There is a certain generation of Pakistani cricket fans — provisionally, we can say those born between 1975 and 1985 — that have grown up with a very particular worldview when it comes to cricketing miracles. In short, they believe that they are not miracles at all, mainly because they happened too often, and in ways that were too predictable, to be truly providential.

These predictable, orderly miracles usually go something like this: Pakistan hem and haw for three or four days, dropping catches, playing stupid shots, bowling wides, getting wickets off no-balls, and so on. The opposition, usually a good but not great team such as early 90s New Zealand or mid 1990s England, have done the hard work, and are poised to finish off a game with one or two sessions of good, solid play. And then they get blown away.

I choose that metaphor very carefully. Watching Wasim and Waqar and Saqlain and Mushie and Shoaib in their heyday was a little like watching Omar Little in his element — it was fun, but it was also very violent. There was something comically brutal about the way they went about their business. Collapses against that Pakistan team were gory murder scenes: the stumps splayed, batsmen hopping, fielders rendered unnecessary.

Yesterday was something very different. It was a choke, a suffocation. Pakistan essentially shut England in an airtight room, closed the windows and doors, threw the keys away, and waited. I’ve never really seen anything like it.

Forget the 10 wickets for a second. Just think about the drip-drip-drip of those first fourteen overs — where we got zero wickets but conceded only 18 runs. Those fourteen overs set the stage for everything that came after. It was marked by brilliant bowling and even more brilliant captaincy. Misbah’s field placings were so intelligent — he simultaneously had attacking fielders, single-saving fielders, and boundary-saving fielders. You had to look twice to make sure we hadn’t cheated by sneaking on three extra guys on the ground. One common refrain from the commentators was that England were going nowhere. But that’s because Misbah left them nowhere to go. This was Stephen Fleming and Mark Taylor level captaincy, maybe better.

And once one fell, you just got the feeling — apologies for channeling Ravi Shastri — that one would lead to two and more. England’s rejigging of the batting order meant that once Cook got out, their next four wickets were the cheapest ones until you got to the end: Strauss, Bell, Pietersen, and Morgan are all either out of form, not particularly good against spin, or not particularly good in general.It gave us the opening we needed.

I didn’t think 145 would be enough though, certainly at the beginning of the innings. It’s such a low total that you just need one half partnership, say 50 or 60, and the game’s over. One wayward spell, one dropped catch, one silly decision, and it was done. But somehow, some way, England never managed it.

But talking about what happened is less important than talking about what it meant. There’s been enough written about our trials and tribulations over the last few years, both on and off the cricket field, so I won’t rehash all of that right now. Instead, I want to make a slightly different but related point.

When people use cliches like “cricket means a lot to Pakistan and Pakistanis” they obscure as much as they reveal. We know that cricket matters but how does cricket matter? It’s very difficult to explain to outsiders. The way I think about is this: very few of us actually know international cricketers personally, but we all act like we do. I know that sounds strange, but hear me out.

The point is that by consuming so much information about cricketers, their exploits, and their stories through magazine profiles, Cricinfo Statsguru, fan forums, rumors, Youtube videos of them dancing, and everything else available publicly (and some things that are not), Pakistanis feel like they have a pretty good sense of who their cricketing representatives are. We start forming a picture of their personalities and their background, and start pigeonholing them into our own social fabric. For example, when I see a bunch of londas on motorbikes on Seaview, I think “there goes Shoaib Akhtar!” When I hear stories about some sifarshi getting ahead in his company, I think “Ah, an Imran Farhat then.” And so on.

So yesterday, when I saw the entire team jumping in each other’s arms and hugging each other and grinning their impish grins, it made me so, so happy.

No words necessary. Photo: AP

It was such a powerful experience. I could see what it meant to them because I had internalized the pain they felt over the last couple of years. Their struggles had become our struggles because, for better or worse, that’s how Pakistanis live.

It really was an experience I’ll never forget. Combined with the delirium that comes from being awake at an absurd hour, I got really emotional. I got into bed at 7:30 a.m., but not before shaking the W awake, and telling her that we won a game we had no business competing in (she was not amused or appreciative, but whatever, I needed to tell her for my sake if not hers).

I was clearly not alone. Facebook and Twitter, as they are wont to do at times such as these, blew up. Evidently all the main channels back home led their bulletins with the match. I am sure we have played better cricket in my lifetime, but this may be, alongside Melbourne in 1992 and Lords in 2009, our most meaningful win in a long, long time.

I think it’s important that we just cherish this win, revel in it, and remember it. I hope we don’t start thinking of this as a jumping off point for something grander, because, let’s be honest, that’s not how things work around here. Things are just as likely to go horribly pear-shaped from here as anything else: maybe a power struggle ensues when Whatmore takes over; maybe Mohsin Khan doesn’t go quietly into the sunset; maybe a couple of senior players get jealous of all the Misbah adulation in the media; maybe we go to Australia, South Africa or England and discover the truth that other than Younis and Azhar, none of our batters are good enough for those pitches. It’s better to not worry about the future, enjoy the present, and thank those who gave it to us: #TeamMisbah.

“History does not repeat itself. It rhymes.” — Mark Twain

The funny thing about England-Pakistan cricket is that is has essentially become a caricature of itself. Even when everyone, cognizant of the history between the sides, tries to turn the temperature down and take the steam out of relations, some conflict has to arise. It’s almost like it cannot be helped. It is the Groundhog Day of cricket series.

We’ve seen this movie before, right? Pakistan defeats England using a skill the latter cannot understand, much less execute. Whispers begin, aspersions are cast. First, we only kick their ass thanks to biased home umpires (I am sure David Constant and the Palmer brothers were paragons of fairness and impartiality). Then we only kick their asses because we tamper with the ball (never mind that Wasim and Waqar, as Geoff Boycott memorably claimed, would have bowled England out using an orange). And now we’re only kicking their asses because our best bowler is a chucker.

Is this an unfair reading of the last two days? I would submit to you that it is not. As long as Bob Willis and a bunch of internet warriors on comment boards were the only ones making the case that Ajmal is bowling illegally, I let it slide. Who cares what an old crank and online nobodies think?

But once Andy Flower waded in, well, that’s a whole other issue. When he says what he did — and please, do not let his clever way of phrasing his accusation of cheating distract from the fact that it was an accusation of cheating — it represents an escalation. Andy Flower is the England coach. He speaks for England.

Of course, it’s important to note that other personalities who speak for England, from Matt Prior to Andrew Strauss, have (publicly) denied that there’s anything to complain about Ajmal’s action. Media men and ex-cricketers such as Nasser Hussain have (guardedly) backed Ajmal. So this is not a full-court assault as 1992 was. But it doesn’t have to be to leave a very bitter taste in Pakistan fans’ mouths.

The worst thing about this situation is the nature of the target. I can’t think of a single more genial, big-hearted, fun guy than Saeed Ajmal. He always plays the game with a smile on his face. His interviews have achieved cult-like status on Youtube. He’s just a genuine dude. I challenge you to watch this bit of an interview Ajmal did on Geo, and not feel equal parts love and affection (for Ajmal) and contempt (for the host), as Ajmal talks about his dad dying (starts around 32:00).

Ajmal has actually had a very un-Pakistani route to stardom. For one thing, he’s a spinner. I can’t think of a single other instance in our history when our best bowler was a spinner; it’s just not the way things are done in Pakistan. For another, he didn’t break into the team until he was past 30. When you juxtapose that with the fact that, on the list of the youngest test debutants of all time, Pakistanis occupy the top three spots, and ten of the top twenty, Ajmal’s uniqueness becomes clear.

I should also note that Ajmal is in a run of form rivalled by few Pakistani spinners, ever. In that sense, the timing of these complaints is, shall we say, more than convenient. Abdul Qadir is universally (and I believe wrongly) thought of as Pakistan’s best ever spinner; Ajmal is ranked higher than Qadir ever was, and has more ratings points than Qadir ever did.

Source: ICC rankings

His comparisons with Saqlain Mushtaq and Mushtaq Ahmed (criminally underrated by Pakistani fans, even retrospectively) are also interesting viewing. Saqlain never had a ranking as high as Ajmal, for whatever it’s worth. Mushtaq did; he was the world’s best bowler at one time.

Source: ICC rankings

Source: ICC rankings

I may be tempting fate here, but I really don’t think this chucking hullabaloo is likely to effect Ajmal. He may have a friendly exterior but the dude has balls of steel. He had the mental strength to stay with cricket despite not making it until an age when most Pakistanis are retired. He had the mental strength to deal with family tragedies and carry on playing for Pakistan. He had the mental strength to recover from that Hussey innings. He stood up to some fearsome fast bowling on England’s last tour, with essentially no batting technique or talent, and made a fifty accompanied by a host of bruises all over his body. He’s dealt with chucking allegations before. This is not going to faze him.

Hero. Photo: AP/Matt Dunham

But Ajmal’s ability to withstand this assault is, in many ways, besides the point. The crux of the issue is the presence of the assault in the first place. Why did Flower say what he did? Did he really think the perceived benefit of playing mindgames was worth the cost, given our history with England? Does he care?

Here’s what I want to happen: Ajmal to take another 10-fer in Sharjah. Ajmal to walk off the ground with the ball raised in his palm. And Ajmal to look up at the English dressing room and smile that Duncan Fletcher smile that so incensed Ricky Ponting in 2005. That would be sweet.