Free Web NovelChapter 17: Chapter 17:
The damp scent of fresh ink hit my nose as my dad dropped the copy of Loksatta right next to my bowl of sprouted lentils. The newspaper was still cold from the morning delivery boy.
"Page four," my dad said, sitting down and reaching for his brass cup of tea. "Bottom corner."
I wiped my hands on a towel and turned the rough newsprint pages. There was no big photograph, just a small, three-paragraph column tucked right underneath the local corporate league scores.
The Marathi print was clear:
Shardashram’s 8-Year-Old Wall. Kabir Singh faces 154 balls against Anjuman-I-Islam to anchor a match-winning first innings score of 282. Local selection committees are noting the unusual discipline of the young opener.
"Let me see!" my mom said, snatching the sports section away from my plate. Her eyes widened as she ran her thumb over my name. "Harpal, look! They printed his full name. I’m going to cut this out and keep it in the iron cupboard."
"Don’t bother," my dad said, blowing on his hot tea. "Achrekar will see this print today. That means Tuesday morning is going to be absolute hell for the boy at the nets. Don’t let him get a big head."
"It’s just three lines, Mom," I said, taking another bite of the lentils.
He’s right. Achrekar sir hates media hype for junior players. If I look even a fraction slow on Tuesday, he’ll make me run till my lungs bleed. Keep the head down.
"Eat fast," my dad added, checking his watch. "The shop needs to open early today, and your kit bag needs a new shoulder strap before Tuesday."
By 4:55 AM on Tuesday, Shivaji Park was pitch black and freezing cold. The morning fog was so thick I could barely see the handlebars of my Atlas cycle as I rolled it past the rusted iron gate.
My joints were still slightly stiff from the match, the cold morning air making my knees ache under my cotton trousers.
Net Number 3 was already lit by the faint yellow glow of a single streetlamp near the main road. Achrekar sir was standing next to his Bajaj Chetak scooter, his hands tucked deep into his woolen sweater pocket. He didn’t have his clipboard today; he just had a small leather pouch hanging from his wrist.
"Kit on, Kabir," Achrekar sir barked the moment my tire crunched the gravel. "Five minutes."
I didn’t answer. I hurried over to the plastic bench, pulled on my small leg guards, and strapped them tight. Nitin and Kamlesh were standing near the bowling markers, their breath coming out in white clouds in the freezing air.
"He’s in a terrible mood today, re," Kamlesh whispered to me as I grabbed my bat. "He saw the newspaper column yesterday. He told the fast bowlers to clip your ears if you pitch your weight back."
I walked into the turf net. The pitch was damp, covered in heavy morning dew that made the red soil look dark and slick.
Achrekar sir walked up to the stumps at my end. He didn’t say a single word about the Anjuman match. He didn’t mention the eighty-three runs. He reached into his leather pouch, pulled out a shiny, silver one-rupee coin, and placed it flat right on top of my middle stump.
He looked at me through his thick spectacles.
"Devendra, Kamlesh, Baig—all of you bowl from that end," Achrekar sir shouted down the track. "If anyone knocks his stumps over, the coin is yours. If Kabir is still standing when the sun hits the top of the banyan tree, he keeps it."
He turned back to me, his voice dropping to a gravelly rasp. "If you play a single lofted shot, you are running fifteen laps. Play."
The coin test. He’s testing my ego. He wants to see if the newspaper article made me greedy. Keep the bat straight. Do not look at the boundary.
Devendra took the new ball, ran in hard through the fog, and unleashed a quick delivery right on the fourth-stump line. The ball hit the damp turf and zipped past my outside edge at top pace.
"Don’t chase it!" Achrekar sir yelled from square leg, tapping his cane against his boot. "Your left shoulder is dropping too early! Keep the head over the ball!"
The next ball was faster, angling sharply into my ribs. My eight-year-old reflexes took over. I didn’t try to pull it or flick it toward the leg-side fence. I dropped my wrists, loosened my grip on the handle, and let the ball strike the center of the wood, deadening it right into the wet grass at my feet.
Thud.
"Good," Nitin muttered from behind the net. "Same spot, Devendra."
For an hour and a half, the nets became an absolute graveyard. Achrekar sir stood right at square leg, manually throwing balls or forcing the quicks to bowl a relentless fourth-stump line—the corridor of uncertainty. He didn’t let me score. Every time I tried to push a single, he’d shout, "Block it! Hold the weight on the front foot!"
My arms are getting numb from the vibration of the wet leather. The ball is heavy. Don’t lift the blade. Keep the elbow high.
Baig ran in, his face red from the cold, and fired a skidding yorker straight at the base of the middle stump, right under the coin. I brought the vertical face of the willow down like an absolute wall, clicking the leather dead on the line.
Click.
The coin didn’t even shake.
By 7:30 AM, the morning sun finally broke through the heavy fog, lighting up the top branches of the banyan tree behind the nets. The fast bowlers were completely spent, their shoulders slumping as they leaned against the iron poles, breathing hard.
Achrekar sir walked up to the stumps, looked at the silver coin still sitting perfectly flat on top of the wood, and picked it up with his thick thumb. He didn’t smile, but he pressed the cold metal straight into my sweaty palm.
"The Quarterfinal is next Monday against Don Bosco," Achrekar sir said, turning his back to walk toward his scooter. "They have two off-spinners who bowl from wide of the crease. If you edge a single ball to slip on Tuesday, this coin comes back to me. Go wash your face."
I looked down at the small silver coin in my hand, my fingers caked in wet red soil and bat grip oil. The media hype didn’t matter. The first match didn’t matter. The grid was resetting, and the real grind was just beginning.
