Like poetry in motion? The Babar Azam conundrum

What happened to all the plans we made? Babar Azam was once poetry in motion, now it feels more like constipation.

An ICC event has finally returned to Pakistan in the form of the Champions Trophy after a wait of 29 years. It’s a massive moment, not just for the country but for me personally — because for the first time, I get to witness an ICC tournament on my home soil.

But you’ve probably read enough about the significance of this historic return — we’re not here for that.

Brace yourself, this isn’t just another stat-filled rant because, let’s be honest, we’ve heard enough of those. This is simply my way of coping with the emotional rollercoaster that the Men in Green have put me through.

Or more specifically, the enigma, the phenomenon, the source of all my stress: Babar Azam.

Babar Azam was never supposed to be just another name in Pakistan cricket. He was meant to be the answer, the one who would end the search for a batting great worthy of standing beside the likes of Javed Miandad, Inzamam-ul-Haq, and Mohammad Yousuf.

He was the one who arrived with elegance, a stance so perfect it looked like it was crafted by the cricketing gods themselves. Watching him bat was like watching poetry in motion — a blend of grace, precision, and timing that made it impossible to look away.

From the moment he made his mark in international cricket with three consecutive centuries against the West Indies in 2016, it was clear he wasn’t just another prospect. He was something else entirely.

By the time he notched up his first Test hundred in 2018 against New Zealand in Dubai, the world had already taken notice. His cover drives were a thing of beauty, his wristwork was effortless, and his ability to find gaps felt almost supernatural. The comparisons to Virat Kohli came quickly, and for a while, he matched the expectations.

He became the poster boy of Pakistan cricket. He was anointed “King Babar” by adoring fans, his name spoken with the same reverence reserved for the game’s elite. In a country that had long struggled to produce technically sound batters, he was a breath of fresh air — a batter who didn’t just hit runs, but painted masterpieces on the pitch.

But with greatness comes expectation, and expectation can be cruel.

Somewhere along the way, the runs stopped flowing the way they used to. His dominance in white-ball cricket remained intact, but in Tests and high-pressure chases, the cracks began to show.

Captaincy, which was meant to be the next step in his journey to legend status, seemed to weigh him down. The team faltered under his leadership, struggling to win key matches, and suddenly, the same fans who hailed him as “King” began questioning his throne.

The 2022 T20 World Cup semi-final was a harsh reality check. Pakistan reached the final, but Babar’s form throughout the tournament was underwhelming.

The 2023 World Cup in India was worse.

His captaincy was uninspired, his batting uncharacteristically cautious, and the team’s early exit only fueled the fire. Critics called him selfish. Fans questioned his intent. The Babar Azam who once played with an effortless ease was now being dissected for every dot ball, every slow start, every innings that didn’t live up to expectations.

And now, in the Champions Trophy opener, he walked in with the same burden, the same unrelenting pressure. He started steady, accumulating runs, but his 64 off 90 balls wasn’t enough. In a chase of 321, it felt like he was holding back, unsure whether to anchor or attack. When he finally got out, the cameras panned to fans in the stands, some shaking their heads, others with expressions of sheer disappointment.

Ravichandran Ashwin even called him a “tortoise.” The weight of expectations had never felt heavier.

Meanwhile, Salman Ali Agha’s 42 off 28 and Khushdil Shah’s 69 off 49 came with far more urgency, attempting to accelerate the chase when it was already slipping away.

But the real contrast was Fakhar Zaman—despite carrying a muscular sprain that will most likely rule him out of the tournament, he played with more intent than most. His 24 off 41 wasn’t a blistering knock, but given his injury, he still pushed himself to take risks where others hesitated.

Ironically, it felt like Babar Azam was putting more pressure on an already injured Fakhar to take risks, rather than stepping up himself despite being fully fit. While the team's approach seemed indecisive, New Zealand’s discipline exposed Pakistan’s inability to fully commit to their chase, leading to a 60-run defeat.

The disappointment didn’t just stem from the numbers — it was from the way the innings unfolded. Pakistan needed intent, aggression, and someone to take the game by the scruff of the neck. But instead, Babar played a cautious,selfish tentative knock that never really put pressure on the opposition.

He was supposed to be the one dictating the game, but instead, he looked like he was merely surviving. The man once hailed as the King seemed unsure of his role, caught between responsibility and flair.

But here’s the thing: Babar Azam was never supposed to be just a player. He was, and still is, the heartbeat of Pakistan’s batting lineup.

His importance can’t be measured by one slow innings or a failed chase. When he scores, Pakistan flourishes. When he struggles, the team feels the tremors. Even now, as criticism mounts, he remains the best batter Pakistan has. His talent hasn’t faded, his technique hasn’t faltered—what has changed is the weight of what people expect him to be.

Perhaps Babar is learning the hardest lesson of all: greatness isn’t just about runs, it’s about resilience. It’s about fighting back when the world starts to doubt you, about silencing critics not with words but with the sound of the ball meeting the middle of the bat.

But maybe this is it. Maybe he had only this much to give.

The strokes that once flowed effortlessly now seem labored, the dominance replaced by doubt. Cricket moves on, and so do its heroes. Perhaps the poetry in his batting isn’t waiting for the right moment to be recited again — perhaps it has already been written, told, and left behind.

And if that’s the case, then maybe we aren’t waiting for the return of the King. Maybe we’re watching the inevitable: the slow fading of a star that once burned the brightest.

He was always meant to be something more.