CHAPTER 35: THE SEMI-FINAL DAY MATCH [8]

Chapter 35: The Semi-final Day Match [8]

[Score: 12/1. Target: 75. Overs: 6.0]

The boundary from Sameer had an effect on the Shanti Vidya Mandir School team that was far greater than just four runs. It was a psychological blow. It was the sound of the champions, the "Batsman ," picking up their scalpels.

The nervous energy that had fueled Parag’s opening spell and Vikram’s miracle catch was gone. The adrenaline dump was over.

Now, all that was left was the cold, hard math.

75 more runs to get. 14 overs to do it.

It felt like an ocean.

On the sideline, Raghav felt the team’s spirit deflate. He didn’t need a system to tell him. He could see it.

Vikram, at First Slip, was no longer crouched on his toes, hissing encouragement.

He was standing almost upright, his hands on his hips. Ajit, the "Wall," looked exhausted, his shoulders slumped.

The energetic "chirping" that had filled the air just moments ago had died, replaced by a tense, professional silence.

"This is bad, Coach," Raghav said, his voice quiet.

Sarma didn’t reply. He was pacing, a caged tiger, his jaw muscle jumping.

He knew his team’s one great weapon—raw, chaotic belief—was fading.

"They’re not fighting anymore," Raghav continued. "They’re just... playing."

And against the Spring Dale "Batsman ," just "playing" was a death sentence.

The new medium-pace bowler, whose name was Amar, ran in again. He was a ’stock’ bowler, meant to keep things tidy. But he wasn’t Parag.

He didn’t have the swing, the angle, or the venom.

[Ball 6.3] Amar delivered a simple, Good Length ball.

Karan, the number three, who had been a trembling wall, now played a smooth, confident Forward Defensive Block.

[Ball 6.4] Amar, trying to compensate, bowled a fraction Fuller.

Karan, his head still, his front foot moving into a perfect line, just punched the ball. It wasn’t a Drive, it was a Punch. He used the bowler’s pace.

The ball rocketed past the stunned Mid-Off fielder.

FOUR RUNS.

[Score: 16/1. Target: 71. Overs: 6.4]

It was an effortless, clinical shot. The kind of shot that breaks a fielding team’s heart. It showed that the batsmen were no longer "surviving." They were "batting."

The left-arm spinner, Sunil, came on from the other end.

[Ball 7.1] He tossed his first ball up, inviting the Slog-Sweep that Sameer had tried earlier.

Sameer, who had learned his lesson, just calmly pushed it to Long-On for a single.

[Score: 17/1. Target: 70. Overs: 7.1]

[Ball 7.2] Sunil bowled to Karan. Karan nudged it to Square Leg for another easy single.

[Score: 18/1. Target: 69. Overs: 7.2]

There was no risk. There was no panic. They were just... accumulating. They were dissecting the field. Every time Sarma plugged a gap, they’d find another. Every time a bowler missed his line by an inch, they’d take a run.

It was a slow, methodical, boring squeeze.

And it was absolutely lethal.

Raghav watched as the score ticked over.

21/1.

25/1.

29/1.

The partnership was now over 25 runs. The Shanti Vidya Mandir School players were just going through the motions.

Rohan Sharma, sitting on the SDI bench, was now calmly sipping water, his face unreadable. His job was done. His team was on autopilot.

"They’re toying with us," Vikram spat, kicking the grass.

Coach Sarma had to act. His team was dying on their feet.

"Parag!" he shouted.

Parag, who was at Fine Leg trying to catch his breath, looked up, surprised.

"Get the ball. Now."

It was a desperate move. Parag had bowled his fiery opening spell. Bringing him back now, in the 10th over, was a full-on gamble. He was tired. His "X-Factor" swing was likely gone.

But he was the only one who had taken a wicket. He was the only one they feared.

Parag, his face grim, took the ball. He knew what this was. A last stand.

[Score: 30/1. Target: 57. Overs: 9.0]

Karan was on strike. He looked at Parag, his eyes narrow. He and Sameer had been waiting for this. They knew Sarma’s hand.

[Ball 9.1] Parag ran in, his long arms pumping, trying to find that last reserve of energy. He delivered his Outswinger, the "miracle ball" that had taken Rohan.

But he was tired. His arm was a fraction slower. The ball didn’t "zip" off the pitch. It curved.

Karan saw it. He saw the swing early. He just calmly, disdainfully, let it go.

[Ball 9.2] Parag, frustrated, ran in again. He put everything into it. A Good Length ball, on the stumps.

Karan just blocked it. Dead.

[Ball 9.3] Parag dug it in Short.

Karan just ducked.

The SDI batsmen had a plan: See off Parag. Neuter the threat. The other bowlers can’t hurt us.

[Ball 9.4] Parag, his lungs burning, delivered another Good Length ball. Karan blocked.

[Ball 9.5] He tried the Outswinger again. Karan let it go.

[Ball 9.6] The last ball. Parag was visibly exhausted. Karan just blocked it.

A maiden over.

But it was a hollow maiden. Parag had thrown his last bullets, and the champions had just stood there and let them bounce off. He hadn’t beaten the bat. He hadn’t created a chance. He had just... bowled.

[Score: 30/1. Target: 57. Overs: 10.0]

Parag finished his over, his shoulders slumped. He was done. The team knew it.

Coach Sarma knew it.

The "Batsman " knew it.

As Parag walked to his fielding position, Sameer, the non-striker, gave Karan a tap on the helmet. "Well played. He’s finished."

The last member of hope for Shanti Vidya Mandir School seemed to die right there.

The score was 30/1. They needed 57 runs from 10 overs. For a team of this caliber, it was a simple walk in the park.

The fielders’ heads dropped. The silence was deafening.

Vikram tried to rally them. "Come on, boys! One more wicket! We can do this!"

But his voice was hollow. Raghav could see the lie. Vikram’s eyes were dead. He didn’t believe it. And because he didn’t believe it, no one else did.

Sunil, the left-arm spinner, came on to bowl the 11th over. He felt hopelessness.

[Ball 10.1] He tossed a ball up, a defeated, listless delivery.

Sameer’s eyes lit up. The threat was gone. The chase was on.

He skipped down the track, his feet moving like a dancer’s, and met the ball on the Full Toss.

CRACK!

He launched it, a high, soaring arc over Mid-Wicket. It was a shot of pure, arrogant dominance.

The ball sailed... and sailed... and sailed.

It cleared the boundary rope by twenty yards.

SIX RUNS.

[Score: 36/1. Target: 51. Overs: 10.1]

It was a statement. A nail in the coffin.

The Shanti Vidya Mandir School players just stared, their faces blank.

[Ball 10.2] Sunil, his confidence shattered, bowled a Short, panicked ball, trying to "fire it in."

Sameer rocked back and pulled it, hard, into the Square Leg gap. Another boundary.

FOUR RUNS.

[Score: 40/1. Target: 47. Overs: 10.2]

Ten runs in two balls. The game was over. It was now just a matter of time.

[Ball 10.3] Sameer, his blood up, his score now in the 30s, got too arrogant. He was showing his dominance. He wanted to finish this.

Sunil tossed another ball up. Sameer went for the kill.

He went down on one knee for a massive, pre-meditated Slog-Sweep. He was trying to hit it for another six.

But he was too early.

The ball, which he hadn’t seen, dipped. It beat his wild, swinging bat.

It missed the bat completely.

THWACK.

The ball slammed hard into his back pad, dead in front of Middle Stump.

The Shanti Vidya Mandir School team, dead just a second ago, came to life.

"HOWZAT!"

The keeper, Rohan, was screaming. Sunil was on his knees, his arm in the air. Vikram was roaring.

It was plumb. It was the most obvious LBW (Leg Before Wicket) Raghav had ever seen.

Sameer, frozen in his "slog" position, didn’t even turn around.

A dead silence fell on the field.

The umpire, who had been watching the "Batsman " dominate, raised his hand to his hat. He adjusted it.

He looked at the bowler.

He looked at the batsman.

And slowly... agonizingly... he shook his head.

"Not out."

The umpire’s arm did not move.

"Not out."

The words, spoken quietly, were a nuclear detonation on the field.

Sunil, the left-arm spinner, who was on his knees appealing, simply froze.

His arm, raised in celebration, stayed in the air for a second, a statue of disbelief, before falling limp at his side.

Vikram, at First Slip, who had roared "HOWZAT!" with the rest, just stood with his mouth open. He stared at the umpire, his face a mask of utter bewilderment.

"What?" he whispered, the sound audible in the sudden, terrible silence. "Sir, it was... it was plumb!"

The umpire, his face an impassive mask, just turned and adjusted the bails on the stumps.

"Play the game, kids"

On the sideline, Raghav’s good hand clenched his chest. He didn’t need a system. He didn’t need 200 IQ. He was 42 years old, and he knew what he had just seen.

He had seen a team of champions, a dynasty, call in a favor. He had seen the invisible weight of reputation and politics press down on an official and crush him.

The decision was not just wrong. It was corrupt.

Coach Sarma, who had been pacing, stopped. He didn’t yell. He didn’t curse. He did something far worse.

He turned his back to the field.

He stared, unseeing, at the empty stands, a silent, profound gesture of contempt. He had seen it too. The fight was over.

On the field, Sameer, the batsman who had been trapped dead-to-rights, got to his feet. He calmly brushed the dirt from his trousers. He didn’t look at the umpire. He didn’t look at the bowler.

He just... smirked.

A small, private, knowing smirk.

He walked down the pitch to his partner, Karan, who looked as stunned as anyone. Sameer just tapped his bat on the ground. "Come on," he said, loud enough for the fielders to hear. "Let’s finish this."

That smirk did more damage than the umpire’s call. It was the confirmation. It was the admission of guilt.

And it was the final, twisting nail in Don Bosco’s coffin.

The Shanti Vidya Mandir School team’s spirit didn’t just break. It evaporated.

The players, who had been fighting with the rabid energy of cornered animals, now just... stood. Their shoulders slumped.

The fire in their eyes was gone, replaced by a dull, hollow, teenage despair. The injustice was too much.

Sunil, the bowler, had to be told to get the ball. He walked, his feet like lead, back to his mark. He was crying. Tears of pure, childish rage and helplessness streamed down his face.

"It’s alright, Suni!" Vikram tried to yell, but his voice was a broken croak. He didn’t believe it. No one did.

[Ball 10.3] Sunil, his vision blurred, just tossed the ball in. It was a Full Toss, a nothing delivery.

Sameer, his blood up and his conscience clear, was merciless.

CRACK!

He smashed it, a flat, brutal Pull Shot that rocketed to the Mid-Wicket boundary.

FOUR RUNS.

[Score: 44/1. Target: 43. Overs: 10.3]

[Ball 10.4] Sunil, in a daze, bowled again. Another Full Toss.

Sameer hit it again. Same spot.

CRACK!

FOUR RUNS.

[Score: 48/1. Target: 39. Overs: 10.4]

There was no attempt at strategy. No more "Batsman ." This was a "Butcher."

The dam was broken. The fortress was being overrun.

"Stop this, Sunil! Bowl properly!" Vikram yelled, but it was useless.

[Ball 10.5] Sunil’s last ball. It was short and wide. Sameer cut it, hard, for another boundary.

[Score: 52/1. Target: 35. Overs: 10.5]

Sixteen runs from three balls. The game was over.

The rest of the match was not a contest. It was an execution.

Raghav watched from the sideline, his face cold. He was no longer a participant. He was a 42-year-old man, watching a painful, predictable, human tragedy unfold.

The fielders, who had been diving for every ball, now just jogged.

A Cover Drive from Karan. The fielder at Cover, Ajit, put in a half-hearted dive and missed. The ball trickled past him. They ran two.

A Leg Glance from Sameer. The Fine Leg fielder, who had been sprinting, just trotted, allowing them to come back for a second run.

The "Batsman " were toying with them. They were taking singles, hitting a boundary to releasethe pressure, then taking more singles.

The score raced.

`60/1Sarma, who had been pacing, stopped. He didn’t yell. He didn’t curse. He did something far worse.

He turned his back to the field.

He stared, unseeing, at the empty stands, a silent, profound gesture of contempt. He had seen it too. The fight was over.

On the field, Sameer, the batsman who had been trapped dead-to-rights, got to his feet. He calmly brushed the dirt from his trousers. He didn’t look at the umpire. He didn’t look at the bowler.

He just... smirked.

A small, private, knowing smirk.

He walked down the pitch to his partner, Karan, who looked as stunned as anyone. Sameer just tapped his bat on the ground. "Come on," he said, loud enough for the fielders to hear. "Let’s finish this."

That smirk did more damage than the umpire’s call. It was the confirmation. It was the admission of guilt.

And it was the final, twisting nail in Don Bosco’s coffin.

The Shanti Vidya Mandir School team’s spirit didn’t just break. It evaporated.

The players, who had been fighting with the rabid energy of cornered animals, now just... stood. Their shoulders slumped.

The fire in their eyes was gone, replaced by a dull, hollow, teenage despair. The injustice was too much.

Sunil, the bowler, had to be told to get the ball. He walked, his feet like lead, back to his mark. He was crying. Tears of pure, childish rage and helplessness streamed down his face.

"It’s alright, Suni!" Vikram tried to yell, but his voice was a broken croak. He didn’t believe it. No one did.

[Ball 10.3] Sunil, his vision blurred, just tossed the ball in. It was a Full Toss, a nothing delivery.

Sameer, his blood up and his conscience clear, was merciless.

CRACK!

He smashed it, a flat, brutal Pull Shot that rocketed to the Mid-Wicket boundary.

FOUR RUNS.

[Score: 44/1. Target: 43. Overs: 10.3]

[Ball 10.4] Sunil, in a daze, bowled again. Another Full Toss.

Sameer hit it again. Same spot.

CRACK!

FOUR RUNS.

[Score: 48/1. Target: 39. Overs: 10.4]

There was no attempt at strategy. No more options ." This was a "Butcher."

The dam was broken. The fortress was being overrun.

"Stop this, Sunil! Bowl properly!" Vikram yelled, but it was useless.

[Ball 10.5] Sunil’s last ball. It was short and wide. Sameer cut it, hard, for another boundary.

[Score: 52/1. Target: 35. Overs: 10.5]

Sixteen runs from three balls. The game was over.

The rest of the match was not a contest. It was an execution.

Raghav watched from the sideline, his face cold. He was no longer a participant. He was a 42-year-old man, watching a painful, predictable, human tragedy unfold.

The fielders, who had been diving for every ball, now just jogged.

A Cover Drive from Karan. The fielder at Cover, Ajit, put in a half-hearted dive and missed. The ball trickled past him. They ran two.

A Leg Glance from Sameer. The Fine Leg fielder, who had been sprinting, just trotted, allowing them to come back for a second run.

The batsmans were toying with them. They were taking singles, hitting a boundary to release the pressure, then taking more singles.

The score raced.

60/1...

68/1...

77/1...

83/1...

They needed four runs to win. Amar, the medium-pacer, was bowling the 15th over.

[Ball 14.2] Karan, the "Wall" who had become a "Palace," was on strike. He had 32 runs. He was the picture of calm.

Amar ran in, a defeated, listless jog. He bowled a Half-Volley on the Off-Stump. It was a batting-practice delivery.

Karan’s front foot glided to the pitch of the ball. He didn’t try to slog it. He played a "textbook" Cover Drive.

CRACK.

The sound was pure. The shot was perfect.

The ball, a white streak, raced past the demoralized Cover fielder.

FOUR RUNS.

[Score: 87/1. Spring Dale International School won by 9 wickets.]

The Spring Dale dugout gave a polite, professional clap. A few players stood up, gathered their bats.

It was a job, completed.

Sameer and Karan, the victors, just touched their bats together, took off their helmets, and walked calmly towards the pavilion.

"Line up," Coach Sarma’s voice was a flat, dead command. "Shake their hands."

The Shanti Vidya Mandir School players, their faces streaked with sweat and, in Sunil’s case, tears, dragged themselves into a line.

The ritual was agonizing. The winners, fresh, smiling, and clean, walked past the losers, who were covered in dirt, grass stains, and shame.

"Good game," they said, one by one. "Good game."

The Shanti Vidya Mandir School players just nodded, their eyes on the grass.

Vikram was the last in line. He stood, his shoulders slumped, as Rohan Sharma approached him.

Rohan, the champion captain, stopped. He didn’t just shake his hand. He gripped Vikram’s shoulder.

"You had us," Rohan said, his voice low and for Vikram alone. "You had me. That Leg-Side trap... that was inspired."

Vikram looked up, his eyes red.

Rohan gave a small, appreciative nod. "You’ll be a problem next year. Good game, Captain."

He clapped Vikram on the shoulder, a gesture of respect that felt, somehow, like the final, devastating blow.

Vikram just nodded, speechless.

As the SDI team walked away, Rohan paused. He saw Raghav, standing by the boundary, his right arm in a dirty plaster cast.

Rohan’s eyes, sharp and analytical, swept from Raghav’s face, to the cast, to Coach Sarma, and back to Raghav.

He didn’t need to be told. The 42-year-old mind, the "strategist," the boy who was different. He connected the dots.

He knew.

Rohan Sharma didn’t smile. He didn’t speak. He just held Raghav’s gaze for a long, cold second.

He gave a single, almost imperceptible nod.

It was a nod of acknowledgement. ’It was you.’

Then, he turned and walked away.

The Shanti Vidya Mandir School team collapsed onto the grass, a silent, broken heap. The stadium felt vast and empty.

Coach Sarma stood over them, his arms crossed. The silence stretched.

Finally, he spoke.

"Get up."

No one moved.

"I said, get UP!" he roared, the sudden noise making them flinch.

Slowly, painfully, they got to their feet. They stood before him like condemned men.

Sarma’s face was like granite.

"I saw it. You saw it," he said, his voice dropping to a low, rough growl. "Today... we were not beaten. We were robbed."

The players looked up, their eyes wide.

"But that is not what I will remember. I will remember that for ten overs, you made the best, most arrogant, most well-funded team in this entire state... panic."

He jabbed a thick finger at Parag. "You took their captain."

He pointed at Vikram. "You made them re-write their entire fielding plan."

He looked at Ajit. "You showed them what a wall looks like."

He took a deep breath, and the hard lines on his face seemed to soften, just for a moment.

"I have been coaching for fifteen years. I have never... ever... I have been proud of a losing team in my life."

He kicked the dirt.

"Now, get your heads up. Hold them high. Go to the bus. The season is over."

The players, one by one, lifted their chins. They were still broken, but the shame was gone, replaced by a dull, aching, righteous anger.

They picked up their kit bags and began the long walk off the field.

Raghav was the last to leave. He stood for a moment, his good hand on the boundary rope, looking back at the scoreboard.

SVS: 86/5. SDI: 87/1.

He thought about the dropped catch. He thought about Vikram’s arrogant Pull Shot. He thought about the umpire.

’A perfect, logical plan,’ he thought, his 42-year-old mind turning the pieces over. ’Derailed by three things: a lack of skill, a lack of discipline, and a lack of power.’

He closed his eyes. He heard his father’s voice in his head.

...Announcing some big ’District Cricket Tournament’...

He opened his eyes, and the despair was gone, replaced by a cold, calculating fire.

’Good,’ he thought, clenching his one good hand.

’This stage was too small anyway.’

(To be Continued)