Cricket in Pakistan is not just a sport. It is passion, identity, and for millions, a love story. Streets go silent when the national team plays; TVs light up even in remote villages; prayers are whispered with every ball. But this love, over the years, has started to feel heartbreakingly one-sided.
In the aftermath of the Asia Cup final against India, the story repeated itself. India played with eleven cricketers; Pakistan, many fans argued, played with only two — Sahibzada Farhan and Fakhar Zaman. The rest of the batting lineup collapsed, again. The bowling, despite flashes of brilliance, was undone by captaincy decisions that baffled even neutral observers.
The Questions Fans Dare to Ask
Out of love for this game, fans now ask questions once considered taboo. Why did captain Salman Ali Agha bring Haris Rauf into the attack when spinners were bowling so well? Why were Nawaz’s overs spared, while Rauf — expensive in nearly every outing — was trusted with four?
Out of love, they ask: why do only two players seem capable of scoring, while the rest crumble? Why were consistent batters like Babar Azam and Mohammad Rizwan benched when the middle order was trembling?
And beyond the field, a bigger question: what merit brought officials like Mr. Naqvi into PCB’s management?
Nepotism Over Nation
At the heart of the public’s frustration lies a single word: nepotism. For decades, cricket lovers have watched unfit, underperforming players survive because of connections rather than capability. The case of Azam Khan’s repeated selections despite glaring fitness concerns is just one example. Promising youngsters, many argue, are overlooked so that “big fishes” in PCB can push their favorites forward.
This pattern has consequences. Talented cricketers quietly slip away, some even switching allegiance to other countries where merit matters more than reference. For fans, this is more than sports politics — it is a betrayal of national pride.
When Cricket Hurts
The emotional toll is immense. Each defeat to India feels like salt in a wound. Fans invest their time, energy, and emotions into matches, only to be repaid with heartbreak. As one supporter quipped on social media: “Hospitals should declare emergencies after Pakistan’s big matches — because millions of fans are left emotionally shattered.”
This is not mere exaggeration. Psychologists often speak of how national identity is tied to sports. In Pakistan, cricket defeats affect moods, workplaces, even family gatherings. The love runs so deep that the pain of betrayal lingers long after the match ends.
Why Should We Keep Watching?
Fans now ask harder questions: Why should we keep watching when outcomes are dictated not on the pitch but in PCB offices? Why should we sacrifice study hours, professional time, and emotional stability for a team that wins or loses without accountability — while its officials and players earn millions?
Cricket, once a shared joy, has become a test of patience.
Out of Patriotism, Answer Us
The tragedy is not that Pakistan loses matches; every team does. The tragedy is that fans feel unheard. Their love is unconditional, but their questions go unanswered.
Out of love, they ask PCB:
- Will nepotism end?
- Will merit ever be restored?
- Will leadership be based on performance, not politics?
So far, silence is the only reply.
And yet, despite everything, Pakistanis will keep watching, cheering, and believing. Because that is what love does: it persists, even when it hurts.
But love without respect eventually fades. For Pakistan cricket, the question is simple: will it continue taking its people’s love for granted, or will it finally learn to love them back?
