Chapter 44: Chapter 44: selection!
A month passed quickly.
By late October, the heavy monsoon mud at Shivaji Park had baked into hard, uneven clay that scuffed the sides of Kabir’s canvas shoes. His morning routine remained unchangeable. At 5:00 AM, he was out on the society’s concrete track, his breath coming out in thin, white plumes in the pre-dawn cold. He completed his four laps, dropped his hips to stretch his tight hamstrings against the iron gate, and then shifted to the pool for four lengths of steady freestyle to loosen his lower back.
His thoughts were loud as he ran. The MCA is pasting the Under-16 training camp list on the Wankhede notice board today.
The criteria was straightforward. The selectors were picking the top twenty performers from all four zones of the Under-14 tournament to give them a month of high-intensity training with the senior state coaches. To Kabir, it was the ultimate shortcut. Today was also his ninth birthday, but he didn’t care about the date. He only cared about seeing his name on that white sheet of paper.
He ran back up to the flat, showered, and sat at the small kitchen table by 6:45 AM. His mother dropped a steel plate in front of him containing three boiled eggs, a handful of raw sprouts with lime, and a hot glass of milk.
The front door creaked open. Harpal walked in, wiping his face with a small hand towel after his morning walk. He walked over, gave Kabir a firm pat on the shoulder, and ruffled his hair. "Happy birthday, captain. Nine years old."
"Thanks, Papa," Kabir said, peeling an egg.
His mother sat down, pouring tea into Harpal’s cup. "I was thinking we should book that Chinese restaurant near Worli tonight. The one with the private rooms. Celebrate his birthday properly since he won the tournament."
Harpal nodded immediately. "Done. I’ll make the call from the office before lunch."
Kabir finished his milk in silence. Looking at his father’s relaxed face, a rare sense of quiet satisfaction hit him. In his previous life, his ninth birthday had been spent trading cricket cards in a cramped chawl hallway while his parents argued over electricity bills. This was different. It was clean, quiet, and stable.
The yellow school bus was late. When it finally slammed its brakes at the gate, Chetan and Varun were already leaning out of the last window, waving. Kabir scrambled up the metal steps and shoved his bag under the vinyl seat between them.
"Happy birthday, re," Chetan said, tossing a melting chocolate eclair into his lap. "Eat it before the prefect sees."
"Thanks," Kabir said.
Varun adjusted his thick spectacles, pointing out the window as the bus lurched forward into the Dadar traffic. "My dad said your photo was in the Mid-Day newspaper today. Just a small one in the corner of the sports page. You look tiny next to Rohit."
"The trophy was bigger than him," Chetan joked.
Kabir didn’t laugh. He pressed his forehead against the cold glass, watching the black-and-yellow taxis cut through the morning traffic. His mind was already at the school gates. Achrekar sir would have the official MCA fax by now.
The morning assembly was short. After the prayers, the principal stepped up to the microphone, his voice crackling through the old horn speakers mounted on the corridor walls.
"Before you head to your classrooms, we have an official announcement from the sports department," the principal said, adjusting his glasses. "Our junior cricket team has won the MCA Inter-Zonal Under-14 Championship. Furthermore, the association has released the names for the elite Under-16 developmental camp. It is a rare honor for our school to have representation there."
The principal called out the names. Rohit, Nitin, and two seniors from the older batch walked up the concrete steps.
"And a special commendation for the Player of the Tournament," the principal added. "Kabir. Come up."
The school yard erupted into a loud, rhythmic clap. Kabir walked up, his canvas shoes squeaking against the stone stage. The principal handed him a small bouquet of red roses wrapped in cheap cellophane. A camera flashed once. Kabir stood at the edge of the stage, his fingers tightening around the thorny stems.
If I got the tournament award, my selection is automatic, he thought, his chest tightening with anticipation.
The afternoon session at Shivaji Park was boiling. The dust rose from the net pitches in thick, dry clouds. Achrekar sir was standing near the old wooden kit boxes, a single sheet of paper clutched in his gnarled hand. The boys gathered around him in a tight circle, their bats resting against their shins.
"The MCA has finalized the list," Achrekar sir said, his voice gravelly and flat. He didn’t look up from the sheet. "From our school nets, only one boy is joining the senior camp at Wankhede."
He paused, the silence heavy between the boys.
"Nitin," Achrekar sir said cleanly. "Report to the stadium coach on Monday at 6:00 AM."
A few boys patted Nitin on the back. Kabir stayed completely still. The bouquet of roses he had won that morning was sitting on the wooden bench behind him, already wilting in the heat. The words felt like a physical blow. Only one boy. Nitin.
A hot, bitter wave of anger rushed to his face. He had scored 87 against East Zone. He had scored 47 and a match-winning 67 against South Zone. He had bowled the tightest overs of the final match. Why Nitin? He clamped his teeth together, forcing a stiff, fake smile onto his face. He clapped twice, his palms feeling completely numb, before walking away toward the far boundary line.
By 5:30 PM, the nets had cleared out. The senior boys had packed their bags and headed toward the station. Kabir sat alone on a broken green iron chair under the thin shade of a tamarind tree, his bat balanced across his knees. He was staring at the dirt, his jaw clenched so hard his ears ached.
The grass rustled. Achrekar sir sat down on the empty wooden bench next to him, leaning his forearms on his knees as he stared out at the empty pitches.
"You look angry, Kabir," the old man said quietly.
Kabir didn’t look up. He tightened his grip on his bat handle. "I don’t get it, Sir. I scored the runs. I took the wickets. I got the Player of the Tournament. Why did they pick Nitin over me?"
Achrekar sir turned his head, his weathered face completely serious. "The selectors didn’t leave you out, Kabir. I did. I went to the MCA office on Tuesday night and told them to strike your name off the list."
Kabir snapped his head up, his eyes wide with shock. His own coach had backstabbed him. "Why, Sir? What did I do?"
Achrekar sir pointed a thick finger at Kabir’s left knee, where a dark purple bruise was visible through the thin cotton of his trousers.
"You just turned nine today, Kabir," the old man said, his voice dropping into a stern, heavy tone. "In the entire tournament, you were the only proper all-rounder. You open the batting, you face seventy balls, and then you bowl six overs of fast outswingers. Do you know what that workload does to a nine-year-old skeleton?"
Kabir opened his mouth to speak, but Achrekar sir cut him off.
"I have seen fifty boys with your talent ruin their careers before they turned sixteen," the coach said bluntly. "They wanted to be Kapil Dev. They bowled till their shoulders tore and batted till their backs gave out. Did you think I didn’t see you limping during the morning laps? Did you think I didn’t see your arm dropping in the final over against South Zone because your muscles were completely dead? You are abusing your body, Kabir."
The words hit him like a concrete wall. Kabir looked down at his small hands. His mind immediately flashed back to the system warnings he had ignored during the final match.
[Warning: Cumulative muscle strain at 74%. Efficiency dropping.]
A cold sweat broke out on his neck. A terrifying realization washed over him. In his previous life, his cricket career hadn’t ended because he lacked drive; it ended because of a chronic knee injury he had ignored as a kid until the joint was completely destroyed.
The system template gave him the elite skills of a legend, but the physical chassis was still just a nine-year-old child. He had been so greedy to unlock the percentages that he was about to repeat the exact same fatal mistake that destroyed his past life. If he had dragged his strained ligaments into an intensive Under-16 training camp, he would have broken his body permanently before his career even started.
The anger inside him evaporated, replaced by a deep sense of shame.
"I’m sorry, Sir," Kabir muttered, his voice cracking. "I didn’t think about the long-term strain."
Achrekar sir’s face softened slightly, and he tapped the top of Kabir’s head with his knuckles. "You have twenty years of cricket ahead of you, kid. Don’t try to play all of it before you turn ten. Let the bones grow. No cricket for the next two weeks. If I see you near the nets before November, I’ll take your bat away."
"Yes, Sir," Kabir said, a genuine feeling of relief finally hitting his chest.
That night, the private room of the Worli restaurant was quiet and cool. The red paper lanterns cast a dull glow over the circular table, which was loaded with steaming bowls of soup and noodles.
Harpal raised his cup toward his son. "To Kabir. Nine years old today."
"Happy birthday, beta," his mother smiled, kissing his forehead.
Kabir took a sip of his soup, his muscles finally relaxing after weeks of constant tension. A small blue text flickered briefly in the dark corner of his vision.
[System Notification: Forced rest activated. Muscle recovery rate increased by 15%.]
He smiled quietly, put his spoon down, and just enjoyed the quiet dinner with his family. For the first time since his reincarnation, he wasn’t in a hurry.
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