting hope, but the night would be one of heartbreak.

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