Free Web NovelChapter 8: Chapter 8:
The afternoon sun had completely baked the turf. The pitch was changing color, turning a dusty, pale brown with thin cracks splitting open right around the good-length spot.
We were chasing 113. It wasn’t a massive total, but on a cracking maidan track, it could easily feel like two hundred.
I walked out to the striker’s end, marked my crease, and looked up at the umpire.
"Sir, leg-stump please," I said, holding my bat vertically.
The umpire squinted through the glare, moving his hand slightly to the left. "A bit more... yeah, right there. That’s leg."
I scratched a deep line into the dirt with my spike and took my stance. Kamlesh was already waiting at the non-striker’s end, leaning heavily on his handle and using his forearm to wipe the sweat off his face.
"Watch his fingers," I called out to him as the opening bowler walked back to his mark. "He’s gripping it very tight. It’s going to skid low."
Kamlesh gave a quick nod, his knuckles white around his grip.
The bowler ran in and fired the hard, five-ounce leather ball straight down my off-stump line. It skidded fast off the dry patch. Relying on Sachin’s memory of absolute balance, I didn’t reach out to slash it. I just stepped forward, kept my bat close to my pad, and blunted it straight down into the dirt.
Thud.
The ball dropped dead right at my toes. The bowler glared at me, kicked the dirt, and marched back. For the rest of that over, I kept the blade perfectly straight, deadening every ball into the mud with soft hands. No risks, no boundaries.
[Tendulkar Sync: 17.5% -> 17.6%]
But while I was locking down my end, the pressure got to Kamlesh. In the fifth over, their opening quick bowled a fuller delivery that shaped away slightly. Kamlesh tried to drive it through the covers, but his feet didn’t move. A thick outside edge flew straight to second slip.
Smack. Clean catch. Kamlesh hung his head, tucked his bat under his arm, and walked off for just 8 runs.
Score: 14 for 1.
Nitin walked out next at number three. The captain looked determined, but the pitch was getting trickier. He managed to hit two boundaries off their medium pacer, but in the ninth over, a ball stopped completely on a dusty patch. Nitin swung early, chipping a simple catch straight back to the bowler.
"Stupid shot, re!" Nitin swore under his breath, slapping his pad with his bat as he stormed back to the tent.
Score: 32 for 2.
Rohan came in at number four, looking incredibly nervous after his first-innings duck. He lasted exactly four balls before their quick unleashed a short delivery that jagged awkwardly off a crack, flying straight toward his chest. Rohan panicked, throwing his hands up in a clumsy poke that clipped his glove and looped straight to short-leg.
Score: 35 for 3. Three wickets down, and the chase was suddenly looking dangerous.
Our number five, a stocky boy named Amit, walked out to the non-striker’s end. I walked halfway down the pitch to meet him before he could even take guard.
"Don’t poke at the short ones, Amit," I said quietly, tapping my bat against his shin guard. "If they bowl short, just duck. Let it go over your shoulder. The bounce is uneven, don’t try to force it."
Amit blinked, wiping his face. "They’re crowding the bat, Kabir. The pressure is too much."
"Just look at my end," I told him. "I’m blocking everything. We just need singles. Don’t look at their faces, just survive the over."
Amit took a deep breath, nodding. "Okay. Okay, let’s just rotate."
On the next ball, the bowler tried the same short tactic on Amit. He listened. He dropped his head, lowered his hands, and let the ball whistle safely past his shoulder. I gave his bat a quick tap as we crossed for a leg-bye.
When the bowler tried to pack me out with the same short length later, I saw the trajectory early, rolled my wrists over the bounce, and tucked it through the leg-side gap for a quick pair of runs.
The real trouble started when they brought on their main left-arm spinner. The ball was hitting the dry cracks and turning sharply, spitting up dirt. Amit was getting stuck inside his crease, playing with a defensive, tentative bat that almost caught the outside edge twice.
"Don’t stay stuck inside," I told Amit during the over change. "He’s bowling flat. If he tosses it up, step out and kill the turn before it hits the cracks. If it’s short, play it late off your back foot."
On the next delivery, the spinner tossed it up, trying to bait a big shot. Amit didn’t hesitate this time. He charged forward, met the ball cleanly right at the pitch, and punched it straight past mid-off for a boundary.
"Nice, Amit!" Nitin shouted from the boundary tent. Amit raised his bat toward me, exhaling a huge breath of relief. "It worked, Kabir! He didn’t get any turn!"
"Keep doing that," I said, tapping his bat. "Keep him guessing."
From that point, we had to grind out every single run. The opposition realized they couldn’t bowl us out easily, so they spread the field out to stop the boundaries. For the next ten overs, Amit and I simply focused on running hard. Every time the spinner drifted low or the medium pacer bowled on the pads, we tucked it into the gaps and pushed for quick singles and doubles.
Run, Amit! Turn back for two!
Our sneakers kicked up small clouds of red dust with every sprint. My eight-year-old legs were starting to feel incredibly heavy, but my focus didn’t slip. We dragged the score from 35 to 60, then slowly pushed past 80. Every single time Amit got restless and looked like he wanted to play a big lofted shot, I walked down the pitch and settled him down.
"We don’t need a six, Amit," I’d tell him. "Just push it to long-on and take the single. The target is shrinking."
By the twenty-fourth over, we had completely broken the opposition’s discipline. Our partnership had reached 60 runs, and the score was sitting comfortably at 95 for 3. We only needed 18 more runs to win.
But that was when my eight-year-old body hit a massive physical wall. My forearms were cramping from the heavy willow friction, and my breathing was completely ragged.
[Stamina: 25/100 (Heavy Fatigue State)]
The opposition went for one final push, bringing all their fielders tightly into a ring around my bat to sledge me into making a mistake.
"He’s an eight-year-old baby! One ball is all it takes! Get close!" the short-leg fielder shouted.
I ignored the shouting. My defensive stance stayed robotic. The bowler ran in and fired a fast yorker to finish me off, but my bat came down like an absolute wall, deadening it cleanly.
Two balls later, he got frustrated and bowled a loose half-volley wide of off-stump.
My feet moved automatically, planting right beside the line. I extended my arms, using the full face of the wood to execute a crisp cover drive right through the gap in the inner ring. The red ball rocketed across the turf and hit the boundary ropes.
That drive brought the target down to single digits. Amit and I knocked off the remaining runs over the next two overs through simple, clean placement. When Amit finally hit the winning run down to long-on, we didn’t do any crazy celebrations. We just tapped our bats together, unbuckled our helmets, and walked off the hot maidan together, completely wiped out.
Achrekar sir was standing near his scooter when we reached the tent. He didn’t smile, but he pulled out his clipboard, scratched out Rohan’s name from the official tournament sheet, and wrote Kabir Singh right at the top of the opening slot.
He looked at my dirt-soaked whites.
"Your defense held the chase together today, Kabir," Achrekar sir said, his voice flat but firm. "Tuesday morning, 5:00 AM. The first official Giles Shield match starts against Anjuman-I-Islam. Don’t be late."
I wiped the sweat off my face, a quiet, tired smile hitting my lips as the screen updated.
[STATUS PANEL]
Name: Kabir Singh
Age: 8
Stamina: 21/100
Current Selection Status: Official Shardashram Opening Batsman (Giles Shield Squad Locked)
The selection match was over. The actual tournament was finally here.
"Got it, Sir," I said, lifting my canvas bag. "I’ll be ready."
