Dear Infidel by Tamim Sadikali Read Free Book Online

a change. Imran Khan gestures to the man standing about twenty yards deep, square of the wicket on the off side. Pull further back , he says with his hands. Inzy obeys, his eyes locked on his captain.
    Cricket. Baseball for gods. Carried by the force of empire but adopted with relish by Indian princes, Pathan warriors and the sons of slaves. Now the time has come to teach the old master a lesson, and there’s no better stage than the World Cup Final.
    Imtiaz surveys the scene whilst his captain continues fine-tuning. He rocks his head back to look into the Melbourne sky at night, but is hit full-face by the massive light towers. There is no night inside the Melbourne Cricket Ground – the MCG is all lit up. The stadium is packed, every seat taken. There must be 85,000-plus in here. Most are Aussies and Imtiaz wonders who they’ll be supporting. The home team was knocked out some time ago and now, as hosts, they have to entertain the Pakis and the Poms. Poor bastards ... The rest are Englishmen and Pakistanis, and Union Flags and Crescent Moons abound. The green-and-white is still flying, though not as proudly as it was – Fairbrother and Lamb are starting to take the game away. But as Imran had said in the dressing room, ‘ Don’t forget, we fight like cornered tigers .’
    The volume in the stadium dims and Imtiaz looks up – the Great Khan has finished his instructions. Everyone is in position. In the company of his men, the captain is once again alone. He’s walking away from the centre towards the boundary, the perimeter of the playing area. His walk is perfect, each step seeming measured. Four tiers of spectators home in on one man, releasing their emotions: awe, expectation, love and hate pour into the night sky.
    Imran Khan turns back towards the playing arena: the eye of the storm. Thud! He gazes at the ball in his hand before looking up. Alan Lamb is staring straight back at him. Man takes on man within theteam game. Imran can feel his heart pounding. His face is pulsating, his ears are pulsating. Waves of heat emanate off him. One last check to the left and one last check to the right – he sees several of his men dotted in a loose ring around the wicket. An ambush of tigers, just waiting to pounce. First in line is Imtiaz, the wicket keeper. He’s already crouching down behind the stumps and is well back, maybe even twenty yards. He’s judged that well , thinks Imran. This is juicy Melbourne turf and I’m extracting a lot of lift. That Imtiaz is a good kid with a steady head. He’ll go far. From Imran to Fairbrother to Lamb to Imtiaz, there is almost a straight line. Bowler, batsman, batsman, wicket keeper. Pakistani, Englishman, Englishman, Pakistani. Who is vulnerable now? The slip fielders, taking their cue from the trusty Imtiaz, lock into position – a trap just waiting to be sprung. Slips one and two, gully, cover point, mid-wicket and square leg. Check. Fee-fi-fo-fum, I smell the blood of an Englishman. Imran begins running in. The noise inside the cauldron increases, the excited overspill of anticipation. With ball in hand he hits the crease and leaps into his delivery stride, an archer drawing back the bow ... Whoosh! Lamb has half-a-second to play with: he’s got to judge height, angles, the bounce once the ball pitches as well as speed, but he’s seen it all before. It’s not quite child’s play but it’s well within his compass; he sights the ball early and sees it big. Tonk! Alan Lamb drives sweetly through the off-side. He hasn’t adopted the classic position but has lazily let the ball come onto him, his head over its line all the while. Cock-sure ... The ball cuts through cover-point and gully before clattering into an advertising hoarding. An Aussie brewer is grateful for Lamb’s shot selection. Four runs. It’s the end of the thirty-fourth over and from here the Englishmen needn’t sweat. Imran stands with hands on hips, watching his team chase air. It’s a painful display