Chapter 40: Chapter: 40
The morning dew was still heavy on the grass at Azad Maidan, soaking right through the outfield. The ball was brand new—a deep red SG with a stiff, proud seam that looked lethal in the morning light. Kabir adjusted his oversized thigh guard. It kept slipping down his leg. His white shirt flapped around his thin frame, the sleeves rolled up four or five times just to keep them from bunching up at his wrists.
He took his guard.
"Leg stump, please," he called out.
The umpire gave him the nod, and Kabir scratched a line into the dark, damp soil with his spikes.
The East Zone opening bowler was a tall fourteen-year-old named Banerjee. He looked massive compared to Kabir. Banerjee turned around at the edge of the boundary tent and started a long, looping run-up. Kabir locked his eyes on him, blocking out the noise of the morning traffic outside the ground.
Just watch the shiny side. Stay still.
1.1 Banerjee hit the crease hard, slamming his front foot down. The ball pitched on a good length, just outside the off-stump, and cut back sharply off the wet turf. Kabir didn’t commit his front foot too early. He pressed slightly forward, kept his hands tucked close to his chest, and let the bat drop straight down.
TUCK.
The ball hit the exact middle of his willow and dropped dead right at his feet.
"No run!" Kabir called out.
The ball is nipping around, Kabir thought, scanning the pitch. The moisture is holding the surface together. Don’t chase the wide ones.
1.2 Banerjee went wider of the crease this time, trying a different angle. He delivered a fuller ball, angling it across the eight-year-old. Kabir spotted the length the moment it left the bowler’s hand. He leaned into the shot, his left shoulder pointing straight toward extra cover. He didn’t even swing hard; he just let the sheer weight of the heavy bat meet the leather, soaking up the bowler’s pace.
CRACK.
The ball raced through the empty gap at point. It rolled across the thick, wet outfield grass, slowing down as it neared the boundary rope. The fielders sprinted after it.
"Two! Come for two!" Kabir yelled, his small legs pumping hard across the twenty-two yards. They turned back easily. Two runs.
1.3 Angered by the boundary, Banerjee grunted and dug the next one short, aiming right at Kabir’s chest. For an adult batsman, it would have been a harmless waist-high ball, but to an eight-year-old, it was flying right at his face.
Kabir didn’t panic or flinch. He rolled his wrists over the top of the handle, pulling his weight cleanly onto his back foot. Pivoting on his left heel, he swatted the ball along the ground through square leg.
THWACK.
"Single, single!" One run.
1.4 The other opening batsman, Rohit, was on strike now. Banerjee fired in a fast yorker aimed straight at the leg stump. Rohit closed the face of his bat way too early.
CLICK.
The ball caught a leading edge and popped up, dropping safely in the covers. No run. Kabir breathed a sigh of relief.
1.5 Banerjee tried the exact same yorker. This time, Rohit managed to jam his bat down just in time, squeezing it out toward fine leg for a single. Kabir was back on strike.
1.6 The final ball of the over. Banerjee ran in fast, trying to find some late swing. The ball pitched exactly on the middle-stump line and skidded through incredibly low. Kabir didn’t lunge forward blindly. He kept his balance, his head completely still over his front knee. At the very last microsecond, he flicked his wrists, deflecting the ball right past the short-leg fielder.
SNAP.
It rolled out to deep square leg. They ran two easily.
Five runs off the first over. Kabir stood at the non-striker’s end, checking his breath.
The template is stable at 20%. My wrists are reacting before my mind can even think about the shot.
By the time the thirty-fifth over arrived, the sun was baking the ground. The morning dampness was long gone, replaced by fine cracks that puffed up little clouds of dust whenever a fast bowler slammed the ball down.
Kabir was still out there. His shirt was soaked through with sweat and stained with brown dust from a desperate, diving slide he’d made earlier to save his wicket. The East Zone captain brought back their primary off-spinner—a boy named Chatterjee who had a reputation for turning the ball a mile on dry tracks.
Kabir tightened his grip on the handle. His forearms felt like lead, but his eyes were completely locked onto the spinner’s fingers.
35.1 Chatterjee tossed the ball high into the air, giving it plenty of flight to invite a big, reckless hit. The ball pitched well outside the off stump, gripped the dry dirt, and spun back massively toward the wickets. Kabir didn’t wait for it to break. He danced down the track—two quick, sharp steps. Meeting the ball on the half-volley, he completely smothered the spin.
THUMP.
He drove it hard along the ground past the non-striker, but the mid-on fielder made a brilliant diving stop. No run.
35.2 Seeing Kabir’s footwork, Chatterjee pulled his length back. The ball came in flatter and shorter on the middle stump. Kabir stayed deep in his crease this time. He waited for the ball to rise to its absolute peak, then opened the face of his bat at the very last second.
SLIP.
It was a delicate touch, using the spinner’s own pace against him. The ball split the slip fielder and short third man, racing away to the boundary. Four runs.
35.3 Chatterjee looked visibly frustrated. He tried to bowl a fast, flat dart right at Kabir’s pads to cramp him for room. Kabir saw it coming. He cleared his front leg out of the way toward the leg side, opening up a massive arc for his arms.
WHACK!
He lifted the ball cleanly over the mid-wicket fielder’s head. It didn’t have the legs to go all the way for a six, but it bounced twice before rattling into the advertising boards. Four more runs.
35.4 The spinner went back to his standard line, trying to clear his head and find his rhythm. He bowled a regular length ball outside off. Kabir simply leaned forward and played a soft defensive stroke toward cover.
"No!" Kabir shouted clearly to his partner, holding his ground.
35.5 Chatterjee tossed it up again, hoping Kabir would get greedy and make a mistake. The ball floated lazily outside the off stump. Kabir took a long stride forward, but instead of trying to smash it, he relaxed his bottom hand. He played a flawless, textbook cover drive.
PING!
The timing was so pure that the sound echoed across the quiet ground. The ball split the two cover fielders perfectly and cleared the rope. Four runs.
35.6 The final ball of the over. Chatterjee was visibly shaking now, his fielders shouting frantic instructions at him. He cracked under the pressure, pulling the ball down short and wide outside off stump. It was a terrible delivery. Kabir shifted his entire weight to his back foot, extended his arms, and cut it fiercely through point.
CRACK!
The fielder at deep point didn’t even bother running after it. Four runs.
Sixteen runs from the over. Kabir’s personal scorecard read 87.
Kabir wiped the sweat from his brow with the back of his hand. His chest heaved heavily.
My body is hitting a wall. The template is pushing too hard against my physical limits. An eight-year-old body just isn’t built to sustain this kind of focus for four hours under a Mumbai sun.
Two overs later, the sun began to drop behind the tall buildings bordering Azad Maidan, casting long shadows across the pitch. The ball was old, soft, and unpredictable now. Banerjee was back on, and he unleashed a sharp inswinger that stayed incredibly low. It sneaked right past Kabir’s tired, delayed defensive push.
CLATTER.
The ball clipped the top of off-stump.
The umpire’s finger went up instantly. Kabir stood frozen for a second, staring down at his broken wicket, and then slowly turned to walk back toward the tent.
He had made 87.
The entire North Zone dugout stood up, clapping loudly as the small boy made his way back to the plastic chairs. By the time the final wicket fell at the stroke of evening, North Zone was all out for 410.
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