Chapter 6: The Trail
The day of the trials in school came in a cloud of nervous excitement and in the unbending, unmerciful gaze of the morning sun.
The school courtyard, which was typically a riotous area of assembly and break time was changed.
At one end were three sets of these nets, and upon the dusty, uneven ground in the middle of the field were dozens of boys, in more or less positions of readiness.
Minimum numbers were sixty hopefuls, each of whom was competing to occupy the fifteen desirable slots in the school team. Raghav was standing on the fringe of the party, and he was stretching with his length.
He felt like an imposter. Most of the other boys were larger, broader and appeared much sportive. They joked and laughed with the air of a carefree confidence, and they were banging one another on the back.
The center of one of such groups was Vikram Singh, a well-built and tall boy of the tenth grade. He was the star batsman of the year before, and the captain unofficially, and he went about with an easy insolence which showed that he had no anxiety about his position.
Raghav, on the contrary, was a packet of straightened nerves. However, underneath the nervousness, there was confidence of quiet assurance which he had never previously experienced.
Not the belief in talent but the belief in preparation. The outcome of the mission was evident, and he had not missed a single day of his fitness routine since the mission ended. his body was light, high, and prepared.
There was a whistle of sharpness which broke the conversation and immediately stopped all. A man came out of the sports room and carried a clipboard and a whistle around his neck.
He was, in his middle height and middle height, and of stern, deeply tanned countenance, and with keen, alert eyes, which appeared to have sucked everything in at once.
This was the physical education teacher and the cricket coach of the school by the name of Mr. Keshav Sharma. It was a man who never said a lot, who had very tough sessions of training and was completely unforgivable when it came to indiscipline.
"Listen up!" hurrah, he called, and his voice was easily audible on the field.
My name is Keshav and you all may refer to me as Coach. This is my ground, and I will have my rules, the next two days. I am not searching after superstars. I am not in search of the boy who can get the biggest six. I need cricketers- boys who are disciplined, strong and well-mannered. Is that clear?"
A chorus of "Yes, sir!" rang out.
Well, said Mr. Sharma, and that was all. "First, we run. Five laps around the ground. Go!"
A general groan was heard, but no one dared to disobey. The boys rushed on in a crazy crowd.
Raghav, conscious of his training, had made his way deliberately near the rear, and was working leisurely and in time. His grown-up brain had understood that it was not a race, it was a trial of strength.
At the second lap, the pack had substantially been thinned out. Those boys who had been sprinting out at the beginning were now walking, coughing out.
By the fourth lap, a sizable number of them had fallen out completely holding their sides. Raghav, however, kept his pace. His breathing was deep and his stamina bar in the system interface stood at almost zero.
He was not particularly quick, but was everlastingly constant. He began to pass the first runners, and his jogging stride appeared like a welcome breeze compared with the heaving, coughing of the others.
He completed his five laps in the top 10 and did not even breathe especially hard.
When he came to walking calmly he saw the keen eyes of Mr. Sharma remain fixed upon him a little, something--probably surprise, perhaps interest--in his otherwise unemotional stare. He put a small tick mark on his clip board next to a name.
The net sessions were divided after the run with the boys broken into groups. This was the main event. A new rush of nerves came upon Raghav.
One thing was fitness, and another was to confront a hard, leather ball of cricket. He waddled along, and his hands were clumsily strapping at the new straps.
The machinery was ancient and worn out and the padding rough and the gloves stinking of perspiration. As it became his turn to bat he walked into the net with his heart racing against his ribs.
The bowler was a lanky tenth-grader with the ability to get the ball moving rather fast.
The first ball was a blur.
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It pitched at a good length.
It tore off a little and smashed between his tentative thrust, bang into the wicketkeeper.
It was inconceivably quick, on a different plane with the tennis ball of Abhinav.
The second ball was directed to his ribs. He made an effort to fight it off but it was too fast. He was thrown off by a very sharp thud on the thigh pad, which brought snickers to the boys wasting time out of doors before the net.
Panic began to set in.
His system ratings, Strength, 13 Batting Technique, 12, seemed pathetically weak.
The other boys, gifted in nature like Vikram, worked the ball with little trouble and the whack of leather and willow seemed to have confidence.
Raghav was just surviving.
The 42 year old in him had taken control and he was about to lose his composure to swing wildly in frustration.
The voice of experience told that panic is useless.
Analyze. Adapt. Survive.
He sighed deeply and made himself relax.
He was not able to compete with these boys on strength or in time.
Not yet.
He wouldn't try.
His objective changed.
It was no longer about running into points and looking good it was about being in.
He used his Cricket IQ.
He altered his position and made it more defensive.
He made his backlift shorter and the margin of error was diminished.
He concentrated his gaze in a way that was bordering obsession and his world reduced to the 22 yards between him and the bowler.
The next ball pitched up. .
He was going to swing it, instead of swinging it he smacked it with a dead bat, and the ball fell harmlessly at his feet.
The one after that was short.
He did not attempt to draw it; he just cleared the path.
The following ball that was delivered was straight and fast ball.
He lowered his bat, and his grip was solid, and offered a good block of defence.
The ball struck in the middle of the bat and was stopped.
The camera work was hideous and monotonous.
He wasn't scoring runs.
Yet he stayed at the crease.
Other flashy batmen struck Raghav a number of times and bowled or caught, but he merely defended, retreated, and escaped.
He was not aware that Mr. Sharma had been standing behind his net in the past five minutes staring at him.
The first struggle was the fear, which was observed by the coach.
but then he perceived the accommodation.
He encountered a boy who rather than panicking began to think.
The coach noticed him who treasured his wicket and as he displayed grit.
As he stood and observed Vikram and his hard hits off the cover, he saw the skinny little determined boy who was not prepared to surrender his wicket.
Raghav took his twenty balls allotted and walked out of the net without having hit a single run off the bat.
He felt like a failure.
The other boys did not pay him any attention, and were already talking of who had struck the best hits.
The remainder of the day he spent in fielding.
His new body strength allowed him to run after balls inexhaustibly despite the fact that he could wish to make weak throws.
He stayed secluded and believed that he was not a good enough person.
Mr. Sharma assembled people at the close of the day.
In five minutes, I will put up the list of tomorrow, in the notice board, said he.
"Thank to all of you, coming here and lastly those name is not on list don't give up , so work harder for next year."
There was an embarrassed silence and the boys crowded round the notice board.
Raghav was standing awaiting the result.
He saw boys whooped with joy and walked off with their slumped shoulders.
At last preparing to be disappointed, he approached the board.
He glances at the entire list of the chosen thirty names.
He didn't see his.
His heart sank.
Of course.
Why should he have been chosen?
He didn't score a single run.
He once more glanced downwards, as he descended to see and at last came to the final name of list, to be sure and certain of his hope.
And then he saw it.
The last name was scribbled in very small handwriting like an addendum.
Raghav Roi, Class 7.
He looked at his name and a giddiness of relief overwhelmed him.
He had made it.
He had survived the first cut.
It was not a very glorious victory, a mere, marginal, bitter, foothold on the lowest rung of the ladder.
But to Raghav it was all.
He had a chance.
(To be Continue)