Chapter 20: Chapter 20:
The ten-minute turnaround between the innings moved fast. Nitin was already tossing my batting gloves onto my lap while I was still trying to unlace my bowling spikes.
"Pads on, Kabir. Hurry," Nitin said, looking up at the boundary clock. "It’s three-thirty. We have seventy minutes left. Just don’t do anything stupid before the bails come off."
I grabbed the leather gloves, nodding toward the kit bag. "Kamlesh is ready?"
"Yeah, he’s waiting near the ropes," Nitin said, turning around to pack the spare balls into the team box.
I pulled the heavy cotton canvas guards over my shins, yanking the plastic buckles tight, and stood up to test the straps. My knees gave a short, dull pop.
My thighs are stiffening up already. Just fifteen overs. Block everything straight, don’t look for runs, and get back to the tent.
Kamlesh was leaning against the bamboo pole of the tent, chewing on a loose thread from his shirt collar. He looked up when my shoes crunched the dirt, giving me a short, quick nod. We didn’t talk at all as we walked out onto the grass.
The Don Bosco fielders were already scattering across the inner ring. Their shirts were stained with red sweat lines from their batting collapse, and their captain was shouting, waving his arms to pull everyone inside the thirty-yard circle. He put a silly mid-off less than eight yards from my face, a short-leg crouching right in the dirt, and two slips standing shoulder-to-shoulder.
Their opening fast bowler stood at the top of his mark, turning the ball in his fingers. The leather was completely dull, but it was still hard.
I stood over the crease, asked the umpire for leg-stump, and scratched a line into the soil with the toe of my bat. I tapped the blade twice and looked up.
The sun is right behind the trees now. The shadow from the main pavilion is covering the pitch. Watch the bowler’s hand, the red leather is going to look dark against the grass.
The bowler ran in. He delivered a quick, skidding ball right on the fourth-stump line. I stepped across with my left shoe, planted it firmly, and lifted my arms high, letting the ball pass cleanly into the keeper’s gloves.
Smack.
Kamlesh tapped his bat against the turf from the other end. "Good eye, Kabir."
For the next forty minutes, nobody scored. Don Bosco tried every trick they had. Their spinners came on immediately from the far end, targeting the big, jagged cracks that were opening up under the hot sun.
Kamlesh managed to scrape three quick boundaries through the cover gaps whenever their off-spinner drifted too wide, but I didn’t flash at a single one. When Farhan tried to talk from short-cover, telling me I was too small to hit a boundary, I just looked down at the crease and tapped my bat. I lunged forward, kept my blade tucked right against my pad, and blunted the turn into the dirt.
Thud.
Thud.
The main umpire finally looked at his watch, walked over to the stumps, and pulled the wooden bails off.
"Stumps!" he called out.
Nitin and the standby boys started clapping from the tent. The scoreboard read exactly 42 Runs / 0 Wickets for Shardashram. Kamlesh was on 26*, and I was on 12* Not Out. We had survived the evening.
Wednesday morning at 9:30 AM was freezing cold, and the grass was slick with heavy morning dew. The old ball wasn’t fresh, but the moisture gave it a sharp, late nip off the seam.
In the third over of the morning, their opening bowler found extra bounce off a wet patch. The ball jagged away from Kamlesh’s bat, caught his outside edge, and flew straight to second slip.
Kamlesh dropped his head, gave a quiet swear under his breath, and walked off for 32.
Score: 55 for 1.
Nitin walked out at number three, adjusting his arm guard. He managed to hit two boundaries through the mid-on gap, but his stay didn’t last long. Farhan bowled a quicker, skidding ball right on a crack. The ball completely died on the surface, cutting low under Nitin’s bat and hitting his front pad.
"Howzatt!" the whole team yelled.
The umpire lifted his finger. Nitin was gone for 10.
Score: 78 for 2.
Two wickets down. The tail is long today. I can’t take any risks with singles. I have to face most of the over.
Amit walked out at number four, his hands shaking a bit as he took his guard. I walked down the pitch, meeting him halfway near the non-striker’s crease.
"Don’t try to hit boundaries, Amit," I said, keeping my voice down. "The ball is staying low off the cracks. Just block the straight ones, leave the rest to me."
Amit bit his lip, nodding quickly. "It’s turning a lot, Kabir."
"Then play it late," I said, tapping his pad with my bat before walking back.
[Tendulkar Sync: 17.7%]
The framework inside my head settled firmly. With 75 runs still needed to win, I shifted gears. I didn’t hit aerial shots, but I began placing the ball into the open gaps.
When Farhan tossed the ball up slowly, I relaxed my wrists at the last millisecond, opening the face of the blade to glide the ball right between point and third man for a comfortable double.
Two balls later, their medium-pacer got frustrated and drifted onto my pads. I stayed balanced on my back foot, rolled my wrists, and flicked it through the square-leg region for a boundary.
Smack.
Nitin whistled from the boundary fence, shouting, "Shot, Kabir!"
The Don Bosco captain started panicking, yelling at his fielders to push back to protect the boundaries. With the fielders deep, the single spaces inside the ring were completely wide open. I took singles off the first and fourth balls of every over, keeping Amit shielded from their main spinners. Amit anchored his end solidly, picking up his own boundaries off their loose leg-spinner and running hard between the wickets.
My score ticked from 30 to 45, then past fifty, sixty, and seventy. My legs were aching from the constant sprints, but my focus didn’t waver.
By 11:10 AM, we needed just five runs.
Farhan ran in, looking completely exhausted, and delivered a loose half-volley wide of off-stump. I stepped across with my left shoe, extended my arms, and drove it smoothly through the extra-cover gap.
The ball rolled across the grass and hit the boundary rail with a sharp clang.
"Match over!" the umpire shouted, reaching down to pull the bails.
We had chased down the 153 target, finishing at 154 for 2 to win the Quarterfinal and qualify for the Semifinals.
I pulled my helmet off, taking a deep breath of the dusty air. My score was 63* Not Out off 112 balls, and Amit finished on a gritty 43* Not Out, with 6 extras completing our total.
Amit ran over, a huge look of relief on his face, and gave my shoulder a hard pat. "You completely saved me out there, Kabir. I thought I was going to edge everything."
I gave him a quick tap on his gloves. "Good survival, Amit."
We walked back toward our pavilion tent. Milind Rege was already standing next to Achrekar sir’s scooter near the gate, closing his notebook. He looked down at me as I dragged my heavy kit bag past.
"Sixty-three not out to finish the match, Achrekar," Rege said, letting out a short whistle. "The kid has batted for seven hours across two days without a single risky shot. Good control."
Achrekar sir didn’t praise me. He just clicked his fountain pen closed, stuffed his clipboard into his leather pouch, and looked down at me through his glasses.
"The Semifinal is against IES VN Sule Gurukul next Monday," Achrekar sir said, his voice flat. "Tuesday morning, five-thirty AM at Shivaji Park. Don’t be late."
I lifted my canvas bag higher on my shoulder, looking at the raw calluses on my fingers. The Quarterfinals were over. The real test was next week.
Comments