Cricket: Template system

The 2024 Indian Premier League for the Sunrisers Hyderabad with their first match at the Nexus Smart Stadium in Nagole, they had taken apart the Kolkata Knight Riders. The orange side had posted a total, choked the chase, and won. The rest of the league had their first look.

Home did not last. The IPL moved on, and the next ground was Wankhede Stadium in Mumbai.

As the sun dipped toward the Arabian Sea and shadows fell across the red-and-white tiers, the ground turned into a sea of Mumbai blue. The air was coastal. The noise was not on their side.

Siddanth Deva, in his orange SRH kit, walked out of the pavilion tunnel and onto the outfield.

Waiting near the pitch, in the blue and gold of the Mumbai Indians, was Hardik Pandya.

The India all-rounder had come back to Mumbai and taken the captaincy after lifting the trophy with Gujarat last season. The move had been argued over in every broadcast.

Deva opened his arms, and the two India teammates embraced.

The moment the two captains stood together for the toss broadcast, the Wankhede let go.

It was a wave of boos that did not break.

The noise came down from the stands in two parts, and both were loud.

Half the ground was booing Siddanth Deva. Mumbai had not forgotten the call he had made months earlier, leaving their local man, Rohit Sharma, out of the national T20 squad. To them he was the man who had ended their icon’s white-ball run in short format.

The other half was booing Hardik Pandya. To them, his return and the Mumbai captaincy were a turning away from Rohit Sharma’s years in charge of the franchise.

Deva stood at the pitch. His face did not move. The boos aimed at him didn’t matter much. He had batted in worse noise.

But he looked at Hardik and saw the jaw tighten. He saw the hurt when Hardik’s own crowd turned on the man they had asked to lead them.

Irritation rose in Deva’s chest. He did not accept that for an India teammate.

He stepped forward, turned his back on the pitch, and faced the North Stand. He put a finger to his lips.

He looked into the crowd and asked for quiet, trying to take the noise off Hardik.

The Wankhede did not listen. The boos got louder, loud enough to shake the cameras on the rope.

Hardik stepped in and put a hand on Deva’s arm. He smiled.

“Let it be, bhai,” Hardik said, under the noise. “It will stop after a while.”

Deva looked at the Mumbai captain. The irritation left him. The Predator’s Focus took its place. He nodded.

Ravi Shastri stepped in with a microphone, trying to get over the noise.

“Welcome to the Wankhede!” Shastri called. “The toss is here! Hardik, Siddanth, let’s flip the coin.”

Hardik tossed the coin. Deva called heads. It landed heads.

“Siddanth, you have won the toss at a loud Wankhede. What is your decision?” Shastri asked, holding the microphone out.

“We are going to bat first, Ravi bhai,” Deva said, over the boos. “It looks like a batting surface. We want runs on the board and scoreboard pressure in the second innings.”

“And your playing eleven for tonight?”

“We are backing our core group,” Deva said. “David Warner, Abhishek Sharma, Travis Head, myself, Heinrich Klaasen, Glenn Phillips, Nitish Kumar Reddy, Arjun Tendulkar, Bhuvneshwar Kumar, Mayank Markande, and T Natarajan.”

He left Kane Williamson off the card, holding his anchor back as an Impact Substitute. Hardik named his Mumbai side. The toss segment ended.

The captains turned to the match officials.

On the last handshake, before the walk back to the dugouts, Deva leaned in.

“Sorry,” he said, into Hardik’s ear.

Hardik blinked. “Sorry for what?”

Deva did not answer. He let go of the hand, turned, and walked back to the Sunrisers Hyderabad dugout, spikes on the dry turf. Hardik watched him go.

—

Hundreds of miles away, in Jubilee Hills in Hyderabad, the house was quiet next to the Wankhede.

Inside Anjali and Arjun Reddy’s home, the television in the living room had the pre-match show on. The air conditioning ran.

Krithika sat on a cream sofa. Against her chest, asleep, was her eleven-month-old niece, Harini. Anjali sat beside her with a cup of green tea, on her phone.

On the Persian rug in front of the television sat Aadhya and Rishi.

Rishi wore an orange SRH t-shirt. He lined up die-cast cars along the coffee table and looked up now and then as the players warmed up.

Aadhya was not settled.

She wore her ‘DEVA 6’ orange jersey, arms crossed, scowling at the screen as the toss replay showed the boos.

“Why are they doing that, Amma?” Aadhya asked, pointing at the crowd. “Why are they making that bad noise at Nana?”

Krithika shifted the sleeping baby. She tried to explain franchise cricket without starting a war in the living room.

“They are cheering for their own team, sweetie,” Krithika said. “Nana’s team is from Hyderabad, and they are playing in Mumbai. The people in Mumbai want their team to win, so they are trying to put Nana off.”

Aadhya was not having it.

“I don’t like it,” she said, jaw set. “They are being very rude. Nana should make them shut up.”

Krithika looked at her daughter, then at the screen, at her husband’s face as he spoke into Hardik Pandya’s ear. She had known Siddanth Deva for more than a decade. She knew every tell, the way a batter reads a bowler before the release. She knew that stare. The innings had already been decided.

Krithika smiled.

“If my guess is correct, Aadhya,” she said, eyes on the screen. “He will.”

—

The doors of the Sunrisers Hyderabad dressing room opened, and Siddanth Deva came down the steps into the dugout.

The Wankhede was still going. The Mumbai Indians were on the field. Jasprit Bumrah was marking his run-up with the new ball.

David Warner was padded up, gloves on, shadowing cover drives by the rope.

Abhishek Sharma, the young left-hander named to open, sat on a bench, doing up his pads.

Deva walked straight to him.

“Abhishek,” Deva said. The warmth was gone.

Abhishek looked up. “Yes, Sid bhai?”

“I am opening.”

Abhishek blinked. “Bhai? But the team sheet…”

Deva did not explain. He did not talk fields or matchups. He turned away, went to his kitbag, and pulled out his batting pads.

The SRH dugout went silent.

New head coach Daniel Vettori stopped talking to the bowling coach. Heinrich Klaasen and Travis Head looked at each other. Siddanth Deva had made himself their number four. He held the middle, then took the death. He had not opened a T20 in years.

Deva put the pads on. He took his helmet, his gloves, and his Nike bat.

He walked out and joined David Warner at the rope.

Warner saw his eyes and did not ask. He grinned and tapped gloves.

As they crossed the rope, the announcer came over the PA.

“Opening the batting for the Sunrisers Hyderabad… David Warner and the Captain, Siddanth Deva!”

The Wankhede erupted again. The boos came back because he had walked out to open, into the slot Mumbai still called Rohit’s.

In the commentary box, the panel sat forward.

“I DO NOT BELIEVE THIS!” Ravi Shastri shouted. “Siddanth Deva is opening the batting! He has pushed Abhishek Sharma down and walked out himself!”

“He can bat anywhere,” Ian Bishop said. “But to walk out against Jasprit Bumrah with the new ball, in front of this crowd… he is taking the fight to the Mumbai Indians.”

Over 0.1

Siddanth Deva stood at the striker’s end.

He scratched his guard. He looked up at the Wankhede. He heard the boos.

Jasprit Bumrah ran in. He bowled 142 kmph, good length, off stump. A probing ball.

Deva picked the length out of the hand.

He did not push forward to defend. He planted his front foot and swung through the line.

The ball hit the sweet spot.

It cleared long-off and landed in the second tier.

SIX.

The boos broke. A murmur went around the ground.

Over 0.2

Bumrah pulled his length back and dug it in. A bouncer.

Deva did not duck. He went onto the back foot, rolled his wrists over the bounce, and pulled. The ball went flat over deep mid-wicket.

SIX.

The murmur died. The crowd understood what they had started.

Over 0.3

Bumrah went for the yorker. Deva went deep in his crease and turned it into a half-volley. He whipped it, wrists working, over square leg.

SIX.

Over 0.4

Bumrah bowled a slower off-cutter. Deva read it out of the hand. He waited, came forward, and lofted it back over the bowler. The ball hit the sight-screen.

SIX.

When it hit the screen, the Wankhede dropped out.

The flags stopped. Thirty-three thousand people watched their new-ball bowler get taken apart and made no sound.

The only noise left was the pocket of orange, and the bat.

In Hyderabad, the living room split in two directions.

“YES! SMASH THEM NANA!” Aadhya shouted, up off the rug, pointing at the quiet Mumbai crowd on the screen. “SHUT THEM UP!”

Rishi clapped and smiled. “Nana is hitting the ball very far today, Amma.”

Krithika laughed and kissed the top of his head. “He certainly is, Rishi.”

Over 0.5

Bumrah, searching, bowled a wide full ball. Deva threw his hands and slashed it over backward point.

SIX.

Over 0.6

The last ball of the over. Bumrah bowled at the pads. Deva helped it on, a ramp, and the 144 kmph ball cleared fine leg.

SIX.

The first over was done.

Siddanth Deva had hit six sixes in a row off Jasprit Bumrah.

He had 36 runs off 6 balls.

The Wankhede was a library. Nobody in the stands made a sound.

“SIX SIXES IN THE FIRST OVER!” Ian Bishop shouted, the call leaving the script. “HE HAS TAKEN BUMRAH APART! THE WANKHEDE HAS GONE QUIET!”

“This is not an innings, it is a taking apart!” Ravi Shastri shouted. “He walked out, heard the boos, and went after the Mumbai attack!”

The blue sofa was on the grass inside the rope, where it sat every time Mumbai played at home. A fan turned beside it. Security stood a step back. Nita Ambani had not moved since the second six. Her hand was on her forehead and it stayed there. Akash sat beside her, elbows on his knees, and did not blink. The ball Deva had ramped over fine leg had gone into the tier above them. Neither of them looked at Bumrah.

—

Hardik Pandya, shaken, gave the ball to Gerald Coetzee, the South African fast bowler.

Over 1.1

Coetzee bowled back of a length. David Warner knew the job. He tapped it to mid-on and took a single.

The strike turned. Deva was back on strike.

Deva was on 36 from 6 balls.

Over 1.2 (Deva’s 7th ball)

Coetzee bowled 148 kmph at off stump. Deva gave himself room and played an inside-out loft over extra cover.

SIX. (Deva: 42)

Over 1.3 (Deva’s 8th ball)

Coetzee bowled at the body. Deva pulled off the back foot, over deep mid-wicket and into the stands.

SIX. (Deva: 48)

Over 1.4 (Deva’s 9th ball)

Coetzee pitched it full and straight. Deva stood tall, showed the full face, and drove straight over the bowler into the North Stand.

SIX. (Deva: 54)

The scoreboard showed the fifty.

Siddanth Deva had his half-century.

54 runs. 9 balls.

It was the fastest half-century in franchise or international cricket. No scorebook had a line for it.

He did not take the helmet off. He did not jump.

He lowered his bat, stood in the middle, in the quiet of thirty-three thousand people.

He turned to the stands.

He lifted his right hand and put his index finger across his lips. A shush.

He held it. Then he pressed both palms down, telling the city to sit.

“THE FASTEST FIFTY!” Harsha Bhogle called. “NINE BALLS! AND LOOK AT IT — HE HAS LOOKED THE CITY IN THE EYE AND TOLD THEM TO BE QUIET! THE DEVIL HAS QUIETENED MUMBAI!”

When Deva put his finger to his lips, the camera found the sofa. Nita turned her head and looked at her son. She did not speak. Akash kept his eyes on the pitch. He had nothing to hand her. She folded her hands in her lap and watched a man in orange tell her ground to sit down. Akash did not clap. He did not look at the Mumbai dugout, where Hardik stood with the ball still in someone else’s hands.

The over was not done.

Over 1.5 (Deva’s 10th ball)

Coetzee bowled a wide yorker. Deva sliced it past point and jogged two. (Deva: 56)

Over 1.6 (Deva’s 11th ball)

Coetzee bowled a slower ball. Deva waited and punched it through the covers for four. (Deva: 60)

The second over ended.

Siddanth Deva had faced 11 balls. He had 60 runs.

Sunrisers Hyderabad were 61 for 0 after 2 overs. The contest was gone before the field restrictions came off.

—

With the crowd quiet and the Mumbai attack searching for a plan, Deva did not ease off. He changed the shots.

The power had done its job. He went into the 360 game.

He found the gaps the way a captain sets a field. When Hardik brought fine leg into the circle, Deva went down on one knee and scooped a 145 kmph ball over the wicketkeeper for four. When the spinners came on, he reverse-swept them over point. He stepped outside off stump and ramped full balls over fine leg.

He was hitting the spaces where a fielder cannot stand.

“The scoops, the ramps, the inside-out drives,” Ricky Ponting said. “This is not a fluke. This is the Devil of Cricket when the crowd gets to him. This is what he does when he wants the game done early.”

At the other end, David Warner, with the strike turning and the pressure off him, swung. He made a fifty and was caught in the deep.

Travis Head walked in. With Deva going at a strike rate past 300, Head swung at everything. He cleared the rope through the middle overs.

When Head went, Heinrich Klaasen came in and took the Mumbai spinners on, with back-foot pulls and lofted drives into the stands.

The rest of the order batted without looking over their shoulder. Their captain’s innings had taken the run rate out of the game.

As the innings went past the 18th over.

Siddanth Deva, against Jasprit Bumrah, went deep in his crease. Bumrah bowled a wide yorker. Deva opened the face late and sliced it over backward point.

The ball hit the rope.

The SRH dugout came over the railing, towels in the air. Up in the boxes, Kavya Maran, the CEO of Sunrisers Hyderabad, was on her feet, arms up.

Siddanth Deva had his second Indian Premier League double century.

200 runs.

He did the Bat Drop celebration. The Wankhede stayed quiet.

The 20 overs ended with boundaries from Glenn Phillips.

The scoreboard showed the end of it.

SUNRISERS HYDERABAD: 312 for 3.

They had gone past 300 for the second time in franchise cricket. It was a total no chase could live with. The Mumbai Indians walked off with their shoulders down.

The Devil had not just stopped the boos. He had taken the ground out of the contest.

—

Chasing 313 was beyond any required rate. The total sat on Mumbai before they took guard.

Siddanth Deva did not let them settle.

He set attacking fields. Two slips for the quicks. Fielders inside the thirty-yard circle, looking for wickets instead of guarding the rope.

T Natarajan and Arjun Tendulkar took the new balls.

Arjun found late swing under the lights. He pitched it up, invited the drive, and got an edge that went to slip. Natarajan’s yorkers hit the stumps of the Mumbai top order.

Bhuvneshwar Kumar, the swing king, was used with care. Deva, knowing Bhuvi’s leg was still coming back, gave him only 2 overs in the middle. Bhuvi bowled a knuckleball, took a wicket, and was done for the night so he would last the tournament.

Mumbai swung at everything, trying to stay with the required rate, but the fields and the changes shut the chase down.

Mayank Markande spun a web in the middle overs and took wickets as Mumbai tried to clear the long boundary.

The match was a procession.

In the 17th over, T Natarajan bowled a blockhole yorker into the base of middle stump. The last Mumbai batter was gone.

The match was over.

Mumbai Indians were bowled out for 162.

Sunrisers Hyderabad won. They had beaten Mumbai in their own ground and taken the fight out of the chase.

The SRH players celebrated on the pitch. Deva shook hands with Mumbai and nodded to Hardik Pandya. The tension from the toss was gone.

Akash stood up from the sofa before the players had left the pitch. He walked along the rope, past the Mumbai dugout, and did not look in. Nita did not follow him. She stayed where she was, hand back on her forehead, watching the scoreboard settle on 162. The fan kept turning. The sofa, for the first time all night, had only one person on it.

—

In the commentary box, the broadcasters watched SRH walk off, still on the scorecard.

“A taking apart at the Wankhede,” Harsha Bhogle said. “Sunrisers Hyderabad move on in this tournament.”

Ian Bishop looked into the camera.

“Let us be clear about tonight,” Bishop said. “The Wankhede crowd went after him. They went after the Devil. Siddanth Deva left his number-four role, opened the batting, made a fifty in nine balls, and went on to a double century.”

Ravi Shastri nodded.

“The rest of the teams need to watch this,” Shastri said, pen toward the pitch. “They will not want Siddanth Deva opening against them. If he does, the questions will come, and there will be no answers.”

The broadcast faded on the quiet Wankhede. The Devil had arrived in the IPL, and he was taking no prisoners.

—

In Jubilee Hills the television had already moved on to the replay. The Wankhede was quiet on the screen. The living room was not.

Aadhya was on the rug in the orange jersey, both arms up. “He told them to be quiet, Amma! I said he would! Mumbai is finished!”

Rishi had stopped lining up the cars. He looked at the score and nodded, the way he did when a sum came out clean. “Nana made a fifty in nine balls. Then he made 200. They needed 313. They are all out for 162.”

Anjali laughed into her green tea. Harini slept through it on Krithika’s chest. Krithika watched her husband drop his bat on ground that had nothing left to say, and she did not gloat. She only looked at her daughter. “You were right.”

Aadhya dropped onto the sofa. “Amma, snacks.”

“Snacks,” Rishi said, polite, already standing.

“No,” Krithika said. “You already ate them. Drink your milk and go to sleep.”