The replacement's diary: Why I said yes to the PSL

It was a Wednesday afternoon in London, and I was in the fruit section at Marks & Spencer, on the hunt for their mango fingers - which, by the way, are a seriously underrated snack. That's when I got a voice note from my manager. The Pakistan Super League was restarting. A replacement draft was happening. And somehow, Multan Sultans were interested in me.

To be honest, I barely knew the PSL was resuming, let alone that I'd be in contention. My first thought? Keep hopes low. Too many "maybes" in this career can break your heart if you let them. So I grabbed my mango fingers, walked back to the car - and then came the text.

"You're in."

I laughed. Not because it was funny but because of how unexpected it all was. Just days earlier, I'd been wrestling with doubts about where I stood in my career. Now, I was heading to one of the world's top T20 leagues, amid one of the more tense geopolitical moments in recent memory.

In the days leading up to the draft, cross-border tensions boiled over into real military escalation that halted both the IPL and PSL. Players were flown home. Airspace was closed. Some international players understandably chose not to return.

So when the opportunity came, it wasn't just about cricket. I had to weigh the reward against the risk.

I did what most of us do - I reached out to people I trust. I checked in with family and spoke to leaders among the playing group, like Tom Kohler-Cadmore, a PSL veteran, and David Warner, whose standing in world cricket speaks for itself. I then checked in with Brendan Drew from the Australian Cricketers' Association, which, along with the World Cricketers' Association, had commissioned a third-party risk assessment for players considering a return to Pakistan.

The advice? The situation was being monitored, but the league was safe to resume. It was ultimately our call, but the ACA would support it either way.

Still, my decision wasn't just about personal safety. It was also about my upbringing.

I grew up at Sunshine Heights Cricket Club in Melbourne's west - a place that welcomes migrants, celebrates diversity, and believes in cricket as a tool for inclusion.

My grandparents arrived in Australia through the mid-1960s, with no cricketing background. My dad was embraced by the club and he would go on to volunteer for more than 40 years in just about every capacity, including over a decade as president. Following in his footsteps, I served as treasurer, secretary, and junior coordinator across a six-year stretch - roles that gave me a front-row seat to how sport can help people find their footing.

That ethos - that cricket is more than runs and wickets - is still part of how I navigate opportunities like this. Yes, I was aware of the political climate. But cricket isn't responsible for borders.

At 2am on game day, I landed in Islamabad airport alongside Tymal Mills and George Munsey, where PSL officials were ready to fast-track us through immigration and security. By mid-morning, I was being fitted for a kit and introduced to the Multan Sultans set-up: owner Ali Tareen, coach Abdul Rehman, and a room of players and staff.

Immediately, I was met with the hospitality foreign cricketers have become accustomed to in Pakistan. Pakistanis take real pride in their country and want guests to have the best possible experience. I genuinely felt I could ask for anything - no matter how unusual - and someone would make it happen.

Then came the journey to Rawalpindi Cricket Stadium. Like all PSL match days, roads were cleared. The team bus, reinforced and flanked by military vehicles, made its way through the city under armed escort. The heat? Thirty-seven degrees. The outcome? A final-ball thriller against table-topping Quetta Gladiators.

Although the match was technically a dead rubber - Gladiators had already qualified, and we were out of contention - it still carried plenty of meaning. In some ways, these matches feel even more competitive. Why? Because the bench guys, who have been quietly grinding and waiting their turn all season, finally get their shot. And they know how small the window is. They are not just playing for points. They are playing for careers. Just like I was.

We lost, but I was proud of both the team and my performance. And more than that, I was glad to reconnect with so many familiar faces. That's the hidden joy of franchise cricket. On paper, you're switching teams every month. But in reality, it's a roving community. A group of freelancers - players, coaches, analysts, media staff - who keep bumping into each other in new colours and new cities.

It's a network. It's a cultural education. It's a circus. It's home.

The past year has been a mixed bag for me. I was a late inclusion in the Hobart Hurricanes BBL playing XI after management signed an overseas spinner. When I did get a go, I started well - my economy was good - but I struggled to make big personal inroads, despite an exceptional team performance culminating in the title.

While winning is always great, it meant I arrived late to the UAE's ILT20, where Sharjah Warriors had pivoted to Adam Zampa. Fair enough - he's world class. But it meant another bench stretch for me. If anything, the biggest takeaway from my time at the ILT20 was a reflective conversation with Matthew Wade on my BBL performances. He and his experience helped me rethink my lengths and field placements, which really helped.

Still, I keep moving. I played in the Weston Shield, a really exciting T10 tournament hosted by European Cricket. I joined Tom Scollay's Cricket Mentoring tour in India, played Topklasse cricket in the Netherlands, a couple of matches for the MCC in Cardiff, and had a solid outing with Radlett in the Hertfordshire Premier League. I've been working hard with spin coach Carl Crowe, and lately I feel like I'm getting that "pace" back off the wicket - more bowleds, more lbws.

In short: I feel close. And I'm looking for that moment - the catalyst for the next phase of my cricket journey.

Playing sport in politically charged times is never just about the sport. But cricket offers something that few other experiences can: shared rituals, mutual respect, and the chance to coexist in ways that politics doesn't always allow.

It's now Tuesday, May 20. I'm sitting in a London café, writing this before I head to Manchester to see my brother, Max, who's playing for Glossop in the Greater Manchester Cricket League. On Thursday, I play for the MCC against Loughborough University. Then I'm back at Radlett for another weekend of club cricket.

Cricket moves fast. One day you're a replacement pick in one of the world's biggest competitions. The next, you're back in whites on a recreation reserve, chasing rhythm.

But through it all, the game stays bigger than the headlines. It offers connection. It offers hope. And right now, I'm grateful to be part of it.