May 29th, 2011. Sunday Morning. Zinc Cricket Ground.
The heat was already rising, shimmering off the red soil like a mirage.
The teams lined up for the toss. The visual contrast was brutal. Team A (Yellow Bibs): Crisp whites, branded shoes, sunglasses resting on hat brims. They stood with their hips cocked, chatting about a movie they saw last night. Team B (Blue Bibs): A patchwork of slightly yellowed whites, canvas shoes, and nervousness. They stood stiffly, arms behind their backs.
Ravi flipped the coin. Sunlight flashed off the metal. "Heads," he called. The coin landed in the red dust. Heads.
"We'll bat," Ravi said, barely looking at the opposing captain, a quiet boy named Suresh. He turned and walked back to his team, already strapping on his pads.
Overs 1-10.
It wasn't a match. It was a public execution.
Ravi and his partner, Anil, walked out to the center. Ravi marked his guard, looking around the field like a landlord inspecting his property.
The first ball from Team B's opening bowler Rahul—was a wide half-volley. Ravi didn't just hit it. He punched it. THWACK. The sound of the heavy English Willow echoed across the empty ground. The ball raced through the covers, kicking up dust, hitting the boundary rope before the fielder had even moved ten yards.
Over 4. Score: 32/0. Ravi danced down the track to a good length ball. He lofted it over mid-on. One bounce. Four. The Team A dugout roared with laughter. "Oyy! Ravi! Save some for us!"
Over 8. Score: 68/0. The fielders in the Blue Bibs were already defeated. The heat was suffocating. Sweat trickled down their backs, stinging their eyes. Every time the ball raced to the boundary, their shoulders slumped a little lower. They weren't hunting; they were just retrieving.
Suresh, the Team B captain, stood at mid-off, paralyzed. He looked like a deer caught in headlights. He kept glancing at Coach Reddy in the pavilion, praying for a signal, but Reddy just sat there, arms crossed, face like stone.
Arjun stood at deep square leg. He watched the slaughter. He saw the gaps. He saw the body language. This is bleeding,Arjun thought. Suresh has set a defensive field, but Ravi is piercing it like it's not even there.
He didn't walk up to the Captain. He didn't shout. That would undermine Suresh. He walked in from the boundary towards Karthik, who was standing behind the stumps, kicking the dust in frustration.
"Tell Suresh to bring mid-on up," Arjun said quietly, wiping sweat from his forehead. "Ravi is stealing singles every time he doesn't hit a boundary. Choke the single."
Karthik looked at Arjun. Then he looked at the Captain. "Suresh!" Karthik yelled, clapping his gloves. "Mid-on up! Bring him inside the circle!"
Suresh blinked, startled, then nodded hurriedly. He waved the fielder up. The next ball, Ravi pushed it to mid-on for a casual single, but the fielder was there. Ravi had to stay back. Dot ball. A tiny victory. But the bleeding slowed.
Over 14. Score: 112/0. Ravi was on 74. He was sweating, but he looked invincible. He had removed his helmet and was playing in a cap, pure arrogance.
"Arjun!" Suresh called out, tossing the ball. "Left-arm."
Arjun caught the ball. It was the Red King. It wasn't brand new—it was 14 overs old—but compared to the "Dead Ball" from the nets, it felt like a rock. The seam was still proud, rough against his palm.
Arjun walked to his mark. The noise of the ground fell away. The laughing Club Kids, the heat, the scoreboard—it all dissolved. In his mind, there was only silence. He shut down the distractions. just trusting his instinct.
avi took his stance. He tapped the bat on the pitch—thud, thud. He looked at Arjun. Endless net sessions. The ball jagging in late.Ravi opened his front leg just a fraction.Arjun caught it at once. He's setting up to clear the front leg and go inside-out over covers.
Arjun gripped the ball. He squeezed it. His forearm muscles tightened. The week of twisting his wrist in raw rice pulsed in his memory. The grip felt firmer. The wrist felt locked.
Ball 1: Arjun ran in. He snapped his wrist hard. The Cutter. The ball drifted in the air, hit the deck, and gripped. Ravi saw it. He waited. He defended it softly to the off-side. "No run," Ravi called loudly.
Ball 2: Arjun bowled the same line. Good length, outside off. Ravi stepped out. He tried to drive. The ball bit the surface and cut back in sharply. It cramped him. Ravi adjusted at the last second, chopping it onto his pads. Thud. Ravi glared at the pitch, then at Arjun. "Ball is stopping," he muttered.
Ball 3: The Setup. Arjun walked back. He saw Ravi looking at his hand. Ravi is being cautious with the cutter now. He is playing for the turn. He is calculating the angle to hit against the spin.
Arjun widened his grip. But this time, he didn't lock his wrist for the cutter. He held the seam vertical. The Arm Ball. (The one that goes straight with the angle).
Arjun ran in. Same run-up. Same arm speed. Ravi saw the release. He planted his front foot, leaving a small gap between bat and pad, expecting the ball to jag back in like the last two. He prepared to flick it to mid-wicket.
The ball hit the pitch. It didn't turn. It skidded straight on, following the natural angle of the left-armer. It shot past the outside edge of Ravi's bat.
CLACK.
The sound was sickeningly sweet. The off-stump cartwheeled out of the ground, spinning in the air before landing in the dust.
For a second, the heat seemed to freeze. Ravi stood there, frozen in his flick shot pose. He looked back at the shattered stump. He looked at Arjun. The arrogance evaporated. He had been completely outsmarted.
"Bowled him!" Karthik screamed, ripping off a glove and throwing the ball up.
Arjun didn't scream. He didn't run around. He just clenched his fist, feeling the burn in his forearm. It worked!!
Overs 20-40.
Getting Ravi out was a victory. It was a statement. But cricket is a cruel game. One wicket doesn't stop a train.
Ravi walked off, furious, throwing his bat near the boundary. But the next batsman, Vikram, walked in. And he didn't care about tactics. He just cared about violence.
Over 22: Arjun bowled a perfect length ball. Vikram skied it to long-on. It hung in the air for an eternity. The fielder ran in. Arjun watched, holding his breath. Catch it. Just catch it. The boy panicked. He misadjusted the drop. The ball slipped through his hands, hit his chest, and fell. Dropped. Vikram ran two.
Arjun let out a long breath. He put his hands on his hips. He didn't yell. Yelling wouldn't fix bad hand-eye coordination.
Over 28: Another drop. This time by the point fielder. A sharp cut that burst through the hands. Arjun's figures were being ruined not by bad bowling, but by the reality of his team. He finished his 8-over spell: 8-1-38-1. It was decent. In a slaughter where others were going for 8 runs an over, it was gold.
But the other end was leaking like a broken pipe. Vikram scored a quick 50. The tail-enders chipped in. Team B's shoulders drooped lower and lower. The heat was relentless. The runs piled up like a debt they couldn't pay.
Team A finished at 245/6 in 40 Overs.
The players walked off the field. Team A was laughing, high-fiving. They had put up a monster score. In a U-16 practice match, chasing 245 was like climbing Everest without oxygen.
Arjun walked off, wiping red dust from his face. His shirt was soaked through. Karthik jogged up to him, handing him a water bottle. "You got Ravi," Karthik grinned, ignoring the massive scoreboard. "That was beautiful. Did you see his face? He looked like he swallowed a lemon."
"We gave away 50 runs in drops," Arjun said, looking at the scoreboard. "246 to win."
"Impossible," Karthik said cheerfully, unscrewing the bottle. "But at least we get to bat now."
Arjun looked at the Team A bowlers warming up. They looked motivated. They looked fresh. He looked at his own team. Half of them were already defeated, sitting in the shade, dreading the chase.
"Not impossible," Arjun muttered, taking a sip of the warm water. "Just... highly unlikely."