Free Web NovelChapter 14: Chapter 14:
The canvas flap of the tent was cold against my back as I walked in. My forearms were burning so bad from holding the blade straight for two hours that I could barely open my fingers.
I dropped onto an old wooden box, unclipped my helmet, and yanked it off. My hair was a soaking, flattened mess.
Nitin tumbled onto the bench next to me, his bat banging hard against the dirt. He didn’t even pick it up. He just grabbed the clay jug, poured a bunch of water straight into his hands, and splashed it over his face, gasping for air.
"Farhan is completely dead, re," Nitin panted, wiping his eyes with his sleeve. "The skin near his nail is totally ripped open from trying to rip it off the cracks. There’s blood on the ball seam."
I didn’t answer. I unzipped the side pouch of my bag, pulled out my bottle of lemon-salt water, and took three short gulps.
My lower back is freezing up. Stand straight. Don’t sit hunched over or the muscles will lock before the final session.
Achrekar sir walked into the tent holding a cup of hot tea. He didn’t look at the other boys resting on the benches. He walked straight over to my crate, his heavy sandals scraping against the gravel.
He stood right in front of me, looking down at my dirt-covered trousers.
"Sixteen runs in two sessions," Achrekar sir said, his gravelly voice very quiet. "The ball is old and soft now. It won’t swing a millimeter."
Nitin stopped wiping his face, looking up.
"Nitin and Amit will go out and hit from the first ball," Achrekar sir said, looking back at me. "They will use their feet and clear the inner ring. Your job is to just stand there, Kabir. Don’t play any lofted shots. Let them score around you. If you get greedy and throw your wicket away now, I’ll bench you for the next month. Clear?"
He wants me to be the anchor. If I lock down one end, the captain can’t spread the field, and Nitin gets easy boundaries. Perfect.
"Clear, Sir," I said. "I’ll hold the end."
Achrekar sir nodded once, then turned to Nitin. "Nitin. Farhan is tired. He’s bowling flat now. The second he tosses it up, step out and hit him over mid-on. Don’t wait."
Nitin grinned, pulling his gloves back on. "Yes, Sir. I’ll clear him easily."
At 2:30 PM, the umpires walked back out.
The heat had turned into a heavy, dusty afternoon haze. The pitch looked completely ruined—the good-length area was full of white cracks and loose red soil from the bowlers’ spikes.
I took my guard at the striker’s end. "Sir, leg-stump again."
"Same line. Play," the umpire said.
Farhan took the scuffed old ball from the pavilion end. His shirt had white salt lines from his sweat. He ran in from a shorter run-up, tossing the ball up slowly.
He’s aiming for the big crack. Step out. Smother it before it lands.
I took two quick steps forward, met the ball right at the pitch before it could hit the cracked dirt, and blocked it straight back to him.
Click.
Farhan didn’t even look at me. He just grabbed the ball and walked back to his mark. On the last ball of the over, I pushed a flatter delivery into the gap near point and walked through for a single to keep the strike.
When Nitin faced their off-spinner in the next over, he didn’t wait. The second the ball was tossed up, Nitin charged down the pitch and smashed it cleanly over the mid-on fielder’s head.
The ball bounced twice and hit the iron boundary fence with a loud clang.
"Nice, Nitin!" the boys shouted from our tent.
The Anjuman captain started waving his arms, yelling at his fielders to push back to the long-on and long-off boundaries.
Gaps are open now. The inner ring is empty. Easy singles.
For the next five overs, the scoring went fast. Nitin was sweeping the left-armer and driving the off-spinner for regular boundaries. Every time I got onto strike, I just tapped the ball into the empty spaces left by their deep fielders and ran a sharp single to put Nitin back on strike.
Run, Nitin. Easy one.
My score crawled from 16 to 22, then to 28. My thighs were burning from the sprints, but my defense didn’t slip. By the thirtieth over, our score was sitting at 112 for 1.
But Nitin took one risk too many. Farhan bowled a quicker, skidding ball right on a crack. Nitin tried to charge him again, but the ball stayed incredibly low, went under his bat, and hit the off-stump.
Clack.
Nitin looked at his broken wicket, swore under his breath, and walked off for 42.
Score: 112 for 2.
Amit came in at number four. He scored a quick 25 by sweeping the spinners, but by 3:45 PM, the old ball started reversing a bit. Anjuman brought Baig back for a short spell.
Baig ran in, his face dark with sweat, and fired a fast, inswinging yorker right at Amit’s shoe. Amit was too slow, getting hit straight on the pad.
"Howzatt!"
The umpire’s finger went straight up. Amit was gone.
Score: 155 for 3.
Vinay and Sanjay came in next. They both played quick, risky cameos, scoring 15 and 18 runs before getting caught in the deep outfield trying to hit big shots against the tired spinners.
I just stayed there at the other end.
Every time a wicket fell, I took the bulk of the deliveries, blocking the straight ones and leaving anything wide. By 4:10 PM, the Anjuman bowlers were completely exhausted. Their captain had set a completely defensive field.
He’s dropping his wrist now. Too short. This is mine.
Farhan bowled a tired, short ball wide of off-stump. I stayed balanced on my back foot and executed a sharp late cut right through the gap between point and third man.
The ball rocketed across the grass and hit the boundary rope. Smack.
My first boundary of the match.
"Shot, Kabir!" Kamlesh yelled from the tent.
Two overs later, their medium pacer bowled a loose half-volley on my pads. I swiveled my hips and tucked it through the fine-leg gap for another boundary, my score pushing past fifty, then sixty, then seventy.
The main umpire finally looked at his watch and pulled the bails off.
"Stumps!" he shouted.
Day One was over.
I unbuckled my helmet, breathing heavily. My knees were shaking from batting through three sessions. My whites were completely brown from the maidan dust.
I called up the screen in the quiet glare.
[STATUS PANEL]
Name: Kabir Singh
Age: 8
Stamina: 21/100
Current Score: 73 Not Out (Balls Faced: 154, Boundaries: 2)*
Team Score at Stumps: 227 / 5 Wickets (Overs Faced: 45)
On the boundary line, a crowd of local coaches and parents had gathered behind the fence, pointing at me as I walked off with my bat on my shoulder.
Milind Rege stood up from his chair, closing his notebook. He looked at my dad.
"One hundred and fifty-four balls, Harpal," Rege said, shaking his head. "He played fifty overs without a single loose shot against Anjuman. That’s pure Khadoos cricket. Good control."
An old coach with a cane leaned over the fence, watching me walk past. "The kid didn’t give them a single half-chance all day. Achrekar has found a proper opener."
I walked into our tent, dropping my bag on the ground. My dad came in a second later and tossed a fresh, dry cotton towel onto my lap.
"Wipe your neck," he said, pulling the car keys out of his pocket. "Your mother called the shop twice. Change your shirt fast before the Dadar traffic gets jammed up near the bridge."
I unbuttoned the collar of my sweaty shirt, using the towel to scrub the sticky red dust off my neck. My fingers were so stiff from gripping the bat handle for five hours that I could barely unclip my watch. "My lower back is completely stiff, Dad."
"It’ll get worse if you sit here," my dad said, picking up my dirty leg guards from the dirt floor and stuffing them into the canvas bag. "Get into the car. We’ll put some warm mustard oil on it before dinner."
