This is the end my friend

For his accomplishments, for his skills, for the languid grace he brought to the batting crease, for being one of cricket's true originals, Inzamam ul Haq deserved much more than this last farewell.

Age and his back have feasted hungrily on his batting and the last calendar year was an indifferent one. Last August, he was the country's poster-boy, defending a nation's pride at the Oval, and yet last weekend his posters were being stomped on and burned, so quickly feelings have changed.

But in one instant, as he skied Tawanda Muwaripa to Sean Williams and began the last ride to the pavilion one last time, emotions switched again. Brisker than usual on departure, the walk stalled as every Zimbabwe player rushed to shake his hand.

And briefly, as life is supposed to flash before your eyes in the instant before you die, as he hurried, teary-eyed, into an emotional guard of honour from his team, all that was good and great about Inzi flashed before us; the yo-yoing weight, the clean-shaven cherubic chubby giving way to the patriarchal beard, the brain ticking over impassively calculating run chases, the bendy flick off his hips over square leg, the hunched, shuffling drives, those violent cuts.

If you squinted hard enough through coloured eyes, you glimpsed the impudence of the 1992 semi-final 60, the grace of the Karachi hundred against India and the scheming behind the Ahmedabad 60. In a week of tears, here came another sly one: once he was up those dressing room stairs, who would bring that calm, that solidity that you sensed in the middle order, even when he was out of form, every time he walked out?

I'm glad that young Zimbabwe team had the sense of occasion, of history, to send Inzy off with honor.

What more can you say, except thank you, Inzamam -- thanks for a handful of glorious cricketing memories.