Letter to Akmal and Aamer

My father used to sleep like a log… but then his first child was born. Overnight he became a paranoid insomniac, waking at the slightest shake, sigh, or eyelash flutter from the tiny being sleeping between him and my mother. (Let's not get all cute: that little monkey evolved into the overgrown ape also known as my elder brother.)

I am one of the blessed few who can sleep through earthquakes, hurricanes and Karachi's nightly smattering of random gunshots, so I never thought my father's instant transformation could happen to me. But then, in one single summer, two innocents came tumbling into the cricket world: Mohammad Aamer and Umar Akmal, the apples of my eye.

Now my bedsheets are soaked in nervous sweat. My mind refuses to switch off through the dark hours. Are they okay? Will they be okay? Do I expect too much of them? Do I to expect too little (or pretend to)? Oh, it's such a mean, scary world that lies in wait. Under-19 tournaments and A team tours are over. This is the real world, this is Pakistan cricket. Oh, what horrors, what wickedness, in wait for such pure young hearts.

My fears are made worse because I'm powerless. I'm like a parent denied access by the courts, a swimming teacher watching passively as the kids flail around in the deep end, a street dog whose puppies have been lost to the urban wilderness. A useless bitch, basically.

Of course I don't deserve a hands-on role anyway, since my sole contribution to the development of these two players was a stern letter to a newspaper pointing out that Aamer was spelt with two a's and Umar with no e. But here's what I'd tell them if I was the daddy:

Umar, if Mohammad Asif asks you to hang out at his place on Saturday night, just say no.

Aamer, one of the golden rules is "Respect your elders," but when it comes to Sachin Tendulkar, who made his debut three years before you were born, to hell with it. You took him down early in the Champions Trophy and you have full permission to be as bathameez as possible next time around.

Umar, you are actually an opening batsman. On the scorecard you're No. 5, but really you're No. 2, with the added disadvantage that the bowlers have a spring in their stride because they've already notched up three quick wickets. This is a general fact of life good to learn early on: things are not what they seem. And another one: Imran Farhat sucks.

Aamer, you have great hair. Shiny and healthy, head and shoulders above anyone else in the team. Exploit it to the max: promotional contracts, commercial deals. Go for it! Make the most of now! You are too wet behind the ears to know, but nothing lasts in this transient world of ours, including one's long luscious locks. This'll shake you up: even the invulnerable Imran Khan has reportedly had a hair transplant.

Umar, you're a better batsman than your brother. And you're smart enough not to try keeping wicket at international level just because you can catch. Yes, sometimes the best genes are saved for last.

Aamer, everybody is saying you are the new Wasim Akram. Remember that they once called Ajit Agarkar the new Kapil Dev, Dimitar Berbatov the new Eric Cantona, and me the new Anand Ramachandran. (Okay, nobody ever said that last one; allow a man his comforting delusions.)

Boys, that's all for now. Be good. Be bad. Be whatever, just be you. Wickets, runs, they don't really matter. Just be happy. That's all that matters to us. Your happiness.

(I say that, of course, with the sincerity of every parent to his underperforming child. What I'm really thinking: My life is full of crushed dreams and failed ambitions and I am asking you to compensate for my mediocrity by affording me a vicarious sense of fulfillment and success.)

So then Umar and Aamer, the happiness of a nation rests on your young shoulders. Good luck. You'll need it: it's pretty tough out there, you know.