Chapter 9: Chapter 9:
A thick crowd of boys from the sports batch was jammed into the narrow corridor outside the main office. The morning sun was streaming through the windows of the Shardashram building, lighting up the dust floating over our heads.
"Move back, re," Kamlesh said, using his elbow to nudge a path through the senior under-14 boys.
I followed right behind him, carrying my notebook. Nitin was already standing at the front, his back to us, staring at the main wooden notice board. Pinning down the center of the board was a fresh sheet of paper with the official school stamp at the top. The ink from Achrekar sir’s fountain pen was thick and black.
Nitin turned his head as we squeezed in next to him. He looked at me, then tapped the paper with his knuckle. "You’re opening, Kabir. Right at the top."
The boys around us went quiet, looking from the sheet to my eight-year-old face. Rohan was standing near the edge of the huddle, his arms crossed, staring silently at the floor. His name had been pushed all the way down to the standby list at number twelve.
The sheet listed the final eleven for the upcoming Giles Shield tournament:
Kabir Singh (Right-Hand Bat / Left-Arm Fast)
Kamlesh (Right-Hand Bat / Right-Arm Medium)
Nitin (Captain - Right-Hand Bat)
Amit (Right-Hand Bat)
Vinay (Right-Hand Bat / Right-Arm Off-Spin)
Sanjay (Wicketkeeper - Right-Hand Bat)
Rohan M. (Left-Hand Bat / Left-Arm Orthodox)
Manish (Right-Hand Bat / Right-Arm Leg-Spin)
Devendra (Right-Hand Bat / Right-Arm Fast-Medium)
Aniket (Right-Hand Bat)
Pradeep (Left-Hand Bat)
"Rohan, you’re handling the drinks squad with the standby boys," Achrekar sir’s gravelly voice cut through the corridor from behind us. He had walked up without his cap, his clipboard tucked under his arm. The crowd instantly split open to give him room.
Rohan swallowed hard and nodded. "Yes, Sir."
"The rest of you, don’t stand here celebrating," Achrekar sir said, looking at Nitin. "The tournament starts in six days. The Anjuman bowlers aren’t going to give you half-volleys because your names are on a board. Change into your whites and get down to Shivaji Park. The ground is dry today."
By 3:45 PM, the training format had completely shifted. Individual net sessions were over. Achrekar sir had set up a full match-scenario field on the main turf.
The coaching staff stood behind the bowler’s end, placing markers across the grass.
"Kabir, Kamlesh, center," the assistant coach called out. "Target is twenty-four runs in eighteen balls. The field is spread out for saving the single. Vinay is bowling off-spin. Show me how you manipulate the field."
I walked out to the striker’s end, tapping the toe of my bat. My forearms were still sore from Tuesday, but my hands felt steady on the grip.
Vinay ran in from a short, diagonal run-up, tossing his off-break high into the afternoon air. He had set a deep mid-wicket, a long-on, and a deep square leg, leaving the off-side relatively open but packing the inner ring with a silly mid-off and an extra cover.
I saw the loop early. Instead of trying to smash it over the infield, I stepped slightly across to cover the turn, rolled my wrists right at the point of contact, and gently pushed the ball through the gap between extra cover and mid-off.
"Run, Kamlesh!" I called out, already halfway down the pitch.
We crossed easily, the fielder only just reaching the ball as we slid our bats home.
"That’s one," Nitin yelled from the boundary tent. "Keep rotating!"
On the next ball, Kamlesh was on strike. Vinay flattened his trajectory, bowling faster to trap him in the crease. I watched from the non-striker’s end, checking the shortstop’s weight distribution.
"He’s leaning left, Kamlesh!" I shouted across the pitch. "Push it to his right hand!"
Kamlesh adjusted, dropping his wrists and executing a soft-handed push toward the shortstop’s weaker side. We ran a sharp, tight single, the throw coming in late to the keeper’s end.
For three overs straight, we didn’t hit a single boundary, but we knocked off the twenty-four runs with two balls to spare purely through field reading and quick sprints.
Achrekar sir walked onto the pitch, pointing his pen at Kamlesh. "Your weight was shifting too late on the off-side punch. Look at how Kabir uses his wrists to change the direction of the ball at the last second. If the field shifts, your target shifts. Again. This time, twelve runs in six balls."
When the batting scenario ended, the coaches made me switch straight to the bowling mark.
Nitin and Amit took the bats, wearing their full match gear. The sun was dipping behind the buildings, throwing long, heavy shadows across the grass.
"Don’t bowl slow medium today, Kabir," Nitin said, tap-tapping his bat and looking at my left arm. "Give me your proper match pace. I want to see how the Anjuman quicks are going to look from this angle."
I didn’t answer. I wiped the dry red soil onto my trousers, gripped the seam with my index and middle fingers locked tight, and ran in.
I loaded side-on, keeping my right shoulder completely locked until the microsecond of the release to hide the leather. My left wrist snapped downward with a quick whip.
The ball zipped through the air, pitched right on the good-length area of off-stump, and cut sharply away across Nitin’s forward defense, missing his outside edge by an inch.
"Howzatt!" the wicketkeeper screamed behind him.
Nitin stayed in his shot pose, looking back at the keeper’s gloves. He let out a dry, short laugh and shook his head. "The ball didn’t even bounce normally. It just skidded away late."
"Same spot, Kabir," Achrekar sir called out from square leg. He was watching my landing foot alignment. "Don’t shorten the length."
On the next ball, I used the same action but shifted the weight to my thumb, making the leather jag sharply inward. Nitin tried to play a straight drive, but the late inward movement beat his inside edge and struck him hard on the front pad.
"Inside edge, re!" Amit shouted from the non-striker’s end. "It was moving too much."
"Keep bowling like this," Nitin said, rubbing his thigh pad and walking over to tap my bat during the over change. "If the Anjuman openers don’t watch your left wrist closely, their stumps are going to be in the grass by the third over."
The day didn’t end when the sun went fully down over the park.
After dinner, my dad walked into the living room carrying a professional leather ball mallet and a small tin of raw linseed oil from the shop storage. He set them down on the wooden coffee table and picked up my custom-shaved willow bat.
"The edges are still a bit dry, Kabir," my dad said, dipping a clean cotton rag into the oil and lightly coating the face of the blade. "If you face a brand-new five-ounce leather ball on Tuesday without knocking this wood properly, the edges will crack on the very first thick edge."
He sat on the low wooden stool, handed me the mallet, and held the bat firmly between his knees.
Thwack. Thwack. Thwack.
I began striking the edges of the bat, rolling the mallet smoothly over the curved wood to compress the willow fibers. The sound was a rhythmic, heavy thud echoing through our quiet living room.
"Anjuman has two right-arm fast bowlers this year," my dad said, watching my hand positioning on the mallet handle. "One of them bowls from very close to the stumps. He likes to angle the ball into the right-hander’s ribs."
"I saw him playing at the Azad Maidan nets last month," I said, not stopping the mallet strokes. Thwack. Thwack. "His left shoulder drops early when he wants to bowl short. You can pick his bouncer before he even releases it."
My dad paused, looking up from the wood. "You saw that? Good. Most idiots only look at the speed of the ball."
"If you look at the speed, you’re already late," I said, switching the mallet to the toe of the bat. "You have to look at the body."
"True," my dad nodded, leaning back against the sofa. "Tuesday morning is going to be crowded. The local sports journalists from the Marathi newspapers always come to cover the Shardashram opening match. Don’t look at the cameras on the boundary line. Just look at the bowler’s fingers."
"I don’t care about the cameras, Dad," I said, striking the wood one last time.
I set the mallet down, lifted the bat, and took a quick shadow stance right there next to the dining table. The oil had given the wood a deep shine under our living room lamps. The weight distribution felt completely natural now—an extension of my own arms.
I needed to hit the bed early. Tomorrow morning meant a 4:30 AM wake-up, and the real tournament was finally here.
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