Free Web NovelChapter 3: Chapter 3:
The plastic bat went straight into the society compound’s trash bin.
"Catch," my dad said, tossing me a piece of wood.
It was a real willow bat, but cut down to my size. My dad had spent three nights in the back of the Dadar shop shaving it down until it was light enough for a five-year-old to swing. The second my hands gripped the handle, the 5% Sachin template clicked. A plastic toy has no weight balance, but this wood felt right. My fingers shifted on their own, locking into a clean, tight V-grip.
"How’s the weight?" my dad asked, adjusting my left shoulder.
"Perfect," I squeaked. I took a stance on the concrete path next to our society lawn, tapped the toe of the bat, and took a shadow swing.
Swish.
"Good sound," he muttered. He dragged a heavy green nylon net out of a canvas bag and hooked it onto a portable metal frame. "We’re setting this up by the back wall. The neighbors are already complaining about you hitting the ball into the rose bushes."
For the next year, this was the weekend routine. My dad stood fifteen paces away with a plastic sidearm extension, throwing the heavy rubber training ball at me over and over. The concrete made the ball skid fast, but the mental blueprints in my head were getting sharper.
[DING! DELIBERATE PRACTICE DETECTED.]
[STROKE ACCURACY MATCHING SACHIN TENDULKAR BLUEPRINT: 94%]
[SYNCHRONIZATION INCREASED: 5.0% -> 5.8%]
The System didn’t move my arms for me. If my elbow dropped, I missed the ball. The template just gave me the knowing. It was like having the answers to an exam before taking it; I still had to write them down myself.
"Keep your head over the ball," my dad called out, loading another throw. "Don’t look up early."
He fired it overarm. It skidded low. I stepped forward, met the ball right under my nose, and deadened it with a soft defensive punch. The ball stopped right at my toes.
My dad shook his head, staring at the ball. "You’re six years old, Kabir. Kids your age just want to whack the ball over the fence. Where do you get this defense from?"
"If I don’t get out, I can score more later," I said, wiping my forehead. "Throw another one."
By November 1989, the training took a backseat. The whole country was glued to the TV.
Sachin Tendulkar, sixteen years old, was debuting against Pakistan in Karachi. Imran Khan, Wasim Akram, Waqar Younis—the Pakistani pace attack was practically throwing fire on a green, grassy pitch.
My dad and I sat in our living room, staring at the BPL color TV [M]. My mom left a plate of pakoras on the table, but nobody was eating.
On the screen, Sachin walked out looking tiny in his oversized pads.
"The selectors are out of their minds," my dad muttered, leaning forward with his chin in his hands. "He’s a child. Wasim is going to kill him on that wicket."
I didn’t say anything. I just watched.
Then, Waqar Younis bowled a nasty, lifting bouncer. It smashed right into Sachin’s nose-guard. Blood sprayed onto his white shirt. The Pakistani fielders swarmed him, telling him to go home.
My dad stood up, looking tense. "That’s a fracture. He needs to come off."
But on the screen, Sachin waved the medical staff away. He wiped the blood with his sleeve and took his guard again. The stump mic caught his squeaky voice clearly: "Main khelega."
The next ball, Waqar fired another quick one. Sachin didn’t flinch. He leaned forward and punched a pristine straight drive right past the bowler for four.
My dad let out a breath he’d been holding and sat back down, a massive grin on his face. "Did you see that? That’s a Mumbai batsman right there. He didn’t blink."
Watching that match didn’t give me a magical cheat code. The System screens stayed completely quiet. But seeing a sixteen-year-old stand up to world-class pace gave me a real, practical understanding of why textbook alignment mattered. The next morning, I was down in the garden before my dad even woke up, dragging him out to the net. Because my focus was completely locked in, my practice sessions became brutal, driving my sync rates up the hard way, ball by ball.
By 1991, I turned eight.
Three years of grinding on the society ground changed everything. I wasn’t a chubby kid anymore; my legs were quick, and my wrists were tough from handling that heavy rubber ball.
My System stats screen looked completely different now.
[STATUS PANEL]
Name: Kabir Singh
Age: 8
Stamina: 35/100
Sachin Tendulkar Template: 15.2% Sync
Wasim Akram Template: 14.8% Sync
I had completely maxed out what the society concrete could teach me. My left-arm bowling had reached a point where my dad had to wear proper shin guards just to stand at the other end. I had mastered Wasim’s hidden arm action—keeping the ball completely out of sight until the final fraction of a second before release. The ball would pitch on middle and jag back to hit off-stump cleanly, over and over.
It was a Sunday evening, and the sun was setting behind the Dadar high-rises. We just finished a long session, and I was unbuckling my small leg pads.
My dad was sitting on the stone garden bench, wiping the grass stains off the rubber ball. He looked at me packing my kit into the trolley bag.
"Kabir," he said casually.
"Yeah, Dad?"
"Don’t take the bats out of the bag tonight," he said, zipping his own gear pouch. "Leave it by the door."
I paused. "Why? We aren’t playing next week?"
My dad stood up, looking out toward the northern lanes of Dadar, where the massive floodlights of Shivaji Park were just starting to hum to life in the evening haze.
"We’re done with the garden," he said, tossing his towel into his bag. "Your timing is fine, and you’re just wasting your time on this flat concrete anyway. Tomorrow we’re heading to Shivaji Park at 5:00 AM. Coach Achrekar sir is going to be at the morning nets, and I want him to look at your grip."
I gripped the strap of my kit bag, a quiet smile hitting my face.
The real grind was finally starting.
"Got it, Dad," I said. "I’ll set the alarm."
