Free Web NovelChapter 25: Chapter 25:
The fan ceiling blades made a stupid tuck-tuck-tuck sound every single turn. It was way past midnight. I just lay there flat, looking at that gray water stain in the corner plaster.
Three years.
Three years since I woke up in this dumb eight-year-old body after my 2026 heart failure at my shop inherited from my dad. It felt like a lifetime ago. Only six months back my dad took me by the hand to Shivaji Park so Achrekar sir could watch me look at a ball. Now my fingers just stayed stiff. Yellow leather dust was stuck inside my skin callouses from the bat grip.
I rolled over. The wooden cot gave a loud creek. In the dark corner, my canvas bag was just leaning against the cupboard. My bat handle was sticking out from the top zipper. It smelled like rancid linseed oil and sweat.
Tomorrow morning was the Giles Shield Grand Final. No more shit Azad Maidan dirt tracks with stones. We were at Brabourne Stadium.
Four days. No overs limit. The pitch will have real bounce but the outfield grass is thick. If I reach out early with loose hands, it’s straight to slip. Keep the bat stuck to the pad. No boundaries early.
Our opponents were IES New English School, Bandra. The seniors said they hadn’t lost a match all winter. They had two bowlers who played under-14 state and bowled real quick.
I pulled the thin bedsheet right up to my chin. The fan just kept clicking.
The changing room inside the Brabourne stadium pavilion was dead quiet.
Big teak lockers everywhere and the green carpet completely hid the sound of our boot spikes. Kamlesh stood right in front of the mirror. He kept tucking his shirt into his white pants, then pulling it out, then tucking it in again. His fingers were shaking against his belt.
"The grass is too thick, re," Kamlesh said, looking back at my corner. "The ball won’t even go to the boundary unless you hit it right from the middle."
"Then don’t try to whack it," I said, bending down to knot my boots. "Just tap it into the gaps."
Achrekar sir walked in and threw his linen kit bag right onto the big table. Nobody said a word after that. Nitin was fixing his thigh guard and he immediately stood up straight like a soldier.
The coach didn’t look at our faces. He unzipped his pouch, took out his black clipboard, and banged it on the table once.
Thud.
"IES New English has good spinners for the afternoon," Achrekar sir said, his voice sounding like gravel scraping together. "But their fast bowlers will use the morning sweat on the grass. Nitin, if you win the coin, what are you doing?"
Nitin looked down at his white shoes. "Sir, the morning pitch has moisture. Maybe we bowl—"
"You bat first," Achrekar sir said, cutting him off. His voice was flat. He looked right at me and Kamlesh. "If we field first in a four-day match here, their openers will just sit on the pitch for two days. They will score four hundred. Kabir, Kamlesh—you face the first hour. If anyone loses a wicket before drinks, the whole team goes into a hole. Keep the ball on the ground."
I stood up and grabbed my red helmet. "Yes, Sir."
"Nitin, go for the toss," the coach said, turning around to count the extra leather balls in his sack.
The concrete stands went up all around the grass, completely empty and gray under the morning sun. The center pitch looked totally flat and white. They had rolled it until it looked like a marble floor.
The referee stood in the middle with Nitin and the IES captain.
"Shardashram’s call," the referee said, holding the brass coin.
Nitin rubbed his palms on his pants. "Tails."
The referee flicked his thumb. The coin went up into the white sky and dropped with a small click on the hard clay. The referee bent down to see.
"Tails," the referee said, looking at Nitin.
Nitin didn’t even look back at our dressing room balcony. He pointed his bat straight at the pitch. "We’ll bat first, Sir."
The IES captain just nodded and walked away to his huddle near the boundary line. He started yelling at his fast bowlers to start their run-up marks.
I stood near the white rope, fixing my helmet sweatband. The umpire was walking out with a brand-new red SG ball. The gold letters on the shiny leather looked bright under the sun.
Four days.
My fingers tightened around the rubber grip. The local rounds were finished. I stepped over the white rope, my spikes sinking into the thick stadium grass. Kamlesh walked out right behind me.
