Chapter 5: Chapter 5:
The chain on my Atlas bicycle slipped for the third time right near the Dadar Portuguese Church.
"Son of a..."
I muttered, skidding to a halt by the side of the road. I kicked the stand down, knelt on the hot asphalt, and used my bare fingers to yank the greasy, black chain back onto the rusted sprocket. The metal dug into the fresh callouses on my palm, leaving a streak of thick machine grease right across my knuckles.
I didn’t have time to look for a cloth. I wiped my hands on my already dirt-stained white cricket trousers, hopped back onto the frame, and stood up on the pedals.
The heavy canvas kit bag strapped to the rear iron carrier rack was swinging wildly, throwing off my balance every time a black-and-yellow Premier Padmini taxi honked and zipped past my right handle. My eight-year-old thighs were absolute lead. I had just finished four hours of morning nets and six hours of sitting in a stuffy Shardashram classroom. Now, it was 3:45 PM, and the sun was beating down on Mumbai like an open furnace.
If I didn’t make it to Net Number 3 in fifteen minutes, Achrekar sir would give my bowling slot to one of the standby kids from the regular batch.
I pedaled like a maniac, my lungs burning, until I skidded into the dirt boundaries of Shivaji Park.
"Kabir! You’re late by two minutes!" Kamlesh shouted from the edge of the tent. He was already wearing his pads, adjusting the buckles with his teeth.
"Chain came off," I panted, throwing my cycle against the trunk of a large rain tree. I unhooked my canvas bag, dragged my custom willow bat out, and sat straight down in the dirt to pull my pads on. "Who’s bowling right now?"
"The under-14 seniors," Kamlesh said, his voice dropping to a whisper. "Rohan already took a hit to the ribs from one of their quicks. Sir is in a foul mood today. Don’t play any flashy garbage."
I didn’t look up. I just pulled the leather straps tight around my shins until the pads felt like an extension of my legs.
[Tendulkar Sync: 15.6% (Alignment: 95%)]
A tiny, crisp line of blue text blinked once in the bottom right corner of my vision and vanished. No sound, no distraction. The memory grid of Sachin’s balance was already settling into my shoulders.
I picked up my bat, walked out into the blinding glare of the maidan, and stepped into the netted enclosure. The turf wicket was dry, dusty, and full of cracks from the afternoon heat.
At the bowling end stood an under-14 senior named Vinay. He was tall for his age, had a proper athletic run-up, and was holding a shiny, hard red SG leather ball.
"Look at the size of this kid," Vinay smirked, tossing the ball to the umpire and walking back to his mark. "Harpal bhai’s son, right? Don’t cry if you get hit, little boss."
I didn’t answer. I took my guard from the umpire, scratched a line into the dirt with my spikes, and tap-tapped the toe of my bat. I kept my feet parallel, dropped my weight down, and locked my fingers into that deep, tight V-grip.
Vinay ran in. He didn’t bowl moderate pace. He threw his whole body into the release, firing a quick, skidding delivery right on the fourth-stump line.
To a normal eight-year-old, a five-ounce leather ball coming in from that height looked like a missile. But my eye-tracking reflexes were steady. I saw the seam position perfectly. I stepped across with my right foot, tucked my bat tightly against my front pad, and let the ball whistle past my off-stump straight into the keeper’s gloves.
Thud.
"Good leave," Achrekar sir’s gravelly voice came from behind the net. He was sitting on a plastic chair, his clipboard resting on his knees. "Vinay, don’t bowl short. Pitch it up."
Vinay looked annoyed. He marched back, grabbed the ball, and steamed in again. This time he pitched it fuller, aiming straight for the base of my off-stump.
I didn’t try to smash it. I simply planted my front foot right beside the bouncing leather, kept my head completely dead over the ball, and blunted it with a soft-handed defensive push.
Crack.
The ball hit the exact millimeter of the sweet spot, stopping dead in the dirt right at my toes.
"You’re just defending, Kabir!" Kamlesh called out from the boundary tent. "Put some bat on it!"
"Let him defend," Achrekar sir barked, cutting Kamlesh off. His sharp eyes were locked onto my front knee alignment. "If his defense doesn’t break, you can’t bowl him out. Vinay, keep going."
For the next forty minutes, it was an absolute war of patience. Vinay bowled quick, tried slower balls, and tried cutting it off the pitch. Every single time, my bat met the ball right under my nose, or my arms lifted to let the wide ones go. My left forearm was aching from the grip friction, and sweat was dripping from my chin onto the chest of my white shirt.
By the time Achrekar sir called an end to the session, my shirt was completely brown from the flying maidan dust.
"Fielding drills on the main boundary. Move!" the assistant coach yelled, clapping his hands.
I dragged my heavy legs out of the net, dropped my bat inside my bag, and ran straight toward the outfield. The ground here was brutal—stony, dry, and full of jagged patches of grass. For an hour, we chased high catches and practiced diving on our hips to stop boundaries. Every time I stopped a hard leather ball with my bare palms, the skin stung like fire. By 6:30 PM, my knuckles were completely bruised, and my thumbs were throbbing.
When I finally pedaled my Atlas cycle back into our society gates, the sun had fully set. My legs felt like melting wax.
[Stamina: 2/100 (Acute Exhaustion State)]
I carried my kit bag up the elevator and pushed the door open. The rich, heavy aroma of pure ghee, hot daal, and roasted millet parathas hit my nose instantly. My stomach let out a loud, aggressive growl.
My mom, Harpreet, came out of the kitchen holding a steel jug of fresh buttermilk. She took one look at my dirt-caked uniform, my black-greased knuckles, and the raw red bruises on my palms.
"Look at you," she said, her voice full of standard Punjabi worry as she set the jug down. "Harpal! Come look at your son. He looks like he’s been working in a coal mine, not playing a game. His hands are completely ruined."
My dad walked out of the living room, holding a newspaper. He looked at my hands, then at the dirt on my knees, and let out a small, proud chuckle. "He’s training at Shivaji Park, Harpreet, not playing in a parlor. Give him the food first. The boy is starving."
I sat at the wooden dining table, not even waiting for them. I grabbed a hot millet paratha, tore off a massive piece, and dipped it into the daal. My eight-year-old body was consuming calories like a furnace.
"Slow down, Kabir," my mom sighed, pouring a giant steel glass of buttermilk for me. "You eat like an army man now."
"Achrekar sir is entering his name for the Giles Shield internal selection trials next Tuesday," my dad said, sitting across from me and taking a sip of his tea. "The under-14 boys are going to play a proper two-day trial match. He needs the energy."
I wiped my mouth with the back of my greased hand, looking at my dad. "Vinay was bowling around 110 km/h today. The ball skips low on the turf pitch."
"Vinay is a standard club bowler," my dad said, his merchant brain turning on. "He bowls fast but he has no seam movement. If you survive his first three overs, his shoulder gets tired and he starts bowling half-volleys. Don’t chase his wide balls."
"I left four of them today," I said, taking a gulp of the buttermilk. "He got frustrated."
"Good," my dad smiled, leaning back. "That’s exactly how you play them."
After dinner, my mom tried to send me straight to bed, but I walked out to the society’s private garden instead. The garden lamps were on, casting long shadows on the concrete walking path.
Hanging from a thick branch of the mango tree was a cricket ball tied to a heavy nylon rope. I took my custom bat, stepped into my stance on the concrete, and began to tap it.
Tap... Tap... Tap...
I didn’t use any magical system power-ups. I just manually forced my sore, aching arms to keep the blade perfectly straight, hitting the swinging ball directly on its leather seam over and over again. Every fifty clean, uniform hits, the blue text would quietly update in my peripheral vision.
[Tendulkar Sync: 16.5% -> 17.1%]
My body was exhausted, but my mind was completely locked in. Six months of this exact, repetitive daily friction—the greasy cycle chains, the dusty nets, the bruised palms, and the silent garden drills. There were no shortcuts in Mumbai cricket.
I called up the panel in the dark garden before heading upstairs.
[STATUS PANEL]
Name: Kabir Singh
Age: 8
Stamina: 45/100
Sachin Tendulkar Template: 17.5% Sync
Wasim Akram Template: 17.1% Sync
The foundation was finally laid. The selection trials were on Tuesday. It was time to show the school league what a real all-rounder looked like.
Comments