Mohammad Rizwan had got out of the way, and he was furious. He pointed to his arm, gesturing towards a white spot further up the limb the ball definitely hadn’t hit, in an attempt to deflect from the soft, incriminating kiss it had given the wristband of his glove. He went to the Australian fielders to tell them he wasn’t out; given they had opted to send it up to the TV umpire Richard Illingworth, it’s safe to assume they begged to differ. When he was given his marching orders, he seethed some more, animatedly gesturing to the umpire before walking off the MCG in a huff. It wasn’t like Rizwan at all.

He had been cramped for room (as he almost famously said in Hyderabad), and now he was acting out.

But perhaps what angered him wasn’t the TV umpire’s decision – the evidence was fairly conclusive – but his reaction to Pat Cummins’ body serve of a delivery: he’d got out of the way. And that, if you know much about him, is even less like Rizwan.

For the most part, Rizwan’s body is always on the line; he wears blows like badges of honour. It’s possible the mystery mark on his arm was just one of many such bruises decorating his flesh. He throws himself to the ground, diving to complete runs he could have dawdled and still completed, and invariably bruises an arm or a leg, or knocks his helmet grill back into his head keeping the concussion doctor on his toes. He cramps up and yes, he acts. But for a man of faith like Rizwan, getting out of the way must be as close as sport comes to sacrilege.

And having sinned once, Rizwan was ready to repent in Sydney. At 56 for 4, Josh Hazlewood bowled a similar ball to him, arrowing into his body off a slightly short length, but one that would have made ducking tricky. Instead of stepping away, Rizwan moved his body further into the line and got down low, making himself even more vulnerable. Fine leg was stationed on the edge of the boundary, meaning an aggressive shot here would be as much a professional as a personal risk, but Rizwan didn’t care. And then, in a motion that was more a crack of a whip than a swing of a bat, one liquid motion that almost saw him use his ribs as a pivot, he clobbered one over fine leg’s head for six.

Hazlewood pitched the next one on a length; it was nothing like the previous ball, nothing, even, like the Cummins ball. But with the zeal of a convert, Rizwan went after this one too, his head falling away well before he was through his shot, and his body following soon after. Either of those two balls could have got him out, but to note that was to miss the point. For Rizwan, there are certain things that bother him, but getting out isn’t intrinsically one of them.

Rizwan went off for lunch, but his appetite was nowhere near sated yet. This time, he was facing Cummins himself, the man who had caused him to sin last week, snapping his side out of the heavenly dreams of victory and casting them back into this mortal realm. He bowled two balls wide of off stump, each of which Rizwan tried to attack, but it was when he sent one the third one in short that Rizwan delivered retribution. He rose to his toes, extending himself to his full height and carved him away for a boundary; it was now that Rizwan was tucking in.

When Mitchell Marsh came on, Rizwan didn’t need so much as a second look. He cut the first ball over the slips, flashing hard over gully to pick up four, before nearly chopping on against Cummins the following over attempting another high-risk shot. It was that battle against Cummins which Rizwan was, for better or worse, never going to back down from. He attacked just under 20% of all deliveries he faced from the Australian captain, a higher percentage than any other bowler. And of the 61 runs Cummins conceded in 18 overs, 19 of them came off just 21 deliveries he bowled to Rizwan.

Masood had fallen by now, but Rizwan was busy constructing a salvage job with Salman Ali Agha. An over before drinks, where he drove Nathan Lyon against the turn and swept him with it set the tone, and fittingly it was a boundary off a short Hazlewood delivery that took him to his second half-century in Australia.

Rizwan’s commitment to this brand was so total it appeared to have a proselytising effect on Agha. Like a faithful disciple, he followed Rizwan in planting the front foot and sweeping Lyon, before charging down the wicket the following delivery and walloping him back over his head. Rizwan himself went one better, of course, dancing down and fetching six more off the spinner. Four days after Pakistan had dropped into the abyss following the breaking of a partnership between these two man, here they were, digging them out of it.

Cummins ran through his options, bringing Mitchell Starc back on. Starc is perhaps the man who can land the most painful of body blows, but Rizwan flashed two short deliveries square for four as he hurtled towards a record he set the first time he batted in Australia four years ago. No Pakistan wicketkeeper has ever scored a century in Australia; Rizwan’s 95 in Brisbane in 2019 is the closest anyone has ever come. He could put that right in a few minutes. But Rizwan wasn’t looking to make amends from last tour, more from last week.

With a weary sense of inevitability, Cummins brought himself back on, and sent down the same delivery that had accounted for Rizwan at the MCG. Rizwan swiftly got himself in line but the ball continued to rise, and the batter’s slash flew up to the square leg it had sailed over two hours earlier. Hazlewood completed the catch with ease, and Rizwan fell a dozen short of that history-making hundred. It was a bad time to get out, and if you watched it in isolation, inoculated from what happened at the MCG and of the way Rizwan thinks about cricket, a naïve way to depart.

From Rizwan himself though, there was no remonstration this time. He put his bat underneath his arm and walked briskly off. Rizwan’s body was back on the line, and his team back in the contest. If Pakistan can turn disaster into anything resembling triumph, the origins of it might have been conceived a thousand kilometres away, with an uncharacteristically angry man pointing to a phantom mark on his forearm in late December sunshine.