Buch lesen: «Imran Khan: The Cricketer, The Celebrity, The Politician»

ONE Only a Game

Even in the 1950s, Pakistani representative cricket was popularly known at home and abroad as ‘the cauldron’, and for good reason. There were tribal conflicts, internecine feuds, intrigues, coups and denouncements, on-field theatrics and public tantrums, along with persistent allegations of match-rigging, intemperate betting and wholesale mob violence. That would be for starters. And if you wanted to replicate some of the uniquely vibrant drama of the national sport (which, it should be immediately said, has also included its moments of spectacular success) in another arena, Pakistani politics in the 30 years since the execution by hanging of former President Zulfikar Ali Bhutto in 1979 would have to be the place to start. In this largely male-dominated culture, the preservation of status and the all-important concept of revenge have sometimes tended to take precedence over complicated legal codes and sporting niceties imported from Britain. Imran Khan, then, links two particularly volatile and professionally highly precarious fields of activity. And while yet to achieve as a politician the sort of success he enjoyed as a Test captain and national father-figure, it may be only recently that his true paternalism has emerged in its purest form. One source close to the heart of the Pakistani government told me that when the young daughter of a man from a very different end of the political spectrum was diagnosed with bone cancer, Imran sprang into action. ‘We’ll get her in there,’ he assured the girl’s parents, referring to the Shaukat Khanum facility in Lahore, the leading hospital and research centre named after Imran’s late mother, and for which he raised some $15 million in the six years before it opened to the public in December 1994. ‘We’ve got this child up here, maybe dying,’ Imran duly informed the head surgeon. ‘A tumour’s in her. Eating her up … You’ve got to cure her.’ When he went back to the girl’s parents he told them that there would be no charge, and that ‘My job is the easy one. I’m lucky. She has the hard job. She has to keep on living.’

It’s worth dwelling on Pakistan’s historic sporting tradition for a moment if only to show how much more than a player from England or Australia, say, Imran had his work cut out for him. For close on 25 years his daily routine took place against a backdrop of almost farcical administrative incompetence, fanatical public adulation or hostility, frequently swinging from one to the other and back again in the course of the same match, an equally heated national media, and, not least, a culture of dressing-room conspiracies, betrayals and figurative back-stabbings that would have raised eyebrows among the Borgia family. (Again, these were conditions Imran was to find instantly familiar in his post-retirement political career.) The operative words when describing the core atmosphere of modern Pakistani cricket are ‘pride’ and ‘passion’, which indeed happen to be the title of the journalist Omar Noman’s definitive study of the subject. Two and a half decades’ active involvement in the field argues a certain strength of character on anyone’s part. There’s perhaps little to be gained by seeking to analyse the peculiar essence of national hero-worship, as Imran experienced it. The ‘pathology of fame’ — a much debated topic — already has a long academic history, some of it quite reputable. But although, by all accounts, Imran enjoyed most aspects of being a celebrity, he was also aware early on that it had downsides he hadn’t had to worry about when he was an anonymous schoolboy. One intrusive fan he encountered walking down the street in Worcester shortly after he went to live there in 1971 rapidly went from fawning on Imran to abusing him when he politely declined to join the man in the pub for a drink. ‘Paki bastard!’ he shouted. ‘Get a real job!’

It would be fair to say that, over the years, Pakistan’s whole perceived approach to the game, characterised as it is by not only internal strife but also a lack of fraternity with opposition players and fans alike, contributed to a siege mentality that perhaps had deeper cultural roots. Years before the 9/11 attacks and the subsequent hardening of opinion on the subject, Imran referred to this factor himself. ‘Pakistan cricketers are treated like Islam in the West. Most of the time, [the] images are depicted by terrorists, fanaticism, veiled women and so on. Similarly, our cricketers are looked upon as an indisciplined, unruly mob who pressurise umpires, cheat, doctor cricket balls, whinge about umpiring decisions and are generally unsporting.’ (‘Well, yes,’ some cynics might reply.)

For all that, the occasional misgivings between the Pakistan team and their English opponents may have had less to do with religous intolerance or lingering post-colonial animosity than with a specific incident that occurred at Peshawar on the North-West Frontier in February 1956. This was the tragicomic episode of the ‘kidnapped’ umpire, Idrees Beg. Its repercussions were felt for at least 20 years afterwards — well into Imran’s own tenure in the Pakistan side.

The whole affair began when, in the course of a keenly anticipated Pakistan v. MCC ‘unofficial Test’, a number of the tourists’ batsmen came to voice their concern at how receptive umpire Beg seemed to be to Abdul Kardar’s repeated and highly animated appeals for lbw: there were five such decisions in the MCC first innings alone. Kardar’s first victim, the young Ken Barrington, once told me that his dismissal had been the single worst injustice of a 15-year career not untouched by shadow. ‘You’ve heard people say, “It would have missed a second set of stumps”? This one would have missed a third set,’ Barrington recalled, still a shade rueful more than 20 years after the event. Another source assured me that Kardar, Pakistan’s imperious Test captain, ‘could [have] done no wrong in that match’. He had ‘snapped out’ his various appeals and umpire Beg, a former military man, had ‘obeyed the orders unthinkingly, [in] the time-honoured way’. The strong MCC side were all out for 188, with Kardar taking six for 40 off 28.2 overs.

On the Sunday evening of the match, a number of the MCC players, led by their captain Donald Carr, had finished dinner at a local restaurant and then taken a taxi across town to the officials’ hotel, where they went upstairs to Beg’s room and invited him to accompany them. The details of what followed are unclear, but it seems fairly certain that the Englishmen hustled Beg into a tonga, or horse-drawn carriage, and drove him back to their own hotel, where a bucket of water was poured over him. The Peshawar daily Mashriq was later to claim that a number of the visitors had been wearing handkerchiefs over their faces, giving them the impression of ‘brigands’ and ‘fiends’, and that Beg himself had been clad throughout the ordeal only in his pyjamas. (A report that he had been debagged completely, leaving him to run ‘stark bollock naked through the hotel corridors’, has proved impossible to verify.) The ‘dank and dishevelled’ umpire was then released into the night amid ‘sundry jeers and catcalls’, and made his way home without further ado. Or that was at least one account; but the accounts are as varied and colourful as the events they claim to describe, and the only certainties are that the next evening’s press ran a headline insisting that Beg had been the victim of a ‘vile assault’, that the tourists eventually lost the match by seven wickets, leaving the ground under a hail of abuse and with a police escort, and that the president of MCC subsequently offered a formal apology in response to an aggrieved telegram from the Pakistan board.

As the fall-out from the ‘Beg affair’ continued, an impression formed in some quarters that certain of the Pakistani players and officials were regrettably thin-skinned when it came to the sort of schoolboy prank that was routine, at least in those days, on the English county circuit. (It was perhaps unfortunate, even so, that the incident occurred in the politically sensitive city of Peshawar, home of the ‘Red Shirt’ movement which had played an active role in Pakistan’s struggle for independence, and that there had allegedly been an attempt to persuade Beg, a Muslim, to take alcohol.) Whatever the rights and wrongs of the case, it set the scene for a mutually wary playing relationship between the two countries that, at least on the Pakistani side, lasted well into the 1970s. Somewhere along the way, a stereotype seemed to form of what one famous England player described to me as a ‘little roly-poly guy with bags of natural talent and a massive chip on his shoulder’ — the swarthy, hot-tempered ‘Paki’ of popular legend who, whether individually or collectively, seemed to positively court controversy. It’s not the least of Imran Khan’s achievements to have moulded the most mercurial of all Test sides into a cohesive unit as good as any in the world, and to have done so while actually playing much of his own cricket in England.

In fact, in the memories of his Pakistan players as well as the popular press, there sometimes seemed to be two Imrans, urbanely straddling East and West. Scores of team-mates knew him as the now imposing, now genial ‘Skip’ whose resonant voice and grandly laconic manner (‘Abdul. Come. Bowl.’) had the force of law, both on and off the pitch. Clearly, Imran wasn’t the sort of captain content merely to make the bowling changes and move the field around. He also selected the team he wanted in the first place, often over the vocal objections of his board, and personally took responsibility while on tour for such matters as determining which player needed to be in bed by 10 p.m. and which one could be trusted to turn his own light out. ‘Like God, he was everywhere,’ one colleague recalls. ‘Imran was a very intense person,’ Kerry Packer said, high praise from that particular source, remembering him striding across the shaded outfield ‘to fairly grab the ball out of the umpire’s hand’ before bowling the first session in a World Series match at Sydney. ‘He was a good listener,’ another long-time team-mate thought, ‘not the kind of guy who would ever monopolise a team talk or conversation.’ Yet one or two of the junior Pakistan players found him impatiently cutting them off, and often peremptory. ‘He was a benign dictator. He’d say, “Well shall we try ‘X’?” and you’d say “Well, what about ‘Y’?” and then in a few minutes it would be back to “X” … You listened to him explain the decision, and that was collaboration.’ Others saw him, off the field of play, as a bouffant-haired swinger and legendary Romeo, equally at home ushering a succession of sleek young women around various fashionable London nightspots as, years later, he would be campaigning among the slums of Lahore.

This combination of talent, good looks and a vibrant social life gave Imran a role in English public life and in tabloid newspapers both in western Europe and South Asia hitherto reserved for international footballers or film stars. The future cricket journalist Fareshteh Aslam, who was in her teens at about the time Imran came to prominence, recalls:

Not only did everyone in Pakistan have his poster on the wall, he was the one person the whole country could be proud of. People forget that 30 years ago Pakistan was a bit like North Korea, this hermit kingdom that was cut off from the rest of the world and horribly claustrophobic to live in. There was one television channel, state run, and no internet. If there’s such a thing as a national inferiority complex, we had one. And suddenly here was this exotic-looking guy doing battle around the world on our behalf. He was like Superman and Spiderman rolled into one.

A superhero, it should be added, who faced formidable home-grown obstacles as well as the external kind. When Imran inherited the captaincy of Pakistan in 1982, players from the different regions were often quite unfamiliar with one another and had typically never met off the field. The factional rivalries in the game as a whole were such that even Hanif Mohammad, the Karachi-based founding father of modern Pakistani cricket, had been barracked by the crowd when, in February 1969, he walked out to bat for his side against England at Lahore. Over the succeeding years, open verbal confrontations between various players of diverse social or geographical backgrounds did little for team morale. Imran himself recalls the case of Talat Ali, a promising young opening bat and occasional medium-pace bowler who was dropped first by Pakistan and then by his club side, PIA, officially because he was deemed ‘too old’ at 28. His place in the team was taken by the son of the PIA head of selectors. That same year, the successful Pakistan Test captain Mushtaq Mohammad was unseated in favour of Asif Iqbal. When Mushtaq then read in his local paper that he was no longer needed even as a player, he reportedly spent two days trying to phone the members of the board to discuss the matter. Not one of them was available to take his call. It was all somehow a representative case study of a culture whose leading practitioners tended to lack the gift of recognising their own limitations and compensating for them by drawing on the strengths of others. For some years, Imran would conduct a cold war by proxy with his illustrious colleague Javed Miandad over whether to include Iqbal Qasim or Abdul Qadir as Pakistan’s first-choice spinner. Imran and Qadir hailed from the north of the country, Javed and Qasim from the south. Javed’s and in turn Wasim Akram’s leadership of the team both ended in tears, amid impassioned if unsubstantiated allegations of regional bias and cronyism.

As captain, Imran (who was proven right about Qadir) ‘seem[ed] to care less about the individual player than about winning as a team’, recalls a Karachi Jang editor, who often heard the private misgivings. His men were proud of the success he brought, but admired rather than liked him. Imran’s entire tenure was characterised by a distinctly personal and hands-on approach to matters such as team selection, tactics and discipline of the kind conspicuously lacking both before and since, and whose results speak for themselves. Pakistan won 14, lost 8 and drew 26 of the 48 Tests they played under him, including three hotly contested tied series against the West Indies at their peak, before going on to win the 1992 World Cup.^* Factional grudges and private intrigues were out, he made it abundantly clear, to be replaced by a steely professionalism which placed the premium on winning by any legitimate means. No detail was too small to escape Imran’s notice in this new, centralised regime. When the Pakistan team came off the field at the end of the third day’s play against India at Bangalore in March 1987, the same Karachi Jang journalist went up to Imran in the dressing-room and asked him why, out of interest, some of the Pakistan non-bowling fielders had played in as many as three sweaters, while others had appeared in shirt sleeves. ‘“Oh, I decide all that,” Imran answered casually. Apparently it was all part of some climate-control system impos[ed] from above, to keep each man fresh.’

Imran’s elevation to the Test captaincy obscured for the moment the continuing frailties both of Pakistan cricket as a whole everywhere below international level, and more specifically of a Board of Control for whom nepotism and zonal ‘quotas’ had long been an integral part of the selection process. It also ushered in a period of sustained achievement in both the five- and the one-day game, and a commensurately increased, not to say rabid public support. While the new regime successfully replaced the air of unpredictable charm traditionally surrounding the Pakistan team with one of collective responsibility, it relied heavily (some thought excessively) on the undeniable charisma, all-round bravura performances and fanatical dedication of one man. Even his critics agreed that if greatness consists of the taking of infinite pains, then Imran was a great national leader. Paradoxically, as the Pakistan Test side grew more successful, certain individuals close to it grew more unhappy, apparently believing that a personality cult had been allowed to develop at the expense of a more communal team ethic. No doubt this explains why a former senior colleague of Imran’s, while ‘admir[ing] his talent to the skies’, admitted to certain reservations when I asked him about his captain’s unique leadership style. ‘He was like Stalin,’ he told me, with just a touch of hyperbole.

As we’ve seen, the particular Pakistani gift for self-destructive behaviour, both on and off the cricket field, preceded Imran’s own playing days. In October 1969, to give just one example, the home board took the decision to appoint Intikhab Alam as captain in place of Saeed Ahmed. Saeed did not take the news well. After publicly threatening to brain the chairman of selectors he was suspended for the series and appeared again only sporadically (though with personally bitter consequences for Imran) before his early retirement.^*

Imran’s own tenure as captain got off to an unpromising start when, on the morning of his first Test in charge, against England at Edgbaston in July 1982, he left his senior professional Majid Khan, who was 35, out of the side. Majid had not only been Imran’s mentor; he was also his first cousin. It would be hard to exaggerate the shock at the decision, both as expressed by Majid himself and in Pakistan as a whole. Anyone who remembers the circumstances of Margaret Thatcher’s enforced departure from office in 1990 has only to think of that same level of drama, with an added touch of the Pathan tribal tradition of cousins hating each other, to get a bit of the flavour. By all accounts, Imran and Majid didn’t speak for the next ten years, even when Pakistan won the World Cup, although peace broke out again between them later in the 1990s.

Before the tour of England there had been the home series with Sri Lanka in the spring of 1982, when the Pakistan team took the field for the first Test without eight of their senior men, including Imran. The same group had come to share certain private misgivings about Javed Miandad’s leadership of the side, and shortly afterwards they released a public statement to that effect. Imran then unilaterally signalled his intention to return for the second Test, only for the other mutineers to prevent him from doing so. After further protracted negotiations, Pakistan eventually fielded a full-strength team for the third Test at Lahore. Imran took eight for 58 in the Sri Lanka first innings and six for 58 in the second. Pakistan won the match by an innings and 102 runs. Javed then diplomatically announced that he would be ‘unavailable’ to lead his country in England, leaving Imran himself to step in.

In January 1983 Pakistan played India in the fourth Test at Hyderabad, already 2–0 up in the six-match series. In the Pakistan first innings Javed and Mudassar put on 451 for the third wicket, tying the record for the most lucrative partnership in Test history. Javed finished the second day’s play on 238 not out, 127 short of the then highest ever individual score in Tests, Garry Sobers’s 365 not out for the West Indies against Pakistan in 1958. Javed notes that at that stage, ‘there was no talk of a declaration. Imran never brought it up … I took this to mean that I was actively being given a chance to go for all possible records.’ He wasn’t. Much to Javed’s obvious displeasure, Imran declared midway through the following morning’s session, leaving his predecessor as captain stranded on 280. A mutual colleague, reflecting on the two men’s contrasting cricket philosophies, told me that ‘Javed [was] a feisty little bugger, which I say in all affection. He wanted to score tons of runs, and in doing so he wanted to crush the opposition. It was a case of kill or be killed. By contrast, Imran took the view that you played your hardest, but that at the end of the day you shook your opponent’s hand and went off to dinner. He wasn’t demoralised by defeats. He wasn’t aggrandised by victories.’ Pakistan won that particular Test by an innings and 119 runs, with most of the last day to spare.

Zaheer Abbas, the bespectacled batting genius of Pakistan cricket, then led the team in Australia in the winter of 1983–84, when Imran suffered a recurrence of a serious shin injury. Zaheer’s first act was to issue a statement saying that it was not the side he would have chosen and complaining that he was only a caretaker, with inadequate resources, which would appear to have been a tactical own goal on his part. Pakistan duly crumpled in the first two Tests. The third was only marginally more competitive, producing a draw. As a result, the home Board of Control in Lahore was toppled by a coup. Zaheer, meanwhile, took the opportunity of a local newspaper column to publicly castigate his predecessor for everything from his influence over team selection to his various alleged tactical foibles. Despite this rather muted welcome, Imran agreed to appear in the fourth Test at Melbourne as a specialist batsman. On a fast pitch against a still fiery Dennis Lillee, he scored 83 in the first innings and an unbeaten 72 in the second. After that tour Imran would be out of Test cricket for nearly two years, during which Javed Miandad and Zaheer assumed what was effectively a co-captaincy of the team. Against all the odds, Imran returned to international cricket in late 1985, promptly taking 17 wickets in three outings against Sri Lanka. In the course of the series, Javed let it be known that he would again be resigning as captain, and Zaheer announced his retirement. Imran himself then threatened not to play for Pakistan ever again following a dispute with the selectors, but returned to lead his country in the 1987 World Cup, where against expectations they managed to lose to Australia in the semi-final at Lahore. Following the match, a mob estimated at 10,000 roamed the streets, looted stores and demanded the wholesale sacking of the team. Imran’s old fast-bowling partner Sarfraz Nawaz metaphorically fanned the flames by insisting that Pakistan had deliberately thrown the match as part of a betting scam. Evidently this was something of a fetish for Sarfraz, because he made the same allegation nine years later, when Pakistan equally unexpectedly lost a World Cup tie to India.

It would be a stretch, therefore, to claim that Imran’s leadership was universally popular, or that he was always an easy man to get to know. ‘He was constantly reinventing himself … Had an inner wariness … There was a kind of barrier between him and the rest of us, a film you couldn’t get through … Fanatically private’ — phrases like these come up time and again in research. One colleague from his county cricket days in England told me that in his considered opinion there had been five or six Imrans, ‘a veritable layer cake of contradictions’. There was Khan the Vengeful Warrior, Khan the Great Unifier, Khan the All-Knowing, Khan the Mild-Mannered, Khan the Dedicated Professional and Khan the Shagger. But whatever the various sides to the man, more or less everyone agrees that he was an outstandingly resilient Pakistan supremo, an office that traditionally enjoys the same degree of job security associated with that of the Italian government. Furthermore, Imran led from the front: five of his six Test centuries and 15 of his 18 Test half-centuries came when he was in office, and his bowling average improved from 25.53 to 20.26 over the same period. These were figures certain other all-rounders thrust into Test match captaincy could only dream of.

From Pakistan’s arrival on the international cricket scene in 1952, the key piece of dressing-room wisdom handed down from player to player was ‘Keep in with the board’ — that remote and forbidding body of extravagantly mustachioed army officers which typically served at the pleasure of the head of state. It was good advice. Even at the best of times the board presided over a bewildering succession of abrupt resignations, embittered retirements and ill-advised comebacks, the direct result of their own long established habit of capriciously reversing themselves on most key decisions. Nowhere was this extreme administrative flexibility more keenly felt than in the Test captaincy. In a period of just 12 years, the national side was led by Saeed Ahmed, Intikhab Alam, Majid Khan, Asif Iqbal, Intikhab again, Mushtaq Mohammad, Wasim Bari, Javed Miandad, Zaheer Abbas and Imran. The bloody and sustained in-fighting would make even the shambolic England feud of early 2009 look like a trivial misunderstanding. There were certain Tests when up to half the Pakistan XI consisted of ex-captains. Imran’s record, then, may not be unblemished, but merely to have survived for 48 matches in charge was itself a feat. To have done so while making it clear to the board that it was he, not they, who both chose the team in the first place and then ran it on the field of play makes it even more impressive. ‘I came to admire his [Imran’s] tactics and his principles … how an organisation works and how you get things done,’ General Muhammad Zia-ul-Haq, the former army chief of staff and state president, later said.

At the risk of hyperbole, or of sounding like an apologist, it could be said that there was no such thing as a dull Imran Khan performance in the dozen or so years that he was at his peak: weaker ones, certainly, county matches in front of a couple of hundred spectators where he failed to fire on all cylinders, or Tests where either the wicket or the umpires clearly favoured the opposition batsman (who could still expect a few irritated bouncers for his pains) — but never a truly boring spectacle, a match that was begging to be walked out on. At least part of the overall appeal was distinctly physical. Imran in his prime was a famously fine specimen of a man, with a gym-honed body, a leonine mane of shaggy dark hair and what was authoritatively described to me as a ‘knee-trembler’ of a voice. Men wanted to be like him and women wanted to go to bed with him, which a fair number of them duly did. Part was also technical, in that Imran was not only an accomplished bowler but a visually thrilling one. From a slow, crouching start he accelerated with a sprinter’s poise and balance in his approach to the wicket, which culminated in a last-second propulsive leap and a virile, full-stretch whip of the body. The sheer energy of his bowling style was such that, even from the boundary, Ken Barrington ‘fully expect[ed] to see dust and newspapers flying around in the air when he followed through, much like what happens when the Brighton Belle thunders past’. As a batsman, Imran was known as an improviser who liked to smash it around on occasion, but with an essentially sound, orthodox technique that included a full range of ground strokes. Along with the runs and the wickets he also provided a firm hand on the tiller and in general put the steel into his team. Imran himself modestly felt he did ‘as well as [he] could’ as a captain, given the available assets. Under him, Pakistan enjoyed 10 years of nearly unbroken success, all the more striking a record when measured against their ramshackle showings in the 1960s and early 1970s.

Imran, in short, changed the way Pakistan cricket was perceived around the world. The perennial cabaret turn of the international circuit was transformed into the hyper-aggressive fighting unit who lifted the World Cup. He was the figurehead of a sporting renaissance which had direct and dramatic results on national self-confidence. He personally turned in the performances with bat and ball that made most of this possible. And he did it while facing a continuing series of internecine feuds and self-inflicted crises which the Pakistan game unerringly managed to produce even amidst all the progress.

In fact, there’s a theory, no doubt highly debatable and based on selective evidence, that Imran is one of only two professional athletes of the post-war era to have transcended his sport to the point of being a universal — or at least continental — icon, someone whom tens of millions of ordinary citizens instantly recognise. (The other one is Muhammad Ali.) Certainly his dazzling social life and long list of public causes were at least as well known as his bowling average. As more than one critic has remarked, Imran turned into a shout a voice that had hitherto hardly been heard, ‘that [of] the developing world as a whole clamouring for respect’. No less an authority than Richard Nixon, a shrewd judge of geopolitics, whatever one makes of his own contribution to them (and, it emerged, something of a closet cricket fan), told me in 1992 that, in this sense, ‘Khan [was] really on a par with a head of state’. Imran knew that, for many impoverished people, cricket was never a game. To millions, it was an escape from drab reality, while for the ruling elite it was a propaganda tool no less important than, say, Bollywood or the possession of nuclear weapons. Imran himself became the most potent visual symbol not just of Pakistan, but of an entire subcontinent coming to assert its identity in the aftermath of independence and partition, a role he played with characteristic, if not messianic self-belief. What’s more, his appeal was always rather more earthy than that enjoyed by a Mahatma Gandhi. Imran’s friend Naeem-ul-Haque told me of an occasion in the early 1980s when the two of them had been walking through Harrods department store in London and a young woman, seeing Imran, ‘lost first her decorum and then her consciousness. She literally collapsed at his feet.’