Imran Khan Read online

  THE CRICKETER, THE CELEBRITY, THE POLITICIAN

  IMRAN

  KHAN

  THE BIOGRAPHY

  CHRISTOPHER SANDFORD

  FOR K.W.

  1953–2006

  ‘True disputants are like true sportsmen, their whole delight is in the pursuit.’

  ALEXANDER POPE

  ‘It’s not a question of aspirations. I know, God willing, one day I am going to succeed. And that’s not very far away.’

  IMRAN KHAN

  speaking to the media about his chances of running Pakistan

  Contents

  Epigraph

  1. Only a Game

  2. Of Hospitality and Revenge

  3. The Swinger

  4. ‘War Without the Nukes’

  5. The Downhill Struggle

  6. Captain and Crew

  7. The Contrast Principle

  8. Dropping the Pilot

  9. ‘If They Say They Were Squeezing the Ball — Fine; They Were Squeezing the Ball’

  10. All-Rounder

  Career Highlights

  Bibliography

  Sources and Chapter Notes

  Index

  Acknowledgements

  Also by Christopher Sandford

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  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 inc
reased, 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.