Inzamam-ul-Haq's Comedy Run-Out Collection

Inzamam-ul-Haq was one of the finest batsmen of his generation — a man who could dismantle any bowling attack in the world, read the game brilliantly, and play strokes of delicate precision and explosive power in equal measure. He was also, by universal consensus of teammates, opponents, and the laws of physics, the worst runner between the wickets in the history of international cricket. These two facts coexisted in perfect irony for twenty years of Pakistani cricket.

The running problem was not a matter of effort or intelligence — Inzamam clearly understood the concept of running between wickets. He simply had a relationship with pace, direction changes, and urgency that was fundamentally different from every other cricketer's. Where others sprinted, Inzamam lumbered. Where others committed, Inzamam deliberated. Where others dove, Inzamam toppled. It was magnificent in its consistency.

His teammates learned very early in their careers that calling Inzamam for a quick single was an action with foreseeable consequences, and yet the lesson somehow never fully stuck. He would stand at the non-striker's end, and you could watch the internal calculation happening in real time as he assessed whether his body was capable of making the other end before the ball arrived. Usually the answer was no. Often he went anyway.

The compilation of Inzamam run-outs spans two decades and represents some of the most consistently entertaining cricket moments ever recorded. Each one followed a slightly different script but arrived at the same destination: Inzamam either not quite making the crease, or making the crease of the wrong end, or stranded mid-pitch with the resigned air of a man who had accepted his fate several strides ago.

His most celebrated run-outs involved the u-turn — Inzamam would set off, receive a "no!" from his partner, attempt to return, and find that his turning circle did not accommodate the urgency of the situation. He would turn like a fully loaded container ship changing course: slowly, with tremendous effort, and considerably too late. The fielding team would complete the run-out with the unhurried satisfaction of people who knew they had all the time they needed.

The reaction of his running partners became a sub-genre in itself. Batsmen who called Inzamam for a run would begin sprinting, look back, find Inzamam about halfway down the pitch moving at approximately jogging pace, and face a choice: get themselves out trying to send him back, or sacrifice themselves running for a second to rescue him. The mathematics never worked in Pakistan's favor.

If there was an award for the most entertainingly slow runner in cricket history, Inzamam-ul-Haq would win it by several metres — which is ironic, because he was usually several metres short of the crease when run out. The Pakistani batting genius was so slow between the wickets that his run-outs became a sub-genre of cricket comedy, a reliable source of entertainment that fans could depend on like clockwork.

Inzamam's running was characterized by a curious lumbering gait that suggested he was running through treacle while carrying a piano on his back. He would set off for a run, realize halfway down that he wasn't going to make it, and then just keep going anyway with the resigned air of a man heading to the gallows. There was never any acceleration, never any desperation — just a steady, dignified lumber towards inevitable doom. The dive at the end — when it came — was more of a gentle topple, like a felled tree in slow motion.

His most famous run-out involved him being sent back by his partner but being unable to turn around quickly enough, resulting in both batsmen ending up at the same end while the fielding team casually removed the bails as if they had all the time in the world. Which they did, because Inzamam's turning circle was roughly equivalent to that of an ocean liner. On another occasion, he was run out without the fielding team even having to throw — the wicketkeeper simply walked to the stumps and removed the bails while Inzamam was still several yards short, moving at a pace that could charitably be described as "leisurely" and accurately described as "geological."

His teammates learned to never call him for a quick single, but somehow it kept happening. "Yes!" they'd shout, setting off at a sprint. Inzamam would look up, begin his ponderous journey, and the entire stadium would collectively hold its breath. The result was almost always the same: a run-out that looked like it had been filmed in slow motion, even at normal speed.

“I know I am not the fastest runner. But I try.”

“The rule when batting with Inzamam was simple: never call him for a run you're not absolutely certain about, and even then, think twice.”

“He ran between the wickets like a man who had read about running but hadn't quite grasped the urgency of it.”

“Inzamam's run-outs were a gift to cricket fans. Every single one was different, and yet somehow always arrived at the same result.”

Inzamam's run-out record became a standing joke that he absorbed with great good humor. He was famously easy-going about the subject, occasionally making self-deprecating remarks about his running that endeared him to fans more than any denial could have. "I am not fast," he once acknowledged, in a moment of understatement that could be used to describe the Grand Canyon as "a crack in the ground."

His batting record — averaging 49.60 in Tests over a 120-match career — meant that the run-outs were largely forgiven by Pakistan fans as the necessary overhead of having him in the team. The extraordinary runs he scored far outweighed the ones he gifted to the opposition. Pakistan cricket simply accepted that deploying Inzamam meant accepting a certain rate of comedic run-outs as part of the package.