Free Web NovelChapter 4: Chapter 4:
Shivaji Park at 4:45 AM was buzzing.
The air was thick with the smell of wet mud, and the entire ground was already packed with kids. Everywhere you looked, green nets were set up side by side. The steady tock... tock... tock of leather hitting willow echoed from every corner of the maidan.
My dad parked our Maruti 800 by the curb, cut the engine, and reached into the back seat for a fresh canvas kit bag. He pulled out a dark red cricket ball and tossed it over.
"Check the weight," he said, opening his door.
I caught it with my left hand. This was a standard five-ounce, rock-hard leather ball. The seam was a thick, rough ridge of cotton stitching that dug right into my fingers. It felt completely different from the synthetic rubber ball we used on the society concrete.
"It’s heavy," I said, spinning it in my palm.
"Get used to it," my dad said. "The bounce on turf isn’t perfect like the concrete path. The ball will grip the mud and behave weirdly. Adjust your eyes fast. Let’s go find Achrekar sir."
We walked across the damp grass, our sneakers getting soaked by the morning dew. Standing near the main nets was a short, stern man in a white cap, leaning against a Bajaj Chetak scooter.
Ramakant Achrekar. The man who coached Sachin. He was holding a clipboard, watching a bunch of junior boys do warm-up laps.
"Harpal," Achrekar sir said, nodding as my dad walked up. His voice was gravelly and old-school. "You brought the stock for the senior team?"
"Sent it straight to the pavilion, sir," my dad said, putting a hand on my shoulder. "I also brought my son, Kabir. He’s eight. Give him a look."
Achrekar sir looked down at me. He took one look at my regular, academic school uniform from our Dadar neighborhood and sighed.
"Harpal, every dad in Mumbai thinks his kid is a prodigy now," Achrekar sir said bluntly. "Which school does he go to?"
My dad named my regular school.
Achrekar sir shook his head immediately. "That school doesn’t even have a turf wicket. They play with tennis balls in a parking lot. My Shardashram junior boys have been grinding on hard leather since they were six. He won’t survive three balls."
"Just a full over, sir," my dad said quietly, pushing for a bit more. "Six balls. If he messes up, we go home."
Achrekar sir shrugged and looked toward the net. "Kamlesh! Come bowl to this kid. Give him a full over. Don’t break his fingers."
A twelve-year-old boy stepped out of the group. He picked up a scuffed leather ball, looking completely relaxed. To him, I was just a rich shopkeeper’s kid getting a joke trial.
I walked into the netted cage. The turf under my sneakers felt soft and uneven. I tapped my custom willow bat on the line and checked my stance.
Looking at the bowler, my mind instinctively relied on Sachin’s experience. I didn’t wait for a system prompt; I just used the memory of flawless balance that I had practiced for three years. I manually forced my feet parallel, dropped my weight onto the balls of my feet, and pointed my left shoulder dead straight down the line.
Achrekar sir, who was about to kickstart his scooter, stopped. His hand stayed on the handlebar. His eyes narrowed. Every kid in the city tried to copy Sachin’s stance, but they always looked stiff. My posture was perfectly fluid and low-centered because the habit was already drilled into my muscles.
"Watch the ball," Kamlesh said, running in for the first delivery.
He bowled a proper overarm delivery. The red ball skidded off a damp patch of grass, staying much lower than expected.
A normal eight-year-old would have panicked and swung blindly. But my eyes traced the low dip instantly. I didn’t reach forward. Using the defensive blueprints fixed in my mind, I moved my right foot back, dropped my wrists, and blunted the ball right into the mud at my toes.
Thud.
A clean, muted defensive block. The ball stopped dead, rolling just two inches away.
[DING! DELIBERATE MATCH PRACTICE DETECTED: TURF VARIABLES APPLIED.]
[STROKE ACCURACY MATCHING SACHIN TENDULKAR BLUEPRINT: 91%]
[SYNCHRONIZATION RATE INCREASED: 15.2% -> 15.4%]
Achrekar sir didn’t say a word. He took his hand off his scooter and walked over to the side of the net.
For the second ball, Kamlesh muttered something under his breath, looking surprised. He ran in faster, pitching this one shorter on the off-stump line.
A classic junior trap. I stepped forward, my front foot planting right beside the bounce. I kept my head dead still and swung the bat down in a perfectly straight vertical line.
Crack!
The contact hit the absolute center of the sweet spot. The red ball rocketed straight back down the turf, missing Kamlesh’s ankles by inches and slamming hard into the back net. A textbook straight drive.
Kamlesh clicked his tongue, clearly annoyed now. He snatched the ball back from the net, marched to his mark, and steamed in for the third ball. He tried to pace me out, firing a quick, shorter ball aiming directly down the leg-side line to force me into a messy dodge.
I didn’t panic. My hips swiveled naturally. Using Sachin’s mental grid for leg-side play, I stayed perfectly balanced on my back foot, rolled my wrists over the bouncing ball, and gently tucked it away with a quick flick of my hands. The ball zipped through the leg-side grass smoothly.
Kamlesh rubbed the ball on his trousers, glaring slightly. For the fourth ball, he decided to test my patience. He bowled a perfect outswinger, pitching it right on the fourth-stump line—just outside the off-stump—waiting for me to chase it greedily.
It was the ultimate test of a batsman’s ego. But my brain was forty-three, and my template was Sachin. I didn’t reach out. I didn’t flash my bat. Instead, I confidently stepped across, lifted my arms high into the air, and let the ball pass cleanly by to the wicketkeeper with a classic, elite Test match leave. My eyes followed the red leather right until it passed my shoulder.
Achrekar sir’s eyebrows shot up. He nodded once, his eyes locked onto my shoulders. An eight-year-old kid knowing exactly where his off-stump was, without guessing, was unheard of in local academy cricket.
Kamlesh was losing his cool. For the fifth ball, he tried to rush me with pure speed, aiming for the base of the middle stump. I didn’t swing wildly. I simply pushed my front pad out, brought the bat down straight right beside it, and executed another rock-solid, dead-batted defensive block. The leather ball dropped lifelessly into the grass.
By the sixth ball, Kamlesh was completely desperate for a wicket. He ran in and threw everything into a heavy, looping slower ball to trick my timing. I saw the change in his wrist release instantly. I waited, delayed my swing by half a second, and executed a crisp, text-book cover drive through the off-side gap.
Six balls. Complete technical dominance.
"Enough," Achrekar sir barked, stepping into the cage. He didn’t praise me. He just checked my bat’s weight and looked at my arms. "Stance is stable. Your leave on the fourth ball was clean. But copying a batsman is just mimicry. Drop the bat. Let me see you field."
I dropped the willow and picked up the leather ball.
But I didn’t put it in my right hand. I switched it to my left.
Achrekar sir crossed his arms. "Ambidextrous?"
I didn’t answer. Holding the leather seam, I relied on Wasim’s memory of wrist release. I didn’t have adult strength, but I knew the exact mechanics to manipulate the ball.
I took a short five-step run-up. I loaded my body side-on, hiding the ball behind my hip so the batsman couldn’t see it until the last second. Then, I whipped my left arm through with a sudden, quick wrist snap.
[DING! PROPER BALL MECHANICS DETECTED: SEAM FRICTION APPLIED.]
[RELEASE ACCURACY MATCHING WASIM AKRAM GRID: 93%]
[SYNCHRONIZATION RATE INCREASED: 14.8% -> 15.1%]
The ball flew with a perfect upright seam. It pitched right on the good length area, gripped the damp grass, and violently jagged away from the right-handed batsman.
Kamlesh didn’t even bring his bat down. The ball sliced right past his outside edge and cleanly clipped the top of off-stump, knocking the wooden bail into the dirt.
A sharp, hidden left-arm outswinger.
The entire net went completely quiet. The other junior players stopped running, staring at the broken stump. Kamlesh just stood there, looking at his shattered wicket, completely speechless. I casually walked over, picked up the bail, and placed it back on the stump.
Achrekar sir stood frozen, looking at the bail, then at my left wrist, and finally at my dad. His face was dead serious. As a veteran coach, he knew exactly how rare a right-handed batsman who could bowl high-quality left-arm swing was. It was a massive tactical advantage for school tournaments.
He reached into his pocket and pulled out a blue, folded paper. It was an official school transfer form for Shardashram Vidyamandir.
He slapped it onto his scooter seat and looked at my dad.
"Get his leaving certificate from that regular school by Monday morning, Harpal," Achrekar sir said, his voice dropping to a sharp whisper. "From Tuesday, he starts at Shardashram in the sports batch. I’m putting him straight into the junior squad nets under my personal watch."
My dad let out a breath he’d been holding, a quiet look of pride hitting his face. He looked down at me and nodded.
I checked my floating stats screen, a calm smile hitting my face as the morning sun finally broke through the haze.
[STATUS PANEL]
Name: Kabir Singh
Age: 8
Stamina: 31/100
Current School Status: Shardashram Vidyamandir (Pending Transfer)
The backyard garden was officially over.
"Got it, Sir," I said, picking up my bat. "I’ll be here on Tuesday."
