Chapter 37: Chapter 37:
The Monday morning air at Shivaji Park was cold, with a heavy layer of fog hanging over the grass. All thirty-six boys stood in a straight line near the main concrete pavilion. Nobody was talking. We all had our canvas kit bags slung over our shoulders, our boots resting in the damp mud.
Coach Kadam walked out of the tent, holding a single sheet of white stencilled paper in his hand. Chief Selector Vasu Paranjape followed right behind him, his hands tucked deep into his trouser pockets, his linen hat pulled low over his spectacles.
"Listen up," Coach Kadam said, his voice flat as he unrolled the sheet. "The selection panel has finalized the fifteen-man playing squad for the North Zone team. If your name is read out, step forward. If your name is not called, you are remaining in the camp. Your training will continue under the assistant coaches because the selectors will keep watching your progress for the backup pool. It is beneficial for your future cricket, so nobody is going home."
The line went completely tense. I could hear Kamlesh breathing heavily right behind my shoulder.
"The fifteen-man squad," Kadam announced, reading from the top. "Nitin as Captain, Kabir Singh, Sunil, Joshi, Kulkarni, Chavan, Sanjay as wicketkeeper, Devendra, Gupte, Vinay, Deshmukh..."
He went down the list until he hit the final fifteenth name. Nitin let out a quiet breath next to me, his shoulders dropping in relief. I stayed steady on my feet, looking right at the white paper. I had made the final fifteen playing squad.
"The rest of the boys, report to Net Number Four immediately for the fitness drill," Kadam barked, rolling the sheet back up. "Zonal squad, form a circle right here."
The twenty-one boys who missed the cut picked up their bags silently and walked toward the far corner of the park. Their faces were downcast, but they didn’t argue. They knew the rules of the maidan.
Nitin, Sunil, Joshi, and the rest of our fifteen gathered in a tight ring around Vasu Paranjape.
"The main MCA tournament starts next Monday," Vasu sir said, his gravelly voice quiet against the sound of a distant local train. "Our first match is against the West Zone team at the Islam Gymkhana ground. It is a traditional three-day match format, two innings each. There are no over limits for the first innings. If you think you can win by just slogging for two hours, you are completely foolish."
He stopped, looking straight at my new, square-toed bat handle peeking out of my kit bag zipper.
"The West Zone has two very fast bowlers from the Bandra schools who can swing the new ball both ways," Vasu sir continued. "And the Islam Gymkhana pitch is right next to the sea. The sea breeze will make the leather move sharply until noon".
"Kabir, Sunil—you two are opening the batting. Your strategy is simple. You must sit on the crease for the first two hours. I don’t care about the scoreboard rate. If you give them an early wicket in the morning moisture, their spinners will destroy our middle order later. You blunt the shine, let the ball get soft, and leave everything outside the off-stump line."
Nitin nodded quickly. "Yes, Sir. We will play the defensive line early."
"Go home, rest your bodies, and report to the gymkhana gates at eight-thirty AM next Monday," Vasu sir said, turning his back to walk toward his scooter.
The next seven days went by slowly. I spent every afternoon inside our Dadar sports shop, rubbing linseed oil into the flat face of my new bat and knocking the edges with an old leather ball to harden the wood fibers. My dad didn’t say much about the selection, but he didn’t make me do the bicycle chain chores all week.
On Monday morning at 8:30 AM, the gates of the Islam Gymkhana were wide open.
The ground looked beautiful, the green grass cut short, with the old wooden pavilion standing right along the edge of the Marine Drive sea wall. The air felt heavy and salt-crusted from the ocean waves crashing against the concrete rocks just fifty yards away.
Nitin and I walked out onto the outfield grass, our white uniforms looking bright under the early morning sun. The IES Western Zone boys were already near the far sight-screen, wearing their regional shirts, their voices loud as they tossed rugby balls between them.
"The wind is blowing hard from the pavilion side, Kabir," Nitin said, dropping his heavy kit bag near our wooden bench. "Look at the flags on the tent. The ball is going to swing a mile out there."
"It will swing into the right-hander," I said, unzipping my pockets to pull out my thigh guard. "We just need to stay low in our stance. The moisture from the sea will dry up by the tenth over."
Coach Kadam blew his whistle from the center square. Prrt!
"North Zone team, on the turf for warm-ups! Move your legs!"
We jogged out onto the outfield grass, forming a straight line. For fifteen minutes, we ran short sprints across the thick grass, our spikes sinking deep into the turf, our breathing getting steady as we did our core stretches. My shoulders felt loose, and the updated 18.0% template memory inside my brain settled quietly into my eyes.
Right at 9:15 AM, the main match umpire, wearing his crisp white hat and holding the shiny red leather ball, stepped onto the rolled center pitch. He looked toward our bench and waved his hand.
"Captains! Bring the coin out for the toss!" he shouted.
Nitin adjusted his white cap, grabbed our brass coin from his pocket, and walked toward the center square alongside the West Zone captain.
I stood near the boundary line, leaning against the wooden rail, my fingers tightening around the rubber grip of my flat bat. The warm-up was over. The main tournament was finally starting, and the first ball was just minutes away.
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