Free Web NovelChapter 96: Quarterfinal Begins
The championship felt different now.
Not because the crowds had grown larger.
Not because reporters had started appearing near the boundary ropes.
Not because state selectors sat in the pavilion taking notes.
Those things mattered.
But they weren’t the biggest difference.
The biggest difference was simple.
One loss ended everything.
The league stage was gone.
Second chances were gone.
Bad days could no longer be fixed next week.
Every team remaining understood the truth.
Win.
Or go home.
And that truth followed Sahil all the way to the quarterfinal.
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The bus rolled through the hills beneath a bright morning sky.
Most of the squad sat quietly.
Not silent.
Just quieter than usual.
The opening match excitement had disappeared.
Reality had replaced it.
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Danish sat across the aisle scrolling through his phone.
A dangerous activity.
Whenever Danish spent too much time online, stupidity usually followed.
Right on schedule, he suddenly groaned.
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"Oh no."
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Several players looked up.
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"What happened?"
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Danish held up his phone dramatically.
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"The internet discovered Sahil again."
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Immediate laughter.
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Sahil didn’t even need to look.
He already knew what that meant.
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Another article.
Another ranking.
Another discussion.
Another comment section filled with people deciding his future for him.
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"Read it."
Kabir grinned.
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"I’d rather not."
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"Read it."
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Danish ignored him completely.
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Then started reading aloud.
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"After his explosive 61(29), Kangra finisher Sahil Choudhary has become one of the most talked-about players in the championship..."*
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Several players immediately started whistling.
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"Could he become a future state player?"
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The bus erupted.
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"Future state player!"
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"Mr. Celebrity!"
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"Autographs after practice!"
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Sahil rubbed his forehead.
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The jokes had become routine.
The problem wasn’t the teasing.
The problem was that part of him secretly enjoyed hearing those words.
And that made them dangerous.
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Because once players started believing headlines, cricket usually punished them.
Hard.
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The coach’s voice suddenly echoed from the front of the bus.
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"Anybody talking about state cricket can run extra laps."
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Instant silence.
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Nobody argued.
Nobody complained.
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The coach didn’t even turn around.
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Yet somehow everyone knew he was serious.
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The conversation died immediately.
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Outside the window, the stadium finally appeared.
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And for the first time that morning—
the butterflies arrived.
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Not fear.
Never fear.
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Anticipation.
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The quarterfinal had arrived.
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The stadium looked larger than before.
Louder than before.
More alive than before.
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Food vendors crowded the entrance.
Spectators lined the gates.
Children carried cricket bats.
Families searched for seats.
Commentators tested microphones.
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The championship was growing.
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Every round attracted more attention.
Every round attracted more eyes.
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And every round increased the pressure.
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As Kangra stepped off the bus, applause rolled through part of the crowd.
Not overwhelming.
Just noticeable.
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A few voices called out names.
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"Aryan!"
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"Sahil!"
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"The six hitter!"
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The last one drew laughter from nearby spectators.
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Sahil smiled despite himself.
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Inside the dressing room, the atmosphere shifted immediately.
The excitement remained outside.
Inside, only focus mattered.
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The coach stood near the tactics board.
Several field diagrams covered the surface.
Bowling plans.
Batting plans.
Field placements.
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Nobody joked now.
Nobody talked.
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The older man waited until everyone settled.
Then spoke.
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"Mandi won the toss."
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The room sharpened.
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"They’re batting."
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A few players exchanged looks.
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Not surprising.
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Mandi possessed one of the strongest batting lineups in the championship.
If they posted a large score, pressure would follow automatically.
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The coach pointed toward the field map.
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"They want scoreboard pressure."
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Then toward the players.
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"Don’t give it to them."
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Simple.
Direct.
Classic coach.
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The first innings began beneath perfect batting conditions.
Blue skies.
Fast outfield.
Dry surface.
Little assistance for bowlers.
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Not ideal.
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Especially against Mandi.
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Their openers started carefully.
Respectfully.
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For three overs.
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Then the boundaries arrived.
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A cover drive.
A pull shot.
A flick through square leg.
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The scoreboard began moving.
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Twenty.
Thirty.
Forty.
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No panic.
No chances.
No mistakes.
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From deep midwicket, Sahil watched the partnership grow.
And grow.
And grow.
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Every dot ball felt valuable.
Every boundary felt expensive.
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The crowd sensed it too.
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Mandi looked comfortable.
Dangerously comfortable.
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Eventually Kangra found a breakthrough.
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A thick edge.
A diving catch.
A roar from the field.
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Relief spread immediately.
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Yet Mandi simply sent another batsman.
And continued scoring.
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The innings became frustrating.
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Every time Kangra created pressure—
Mandi escaped.
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Every time Kangra slowed scoring—
another boundary arrived.
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By the thirty-fifth over, the scoreboard looked ugly.
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Mandi District U-19 — 197/4
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The crowd loved it.
Kangra didn’t.
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The final overs became survival.
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Yorkers.
Slower balls.
Missed chances.
Big shots.
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Everything happened.
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When the innings finally ended, Mandi stood at:
284/7
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A serious total.
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Not impossible.
But serious.
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Inside the dressing room, nobody spoke for several moments.
Players drank water.
Removed pads.
Collected thoughts.
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The coach wrote one number on the whiteboard.
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285
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Nothing else.
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Then he turned.
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"Big score?"
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Silence.
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The coach nodded.
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"Good."
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Several players frowned.
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Again with the good.
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The older man pointed toward the number.
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"Now we know exactly what we need."
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A pause.
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"One partnership."
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Another pause.
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"Then another."
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Then he sat down.
Meeting finished.
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The simplicity somehow calmed everyone.
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Because 285 looked terrifying.
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Until it became 100.
Then 50.
Then 20.
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Cricket worked that way.
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The chase began positively.
Very positively.
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The openers attacked early.
Boundaries arrived.
The crowd responded.
Hope appeared.
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Then cricket happened.
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A nick behind.
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Gone.
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Another wicket followed.
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Then another.
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Suddenly:
Kangra District U-19 — 92/3
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The atmosphere changed instantly.
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Mandi’s fielders grew louder.
The bowlers grew more confident.
The crowd grew more invested.
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Pressure arrived.
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Real pressure.
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Sahil picked up his bat.
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The familiar grip settled into his hands.
The weight felt comforting.
Reliable.
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The coach met his eyes.
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Just a nod.
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Nothing more.
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Your turn.
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As he walked toward the field, noise crashed over him from every direction.
Crowd noise.
Commentary.
Applause.
Music.
Everything.
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Then he heard something else.
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Laughter.
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Mandi’s fielders.
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The wicketkeeper spotted him first.
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"Oh look."
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The keeper grinned.
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"The internet star."
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Several slips laughed.
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"The future state player."
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More laughter followed.
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Sahil kept walking.
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Ignoring them.
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Or trying to.
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Because the words hit harder than they should have.
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Not because they were clever.
Because they were true.
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Every article.
Every comment.
Every prediction.
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They had become targets.
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And Mandi knew exactly where to aim.
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As he reached the crease, the wicketkeeper spoke again.
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"Where are the cameras?"
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Another laugh.
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"We need his good angle."
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The slips joined in immediately.
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"Maybe he’s saving his sixes."
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"Maybe selectors aren’t watching today."
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The crowd reacted.
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The fielders smiled.
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And for the first time all afternoon—
Sahil felt genuine irritation.
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Exactly what Mandi wanted.
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And exactly why the battle was only beginning.
The first ball Sahil faced was a leave.
Nothing dramatic.
Nothing memorable.
A good delivery outside off stump.
He watched it pass.
The wicketkeeper collected it cleanly.
Immediately the comments started again.
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"Thought he’d hit that."
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A few fielders laughed.
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"Maybe the articles were wrong."
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More laughter.
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The bowler smirked.
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The slips joined in.
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"Future state player, eh?"
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The words floated through the air.
Casual.
Mocking.
Deliberate.
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Sahil adjusted his gloves.
Said nothing.
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The second ball arrived on a similar length.
Again he respected it.
Again the fielders reacted.
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Two dots.
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The crowd began murmuring.
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Because this wasn’t what they expected.
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People had come to watch the six-hitter.
The championship opener.
The player who smashed 61 from 29 balls.
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Not a batsman leaving deliveries.
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The third ball finally drifted onto his pads.
He clipped it calmly behind square.
One run.
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Nothing more.
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No celebration.
No statement.
No aggression.
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Just a run.
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The scoreboard moved.
That was enough.
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At the non-striker’s end, Danish walked down the pitch.
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"They’re trying very hard."
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Sahil smirked.
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"A little."
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"A lot."
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The left-hander glanced toward the slips.
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"I think that one has prepared speeches."
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Sahil almost laughed.
Almost.
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The next over brought more of the same.
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The wicketkeeper never stopped talking.
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Not for a second.
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"Come on, superstar."
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"Hit one."
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"That’s what people came to see."
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Another laugh.
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Another comment.
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Another attempt.
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The strategy became obvious quickly.
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Mandi wanted him emotional.
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They wanted frustration.
They wanted ego.
They wanted a big shot.
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They wanted a mistake.
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And the more Sahil understood that—
the more dangerous the situation became.
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Because part of him wanted exactly what they wanted.
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Part of him wanted to shut them up.
Immediately.
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One big six.
One clean strike.
One statement.
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The temptation sat inside his chest.
Heavy.
Persistent.
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The crowd wasn’t helping either.
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Every time he defended, murmurs spread through the stands.
Every dot ball created anticipation.
Every over increased expectations.
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People didn’t expect patience from Sahil.
They expected fireworks.
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The commentator accidentally proved it.
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"Sahil Choudhary taking a surprisingly cautious approach here."
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The words echoed around the ground.
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"He hasn’t fully attacked yet."
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Immediately several fielders clapped sarcastically.
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"Listen to that."
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"Even commentary wants sixes."
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More laughter.
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The pressure kept building.
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Not scoreboard pressure.
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Mental pressure.
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The dangerous kind.
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The type that couldn’t be measured.
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The scoreboard meanwhile continued moving.
Slowly.
Steadily.
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100.
101.
102.
103.
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The partnership remained intact.
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Yet the required rate wasn’t dropping fast enough.
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That fact worried Mandi.
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And because it worried them—
the sledging intensified.
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The captain joined now.
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The short midwicket joined.
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Even the bowler occasionally added something after deliveries.
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Every over became noise.
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Every ball became noise.
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The strange thing?
The longer it continued—
the less effective it became.
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At first, every comment felt personal.
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Now?
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Now they sounded repetitive.
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Predictable.
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Desperate.
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The realization arrived unexpectedly.
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If Mandi felt comfortable—
they wouldn’t be talking this much.
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Comfortable teams focused on cricket.
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Nervous teams searched for reactions.
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Interesting.
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Very interesting.
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The thought lingered.
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And suddenly the sledging sounded different.
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Not confidence.
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Concern.
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The wicketkeeper chirped again.
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"Waiting for the last over?"
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Sahil looked toward him.
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The keeper grinned.
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Waiting.
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Expecting a response.
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Expecting anger.
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Instead Sahil simply smiled.
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Then turned away.
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For the first time all afternoon—
the wicketkeeper looked slightly annoyed.
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The reaction wasn’t what he wanted.
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At the other end, Danish nearly choked trying not to laugh.
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The next few overs passed similarly.
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Singles.
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Doubles.
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Smart running.
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Strike rotation.
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Nothing flashy.
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Everything useful.
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The crowd gradually changed too.
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At first they had wanted boundaries.
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Now they appreciated survival.
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Because wickets mattered.
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The chase mattered.
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The match mattered.
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Slowly, almost without realizing it, Sahil began taking control.
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Not through power.
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Through rhythm.
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The strike rotated.
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The bowlers changed plans.
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Field placements moved repeatedly.
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The captain grew louder.
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Pressure shifted.
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Subtly.
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Yet undeniably.
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By the time the partnership crossed fifty, Mandi’s fielders weren’t laughing as much.
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The comments still existed.
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But the energy behind them had changed.
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Less confidence.
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More frustration.
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The scoreboard showed:
Kangra District U-19 — 142/3
Need 143 Runs
21 Overs Remaining
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Perfect balance.
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One partnership away from taking control.
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One wicket away from disaster.
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Championship cricket.
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Exactly as expected.
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The next over nearly changed everything.
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A slower ball.
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A tempting slower ball.
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The kind begging to be hit.
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For a fraction of a second, instinct screamed.
Attack.
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The bat started moving.
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Then stopped.
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The decision changed.
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Too early.
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Too risky.
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He pushed it into the off side instead.
Single.
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The fielders immediately celebrated.
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"Scared!"
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"Thought so!"
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The comments came quickly.
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Yet something felt different.
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For the first time—
Sahil didn’t care.
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Not even slightly.
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Because deep down he knew something.
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The old version of him would’ve swung.
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The old version of him would’ve tried proving something.
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The old version of him would’ve accepted the challenge.
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And possibly walked back to the pavilion.
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That realization settled quietly inside his chest.
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Growth wasn’t always visible.
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Sometimes growth looked boring.
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Sometimes growth looked like a single instead of a six.
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The thought almost made him laugh.
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As the sun slowly dipped lower across the stadium, the quarterfinal entered its most important phase.
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The crowd remained loud.
The bowlers remained aggressive.
The sledging remained constant.
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Yet Sahil felt calmer than he had all afternoon.
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Not because the pressure disappeared.
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Because he finally understood it.
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The battle wasn’t against Mandi’s bowlers.
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The battle wasn’t against the wicketkeeper.
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The battle wasn’t against the comments.
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The battle was against himself.
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Against impatience.
Against ego.
Against temptation.
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And for the first time in the match—
he felt like he was winning.
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The scoreboard ticked forward again.
Kangra District U-19 — 156/3
Need 129 Runs
19 Overs Remaining
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The chase remained alive.
The partnership remained alive.
The quarterfinal remained alive.
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Most importantly—
Sahil remained at the crease.
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Watching.
Learning.
Waiting.
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Because somewhere ahead—
the moment to attack would come.
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And when it did—
he intended to make sure it was on his terms.
Not Mandi’s.
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The wicketkeeper tried one final comment before the over ended.
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"Still waiting for the superstar innings."
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This time Sahil smiled openly.
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Then tapped his bat against the pitch.
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"Keep waiting."
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The keeper blinked.
The slips went silent.
And Danish burst out laughing at the other end.
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For the first time all afternoon—
Mandi had no answer.
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And as the crowd roared around them, one thing became clear.
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The innings wasn’t exploding yet.
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But something far more dangerous was happening.
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Sahil Choudhary was learning how to stay calm under pressure.
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And once that lesson was complete—
the bowlers were going to have a serious problem.
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