My first cricket hero was Imran Khan. Now I close my eyes and replay Mitchell Starc’s fast yorkers | Shadi Khan Saif

GWhen I was rowing in the late 1990s, I insisted that my younger cousins ​​call me Imran Khan instead of my real name – our own playful twist on traditional respect rituals. A few years later I upgraded to Wasim Akram (obviously) and they followed willingly. They’re all grown up now, but they still call me ‘Mama Khan’ or ‘Wasin Akral’ – the awkward sayings from my childhood that have stuck with me like cricket.

Last week, witnessing the magnificent Mitchell Starc overtake Akram as the leading left-arm wicket-taker, I had to pause for a moment – ​​isn’t it time for another upgrade?

On the opening day of the second Test at the Gabba, Starc claimed his 415th Test wicket, surpassing Akram’s long-standing record of 414.

What gives this milestone extra weight is the era in which it occurs – a period when cricket has been heavily skewed in favor of batsmen. Boundaries are shorter, rules softer, bouncers limited and scoring easier than ever. Yet Starc – with 102 Tests to his name, a bowling average hovering around 26.5 and already 17 five-wicket hauls – refuses to bow down. So yes – in a world where wickets are harder to come by and batting dominates, Starcy’s resurgence doesn’t just feel like a comeback. It feels like a statement.

Fast bowlers of my youth in the 1990s were the giants that always lived in my imagination. Their wrists, their long run-ups, their reverse-swinging lightning bolts that detonated tree stumps… for kids of my generation, they weren’t just athletes; they were mythological characters who organized battles. Ironically, I never felt like bowling myself. I was more the Jacques Kallis type: relaxed, calm, the easy hitter of towering sixes on Karachi’s busy grounds, where fielders hunted for lost balls the way golfers hunted for dodgy shots, and batsmen casually ran singles across overlapping fields where three other games were taking place at the same time.

Decades later, I still find myself calming down at night by closing my eyes and replaying Mitchell Starc’s fast, in-swinging yorkers until sleep gently claims me. Cricket has always been my lullaby, my compass, my shorthand for belonging. And in Starcy I have another cricketing legend to admire.

The love affair began in the hot, cracked streets of the vast Pakistani metropolis, where a taped-up tennis ball and a battered wooden bat could instantly turn any alleyway into the MCG, Eden Gardens or Lord’s – completely dependent on the commentary we shouted as we played. We had no helmets, coaching sessions or any concept of ‘technique’. All we had was the fierce urgency of a six-over match and the knowledge that only two things could stop the game: a parent arriving to drag someone home, or the ball flying into the neighbor’s closed yard (often followed by the neighbor’s wrath).

At that time, I wasn’t just watching the legends of the ’90s – I was emulating them with wild arms, exuberant celebrations and ecstatic leaps. Cricket was not a sport; it was the first language I learned fluently.

Years later, when I moved to Afghanistan, I assumed I had left that world behind. I imagined a country too burdened with conflict to make room for games. I couldn’t have been more wrong.

In Kabul and across the rugged mountains, I saw cricket emerging as something inevitable. Young boys bowling at an astonishing pace on gravel pitches. Teenagers practiced Shahid Afridi’s swagger long before Rashid Khan became Rashid Khan. I watched cricket grow into a gentle rebellion – a quiet yearning for joy – in a place where daily life was overshadowed by the Taliban insurgency against US and NATO forces. In the midst of loss and uncertainty, cricket was a small but powerful act of resistance.

My relationship with the game hasn’t always been glorious. In Bonn, while working as a journalist at Deutsche Welle, I attempted one of the most daring projects of my life: teaching Germans to play cricket. Let me say it carefully: they excel in precision, technique and punctuality. What they didn’t understand, and perhaps never learned to appreciate, is why a match can last an entire day or five and still end in a draw. I explained swing, field placements and the lbw rule. I tried to compare cricket with sports they knew. Each week their polite nods became more strained. Our summer sessions eventually turned into multicultural food festivals with Sri Lankan, Indian and Pakistani dishes – interspersed with small, almost accidental bits of batting, bowling and fielding.

Then came Australia. Stepping onto my first Australian oval felt like I had finally arrived at the mother ship. During my very first week here, I saw Tom, the hotel receptionist, watching day one of the 2021 Ashes. That, even for me, was the moment I really fell in love with Test cricket. We chatted briefly; that same afternoon he took me to a practice session, and by the weekend I was playing my first club match.

The pitches here are immaculate. The banter is effortless, warm and strangely poetic. My old obsession returned – pure, uncomplicated and joyful. In many ways, cricket defines how I understand resilience, timing, luck and patience. I still chase the thrill of a perfect yorker on a sun-filled afternoon. And at night I still dream away with the red Kookaburra in my mind, waving late, fast and true, as I uproot the stumps.

• Shadi Khan Saif is an editor, producer and journalist who has worked in Afghanistan, Pakistan, Germany and Australia