A rogue talent

How many players has Pakistan wasted over the years? How long is a piece of string? So many have come as quickly as they have gone, so many we have been bewitched by, and so many we have despaired of that we have become numb to the lost talent. For every Yasir Hameed, there is an Imran Nazir, a Mohammad Wasim or an Ali Naqvi, for every Mohammad Sami, a Mohammad Zahid or a Mohammad Akram. It doesn't seem to matter any more, for someone will always emerge and perhaps that is the way of things. But sometimes, every now and again, you stop and wonder how we have become so blasé about them. And instead of trying to understand why they failed, you try to appreciate what they can bring to the game, no matter how sparingly.

Shahid Afridi's ebullient contribution to Pakistan's win over India on Saturday was the latest in a series of one-offs. Not many players who have exasperated as much as him garner as much attention - even in disappointment there is eminence - but then Afridi has always had something about him, a sense of cricketing decadence in the gloriously neglected manner in which he has frittered his unique gifts. That he has done it so extravagantly, perversely, has enamoured him to some of us. The chances that he will suddenly discover the discipline and the judgment he has lacked for so long are slim. But should that overlook the allure - intermittent, as it is - that he possesses?

There isn't much that is tangible about it, certainly not his career figures; but at its essence his game is an unbridled, almost raw, joy. Much of the charm of Afridi is of a rustic sort, he provides the romance in the game, and all good ones are doomed to failure anyway. There is such a foolish abandon in the way he bats that you wonder whether he has progressed from batting on a potholed street, protecting not stumps but mango crates. He is, in local parlance, a lapaytoo - a street-slogger, but with less technique and discretion. In the gallis their job is to swing at almost every ball, and that Afridi does it still at international level is absurd. He has had so many comebacks that he qualifies as a fully paid-up resident of the last-chance saloon, living fastidiously by its fatalistic ground rules.

He reacquainted himself with us on Saturday with a buoyant second-ball six, out of the ground for good measure. It could have been on any street in Karachi, and it could just as easily have been mishit to mid-on. There followed a couple of audacious boundaries and a diabolical dismissal - one that confirmed for most Pakistanis that he might never learn. But he came back, and picked up four wickets, taunting us and daring us to doubt him. Along with Shoaib Malik he turned the match, as if to the manner born. In the field, he was Pakistan's chirpiest outfield presence since the days of Javed Miandad.

But it isn't even the bits 'n' pieces of his batting or bowling, it is instead the whole. He is blessed with a presence; he can make things happen, and around him, things happen. The problem is that he doesn't know when and how it happens and neither do we. In that way, a comparison with Virender Sehwag - as there was in Pakistan earlier this year - while not obvious, is not entirely untenable. And watching Andrew Flintoff perform this summer can't help but invoke a tinge of regret at what Afridi has squandered.

Of course, his appeal lies partly in his failure to emulate these standards. Maybe there isn't a permanent space for him in the modern game, reliant as it is not only on extravagant natural gifts, but on self-discipline and the ability to harness that talent as well. He seems out of place and out of touch with the work ethic of today's players, as well as lacking their willingness to learn and improve. He will argue, as he has done, that the team has never used him properly, and he does it with some justification. Even before this tri-nation series, the team management was unsure as to how to utilise him most effectively. His critics will argue that he has simply refused to learn in over seven years with the national team.

But surely there is room for an ephemeral rogue, if only because occasionally, and unexpectedly, he adds another dimension to any game. As he did against India at Peshawar earlier this year, he may very well embark on another disastrous run of failures after this latest encounter. But maybe that is OK; we know what we get with him, and if he deigns to provide it to us when he feels fit to - or is allowed to - then why not admire it for what it is? Why live in the hope that he will come round and start doing it all the time? It is only sporadic moments of beauty he provides, but it is beauty nonetheless and for that alone it should be treasured.