How Waqar Younis Defined My Childhood

To the historians and the experts, the debate is usually settled by the stats. They point to the relentless consistency of Glenn McGrath, the complete artistry of Wasim Akram, or the menacing intellect of Malcolm Marshall. And if we are speaking strictly with our heads, they are probably right.

But I don't measure greatness by the record books. I measure it by the feeling in my chest. And for a young kid growing up in England in the early 1990s, there was no debate. There was only Waqar.

I didn't grow up obsessed with the gentleman's game. To a child, Test cricket can feel like an eternity of defensive prods and rain delays. I didn't fall in love with the sport of cricket initially; I fell in love with Waqar Younis. He was the gateway drug. He took a game of chess and turned it into a demolition derby.

Rewind, Play, Repeat: The Origin Story

My obsession didn't actually begin on English soil. It began with a gift from my father in 1989.

Back then, live global sports weren't the norm on television. You had to hunt for footage. But one day, my dad came home with a fuzzy VHS tape of a match in Sharjah. He put it in the VCR.

Australia was playing, and Dean Jones was at the crease. At that time, Jones was perhaps the premier ODI batsman in the world—arrogant, brilliant, and at the absolute top of his game.

My dad called me from my room and said there's something I need you to see, and it was a teenage Waqar running in and unleashing a delivery that bypassed Jones's defense before he could even blink. He rattled the stumps. It was visceral. It was violent.

And that was it. The next day, I took the tape for myself.

I sat there alone and hit the rewind button on that VCR twenty times in a row just to watch that 30-second clip. Rewind, play. Rewind, play. My dad had provided the spark, but the fire was now mine. Watching the stumps fly gave me a feeling I couldn't explain. That specific moment was when my love affair with fast bowling truly started.

Rewind, play. Rewind, play. The fire was mine after that.

Terrorizing the County Circuit

Once I was hooked, I followed him everywhere. I remember being glued to the TV, watching his legendary stint on the county circuit with Surrey in 1991. It remains, in my opinion, the single most destructive season by an overseas fast bowler in county history.

The stats from that summer were extraordinary: 113 wickets at an average of 14.65.

To put that into context, a high-quality professional bowler typically averages between 25 and 30. Even the all-time greats usually sit in the low 20s. For Waqar to sustain an average of 14.65 over a full English summer was exceptionally rare. It indicated a level of dominance where he wasn't just taking wickets, but doing so very cheaply and frequently, often running through batting lineups before they could settle. The Oval pitches were often flat and slow, traditionally a graveyard for fast bowlers. Waqar didn't care. He took the pitch out of the equation entirely.

Watching on TV, I saw the headlines. Against Lancashire in Liverpool, he took 7 for 25, including a hat-trick. Against Sussex at Swansea, he returned figures of 8 for 17.

His Surrey teammate, Alec Stewart, famously said that Waqar would sprint in from the boundary "like Usain Bolt." But here is the beautiful irony that Stewart didn't know at the time: Usain Bolt was actually trying to be Waqar Younis.

Years later, the fastest man on earth admitted in an interview that despite growing up in Jamaica—the land of Holding and Walsh—his childhood hero was actually Waqar. Bolt revealed that as a boy, he supported Pakistan over the West Indies purely because of Waqar's dynamic run-up and those swinging yorkers. The man who would become the fastest human on the planet wasn't just a fan; he was trying to follow in his hero's footsteps.

The Summer of Speed

After conquering the county circuit, came 1992. This was the summer that produced the best cricket I ever watched.

It was also the summer my dad understood exactly where I needed to be. On the morning of the 2nd Test, he was supposed to take me to school. But knowing the game was going to start in a couple of hours, he made an executive decision. "You just want to stay home today and watch?" he asked.

I didn't even have to answer. We stayed home, and we watched history.

England was cruising. They were sitting pretty at 226 for 3, with Graham Gooch and Robin Smith dominating. It looked like a long, flat day of English batting. But then, Waqar happened.

In the span of a few overs with the old ball, the mood changed. Waqar found that lethal, late reverse swing and the English resistance crumbled. From 226 for 3, they lost their last seven wickets for just 29 runs. It was absolute chaos.

I vividly remember sitting there with my dad, cheering as the stumps cartwheeled out of the ground. My mom might have been annoyed about the missed school day, but as Waqar raised the ball for his 5-wicket haul, my dad and I knew it was worth it. We had witnessed history at the Home of Cricket. That wasn't normal cricket. It was pure, unadulterated destruction.

Before the Back Broke

If 1992 was the peak of his fame, the 1994 tour of New Zealand was the final, terrifying crescendo of his "superhuman" era.

By this point, he was a marked man. Every batsman knew what was coming, and yet, they still couldn't stop it. I remember watching highlights of the Auckland Test, where he picked up 9 wickets in the match. It wasn't just that he was fast; it was that he was inevitable. Even on slow, sticky New Zealand pitches, he was blasting through defenses.

Crucially, this tour was the last time we saw him at his absolute physical peak before tragedy struck. Shortly after this tour, the stress fractures in his back—the price he paid for that explosive, back-breaking action—finally took their toll. He would return, and he would still be a world-class bowler and captain, but he was never quite the same force of nature again. The 1994 version of Waqar arguably marked the end of the era where he was physically superior to almost everyone else in the game.

The Curse of Belief

Perhaps the greatest gift—and the greatest curse—Waqar gave me was the belief that anything was possible. With Waqar, the scoreboard didn't matter. You could be defending a meager total of 200, with the opposition cruising at 180 for 2. In any other era, with any other bowler, the game is over. You turn the TV off.

But with Waqar and the old ball? You still believed. You knew that in the space of twelve balls, he could rip the heart out of the batting order and win the match.

In hindsight, it was actually unfair what he did to me as a child. He rewired my brain to believe that a game is never lost. I have spent decades since then supporting teams that didn't have Waqar Younis in their lineup. I would sit there, watching the opposition cruise to victory, thinking, "We can still win this!" because Waqar taught me to believe.

But those other bowlers weren't him. The belief stayed, but the wickets didn't come, making for a lifetime of painful viewing experiences. He spoiled me. He set a standard of hope that no one else could ever live up to.

More Than Just Stats

I acknowledge that others may have had better careers on paper. Glenn McGrath was a metronome; he bored batsmen out. Wasim Akram was a genius; he tricked them out.

But Waqar Younis? He scared them out.

Even today, when I see the kids on social media obsessing over Jasprit Bumrah's yorkers, I can only smile. Bumrah will probably end his career being rated higher than Waqar, and he deserves all the accolades he gets. But Waqar at his peak was something special. That anticipation of a Waqar run-up? That rhythmic, pumping sprint starting from the sightscreen, with the stadium crowd clapping in unison to his every step? That specific theater will never be matched.

There is a reason why, all these years later, he still holds the record for the most 5-wicket hauls in One Day International history. He didn't just take wickets; he blew the roof off.

For that young boy obsessively rewinding a VHS tape in 1989, for the son allowed to skip school to witness a miracle at Lord's with his dad, and for Usain Bolt mimicking that run-up in Jamaica, Waqar Younis was the most thrilling sight in the sport. He didn't just play the game; he electrified it.

While there will be others, for me there will only be Waqar, and watching cricket after him has never been the same.