Free Web NovelChapter 6: Chapter 6: selection match
The canvas kit bag was digging into my shoulder by the time I unhooked it from my Atlas cycle.
It was barely 5:00 AM on Tuesday, but Shivaji Park was already packed. Over at Net Number 3, the Shardashram under-14 squad boys were crowding around Coach Achrekar sir’s old Bajaj Chetak scooter.
I dragged my bag through the damp grass, my sneakers getting soaked by the morning dew.
"Look who it is," someone muttered in the huddle.
A tall, broad twelve-year-old boy stepped out, blocking my path. It was Nitin, the under-14 captain and the team’s main number three batsman. He looked down at my height, crossing his arms over his chest.
"So you’re the transfer kid," Nitin said, his voice flat. "Achrekar sir put your name straight into the playing eleven for the trial match today. No practice nets, no carrying drinks. Just a direct spot."
I dropped my bag in the dirt. "Sir told me to show up."
"Sir isn’t playing the match, chotu," Nitin said, leaning down a bit. "This isn’t your backyard garden. The guys here have been grinding for two years to get an opening slot. If you mess up or throw loose balls today, you’re out. Rich dad or not."
"I don’t bowl loose balls," I said.
Nitin’s face stiffened, but the sharp clink of a scooter kickstand hit the pavement, cutting him off. Achrekar sir walked over, tapping his clipboard against his leg.
"Stop talking and get ready," the coach barked. "The pitch has moisture from the morning fog. Did you do the toss, Nitin?"
"Yes, Sir," Nitin said, shifting his tone instantly. "We’re bowling first."
Achrekar sir looked straight at me. "Kabir. You’re opening from the Churchgate end with the new ball. Kamlesh from the pavilion end. Get your field set."
A couple of the senior boys looked annoyed, but nobody argued with the coach.
I sat down on a plastic bench, pulled out my small leg guards, and strapped them on tight. My heart was thumping, but my mind was totally calm. I grabbed the brand-new red leather ball from the assistant coach. The six-row stitching was hard and sharp, fitting perfectly between my fingers.
I walked down to my bowling mark. The turf pitch looked dark and damp, with a tiny bit of green grass left on top. Perfect for swing.
Nitin walked past me to take his spot at first slip, spitting into the grass. "Chal, let’s see what you can do."
I didn’t say anything. I took five paces back and turned around.
At the batting end stood Rohan, a thirteen-year-old opener who loved to whack the ball. He tapped his heavy bat on the crease, looking at me with a smirk. To him, an eight-year-old opening the bowling was a complete joke.
I held the ball behind my hip, locking my index and middle fingers tightly across the seam. I didn’t need a system prompt. I just used Wasim Akram’s memory of wrist release that I’d practiced for six months. I knew exactly how the morning wind coming across the park would help the ball.
I took my first step, running in with a smooth five-step rhythm.
At the crease, I loaded up side-on, keeping my right shoulder pointing straight at Rohan’s chest. That completely hid the ball behind my body until the last microsecond. Then, I whipped my left arm through with a sudden wrist snap.
Thwack.
The ball left my hand with a perfectly straight seam, heading right down the off-stump line.
Rohan confidently stepped forward, lifting his bat to punch it through the off-side.
But the second the leather hit the damp turf patch, it gripped the moisture. Combined with my wrist flick, the ball jagged sharply inward in mid-air, cutting right through the gap between Rohan’s bat and pad.
Clack!
The red ball smashed straight into the base of the middle stump, ripping it out of the dirt and knocking the bail into the grass.
Clean bowled on the very first ball.
[Release Accuracy: 94%]
[Wasim Akram Sync: 17.1% -> 17.3%]
The boundary tent went completely dead silent. The senior boys sitting on the kit bags stopped talking.
Rohan just stood there in his shot pose, staring at his middle stump lying in the dirt. He blinked, completely frozen.
Nitin, who was crouching at first slip, slowly stood up. The smirk was completely gone from his face.
I didn’t celebrate or shout. I just walked down the pitch, picked up the wooden bail from the grass, and handed it to the umpire before walking back to my mark.
Achrekar sir didn’t say anything either, but he took his pen and made a heavy checkmark next to my name on his sheet.
The next batsman, a nervous twelve-year-old named Sameer, walked out, quickly adjusting his thigh guard. He looked terrified.
I held the ball, shifting my fingers slightly to keep my index finger a bit tighter on the seam. I ran in with the same whippy action, hiding the ball behind my hip. Sameer, scared of another inswinger, pre-emptively planted his front foot down to cover his legs.
The ball flew down the middle-stump line, but this time it hit the grass and sliced sharply away from his bat, missing the outside edge by a millimeter straight into the keeper’s gloves.
"Beautiful!" the keeper bowled it back to me.
I didn’t let up the pressure. On the next delivery, I targeted the exact same spot, but let it angle down the leg-stump line. Sameer shivered, trying to tickle it away, but the ball skidded low off the turf and struck his back pad.
"Howzatt!" the keeper and I yelled together, appealing for Leg Before Wicket.
The umpire shook his head, waving his hand to show it was sliding down leg side. Sameer tapped his chest, exhaling a massive breath of relief. His forehead was covered in sweat under his oversized helmet.
He didn’t try to attack for the rest of the over. He just went into full survival mode, poking blindly at a wider outswinger that I teased him with, and then hurriedly dropping his bat down to blunt my final delivery straight back into the dirt at my feet. I fielded it cleanly with my left hand and tossed it back to the keeper without looking at him.
By the time the over ended, the score was 0 runs for 1 wicket. I had completely locked them down.
I walked back toward the boundary to grab my cap from the umpire, my chest heaving as my stamina dropped.
Nitin walked past me to change fielding ends. He didn’t look me in the eye, but as his shoulder passed mine, he muttered, "Good ball, re. Keep it tight from this end."
I took my cap and smiled. The match was long, and I still had to bat later, but the statement was made. The seniors knew exactly what they were dealing with now.
