Free Web NovelChapter 7: Chapter 7:
Achrekar sir didn’t call me back to give me my cap. He just sat on his plastic chair near the scooter, clicked his pen, and waved his hand toward my bowling mark.
"Keep going, Kabir," he muttered. "Don’t change the angle."
My left shoulder was already tightening up by the start of my third over. It was one thing to bowl six balls in a private society garden, but repeating a professional bowler’s wrist release four overs straight in an actual match was completely different. My eight-year-old lungs were drawing heavy, short breaths. The raw leather seam was rubbing against my index finger, leaving a dull, stinging heat on the skin.
"They’re starting to read the swing, Kabir!" Nitin shouted from first slip, clapping his hands twice. "Pitch it slightly further up! Make them drive!"
I nodded, wiping sweat off my eyebrows with my left sleeve.
Nitin was right. The new batsman had figured out that the ball was jagging back from the off-stump line. He was staying deep inside his crease, waiting for the bounce.
I didn’t try to force more pace. My body didn’t have the strength for it anyway. Instead, I accessed Wasim’s memory grid for a dry, humid morning. I shifted my fingers a millimeter to the left, angling the seam toward first slip. I ran in with the same whippy action, but let the ball fly wider, cutting away late off the grass.
The batsman went for a loose push, completely misjudging the line. The ball whistled straight past his outside edge into the keeper’s gloves.
Smack.
"Nice, re!" Kamlesh yelled from mid-on. "Same spot, same spot!"
By the time Achrekar sir finally took me off the bowling attack, I had finished a continuous four-over opening spell. My left arm felt completely numb, hanging loosely by my side.
"Go to long-on, Kabir," the assistant coach called out from the boundary line. "Keep your eyes on the batsman’s wrists."
I dragged my feet across the uneven grass, taking my position near the rusted iron fence of the park. The morning sun was getting sharper now, baking the red Mumbai soil until the ground felt hard and dusty under my sneakers.
Fielding at the boundary in Shivaji Park was an exercise in pure concentration. The ball didn’t roll smoothly; it bobbed and hopped over random clumps of weeds and dry mud patches.
In the twentieth over, their number five batsman got down on one knee and connected with a powerful, sweeping slog-shot. The red leather ball rocketed high into the air, heading straight toward the deep mid-wicket gap to my left.
"Run, Kabir! Cut it off!" Nitin screamed from the circle.
I didn’t think about my aching quads. I just sprinted along the boundary line, tracking the red dot against the bright sky. The ball came down fast, bouncing unevenly on a patch of hard dirt. I knew if I tried to stop it standing up, it would slip under my hands.
I threw my body sideways, sliding hard on my right hip across the dry grass. My hands reached out, trapping the ball cleanly against my chest just inches away from the boundary line. The rough soil scratched right through my white trousers, ripping a small hole near my knee, but the ball was dead.
I scrambled to my feet, turned around, and fired a quick, flat throw straight back to the wicketkeeper’s hands.
"Great stop, re!" Kamlesh shouted, running over to pat my back as I wiped the red dust off my shirt. "The boundary was certain."
"Fast return too," Nitin added from the covers, giving me a short nod. "Good throw."
By 12:30 PM, the first innings was finally over. Kamlesh and our senior off-spinner had cleaned up the remaining tail-enders, bowling the opposition out for a modest 112 runs in thirty-four overs.
The team huddled back under the green canvas pavilion tent, completely exhausted. The senior boys threw their kit bags into corners, ripping off their sweaty helmets and wiping their faces with dirty towels.
I sat flat on the dirt floor next to my Atlas cycle, leaning my back against the iron frame. My legs were shaking from the four-over spell and the boundary sprints.
Kamlesh dropped down right next to me, his uniform just as brown and dusty as mine. He unzipped his bag, pulled out a square steel tiffin box, and cracked it open. The smell of cold potato sabzi and sour mango pickle filled the small space between us.
"Take one," Kamlesh said, handing me a folded puri wrapped in foil. "My mom packed extra. You look like you’re going to faint."
"Thanks," I mumbled, taking the puri. I tore off a massive bite, chewing quickly. My body was completely starving, demanding fuel to patch up my low stamina bar. The cold potato sabzi tasted unbelievable after three hours in the dirt.
Nitin walked into the tent, holding a plastic bottle of cold water. He stopped right in front of us, looking down at my torn trousers and the red soil caked on my palms. He tossed the water bottle straight into my lap.
"Drink up, shopkeeper," Nitin said, his voice completely casual now, the previous arrogance completely gone. "You bowled a solid spell. They couldn’t get underneath your arm action at all."
I caught the bottle, unscrewed the cap, and took a long, cold gulp. "The ball was stopping a bit on the green patches."
"Yeah, it’s a bit sticky," Nitin said, sitting down on a wooden bench across from us and opening his own tiffin. "But the sun is out now. The grass is going to dry up fast, and the surface will start cracking by the tenth over. The ball will turn like crazy."
He pointed his spoon at me, then at Kamlesh.
"Achrekar sir just spoke to me," Nitin said, chewing his food. "Kamlesh, you’re opening the batting. Kabir, you’re walking out with him at number two. The opposition has a left-arm spinner who bowls very flat. Don’t let him settle."
Kamlesh paused, his puri halfway to his mouth. He looked at me, then at the captain. "He’s opening? Sir isn’t putting Rohan back up?"
"Rohan got clean-bowled on ball one, re," Nitin said bluntly, shrugging his shoulders. "Sir wants a stable defense at the top so the new ball doesn’t destroy our middle order. Kabir played Vinay’s pace easily last week. He can handle the opening overs."
Nitin stood up, tossing his empty tiffin into his bag and picking up his batting pads. "Eat fast, both of you. We have twenty minutes before the umpires walk back out. I don’t want to see a collapse."
I finished the last piece of the puri and gulped down the remaining buttermilk from my flask. The warm, heavy food settled into my stomach, and a slow, steady sense of recovery cleared the fog in my head.
I pulled my canvas bag closer, unzipping the main pouch to grab my custom-shaved wooden bat. The leather grip felt dry and solid against my calloused fingers. I could see the opposition opening bowlers already warming up near the boundary fence, shining the new red leather ball against their trousers.
I stood up, strapped my small miniature pads back around my shins, and clicked the plastic buckles shut.
The chase was 113 runs. The afternoon pitch was going to be dry, uneven, and tricky. I adjusted the straps of my helmet, took a deep breath, and looked out at the bright, dusty maidan.
"Let’s go, Kamlesh," I said, picking up my bat. "Don’t make them wait."
