Sue Barker may be an old crone by the time it happens, but one day, rest assured, A Question of Sport will get round to it. The television screen will be swamped with the sight of a giant white-flanneled rump, from the right side of which will emerge a hand that flaps backwards a couple of times like a jockey urging on his mount with a few gentle taps. What Happened Next? The ball burst, Sue, and then this dog … Well, what actually happened next was that the cricket world went critical and came dangerously close to meltdown.

Ten years ago. It had been almost two months since Hurricane Fish had ploughed its devastation through southern England, and more than five weeks since the world's stock markets crashed to the deck when it happened. Faisalabad, second Test, Pakistan v England. There are five minutes of play remaining on the second day, and Eddie Hemmings, in the middle of an over, is waiting to bowl his offspin to Salim Malik. Mike Gatting, the England captain, perched in at short leg, makes a fielding adjustment. With Pakistan on the rack, he is keen to squeeze one more over into the day. So David Capel, `on the lap' at deep square leg, is called in to same a single, and is trotting up to his new mark when Hemmings prepares to bowl. That is when it began.

Even to that point, it had not been a happy tour. Disappointment in the final of the World Cup had been followed by an acrimonious First Test at Lahore, where an irresistible combination of Abdul Qadir's wizardry and umpiring that at times bordered on the shady side of iffy proved too much for England. The tensions came to a head when Chris Broad refused to leave the crease on being given out caught behind, and had to be cajoled away by his opening partner, Graham Gooch. Already England believed that they were being set up, and the siege mentality was taking a grip.

But this game was going their way. Broad's century and a brutal bludgeoning, cathartic innings of 79 from Gatting, in which he clearly vented his frustrations at the perceived injustices of the First Test, ensured England reached 292 in their first innings. As the second day drew to a close, they had reduced the opposition to 106 for 5. Now, though, as Hemmings began his lope into the crease and Gatting signalled to Capel, the square-leg umpire, Shakoor Rana, took a hand. He called out, and the other official, Khizar Hayat, with presence of mind, was forced to call `dead ball'.

I was on summarising duty for Test Match Special, so the note I made at the time –` Gatting discussion with umpire'– now looks like the equivalent of a correspondent in 1914 writing `Archduke winged by popgun'. But from the periphery it was anything but clear, as Gatting and Rana appeared first of all to converse and then, having broken off, to resume more stridently. Were there too many fielders behind square on the leg side, we postulated? Was Hemmings throwing? The reality was much starker. Despite the fact that Gatting had informed Salim Malik that he was moving the fielder, and had received the batsman's acknowledgment, Rana interpreted Gatting's signal to Capel as, almost literally, underhand, and accused him of cheating. Gatting was already incensed by an earlier incident where Rana had turned down a bat-pad appeal, only to find his subsequent sotto voce comment (`Off you go, one rule for one, one rule for another') broadcast live on television courtesy of sound engineers who ignored usual convention and left the pitch microphones switched on. Gatt took umbrage and accused him of being a `shit umpire'. Rana walked away, but then turned and, according to a senior player in the vicinity at the time, called Gatting a f****** cheating c***. Thus ensued the unsavoury finger-jabbing altercation that was to provide Graham Morris, the only photographer to stay to the close, with one of the most famous images in cricket photojournalism.

Common sense suggests that the incident, distasteful as it was, might and should have been defused shortly after play finished with apologies all round, a handshake and time to ponder on the rest day which followed. But common sense was a commodity in short supply. Besides which, there were other items on the agenda here. The first concerned the standard of umpiring. Five years previously, in England, the Pakistanis felt strongly about the umpiring, in particular that of David Constant. When they returned to England in 1987 they objected to Constant's standing in the series, saying they had no confidence in him. It was a viewpoint to which they were entitled, and the sort of stance often taken by English teams abroad. But it was ignored by the arrogant England authorities.

So the lack of quality of the officials in 1987–88 may have been retribution for the previous summer. An alternative argument was, however, that the Pakistan authorities were actually taking the opportunity to highlight their case – argued strongly for a number of years by Imran Khan in particular – for the introduction of neutral umpires.

The second agenda concerned the progress of the rubber itself. The previous two series between the teams – one in Pakistan, under the captaincies of Bob Willis and Zaheer Abbas, and that in England under Gatting and Imran– had both been won 1-0 by Pakistan. The norm would dictate that, after going one-up in the opening match of this series, Pakistan would batten down the hatches, prepare heartbreaking surfaces, and give nothing away. However, that was not allowing for the professional pride of Javed Miandad, Pakistan's captain now that Imran had retired for the first time. Javed wanted to go one better than Imran, and so the Faisalabad pitch was prepared to ensure a result. But the plan began to backfire. Spotting the glimmer of a get-out opportunity, Javed seized it gratefully and refused to let go. Thus, when the situation looked like being resolved, it was Javed, on his trips to the umpires' room, who kept the fires stoked by impressing on the umpire that he had been grossly insulted and should not let the matter rest unless Gatting made a fully apology – something the England captain felt should be coming to him.

It was stalemate, so much so that what should have been the third day's play and the rest day were spent in negotiation as to whether the whole tour could continue. The England players issued an unprecedented statement, sanctioned by Peter Lush, the tour manager, in support of Gatting. Finally, the diplomats became involved. In order not to compromise the goodwill at high-level political talks that were shortly to take place between the two countries in Islamabad, instructions came that play must recommence `at any cost'. Gatting was forced, against his better judgment, into making an apology of sorts, in which he said he was `sorry for the bad language used in Fisalabad [sic]'. Not, note, specifically his bad language. Play eventually restarted on the fourth scheduled day – 3 ½ hours late, ironically, because of rain and bad light. The match duly petered out into a draw.

The repercussions, however, were immense. The final Test at Karachi was also a draw, but it was impeccably umpired by Hayat and Mahboob Shah – and England's petulant behaviour towards them brought the team little credit. There was another surprise in store, though. In the two days spent idle in Faisalabad, Gatting had rightly come to the conclusion that, whatever the provocation, his reaction had been unbecoming of an England captain and that he would well understand if he lost his job as a result. Shortly before the team returned to England, the chairman of the TCCB announced that far from censuring Gatting and his team for their behaviour, they were actually going to hand out a `hardship' bonus of £1000 each. The reaction from the players themselves – and from Pakistan– was one of disbelief.

As the tour continued there were further outbreaks of bad behaviour. In the showpiece Bicentennial Test at Sydney, Broad smashed down his stumps in anger after being bowled for 139, then in New Zealand Graham Dilley was fined for shouting an obscenity when an lbw appeal was rejected. Even there it did not end. The fact that the TCCB did not take action against Gatting was manifestly wrong, and perhaps they realised it. Early the following summer, a tabloid newspaper reported the captain's entertainment of a barmaid in his hotel room one evening during the First Test at Trent Bridge Test. It was the chance the Board needed, and they fired him. Gatting, with justification, felt victimised, and lost all faith in the authorities.

Whether they would have taken such a shabby chance to sack him had Gatting not embarrassed himself and them with Shakoor Rana is debatable. Did in fact a portly Pakistani umpire unwittingly shape the destiny of English cricket over the last decade? Arguably, Gatting might have remained in charge for many more years, possibly precluding the return of Gower ( 1989) and the Graham Gooch era ( 1989–93). Certainly there would have been no need for Ossie Wheatley's infamous veto of Gatting's proposed reappointment in 1989, and it is most unlikely that he would have then headed the ill-fated rebel tour of South Africa the following winter.

These things have a way of balancing out, however, and the chances are that it would not have panned out much differently. At the time of his sacking Gatting had led England 23 times and won just two Tests – both of them in his first major series, in Australia in 1986–87. A complete summer in charge against the 1988 West Indians and another against the resurgent Australians of 1989 were unlikely to change that – though in between Gatting might well have flourished in India, where England would have gone in 1988–89 had Gooch not been appointed captain.

Gatting, a great captain at Middlesex, was one of England's least successful leaders, and would in all probability have lost the job in any case. Shakoor Rana just hastened the process.

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