Free Web NovelChapter 39: Chapter 39: Day three.
The Monday morning sun was barely over the pavilion roof at 9:30 AM, but the Marine Drive breeze was already pushing the scent of salt across the outfield grass.
Inside our bowling huddle near the boundary rope, Assistant Coach Kadam adjusted his brass whistle, looking over at Chief Selector Vasu Paranjape. The West Zone batsmen were already putting their helmets on to start their second innings.
"Vasu sir," Kadam said, keeping his voice low as he looked at the sheet. "Why are we starting with Kabir now? Wouldn’t Kulkarni be better with the breeze? The kid spent six hours fielding in the dirt on Day One, and he hasn’t even touched a bat yet in this match. He’ll get tired right away."
Vasu Paranjape shook his head slowly, his eyes narrowing behind his spectacles as he watched me loosen my left shoulder near the stumps. "He bowled and batted brilliantly in the Giles Shield. I didn’t want the West Zone players to get a look at his bowling on Day One. Plus, he bowls with his left hand. They are completely expecting Kulkarni’s right-arm pace. This is going to take them off guard."
"He’s only eight, Sir," Kadam muttered.
"Watch his wrist," Vasu sir said flatly, turning around to sit on his crate.
Nitin clapped his hands together, calling the eleven into a tight ring. "Field is standard, Kabir. Take your markers."
[Akram Sync: 20.0%]
[Tendulkar Sync: 20.0%]
The blue text bar updated in the corner of my eye before vanishing. With my Akram template sitting at a fresh twenty percent, my vision felt completely sharp. The ball in my hand was the seventy-four-over-old leather from yesterday—completely scuffed, rough on one side, and totally dry.
The old ball is perfect for this. The breeze is strong from the pavilion end. If I keep the shiny side on the left and snap my wrist late, the scuffed leather will tail inward off the turf.
I walked to the top of my five-step mark, waving my hand toward the slip ring. "Kamlesh, Amit, Nitin. Three slips, please. Keep them tight."
The West Zone opener, Sharma, took his guard. He looked down the pitch at my small frame, his bat tapping casually against the crease. He didn’t look worried at all.
I ran in for the first ball of the morning. My spikes made a sharp scuffing sound against the hard turf. I loaded up side-on, whipped my left arm over in a high, quick circle, and snapped my wrist hard at the release point, letting the shiny side catch the wind.
The old ball started outside the off-stump line, but mid-way through the air, the slight reverse swing kicked in. The leather tailed sharply inward off the grass, cutting right through the gap between Sharma’s bat and pad before he could even drop his hands.
Clack.
The ball smashed straight into the base of his off-stump, sending the bails flying into the dirt.
Sharma stood there with his bat still half-lifted, his mouth open in complete shock. He looked at his broken wicket, then looked down at me, completely frozen. He was out for a golden duck.
Score: 0 Wickets / 1 Run (0.1 Overs).
"Yes, Kabir!" Nitin screamed, sprinting from slip and grabbing my shirt in a tight headlock. The whole team ran over, slapping my back. Kulkarni was yelling from the boundary line, punching the air.
I didn’t waste my energy celebrating. I took the ball back from the umpire, checked the rough seam, and walked straight back to my five-step mark.
For the next four overs, I kept the pressure completely suffocating. The West Zone batsmen had no idea how an eight-year-old was making an old ball move so sharply in mid-air. On my second over, their number three tried to defend a full delivery, but the late reverse swing caught his outside edge, flying low to Nitin at second slip for a clean catch.
In my fourth over, I finished the spell by clean-bowling their captain with a fast, tailing yorker that hit his boot pad before crashing into the leg-stump.
My final figures for the morning were locked: 4 Overs, 1 Maiden, 12 Runs, 3 Wickets.
The momentum was completely broken. Devendra and Vinay came on from both ends to clear up the rest of their lower order, using the drying pitch to find quick edges. By 11:15 AM, West Zone was completely bundled out for a tiny 86 All Out in their second innings.
The math on the tin scoreboard was clear: with their first-innings lead of 65 runs added to the 86, North Zone team was set a target of exactly 152 runs to win.
Inside the pavilion tent during the lunch break, the air was heavy. There were exactly 45 overs remaining in the final day’s play to chase down the 152 target.
Assistant Coach Kadam stood near the central bench, his finger tapping his clipboard. "The pitch is cracking up under the sun now, boys. One hundred and fifty-two is too risky for forty-five overs on a Day Three track. If we lose quick wickets trying to chase, we lose the tournament points completely. Kabir, Kamlesh—you two open. Your instructions are to hold your wickets and draw the match. Just block everything straight."
I stood by my kit bag, pulling my pads over my shins. I didn’t say anything to him, but my mind was completely set. In modern 2026 cricket, I knew that blocking for three hours on a breaking pitch was a trap. One ball would eventually hit a crack and take my glove. The only way to survive was to score the runs and win the match.
I looked at Nitin, and he gave me a silent, quick nod back. We had the same plan.he doesn’t want to lose either
At 12:10 PM, Kamlesh and I walked out onto the grass. The sun was right overhead, making the turf look white and dry.
Their opening seamer, Deshmukh, ran in hard from the sea end, firing a fast delivery right on a length. I didn’t push my hands out away from my body. I accessed the updated 20.0% Tendulkar grid, leaned my left shoulder down the line, and played a textbook forward defense to deaden the ball into the grass.
Thud.
Kamlesh batted solidly, scoring a neat 22 before he got trapped LBW by a straight arm-ball that didn’t turn in the tenth over against their left-arm spinner.
Score: 45 for 1.
Nitin walked out at number three, his face serious. He met me near the non-striker’s crease, checking his gloves. "Vasu sir is watching the clock, Kabir. The spinners are going to loop it now."
"Let them loop," I said. "The mid-wicket boundary is short with the wind. If they drop it short, use the wrists."
The 15th over began with their off-spinner, Chavan, bowling from the pavilion end.
On the third ball of the over, Chavan tossed up a slower, flighted delivery outside the off-stump line. I saw the extra loop early. I didn’t rush my arms. I took a short stride forward, opened the face of the bat at the last microsecond, and executed a clean, ground-level late cut.
CRACK.
The sound off the flat sweet spot was loud and metallic. The ball rocketed along the turf, beating the diving point fielder and racing across the fast outfield grass to hit the boundary rail with a sharp clang.
"Shot, Kabir!" Nitin called out, tapping his bat against the turf.
On the final ball of that same over, Chavan tried to correct his line, firing a flatter delivery down the leg-stump mark. I stayed steady on my back foot, waited for the bounce to reach my hip, and used a sharp wrist-flick to turn the ball through the empty square-leg area.
"Two, Kabir! Run hard!" Nitin yelled, already sprinting past me down the track.
I turned hard at the non-striker’s end, my small spikes cutting a deep groove into the grass. My lungs were burning from the midday humidity, but I lunged my bat over the crease line just as the deep fielder threw the ball back to the keeper. We crossed for a comfortable double.
By the 22nd over, my personal score had moved smoothly to forty-five.
Salvi, their second fast bowler, came back for a short burst from the far end, his pace down to a tired medium-fast. On his second delivery, he tried to bowl a heavy bouncer right at my forehead. I anticipated the short length, stood high on my toes, and used a textbook back-foot punch to send the ball right through the gap between point and cover.
CRACK.
The ball rolled like a bullet along the ground, hitting the advertisement boards for another boundary.
My half-century came up off 102 balls. I raised my bat quickly toward the selectors’ box, then took my stance again.
The runs came consistently now. Nitin anchored his end well, scoring a mature 45 through quick singles and cover drives before he unluckily misjudged a flighted ball from Joshi and lifted a simple catch to the mid-on fielder in the 36th over.
Score: 140 for 2.
We needed just twelve runs to win. Their left-arm spinner ran in for the 38th over, delivering a loose half-volley right on the pads. I didn’t swing with wild power. I just leaned my weight onto my front knee, kept my chin perfectly over the ball, and flicked it cleanly past the short-fine-leg fielder for the final boundary of the match.
Smack.
The ball hit the boundary rail. The main umpire reached down and pulled the wooden bails from the turf.
"Match over!"
The Shardashram dugout erupted instantly. The standby boys came sprinting across the grass like absolute maniacs, throwing their water bottles into the air. Nitin ran out first, grabbing my shoulders and pulling me into a tight team huddle right near the pitch, everyone yelling and jumping together in a ring. We had chased down the 152 target to win the match by 8 wickets [M].
My individual score was locked at 73* Not Out off 114 balls. I pulled my helmet off, taking a deep breath of the salty air.
We walked back toward the pavilion stairs in a tight line. Chief Selector Vasu Paranjape was standing near the gate, his black notebook tucked under his armpit. As I dragged my heavy kit bag past his stool, he stepped forward and gave my dusty shoulder guard a single, heavy pat.
"You batted like a proper professional today, Kabir," Vasu sir said, his gravelly voice sounding warm for the first time. "You didn’t let the pressure break your shape."
Assistant Coach Kadam walked over, a small smile on his face as he checked his sheet. "Alright, boys, huddle up. The victory is good, but the tournament isn’t finished. Day after tomorrow, Wednesday morning at five-thirty AM, report back to Shivaji Park for the next selection nets. Take tomorrow off, rest your bodies, and clean your gear. Don’t be late."
"Yes, Sir!" the whole team shouted together.
I lifted my canvas kit bag higher on my shoulder, looking at the raw callouses on my fingers. The first zonal match was won, but the next round was waiting for us on Wednesday morning.
