Chapter 7: Selection
The next morning, when Raghav arrived at the grounds, he found a much smaller group, which was more focused.
The informal conversations of the former day had disappeared and in their place was an air of tension and competition.
It was these boys who had escaped the first swordswing, and all of them were now painfully conscious that anything they did was subject to the searching eyes of Mr. Sharma.
The coach wasted no time.
"Yesterday was all about basics and today I am applying it practice, that is what I said.
His voice was as sharp as ever.
"We start with fielding. I want to see commitment. I would like to see you attack the ball. Anybody that is scared of a hard ball can go home now.
To one of the boys he struck a high catch which he had in a completely wrong judgment.
"Sloppy!" Mr. Sharma barked. He then threw a ground ball very hard against another who fumbled it.
"Lazy!"
The drills were relentless. Raghav had a poor fielding stat at 8 indicating that he had poor technique.
He was not an instinctive catcher, and his throwing arm was more of noodle than of cannon. But there was at least one strength with him, his stamina.
As other boys began to grow weary, their stride becoming slow under the constant exercise and the heat of the sun Raghav continued.
Mr. Sharma struck a flaming blow against the distance between him and one of the fielders. Its objective was towards a specific boundary.
But Raghav, with his boundless running, ran on all his might.
He threw himself off, a plunging, hopeless, and unskilled leap, which was of heart more than skill, and just cleared his fingers off the ball, preventing it from falling a few feet off the rope.
And it was no genuine halt, but he had rescued the gun line.
He got himself up, with his elbow scraped and bleeding, and threw the ball back weakly.
A reproach had to be leveled against the awkward method.
"Good effort, Roi!" Mr. Sharma called out. The next time, you should use your body to catch the ball, we should do all we could not get out!
This was the first time that the coach had called him by his name, and it gave Raghav a shock of pride.
Even the little compliment was a strong incentive.
He threw himself with each ball which soon covered him with dirt and grass stains on his uniform.
He was not the most skillful fielder, but he was no doubt one of the hardest working.
Mr. Sharma took the thirty boys remaining after the hard fielding exercise.
Final test, said he, and pointed his bat into the pitch in the middle of the ground.
Now we are to have a match of twenty overs each side. Team A, headed by Vikram and Team B, headed by Anil Kumar.
He read out the names. Raghav had landed up on the side of Vikram. He would be batting at number 6.
The arrogant senior, Vikram, scoffed on hearing the name of Raghav.
"Sir, are you sure? He failed even to make a run in the nets yesterday.
Mr. Sharma's eyes narrowed.
"I picked the team, Vikram. You just captain it. Understood?"
Yes, sir, mumbled Vikram, and walked off to get his fielders in order.
Team B made first and with some of their captain Anil hitting some of his mighty hits, they got a reasonable score of 110 in 20 overs.
Then it was Team A's turn.
Vikram, who was opening the batting, appeared to prove his superiority.
He broke the two first balls as boundaries.
On the third ball he attempted to strike another, a wild, and arrogant stroke, and was bowled out by the bowler as taking a stamp out.
He walked away throwing his bat on the ground in frustration because of his low performance in the field.
His firing caused a minor breakdown.
The highest-order, which attempted to make a break into the team, executed careless shots and sacrificed their wickets.
Raghav, who was sitting on the sidelines with his pads on, was in horror of seeing the scoreboard change in such a way that what could have been a great 10 to 0 changed to 35 to 4.
"Roi! You're in!"
The heart of Raghav jumped in his neck.
Taking up his bat he walked to the crease with his legs wobbly.
The situation was dire in this match now.
His team had merely scored 76 runs with a little less than 12 overs, and only six wickets were left.
In public view it is a 50-50 match outcome situation.
Team B fielders were cheating and feeling like they were winning.
He disregarded them all as he took his position.
He recalled his plumbing on the nets. Survive.
His other partner at the other end was Rohan, a steady and well behaved boy in his class who was the team's best wicket keeper.
Play steady, just play steady, keep it down, Rohan said, at the non striker end.
"They're bowling well. We should simply attempt to form an alliance.
His high IQ in Cricket gave Raghav a sea of calculations in his head as he nodded.
He examined the placements in the field. He watched the bowler's grip.
It was a few balls at first which he only defended, and got a feel of the pitch.
He didn't try to score. He simply did his best to save his wicket as though his life was at stake.
Much more gradually he and Rohan began to rebuild.
They had to push the ball into singles gaps.
They ran away on one side and two-tailed ones.
The score-board started to run over, the pace needed gradually decreased.
Raghav was not smacking boundaries, he was spinning the strike, which provided the more aggressive Rohan with the opportunity to smack the occasional loose ball.
He had gone on to bat about five overs when the captain of the opposing side, Anil, introduced a spinner.
The boy made a weird move and his first ball to Raghav was an overhanded one and the ball flew into the air.
A majority of 12 year olds would have been tempted to run down the pitch and smash it.
Something was understood by the 42-year-old brain of Raghav with its database of thousands of hours of viewed cricket.
The wrist position. The manner the ball was thrown out of the hand.
It is a googly ball ," his head shouted as that a delivery by the bowler of a googly ball. "A wrong'un. It would turn the other way."
He adjusted in a split second. Rather than playing on the off-break, he stood and swung a straight bat hoping the ball would turn in.
Indeed the ball struck and turned one way and the other with a sharp stroke of his leg and struck the very middle of his bat. It fell projectlessly on the field.
There was a unanimous gasp from the fielding side. Rohan looked at him on the other side with gaping eyes.
Mr. Sharma had been watching, with a critical eye, on the sidelines, and had started to his feet. He had seen it clearly.
'A boy of twelve that had been technically inept in his handling of the nets had just read a googly out of the hands of the bowler like an expert.'
' It was unheard of. It was not skill, but something beyond that, instinct, intelligence.'
Those few seconds transformed everything to Raghav. There was a rush of unbuffered, raw faith with him.
He knew he could do this. He began to play with his feet as well, receiving the ball with a new amount of confidence.
He struck a clean drive on the covers to get his first boundary and it was timed. He threw the succeeding ball over the slips to another four.
He partnered with Rohan who had added more than 60 runs leading their team to the verge of winning when Rohan was run out.
Raghav, though, was not beaten on 38, and drove his team home with an over to spare. He had performed a match winning innings when under extreme pressure.
He walked off the field with bat upheld and his team mates gave him an applause on the back. Vikram himself gave him a reluctant respect. He had earned it.
Afterwards, Mr. Sharma nailed the list to the notice board. It contained fifteen names. Raghav now pressed about and his heart now throbs.
He scanned the list. There his name was at the very center.
Raghav Roi – Batsman
He had done it. He was a member of the school cricket team. This was followed by a feeling of emotion so strong that it caused him vertigo.
He remembered the words of doubt of his father, his own promise. This was the first real step.
He has virtually sailed home with the team list in his hand. He burst through the door.
"Ma! Papa! I got selected! I'm on the team!"
A broad proud smile came on the face of his mother. Priya raised her eyes out of her books with real shock.
"Wow. I suppose it was worth having all that old man walking, she said, which was an uncharacteristic praise.
His father Umesh was sitting at the table reciting household accounts. He checked the list, and looked at the smiling, dirty-faced leafless face of his son. He did not smile, but the hard lines on his mouth were smoothed out.
"Good," he said, his voice even.
"Just remember our deal. Don't let your studies suffer."
It was not the rave that he could have fancied, but it was more than what his practical father was able to bestow. It was an acknowledgment. A concession. A challenge. And Raghav was prepared to receive it.
(To be Continue)