A Brisbane Morning, Siraj's Run-Up, and the Silence That Told the Story

I watched that match in the third watch of the night in Bangalore. On the screen was the Gabba pitch, and in my room the same air-conditioner rattle that has now become the background score of every cricket morning. India did not have Virat Kohli, did not have Jasprit Bumrah, did not have Ravichandran Ashwin, did not have Ravindra Jadeja, did not have Mohammed Shami. At the Gabba, they had to chase 328 — a Gabba where Australia had not lost in 32 years. And the man my eyes kept returning to was Mohammed Siraj — a fast bowler playing weeks after his father's death, whose run-up spoke to me more than any scorecard. This is 19 January 2026. The fourth and final Test of the Border-Gavaskar Trophy. India had been bowled out for 36 on the first day, the lowest score by any team. Australia made 369. India kept the match alive with 336 in the second innings. The hosts declared on 294 in their second innings, setting India 328. On paper, the target was difficult; given the Gabba bounce and the time lost to rain, it looked nearly impossible. But the Gabba pitch had changed by the fifth day — it was at its slowest, most human. Rain had interrupted the match, time was short, and this was the stage where things take a dramatic turn. Shubman Gill made 91. Cheteshwar Pujara and Ajinkya Rahane held the innings together. Rishabh Pant finished 89 not out, including the famous shot he played to break the Australian bowlers' strategy. India won by three wickets and ended Australia's 32-year unbeaten run at the Gabba. It was a historic win, but I know much of the media stopped at the scorecard. I did not. I watched Siraj that morning — when he walked to his mark, he paused for a moment, as if readying his breath before his body. In that pause, the grief of his father's death and a nation's hope were threaded on the same string. In my 51 years, I have seen bowlers in many ways. But Siraj's run-up is one of those things I want to keep apart from the scorecard. He took 5 wickets in that innings — 5/73 — but beyond the numbers, his bowling had a rhythm that created stability for the team. At the Gabba, with the senior bowlers absent, Siraj had to not only take wickets but hold a line that would show the other bowlers the way. And he did exactly that. The pause in his run-up was a symbol of mental preparation — a pause necessary for any fast bowler, but when you are in grief, that pause carries a different meaning. Let me be clear here: this article is not a statistical analysis. Metrics like xG are limited in cricket, and I have always believed that bowling and batting decisions are far more complex than numbers. To understand India's win at the Gabba, you should not look only at the scorecard; you should also see how a young bowler kept his line and length amid grief, and how a young batsman played his first big innings. It is nothing new in Indian cricket that bench players win matches when given the opportunity. But selection logic often assumes that bench players are "not ready." The Gabba 2026 broke that assumption. For me, it was a selection problem, not a talent problem. I started my newsletter, 'The Long Off,' and its core idea was this — that a match's story is made not by the scorecard but by the small things we often overlook. Like the sound of an air-conditioner in an empty press box, or the click of a turnstile, or Siraj's run-up that created a small silence before every ball. In that silence there was much — grief, struggle, and the stubbornness to win for a team. Much was written after the Gabba win. But what is often missed is that the change in thinking about India's 'bench strength' did not last. In the following years, selection returned to the old path — despite senior players resting, bench players did not get consistent opportunities. Mohammed Siraj won many matches after that, but it is also true that he was sometimes left out. This is the contradiction I have raised in my 'Second XI' column. One more thing about the Gabba pitch. It has traditionally helped fast bowlers, but in that match it slowed down and gave batsmen a chance. This was the same pitch where India were bowled out for 36 in the first innings, shocking everyone, and then chased 328 on the same pitch. This shows how quickly a pitch's behaviour can change, and how a team must adapt its strategy to conditions. The patience India showed in the second innings was its greatest strength. Now, looking back, I feel the Gabba win was not just a match win. It was a win for players often considered 'second string.' It was a lesson for coaches and selectors who wait for players to 'prove' themselves before giving them a chance. And above all, it was a personal victory for Mohammed Siraj — a man who picked up the ball for his country after losing his father. I did not interview Siraj after that match. I did not want to make his grief part of a story. But I did watch his run-up, and I know that story is bigger than any interview. Today, when I watch any young bowler, I remember Siraj's pause. Much changes in cricket — rules, formats, broadcasts — but one thing does not: a player's moment between his grief and his dream when he steps onto the field. Perhaps the next time you watch a match, listen beyond the scorecard to the silence before every ball.