June 20,1999: The day a nightmare became reality

Even after 17 years the misery of Pakistan's defeat in 1999 World Cup final to Australia is not over

The 1996 World Cup quarter-final meltdown in Bangalore should have hurt more but it didn’t. The game was shrouded in too much mystery and even to this day hitherto unheard stories and anecdotes do the rounds from the alleged ‘thrown away’ game.

The doubts make it a pill one can swallow. After all, if the team itself didn’t want it bad enough, why should we care? Why should it even hurt at all? Similar are my feelings for the 2011 Mohali loss.

A disclaimer: I have no sensational scoop to prove that Bangalore and Mohali losses were fixes; it's just that there has been so much spoken and written about the ‘legitimacy’ of those games that a tired mind doesn’t really care much. I have, thus, conjured an idea in my head that the two defeats don’t matter much at all.

A dejected Wasim stands besides the winner's trophy. PHOTO: CRICTALE

Whether my hyperbole makes any sense or not can be dissected and discussed some other day. This piece is reserved to a loss that did matter; a loss that was so severe it took proportions of an epic mauling. It was the day Pakistan’s great 90s team lost its gleam; the day when Wasim Akram’s boisterous 11 was bullied into submission by the clinical efficiency of Steve Waugh’s Australia.

Seventeen years ago, Pakistan entered the World Cup final as the favourites. The team had peaked brilliantly with batting and bowling both in red-hot form.

Saeed Anwar had struck back-to-back hundreds; Shoaib Akhtar was bowling faster than ever; Saqlain’s doosra was befuddling the best in the business; Akram as shrewd and miserly as ever with the ball, and Azhar Mahmood, Abdul Razzaq and Shahid Afridi provided immense strength and balance to both batting and bowling departments.

Inzamamul Haq and Ijaz Ahmed were battled hardened middle-order batsmen by then both with the ability of winning games single-handedly. Moin, Akram, Inzamam had already experienced what it felt like beingworld champions seven years earlier. The bench strength of that squad included Saleem Malik, Mushtaq Ahmed and Waqar Younis. What on earth could possibly stop them from  repeating the triumph of 1992?

Abdul Razzaq flicks one. PHOTO: AFP

I can vividly recall my joy when Australia sneaked past South Africa in that epic Edgbaston semi-final; the reason was simple: Australia were far easier to beat than the Proteas!

Pakistan were in the middle of what was eventually a terrible run of 16 successive defeats against South Africa; hence, in my mind, the World Cup was already won since Waugh’s men were ready to implode and hand over the trophy to Akram. The final line-up was just a God ordained one and when Pakistan won the toss, I was ready to bet my house that a second World Cup glory was a mere hours away. Two in seven years, what a time to be alive!

Anwar started confidently. The overcast conditions had eased out and the ball seemed to find the middle of the prolific southpaw’s bat. I could sense that a third consecutive century was in the making; his partner Wajahatullah Wasti looked overawed and it came as a little surprise when a leaping Mark Waugh snaffled him in the slips.

Two balls later, Anwar had played-on to Damien Fleming -- a chill went through the spine -- but soon the crumbs of discomfort were removed by the recollection of the 92 final. I calculated that this start was almost as bad as the Melbourne one, where Aamir Sohail and Ramiz Raja had returned to the pavilion with only 24 on the board.

At 21 for two, the situation wasn’t too dissimilar, other than the semi-final Pakistan had lost early wickets in almost each of their games so a recovery from here was almost inevitable.

Waqar was MIA. Could he make any difference? PHOTO: AFP

Razzaq, the ‘pinch-blocker’, walked in and like earlier games, looked comfortable in his role of seeing off the new ball. Ijaz, too, looked composed. The duo struck a few boundaries and for the next 13 overs, all seemed perfect in the world.

There was no trace of an impending disaster; the pitch had eased and debate over a questionable decision to bat first was dissipating fast.

But in a blur, it all fell apart -- 68 for two turned into 91 for five and soon into a shockingly abysmal 132, all out.

What? 132 all out in a World Cup final? The distress and grief was too much to overcome. There was no reason left to watch TV; there was no reason left to smile; there was no reason left to live!

I don’t even remember the clatter and clutter of Pakistan wickets; there was nothing left to remember. Even with the TV off, I was clinging on a ray of hope. Akram was leading the attack, Shoaib would steamroll the Aussie top-order with his thunderbolts, after all he would be angry, really angry at those bullish Australians.

Australians carry stumps as a reward for their victory. PHOTO: ESPNCRICINFO

Then there was Saqi; he would wield his magic, Pakistan would make their truly Pakistani comeback and scythe through the opponent’s batting. Soon, I would be switching on my TV since the word reach me that the Aussies were being blown away.

But the word never reached me; no one called my land-line or rang the door bell. Those were, of course, days before the advent of technology; so, there was no other way to find out the outcome other than gathering courage to watch it on TV since no one was ‘reaching me’.

When I did finally gather the courage, Saqlain was bowling but not to Australia tail-enders as my desperately hopeful mind had envisaged. Facing him were Mark Waugh and Darren Lehmann.

With a numb mind, I stayed glued but it was over shortly. Saqlain dropped it short and Lehmann smashed him for four. Instead of the men in lime green, the men in canary yellow were running away with stumps in their hands. The world around me had crashed.

Australia went to win the 2003 and 2007 World Cups as well, completing a trio. PHOTO: AFP

The usually say at the end of such disasters is: "Thank God, the misery is over". They are wrong about Lord’s 99. Even after 17 years later, misery isn’t over; the only comforting thought is that I never actually drew the courage to bet my house on a Pakistan win that day.