Above all, it was the authenticity. At a moment when all around him struggled to capture the moment, Babar Azam simply wanted to live it. Waqar Younis, on commentary, tried to come up with something lyrical to say. Ultimately, he only managed "here we go" as Pramod Madushan ran in, and then "there we go", when Babar pulled him in front of square to bring up his 20th hundred. ESPNcricinfo's own ball-by-ball strained for effect as it tried to sum up the magnitude of the event. Fans at the ground, and at home on TV, and on social media, had their phones out, looking for the shot that would surely go viral.
The man himself cantered to the other end, his beaming smile shining through his helmet. When he removed it, there was no exaggerated celebration for the cameras, no feigned nonchalance. It was a relieved smile when the helmet came off. He glanced to the skies, he looked down at the floor, and then, he fell to his knees, his face out of the shot. At that moment, he was falling in love with cricket once more.
Tellingly he had not, until now, raised his bat to acknowledge the crowd. The sport that has bestowed him with a level of individual fame and popularity perhaps not seen for a cricketer in this country since the days of Imran Khan has, of late, also felt like the chain that shackled him. For now, however, the moment was about him, as well as the uncomplicated joy of batting - a joy that first got him into this position of sport as a vocation, long before everything else about it became so very complicated.
It was also just a reminder of how genuine Babar can be, in an age where sportspeople have even the semblance of a personality media-trained out of them. Babar had no contrived soundbites at the post-match presentations, and then the press conference, which stars tend to reserve for their comebacks. In fact, there really wasn't anything beyond the banal at all.
He was at the business end of criticism for similar banality during his stint as captain so often. On Pakistan's bad days, he didn't have much to say, and on the good ones, there wasn't much to say at all. He hasn't done much press in the years since, but as he stood in front of the mic after his century, the years appeared to melt away: he thanked God, he was happy to be back among the runs, and he was grateful to his supporters. He ignored his critics, and he wanted to win matches for his team. What more was there to say?
Perhaps nothing to say for Babar, but his fans and detractors alike haven't exactly kept silent. We are all now beholden to a social media algorithm, and there is no name in Pakistan cricket that whirs it into gear as much as Babar's. Whether he is captain or not. Whether he scores runs or not. Whether he's even playing or not. After all, this is a man who - in a surreal period around late summer 2024 - saw the positioning of the big toe on his left foot become a focus of almost comical scrutiny as a potential explanation for his loss of form.
Over the best part of the last three years, when all Babar may have wanted was just a little bit of space - to go away and be forgotten about for a little while - the asphyxiating attention only squeezed tighter. Fans and media alike kept him on display like an exotic animal at a tawdry petting zoo. Those who once prematurely anointed him as "King Babar" had, by now, turned it into something of a meme.
But for all the toxicity in Pakistan cricket and the ferocity of its critics, legitimate and otherwise, they never stood a chance against his tsunami of supporters. At the depths of his nadir, stadiums across Pakistan - and indeed wherever its diaspora exists - would pack themselves to watch him bat, however fleeting his innings might be. In the Cape Town Test earlier this year, after he scored 81 and came to do press, the Pakistan team bus's departure was delayed because Babar's supporters tried to mob him, hoping for an autograph, a selfie, or indeed just a couple of words. Similar scenes have played out in Melbourne, London, and even New York.
Perhaps disconcertingly for the rest of the team, the fall of Pakistan's first wicket has begun to be cheered loudly, simply because it brings Babar to the crease. The streaming out of supporters from stadiums whenever he gets out is a throwback to the days of Shahid Afridi, when one man's performance was often the spectacle within the spectacle.
It was no different on Friday, with Rawalpindi Stadium never fuller than in the chilly evening when Saim Ayub fell in the tenth over. Babar's knock began like any other innings - with a few solid shots, a brief scare here and there. It may have ended with a whimper very early on, as plenty of his 83 century-less knocks have over the past couple of years. Like when, after scratching five runs off his first 14 balls, he mistimed the 15th one almost straight back to Madushan. Or when he played a pull off a long hop and found short midwicket, who couldn't quite cling on.
It would also be a superb feat of narrative chicanery to suggest anything was written in the stars. The last two years have been littered by "predictions" from fans who are certain the next innings is the one Babar finally breaks his drought in, when every cover drive and every time he ticks up beyond 20 is a harbinger of something special. But things began to get serious when, instead of those prophecies, a tense silence emerged. On this site's ball-by-ball commentaries, any references what he was approaching were angrily hushed by his supporters, afraid the mere mention of it would render it a mirage.
But as the temperatures dipped into single digits and the spectators huddled together, for comfort as much as for warmth, Babar showed no signs of the mental or technical fragilities that have tripped him up so often in the recent past.
If he needed further reassurance of the good old times, of course it was his mate Mohammad Rizwan at the other end: soon, the two were guiding Pakistan in a chase together, just as they used to do. It was Rizwan who took care of the asking rate, knocking off the runs and taking the pressure off his long-time T20 opening partner.
In the press conference, when asked what he thought when the critics had piled on, he simply said, "I ignored them." The arc of the rest of his innings itself might have demanded a scare here, a chance there; in truth, Babar similarly gave it nothing. His knock was becoming a routine march to three figures, and as he began to approach it, the tension seemed to ease instead of mount. He had, after all, been here before. More often, in fact than any Pakistan batter in the history of ODI cricket.
The 90s were when he looked at his most comfortable, reserving the shot of the innings to take him to 97: a glorious drive past mid-off, in all its vintage Babar splendour. Often criticised for slowing down ahead of a personal milestone, he took just nine balls to get from 90 to his hundred - a milestone he seemed to greet like an old friend, rather than one he has been a stranger to for the better part of three years.
As he brought up his century, his old friend Rizwan raised his arms aloft in delight, as if he'd been the one to just get to a milestone. In the years in between, these men have been appointed captain and then dumped at different times, somewhat unceremoniously in both cases. Bonds are never more brittle than they are with Pakistan's cricketing stars locked in a power struggle, but Babar and Rizwan are too experienced to let those trivialities get in the way of a moment like that.
Once he'd picked himself up off his knees, Babar raised his bat and gloves to the shivering huddle still within the cosy little ground as midnight approached. And then, he embraced Rizwan, the man he'd have wanted by his side for such a moment when, or in the darker moments as he might have wondered, if, it arrived. A journalist later on found himself in tears when he asked Babar about his return to form, with nearly the entire press pack - his fiercest critics among them - mobbing him for a group photograph after it was all done.
No matter how hard the critics, or at times even those within the PCB, might try and move on, Pindi last night proved that there is still, in Pakistan cricket, nothing quite like Babar Azam. And when, in times when there is little uncomplicated joy to be found in Pakistan, he can deliver it like he did last night, you can begin to see why his supporters - and the man himself - refuse to move on and go away.