Pakistan won a tri-series trophy in Rawalpindi yesterday. The celebrations will be loud, but they should be muted. What unfolded over the past fortnight was not a triumph—it was a public autopsy of a sport that once defined a nation and is now shrinking in ambition, geography, and soul.
1. The Shrinking Map: From National Carnival to Pindi Prison
In the 1980s and early 1990s, an international tour of Pakistan was a journey across a cricket-mad subcontinent.
- 1994 Austral-Asia Cup: six teams, matches in Sharjah, but when Pakistan hosted bilaterals the next year, crowds filled Ibn-e-Qasim Bagh (Multan), Jinnah Stadium (Sialkot), and Bugti Stadium (Quetta).
That decentralisation did two things:
- It spread revenue and passion to every province.
- It created legends in every corner—children in Hyderabad saw Wasim Akram swing it, kids in Peshawar watched Waqar Younis skid it. The talent conveyor belt ran on live inspiration.
Today, entire tournaments are confined to two cities at best, one city at worst. The financial excuse (“security”, “logistics”) no longer holds—Multan and Faisalabad have hosted Champions Trophy matches in the last three years without incident. This is not prudence; it is laziness dressed as caution. A generation in central and southern Punjab is growing up knowing international cricket only as something that happens “up north” on television.
2. The Cult of the Individual: We Have Seen This Movie Before
When Sahibzada Farhan fell in the final and a section of the crowd cheered because Babar Azam was next in, it felt new and disgusting. It is not new.
- 1996–99: the last phase of Wasim Akram and Waqar Younis saw pockets of the crowd in Karachi cheer whenever Ijaz Ahmed or Saleem Malik got out so they could watch the two W’s bowl again.
- 2003–2009: Inzamam-ul-Haq faced murmurs in Lahore when he promoted himself slowly; the crowd wanted Shoaib Akhtar to bowl or Shahid Afridi to bat.
The difference? Those earlier episodes were exceptions, quickly condemned. Today the exception has become the rule. The Babar Azam cult is now institutional: players are judged not by how they serve Pakistan, but by how quickly they make way for one man. That is a psychological guillotine hanging over every young batsman’s head.
3. Broadcasting Revenue and National Identity: What Other Sports Never Forgot
Cricket boards that dominate world cricket understood decades ago that broadcasting is not a technical exercise—it is the primary revenue river and the main carrier of national brand.
- English football sold the Premier League as a soap opera with distinct club identities and accents.
- Tennis never let Wimbledon become a generic hard-court event; the grass, the whites, the strawberries, the queue—everything screams “British”.
- The NBA packages every franchise with its own soundtrack, court design, and superstar storyline.
- Even La Liga markets tiny stadiums in Vigo or Pamplona because they ooze regional soul.
Result? Global rights values in the billions.
Pakistan once had that organic flavour: the bugle at Gaddafi, the “Jeetega bhai jeetega” chants, Pashto commentary on PTV, the raw passion of a National Stadium Friday crowd. We threw it away for glossy Sky Sports graphics and Spidercam angles that could belong to any country. We are paying Indian-level production money to look like a second-rate Big Bash feed. In the age of 50 competing leagues, anonymity is death. When the next global rights cycle arrives in 2028–2031, boards that retained distinct identity will command premiums. Boards that look and sound like everyone else will be discounted.
4. The Format That Forgot to Dream
A domestic tri-series is the perfect sandbox. Yet we served the same flat wicket, same stadium, same predictable loop of matches. Imagine instead:
- Multan: dusty turners for spin battles
- Faisalabad: green tops rewarding seam movement
- Rawalpindi: traditional Pindi bounce
Three different stories in one series. Visiting players would leave talking about the variety of Pakistan, just as they did in the 1980s. Young Pakistani cricketers would learn to adapt within their own country instead of discovering foreign conditions only when they are already 25 and failing.
Final Diagnosis
This tri-series trophy is a shiny sticker on a leaking bucket.
We are repeating the mistakes other countries learned from a generation ago: centralising venues, eroding regional passion, allowing superstar worship to cannibalise team loyalty, and surrendering broadcast identity for borrowed polish.
Until the PCB reverses these four trends—decentralises venues, protects young players from toxic partisanship, experiments boldly with formats, and rebuilds a proudly Pakistani broadcast identity—the victories will remain small, the defeats will grow larger, and the slow Zimbabwe-fication of a once-giant cricket nation will continue unchecked.
History is screaming the warning. The question is whether anyone in the PCB is still listening.
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