Free Web NovelChapter 13: Chapter 13:
The wooden crate creaked under my weight as I sat down in the corner of our tent. My thighs were completely locked up, and the heavy straps had left deep red marks across my shins.
I unbuckled the clips, letting the pads drop into the red dirt.
"Here," Kamlesh said, leaning over from the main bench. He was drenched, his white shirt sticking to his ribs. He tossed me a dirty cloth towel. "Wipe your face, re. You look like you rolled in the mud."
"Thanks," I said, catching it.
The towel smelled like old maidan dust. I wiped the sweat out of my eyes, looking at the guys. The senior under-14 boys were sitting in a quiet circle around the gear bags. Nobody was talking. Going forty minutes against Baig on a sticky turf pitch had drained everyone before lunch even arrived.
My mom had packed my steel tiffin into the side pouch of my bag. I pulled it out and cracked open the metal clips.
The smell of boiled eggs and steamed lentils filled the small space around my crate. Kamlesh looked over, his eyebrows lifting as he unwrapped an oily newspaper bundle containing three cold puris and some dry potato sabzi.
"No puris today?" Kamlesh asked, pointing his spoon at my tiffin.
"Too heavy, re," I said, taking a bite of the egg. "I’ll vomit in this heat if I eat all that oil."
"My mom says ghee gives you strength," Kamlesh muttered, but he looked down at his greasy food with a bit of doubt now.
Nitin, our captain, walked into the tent holding a large plastic jug of water. His hair was messy and damp. He sat down right next to my crate, leaning his elbows on his knees.
"Good blocking, Kabir," Nitin said, drinking straight from the jug. "Baig was furious in their tent. He threw his boots into the corner because their coach told him his run-up was getting lazy."
"His pace dropped," I said, chewing on the lentils. "He was trying too hard."
"Yeah, but the afternoon is going to be different," Nitin said, looking toward the center square. "The sun is right over our heads now. The moisture is gone. The pitch is going to dry out completely, so the ball will just turn off the cracks."
Achrekar sir’s shadow fell across the tent opening.
He didn’t walk inside. He just stood near the canvas flap, his old clipboard resting against his hip. He looked at the scorecard for three full seconds without speaking.
"Kamlesh," Achrekar sir said, his gravelly voice flat and sharp.
Kamlesh froze, his puri halfway to his mouth. "Yes, Sir?"
"Your back foot was moving too much toward leg side against the spinner," the coach said. "If you clear your leg like that this afternoon, the ball will hit the crack and take your off-stump. Stay side-on."
"Understood, Sir," Kamlesh squeaked.
Achrekar sir turned his eyes toward me. He didn’t say well played.
"You stayed inside the crease well, Kabir," Achrekar sir said, tapping his pen against the board. "But the spinners will bowl long spells now. If you give them a wicket before 1:30 PM, the morning’s hard work is useless. Go back out and grind them down until tea."
"Yes, Sir," I said, putting the lid back on my tiffin.
At 12:10 PM, the umpires walked back out.
The heat was completely different now. The air wasn’t cool or foggy anymore; it was a dry, blinding glare that made the red dirt look white. I strapped my pads back on, grabbed my bat, and followed Kamlesh back to the crease.
The Anjuman fielders had spread out. Their captain had taken the short-leg and the silly mid-off away, placing them at standard mid-wicket and extra-cover positions instead. They knew we weren’t going to slog, so they wanted to save the single.
Farhan, their left-arm spinner, took the ball from the pavilion end.
I took my guard again, checking the line. My score was 10 runs off 58 balls.
God, the glare is brutal. Sweat is already stinging my left eye. Focus on the wrist. Just focus on the wrist.
Farhan ran in, tossing the ball up slowly. It landed right on a fresh crack on the middle-stump line.
Puff.
A tiny cloud of red dust exploded off the surface. The ball didn’t turn smoothly; it gripped the rough edge of the crack and violently spat upward, missing my glove by two inches and thudding hard into the keeper’s webbing.
"Aayeaaah!" Salman, the keeper, shouted, jumping up to appeal for caught-behind.
The umpire shook his head, waving his hand down.
I didn’t look at the bowler. I just used the toe of my bat to tap the loose dirt back into the crack, smoothing out the spot.
It’s jumping. If I reach for the drive on this length, it’s a guaranteed slip catch. Play it late. Only soft hands.
For the next two overs, Kamlesh and I just focused on surviving. The ball was behaving randomly off the cracks. One delivery would bounce normally, and the next would skid low at ankle height.
By the thirteenth over, the surface caught Kamlesh.
Farhan bowled a flatter, quicker delivery that pitched on off-stump and stayed incredibly low. Kamlesh didn’t bend his knees enough. He tried to play a late defensive shot off his back foot, but the ball skidded right underneath his bat.
Thud.
The ball struck his back pad right in front of the middle stump.
"Howzatt!" the entire Anjuman inner ring screamed together, jumping into the air.
The umpire lifted his right index finger straight up.
Kamlesh hung his head, looked at his pad, and turned around to walk off. He had scored 29 runs off 84 balls.
Score: 49 for 1.
Nitin walked out at number three, his bat tucked under his arm. He crossed Kamlesh near the boundary line, giving him a quick tap on the shoulder before reaching the crease.
"The surface is completely sticky, Kabir," Nitin whispered to me as we met near the middle. "It’s holding in the pitch."
"Don’t play it on the bounce," I told him, looking at Farhan’s fingers. "Either step right out and smother it, or play it completely off the back foot late. Anything in the middle will edge."
"Got it," Nitin said, walking back to take his guard.
For the next eight overs, it was pure survival. The afternoon sun was burning our shoulders through our shirts, and the red dust was sticking to our sweaty arms.
Farhan was bowling a beautiful, tight line, keeping five fielders inside the ring on the off-side.
He’s tossing it high now. Trying to tempt me. Mid-on is deep, but extra-cover is sitting tight. Nope. Not chasing that. Lunge forward. Kill it.
I dropped my head over the bounce, keeping my bat tightly tucked against my pad, and smothered the spin right in the dirt.
Click.
Good. His rhythm is breaking. He’s grunting on the release now.
"He’s a machine, re," Salman, the keeper, muttered to the first slip. "Doesn’t he get tired of just blocking?"
I didn’t answer.
My left forearm is cramping again. Grip is getting slick with sweat. Don’t loosen the V-grip. Hold it tight.
My score went from 10 to 12, then to 15, entirely through single runs. Every time Farhan drifted slightly too wide or too full, I didn’t swing hard; I just opened the face of the bat at the last fraction of a second, tapping the ball into the gaps near point or short-cover for a quick, walking single.
From the other end, Nitin was playing with standard Mumbai grit. He took ten balls to get off the mark, but once he figured out the bounce, he started using his feet. He stepped out to their off-spinner and drove him smoothly along the ground down to long-off for two runs.
"Good running, Nitin!" I called out, sliding my bat into the crease.
By the twenty-second over, the sun was finally starting to tilt, and the shadow of the pavilion tent was extending onto the grass.
Almost tea. Just three more overs. My ankles feel like weights. Don’t throw it away now. This is exactly where the Khadoos grind matters.
The opposition captain brought Baig back for one final over before tea, hoping his pace would surprise us now that we were tired.
Baig ran in, his face dark with sweat, and fired a quick, reversing delivery right at my toes.
Hiding the ball behind his hip again. Yorker length. Drop the wrists. Fast.
I didn’t try to flick it. I just kept my head dead still, brought the vertical face of the willow down, and deadened the leather right under my eyes.
Thud.
The ball stopped dead in the dirt. I picked it up and handed it back to him. Baig didn’t even sledge me this time; he just took the ball and walked back to his mark, his shoulders slumping.
The main umpire reached into his pocket and lifted the bails.
"Tea!" he shouted across the ground.
I unbuckled my helmet, a heavy layer of sweat dripping down my neck. My personal score stood at exactly 16 runs off 92 balls, and our team total was 68 for 1. We had lost Kamlesh, but we had successfully carried the main core of our batting through the most dangerous session of the day.
Nitin walked over, tapping my bat with his handle as we headed toward the shade. "Brilliant session, Kabir. They’re completely wiped out."
"Let’s get some water," I said, wiping my forehead. "The final session is going to be flat."
