The great handshake meltdown: A political cricket satire

In cricket, handshakes are symbolic theatre—rituals meant to prove that the gentleman’s game still has gentlemen. But Pakistan’s latest meltdown wasn’t about a dropped catch, a missed stumping, or even a dodgy DRS call. No, this time it was about Andy Pycroft, a match referee with the misfortune of telling captain Agha Salman—at the wrong time—that there would be no handshake. That tiny misstep has now ballooned into a Shakespearean tragedy, or at least a soap opera, where the spilled milkshake is stickier than the actual cricket.

The Pakistan Cricket Board (PCB) has taken this timing issue as though it were an international conspiracy. Their lament: they were caught off guard, humiliated, and forced to swallow their anger. But truth be told, it wasn’t only about ego—it was also about losing the money honey. With $12 million on the line, Pakistan’s threat of boycott dissolved faster than sugar in tea. The rescheduled game against the UAE wasn’t about cricketing pride, it was about keeping the till ringing.

And here lies the comedy. The PCB has survived far bigger storms—terror threats, cancelled tours, selectors changing players like playlists, and coaches fleeing Karachi airport faster than a delayed PIA flight. Presidents of the board rotate with governments: Najam Sethi in, Najam Sethi out; Zaka Ashraf back in, then back out; Ramiz Raja given a microphone, then shown the door. Coaches like Mickey Arthur, Waqar Younis, and Misbah-ul-Haq have all run from the confusion of leading a system where cricket often plays second fiddle to politics.

Against this backdrop, what breaks the camel’s back? Not governance failures. Not muddled selection. Not endless captaincy changes. But the timing of an etiquette announcement about handshakes.

And so the saga unfolds. Statements are drafted as if they were UN resolutions, leaks to friendly journalists fill the air, and hashtags sprout like weeds. A senior PCB official reportedly thundered: “Without a handshake, the spirit of cricket collapses like a poorly baked naan.”

Lofty words for a board that can’t keep its own house in order.

Fans, too, are divided. Some shrug it off as another tantrum, while others—conditioned by years of drama—treat it like a betrayal of the national cause. Social media adds the froth, with memes of milkshakes being spilled and hashtags calling for Pycroft to issue an apology as though he were a head of state.

Pycroft himself, poor soul, probably wishes he’d sent a WhatsApp message. But in Pakistan cricket, timing is everything. Bowl a fraction late, it’s a no-ball. Announce a handshake policy late, it’s a diplomatic crisis.

And so, a simple act has snowballed into a morality play about respect, ego, and, above all, money. The milkshake metaphor is apt—once spilled, it stains. But perhaps the bigger spill has always been governance itself. In Pakistan cricket, the froth is constant, the glass is always tipping, and the real mess is rarely cleaned up. Maybe before worrying about handshakes with opponents, Pakistan cricket should first learn to shake hands with its own boardroom.