Well of course, the whole secret is that it isn’t -- as much as some of the headline-writers around the world, drenched in the same ol’ hyperbole, would have you believe -- that much of a surprise, or shock, certainly. Followers of the Bangladesh team have long had their eye on this fixture, as our best bet to rattle the cage in this World Cup.
I’ll do a tennis analogy. For Mashrafe’s men -- and that is a description harder won than Tigers -- while wins against Afghanistan and Scotland could count as holding serve, wins against the Test playing nations would count as breaking your opponent’s serve.
Going into the tournament, we knew we needed to break serve at least once to make the QFs. Looking at our options, there’s no doubt England were the ones we relished most. New Zealand were clearly out of that phase where we’d grown used to bullying them for a while.
Sri Lanka accord us a certain respect that ensures they hardly ever lose. Australia weren’t going to give us anything. England, we had even broken them before on that manic night in Chittagong four years ago. To borrow a phrase: We fancied our chances against ol’ Blighty.
Never mind that four years ago, even though the game against England was again our penultimate fixture of the group phase, it was too little too late. We’d already blown it against Ireland and the West Indies, definitive travesties in our cricketing lore.
Before even gathering destiny in our hands, twice we managed to drop it. This time around, having watched us impress with Lady Luck on the dancefloor, Destiny wanted to jive. One more time. And there was England, poor in one-day cricket, and out of form, out of sorts.
England, of the MCC and all that history. Hopeless against spin, and led by an Irishman (as well as, must be said, this year outshone by the Irishmen!). Zadran and co. might hand it to them as well in their last game. But for us to depend on that would have been opportunism.
Fair play in sport. Yet nations traverse untold epochs along their journey in cricket. Getting to the stage where you prove your destiny is safest in your own hands is the cardinal signal that you’ve come of age.
And such sure hands they were, in Adelaide last night (ok Tamim, forget it). In the event, it was the fast, zippy triumvirate of Rubel, Taskin and the lion-hearted Mashrafe that made the difference. The way they fed off each other and believed in themselves, the way they celebrated each others’ wickets.
Mashrafe is by some way the leader of the pack, but with Rubel conjuring up thunderbolts, the captain kept building him up -- including the pointed emphasis in the post-match interview. The way Mushfiqur celebrated Mahmudullah’s hundred. What unencumbered joy one can share in at the apparent success of others!
Of course Mushfiqur had owned it too, by sending his number 4 (I later learned they’re brothers-in-law!) back just the previous delivery from a suicidal dash down the pitch after hitting it straight to mid-wicket.
Mushy’s the real beauty in this side, that brain of his constantly ticking. He knew the significance of Mahmudullah reaching that three-figure mark -- the first hundred by a Bangladeshi batsman in five World Cups.
He had played well enough for it, having arrived at the crease almost three hours ago with his team wobbling. He showed maturity and guile, enough gumption to charge down at a fast bowler, and then finding it dropped short, hook him for six. Giving it away at that point would have been a shame not worthy. Epics don’t have the wrong ending. They are waltzes with destiny.
