CHAPTER 31: THE SEMI-FINAL DAY MATCH [4]

Chapter 31: The Semi-final Day Match [4]

The "taps" continued.

The scoreboard, which had been frozen on 4/1 for what felt like an eternity, had finally thawed. It was now a slow, agonizing crawl.

11/1.

12/1.

14/1.

Each run was a Leg Glance, a soft click of the bat, a jogged single. Each run was a papercut, bleeding the patience from the Spring Dale champions.

On the sideline, Raghav watched Rohan Sharma. The champion captain was a coiled spring of frustration.

He stalked behind the stumps, his gloves restlessly slapping his thighs. He had been forced to move a fielder from the Off-Side to Deep Square Leg, a concession that visibly infuriated him..

His premier fast bowler, Ashu, was finishing his over. He was breathing heavily, his anger spent, replaced by a sullen exhaustion.

He had thrown everything at Vikram—Bouncers, Yorkers, raw pace—and Vikram, though rattled, was still standing there. Ashu’s last ball was a tired, Full-Length delivery on the stumps.

Vikram, his confidence now a hard, sharp shell, met it with a simple Forward Defensive Block. The ball died at his feet. The over ended.

"This is the moment," Raghav whispered, his good hand gripping his cast.

"He’s tired. He’s compromised his field. They have to see it."

Coach Sarma just grunted, his eyes locked on the pitch. "They see it. The question is, do they have the nerve to use it?"

The left-arm spinner came back on to bowl to Gourav.

Rohan Sharma, desperate to stop the Leg-Side "leak," brought his Mid-On fielder closer, almost to a Short Mid-On position.

The Off-Side, already weakened by the man moved to Deep Square Leg, now looked vast. The Cover fielder was cheat-stepping towards Extra Cover, trying to cover a gap the size of a bus.

The spinner tossed his first ball up. Good Length, on Middle Stump.

Gourav, his nerves settled, played the "tap." A single.

15/1.

The batsmen crossed. Vikram was now on strike.

Vikram surveyed the field. He saw the Deep Square Leg.

He saw the spinner. And then, he saw it. The gaping, undefended Off-Side.

It was the second half of Raghav’s plan.

He wasn’t just supposed to survive. He was supposed to punish.

The spinner tossed his second ball up. It was a classic, tempting delivery, drifting in, inviting the batsman to hit against the spin.

But it was on the Off-Stump.

The "old" Vikram, the one from the first over, would have blocked it. The "panicked" Vikram, the one who faced the bouncers, would have left it.

The "new" Vikram, the one who had survived, saw his moment.

His front foot moved, a smooth, confident stride. His head was still, his eye on the ball.

He didn’t "tap."

He drove.

CRACK.

The sound was completely different. It wasn’t the dull click of the Leg Glance. It was the sharp, sweet, resonant crack of a bat’s middle.

The ball rocketed off the bat.

The Cover fielder, who had been cheating, dove. He was a foot short.

The Mid-Off fielder, who was too straight, dove. He was three feet short.

The ball, a white blur against the green, dissected the field with surgical precision. It was a shot of pure, unadulterated confidence. It was a shot that said, "The game has changed."

It raced to the boundary rope for four.

19/1.

A stunned silence fell over the Spring Dale team. Their entire, suffocating strategy—the Off-Side trap—had just been turned against them with contemptuous ease.

On the Shanti Vidya Mandir School bench, the players who had been sitting in tense, fearful silence, erupted.

They were on their feet, yelling, clapping.

"YES, VIKRAM! YES!"

"WHAT A SHOT!"

Rohan Sharma stood up. He tore his gloves off.

Raghav could show his anger. It wasn’t in shouting. It was in the sudden, violent stillness that came over him.

He stood perfectly still, his back to the batsman, and just stared at the boundary where the ball had gone. He was calculating. He had been out-maneuvered, and now he was being humiliated.

"He’s lost," Raghav breathed, his voice tight with a vicarious thrill. He felt his Intelligence Boost [SP: 165] begin to wane, its job done.

"He’s completely lost. He has no answer."

Rohan had a choice.

Move the Deep Square Leg fielder back to Cover, which would re-open the "tap" on the Leg-Side.

Keep the Deep Square Leg fielder, and watch his Off-Side get torn apart.

He was trapped. Raghav and Sarma had created a pincer movement, and Rohan was stuck in the middle.

He chose to do nothing. He put his gloves back on, his face grim. He was betting, praying, that Vikram’s shot was a fluke.

The spinner, his confidence now shattered, tossed his third ball up. He was visibly nervous. He tried to compensate, to bowl fuller, faster.

It was a Full Toss.

Vikram’s eyes lit up. He didn’t even think. He just hit it.

Another Cover Drive. Another CRACK. Another four.

23/1.

It was an unraveling. The Spring Dale champions, the "Surgeons," were coming apart at the seams.

Gourav, at the other end, caught the fever. When the spinner, in his panic, bowled a Short ball, Gourav rocked back and played a Square Cut through the Point region for another boundary.

27/1.

The Shanti Vidya Mandir School bench was a party. Coach Sarma was allowing himself a small, grim nod of approval.

The score began to climb, the partnership solidifying from "survival" into "dominance."

32/1.

38/1.

45/1.

Vikram and Gourav were no longer just "tapping." They were playing real, expansive cricket shots.

The Off-Drive, the Square Cut, the Flick. They were touching gloves, smiling, their shoulders back.

They had broken the champions.

Vikram, his score now in the 20s, was feeling more than confident. He was feeling heroic. He was the captain who had faced the bouncer and hit back. He was the giant-slayer.

The fast bowler, Ashu, came back for a new spell. He looked exhausted and demoralized.

His first ball was fast, but it was a desperate, angry effort. He bowled it Short, but it was a bad Short ball—it sat up, begging to be hit.

Vikram, his eyes wide and adrenaline pumping, saw the ball. He wasn’t thinking about "the plan" anymore. He was thinking about glory.

He rocked back, his entire body coiling, not for a defensive block, but for a magnificent, cinematic Pull Shot.

He wanted to send it over the boundary for six. He wanted to end them.

On the sideline, Raghav’s stomach dropped.

"No," he whispered.

Vikram’s movement was all power, no control. He was too early. The ball was a fraction slower than he anticipated.

He didn’t hit it with the middle of the bat. He hit it with the top edge.

The ball went up.

And up.

And up.

It was a "skier," a tower of white against the blue.

A terrible, profound silence fell over the field.

Vikram, frozen, watched the ball he had just murdered.

Rohan Sharma, who had been brooding behind the stumps, ripped his helmet off.

"MINE!" he bellowed, his voice cracking with desperate authority.

He sprinted out, his eyes locked on the tiny white speck as it reached its apex.

The Shanti Vidya Mandir School bench was silent. Raghav held his breath.

The ball hung in the air for one, two, three seconds.

Then it fell.

Rohan, his gloves outstretched, positioned himself under it. He wasn’t a keeper; he was a safety net.

Thwack.

The ball settled into his gloves with a sickening, final sound.

He closed his gloves, stood up, and roared, not in celebration, but in a raw, animalistic release of all his pent-up frustration.

OUT

The umpire’s finger went up.

Score : 45/2.

The partnership was broken. The hero was out.

Vikram stood at the crease, stunned. He looked at his bat, at the sky, at Rohan.

He had done all the hard work, survived the bouncers, broken the code... and thrown it all away on a single, arrogant, emotional swing.

He tucked his bat under his arm and began the long, agonizing walk back to the bench.

The Spring Dale team, dead just moments before, was alive. They were clapping, cheering, slapping their bowler on the back.

Rohan Sharma had his "in."

He tossed the ball to his bowler, a grim smile on his face. He walked back to the stumps, his eyes sweeping the Shanti Vidya Mandir School bench, looking for the next batsman.

His gaze fell on the number four batsman, who was nervously putting on his gloves.

The pressure was back. The fear, which had been vanquished, was creeping back in.

Raghav watched Vikram trudge off the field, his head low.

’He did his job,’ Raghav thought, his own emotions a cold, analytical block. ’But he just showed them something. He showed them we can bleed.’

RSarma, his face like stone, just grabbed a water bottle and held it out for the next batsman.

"Don’t," Sarma said, his voice a low command.

The batsman, a boy named Ajit, looked at him, confused. "Don’t... what, Coach?"

Sarma’s eyes were like ice.

"Don’t be just a hero also try to be a wall."

...I mean a defender .

(To be Continued)