Free Web NovelChapter 12: Chapter 12:
The sun was climbing right over the railway tracks, turning the grass a dry, pale yellow. The cool morning breeze had completely died down. Now, the heat was just a heavy, flat weight pressing onto the back of my neck.
It was 10:45 AM. We had forty-five minutes left before the lunch bell, and my uniform shirt was already sticking to my chest.
Baig had been taken off the bowling attack. His five-over opening spell had completely drained him. He was sitting under the Anjuman canvas awning, his head down, a wet towel draped over his neck. Their captain had replaced him with a short, stocky right-arm medium pacer who looked like he could bowl the same line for three days straight.
"The line is going to be tight, Kabir," Kamlesh said, walking over to tap my bat before the first ball of the eleventh over. "He doesn’t have Baig’s pace, but he doesn’t throw loose ones either."
"Let him bowl straight," I said, leaning on my handle. "The grass is drying. The ball will stop a bit before it reaches the bat. Don’t rush your hands."
"Okay." Kamlesh walked back to the non-striker’s end.
I took my stance. My personal score was exactly 0 runs off 24 balls. The Anjuman fielders were still crowded inside the thirty-yard ring, hovering like crows.
The new bowler ran in. His action was simple, a basic trudge up to the crease, releasing the ball from a very low angle. He pitched it right on the off-stump line, a gentle, slow-medium delivery.
Using Sachin’s memory grid, I didn’t try to force it. I stepped forward, met the ball right under my chin, and deadened it straight into the dust.
Thud.
"Still blocking, re!" Salman, the keeper, muttered from behind. "He doesn’t know how to score."
The next ball was exactly the same. Same line, same length. I blocked it again.
Thud.
By the third ball, the bowler got slightly greedy. He wanted to force an error, so he tried to push the ball closer to my front shoe, looking for a leg-before-wicket trap. It was a fraction too full.
My wrists moved before my brain even processed the shift. I didn’t swing hard. I just dropped the angle of my bat face at the last millisecond, tapping the leather right past the short-leg fielder’s reaching fingers.
The ball rolled slowly into the empty grass at mid-on.
"Run!" I shouted, already out of the crease.
Kamlesh sprinted. The mid-on fielder had to chase it from the inner ring, his shoes kicking up red dirt. By the time he grabbed the ball and threw it back to the keeper, Kamlesh and I had easily crossed the line, sliding our bats into the crease.
[Tendulkar Sync: 17.6% -> 17.7%]
The Shardashram tent erupted. The standby boys were clapping and whistling from the benches.
"Account opened, Kabir!" Nitin yelled from the front row.
I didn’t smile. I just wiped the sweat off my chin with my sleeve. One run. It took me twenty-seven balls to get a single run, but that was Mumbai cricket. You make them sweat for every millimeter.
By 11:10 AM, the match had turned into a complete grinding machine.
Anjuman brought on their main left-arm spinner, a boy named Farhan who looked incredibly smug. He immediately began targeting the thin cracks that were splitting open on the good-length area. The ball was starting to jump, throwing up tiny puffs of red dust every time it hit the dry soil.
Kamlesh was struggling against him, his bat shaking as he pushed blindly at the turn.
During the over change, I walked down the pitch and stopped him near the middle.
"He’s trying to make you edge to slip, Kamlesh," I said, keeping my voice low. "Don’t try to score. If he tosses it up, just smother it. If it turns past your bat, let it go. We only have twenty minutes till lunch. If we don’t lose a wicket now, their captain will lose his mind during the break."
"My thighs are cramping, Kabir," Kamlesh whispered, his forehead caked in dirt. "The heat is too much."
"Drink some water from the extra gloves pouch," I told him, tapping his shoulder. "Just ten more minutes. Hold the line."
When I faced Farhan, he tried to bait me. He bowled a slow, looping delivery that landed right on a major crack, turning sharply across my body. I didn’t stay stuck inside the crease. I took two quick, light steps forward, met the ball before it could even hit the crack, and deadened it with a soft-handed block.
Click.
Farhan stared at me, his arms on his hips. "Play a shot, chotu. Are you a test batsman?"
I didn’t answer him. I took my stance again.
Two balls later, he got annoyed with my defense and fired a flatter, faster delivery down the leg side, trying to catch me slipping. I didn’t try to sweep it. I just swiveled my hips, kept my bat completely hidden behind my pad, and let the ball glance off the face of the wood into the vacant fine-leg region.
"Two!" I called, turning back instantly.
Kamlesh and I ran hard. My eight-year-old legs were burning, the heavy canvas pads dragging against my shins, but we pushed our bodies through the red dust, sliding our bats home just as the keeper collected the throw.
Two more runs. The scoreboard slowly ticked from 32 to 38.
At 11:28 AM, the shadow of the rain tree was covering half the Shardashram tent.
Milind Rege was still sitting on his folding chair on the boundary line, his black notebook now filled with short, jagged lines of ink. He hadn’t looked away from the pitch for thirty overs.
"Look at the discipline, Harpal," Rege said, pointing his pen toward my stance. "Your boy has played fifty balls now. He has exactly ten runs. Not a single boundary, not a single aerial shot. He’s just eating their bowlers alive."
"He knows how to wait, Sir," my dad said, standing right beside him.
"This isn’t waiting, this is Khadoos cricket," Rege muttered, making a heavy checkmark next to my name. "Achrekar has drilled him well. The Anjuman spinners are bowling flat because they’re completely out of ideas. An eight-year-old kid is destroying their morning plan by just standing there."
The final over before lunch was bowled by their medium pacer. He looked completely wiped out, his uniform soaked in sweat, his pace dropping down to a gentle loop.
I faced the first five balls, deadening every single one into the grass with a perfectly straight bat.
Thud.
Thud.
Thud.
On the final ball, he threw a loose, tired delivery on my pads. It was a classic gift ball. A normal kid would have tried to smash it over the square-leg fence to impress the crowd before lunch.
But I knew Achrekar sir was watching from the scooter. If I lofted the ball and took a risk, I’d get chewed out in front of the whole team.
I stayed perfectly balanced on my back foot. I didn’t swing hard. I just rolled my wrists over the ball, tucking it gently through the gap between mid-wicket and short-leg.
"Single, Kamlesh," I called out.
We crossed the pitch casually, our bats tapping the line just as the main umpire reached into his pocket and pulled out the wooden bails, lifting them into the air.
"Lunch!" the umpire shouted.
The first session was officially over.
I unbuckled my helmet, my hair completely plastered to my forehead with sweat. My personal score stood at exactly 10 runs off 58 balls, and our team total was 45 for no loss. We had survived the entire morning attack without giving them a single chance.
Kamlesh walked over, dropping his shoulder against mine as we walked toward the Shardashram tent. He let out a massive, shaking breath. "We made it, Kabir. We actually made it to lunch."
"Told you," I said, lifting my bat onto my shoulder. "Go open the tiffins. I’m starving."
