English Bat

Cherished Autograph
By FairPlay
May 16 2004

Fairplays latest article sees him as an autograph hunter in the company of Majid Khan, Javed Miandad, Taslim Arif and Imran Khan.

My first ever English bat


In 1980 I got my first ever English bat, a Gunn & Moore Canon, as a gift from my father. A family friend bought it at Lillywhites and brought it all the way back to Pakistan. It cost 32 pounds - a grand sum in those days, and I was on the receiving end of much criticism from various aunts and uncles on wasting my father's hard earned money. Still, I thought it was money well spent. I would get hundreds galore with an English bat as I was already getting runs plenty with just plain old Pakistani bats.

Sadly not so! The bat had a very slippery red English rubber grip that made it feel like it had been soaped! Also it was lighter than the bats I was used to, with a much thinner handle. At 6 foot plus, with big hands, it clearly wasn't the bat for me.

Still I persisted with it. I refused to replace or add an extra grip for fear of spoiling the original finish and aesthetics. I over-oiled it, which destroyed whatever goodness it had in it.

My sister suggested I have it signed by my favourite players, so one fine morning, before the start of an important West Indies vs. Pakistan match I found myself in a hotel room with Imran, Majid and Javed Miandad. I asked Majid to sign it first, since he was my favourite player. He gave me a quizzical look and said 'But bats are for playing - not signing!" I persisted and convinced him to use the big blue marker I had brought along. He signed it simply "Good luck, Majid J Khan." I then asked Imran who had no hesitation in signing it as this momentarily succeeded in stopping Miandad from beseeching him "Chalo yaar, chalo ground chalo!" (Let's go to the ground now!). Imran signed it, and as he had been eating toast and jam, I was none too pleased to see a bit of jam on the side of my pristine bat. I gave it a surreptitious wipe, and handed it over to Javed.

Javed signed it with the biggest and best flourish, "Best wishes, Javed Miandad" and I was done, but feeling rather sheepish. I noticed a bearded fellow standing behind Javed, half in the room and half outside. I recognised him as Taslim Arif, Pakistan's wicketkeeper bat. He seemed to be carrying Javed Miandad's cricketing gear. The previous year Taslim had laid to waste Lillee and Co on Faisalabad's dustracks, scoring a rare double century by a wicketkeeper. In hindsight, Taslim's success probably worked against him as his innings were dismissed as flat track adventures. But I was a critical and cocky 16 year old without benefit of hindsight, and Taslim certainly wasn't anywhere near my opinion of myself. Greg Chappell I liked, and Majid Khan, but then they were in my class, not Taslim Arif!

I looked at Taslim and then looked away. He looked at me, and then, almost apologetically looked away. Some kindness roused itself in me - I didn't know I had it in me. I decided it would be churlish not to ask Taslim for his signature as well. Taslim was most surprised by my change of heart, and kept saying "Bohat meherbani, bohat meherbani" (most grateful) and proceeded to sign it very carefully, adding some kind comments. I now had 4 huge blue signatures running down either side of the GM logo on the back of the blade.

Sadly, it failed to transform my luck with the bat. After 2-3 failures I gave it up as bad job. A few months later I gave it to a first class player in a club game - he got 80 odd, but on his return I noticed the soapy grip was missing! He said "bat accha he, grip bakwas thee (bat was good, grip awful)!" He had proceeded to rip it up during his innings, and most sensibly too! I used it just once after that, sans grip, getting 36 not out and winning some match for my college XI. But that was the end of the bat's competitive life.

For the last 23 years it has lain in various places in my parents' house in Pakistan. Monsoon rain, hail and heat have left their marks. My non-cricket playing cricket fanatic nephew gives it the occasional ugly twirl and then chucks it in the nearest available corner.

Occasionally, we take it out for a tennis ball game in the garden, and during those inevitable breaks for ball search in my mothers flowerbeds, I can still decipher the faint blue markings of that October morning twenty odd years ago.