Chapter 48: Tendulkar XI!
The white uniform ahead of me smelled of sour sweat and cheap blue detergent. I shoved my shoulder against the fabric, trying to see past a kid from the West Zone batch who was nearly a head taller than me. The air inside the Wankhede archway was dead, thick with the heat coming off the concrete courtyard.
"Move a bit, re," Nitin grunted behind me, his heavy canvas kit bag slamming into my hip as he pushed forward. "The coach just pinned the sheets. Get in before they tear it."
I dragged my bag over the dirt, my spikes scuffing the concrete. The list was just a single sheet of cheap paper held down by four silver thumbtacks on the corkboard. Sixty names. Four columns.
Nitin leaned over my shoulder, his breath smelling of the ginger tea we’d had at the station. His finger went straight to the second column. "Sunil Gavaskar XI. I’m in the second batch. Joshi is opening the bowling from the pavilion end with me." He stopped, his nail scratching the paper as he tracked down the third column. "You’re in the Sachin Tendulkar XI, Kabir. Look at number four. You’ve got Merchant’s younger brother."
I looked at the names. Most of them were guys I’d only seen on the scorecards of the school leagues—the top order from Shardashram and the quicks from the gymkhana nets. I turned around, my back hitting the rusted iron railing of the gate. Nitin was already adjusting his shoulder straps. He wasn’t smiling. We’d spent four years sharing the same water bottle at Shivaji Park, but looking at that paper, the local school stuff was officially dead. There were only fifteen shirts for the Mumbai state squad.
"We play each other in the second match at Cross Maidan," Nitin said. His voice was flat. No childhood excitement. He looked at my custom duckbill bat sticking out of my unzipped bag. "I’m going to bowl straight at your shins, Kabir. Don’t expect any loose ones."
"If you don’t keep your wrist upright, I’ll clip you over square leg before your over ends," I told him, keeping my voice steady.
Nitin spit into the dust near his shoe. "We’ll see on Wednesday. Get your kit. The local bus for the Maidan is already idling near the main gate."
The bus didn’t have cushions on the seats. Every time the driver slammed the gears through the Dadar traffic, my knee knocked against the wooden back of the seat ahead. My canvas bag was wedged between my feet, the heavy scooped-out wood of my duckbill bats clicking together inside the canvas.
[System Template: Sachin Tendulkar — 35.5% Unlocked]
[System Template: Wasim Akram — 35.5% Unlocked]
The blue prompt flickered near the floorboards and vanished. My body didn’t feel like an elite prospect. My left calf was twitching from the three days of fielding trials, and my white shirt was already turning gray around the collar from the bus exhaust.
When we dropped our bags inside the canvas tent at Cross Maidan, the smell hit me straight in the throat. It was old cow dung used to flatten the outfield, dry straw, and the wet leather of fifty old balls rotting in the kit trunks. There were no sightscreens here. The boundary line was just a thick white chalk mark three feet away from the dirt path where clerks and office-goers were already rushing toward Churchgate with their umbrellas.
I sat down on an upside-down plastic crate, unbuckling my shoes. The steel studs were loose. I pulled out the small metal spanner from my pocket and tightened them until the threads bit into the rubber soles. I took out my primary bat. The edge had a small green smudge from a ball I’d blocked on Friday, but the wood was solid. I rubbed a piece of sandpaper over the blemish until the raw white willow showed again.
"Toss is done," a voice barked from the tent opening. It was Patil sir, the coach for the Tendulkar XI. He was an old Ranji spinner with tobacco stains between his lower teeth. He didn’t look at our faces; he just looked at our number bibs. "Gavaskar XI won the coin and they’re bowling. Kabir, you’re opening. The pitch has some moisture from the morning dew. Don’t show me any cross-bat nonsense before lunch. Just stay there."
"Yes, Sir," I said, pulling the stiff white helmet over my ears. The foam inside was hard, pressing against my temples until my jaw ached.
My opening partner, a short kid named Deshmukh from Anjuman school, was already tapping his gloves together nervously. "The quick opening for them is Kazi," he whispered as we walked out onto the grass. "He plays senior Kanga League for a local division club. He bowls heavy."
"Let him bowl," I said, adjusting my box. "Watch the ball off the seam. Don’t chase the wide ones."
The pitch didn’t look like Wankhede. It was pale green, with thin, uneven cracks running horizontally across the good-length area. The surface was cold to the touch when I bent down to take my guard.
"Leg stump, umpire," I said.
The umpire marked it with a piece of broken white chalk. I used the back spike of my shoe to dig a deep, raw line into the clay. Twenty-two yards away, Kazi was already at his mark. He didn’t look like a schoolboy. He had thick thighs, a wide chest, and his trousers were stained with brown mud from his morning warm-up. He didn’t say a word. He just stared at my front pad, turned, and started his heavy, thudding run-up.
Ball 1.1
Kazi hit the crease with a loud grunt. The ball pitched on a length on the fourth-stump line and jagged inward sharply off the damp surface. The template kicked into my hands before my brain could even map the line. I didn’t push forward. My weight stayed back on my right heel, my wrists dropping down to let the bat dangle like a vertical line.
Tock.
The red leather met the thick middle of my duckbill willow and dropped dead into the dust by my left shoe. Kazi didn’t walk back silently; he glared at my feet and kicked a loose clod of dirt out of his path.
Under the canvas canopy near the boundary, Vasoo Paranjape sir shifted his clipboard, making a tiny scratch with his pencil.
Ball 1.2
Kazi ran in faster, his boots making a heavy slapping sound against the turf. He slammed the second ball short and wide—a clear piece of bait to make me go for a flashy cut shot. I saw the wider trajectory early through the wire grill of my helmet. I kept my elbows tucked tight against my ribs, lifted my arms, and let it pass. The ball hit the keeper’s gloves with a heavy smack.
"Play something, chotu," the keeper muttered behind me, his fingers rattling inside his leather webbing. "Don’t just stand there like a statue."
I didn’t look back at him. I tapped my bat twice on the crease. Thud. Thud.
Ball 1.3
Kazi re-corrected his line, bowling a fuller delivery aimed straight at the off-stump, searching for the morning swing. I took a short, neat stride forward—not a massive lunge, just enough to get my head over the ball. I didn’t swing hard. I let the thick, scooped-out balance of my willow absorb the pace.
Tock.
The timing was completely clean. The ball traveled straight past Kazi’s right ankle, rolling along the ground toward mid-on. No run.
"Good line, Kabir. Stay there," Deshmukh called out from the other side, his voice shaky.
Ball 1.4
Kazi was visibly annoyed now, his face red under the sun. He dug his fingers deep into the seam and unleashed a heavy effort-ball bouncer that hit a soft indentation on the pitch and rose unexpectedly toward my throat. At fourteen, most junior batsmen would have panicked or attempted a wild pull shot in front of the selectors. I stayed completely still, my eyes locked on the red leather. I simply leaned my upper body back by two inches, letting the ball sail harmlessly over my left shoulder into the keeper’s gloves.
Ball 1.5
Kazi walked back slowly, wiping his brow with his sleeve. He delivered a shorter, defensive ball well wide of the off-stump. I stepped across my stumps, presenting a broad, dead bat to push the leather right back to the short cover fielder. "No," I called out clearly to Deshmukh, holding my hand up. No run.
Ball 1.6
The final ball of the over. Kazi tried to slide a quicker, skidding ball down the leg side to catch a faint tickle. I stayed patient, waited for the ball to reach my back hip, and used my wrists at the last microsecond to nudge the leather cleanly past short leg’s ankles into the empty grass.
"Single, le! Run!" I called, sprinting down the 22 yards.
My spikes dug into the soft clay as I crossed the crease, turning quickly to look at the fielders. My palms were sweating under the green cotton inner gloves, the heat from my hands making the rubber grip feel warm. My score read one run. There was no applause from the clerks walking along the dirt path outside the boundary, and no praise from Patil sir under the tent. It was just raw, boring survival on a cracked Maidan wicket, and I had forty-four overs left to face before the day was out.