CHAPTER 41: TAKING THE SPOT

Chapter 41: Taking the Spot

[Score: 0/0. Over: 41.0. Batsman: Rohan S. Bowler: Raghav R.]

A maiden over.

Rohan Sharma, the district captain, stood in the center of the net, his chest heaving, his face a mask of crimson humiliation.

He had faced six balls from the "water boy." He had been hit twice. He had been beaten, clean, three times. And he had failed, miserably, to put away the worst ball of the over.

The silence on the Shanti Vidya Mandir field was absolute.

The district players, who had been laughing and smirking just minutes before, were now standing in a silent, stunned line, their arms crossed. They were watching.

Rajat, the hostile fast bowler, had a look of pure, baffled disbelief on his face. This... this was not possible.

Raghav said nothing. He didn’t celebrate. He didn’t smirk. He just turned, his face a blank, professional mask, and walked back to his mark, tossing the old, scuffed ball in his hand.

At the edge of the field, Coach Sarma, who had not moved, who had not spoken, watched the boy.

And then, he did something.

He nodded.

A single, almost imperceptible dip of his chin.

It was all the confirmation Raghav needed.

Sarma let the silence stretch for one, two, three more seconds. He let his captain stew in the humiliation.

Then, his voice cut the air.

"Rohan."

Rohan Sharma flinched. He didn’t look at the coach. He was still jabbing his bat into the crease, his anger a visible, vibrating aura.

"You’re out," Sarma said, his voice flat.

Rohan froze. He looked up, his eyes wide with disbelief. "Coach? It’s the nets."

"You were beaten six times in six balls. In a real match, you’d be walking back. You’re done. Get your pads off. Rishi!"

The public dismissal was a brutal, calculated power play. It was a slap in the face.

Rohan Sharma, the golden boy, stared at Sarma. He showed his fury. His jaw was so tight it looked like it might crack. He wanted to argue. He wanted to yell.

But he just pressed his lips into a thin, white line.

"Yes, Coach," he bit out.

He didn’t make eye contact with anyone. He walked out of the net, his movements stiff and angry. He walked right past Raghav, their shoulders almost touching. Raghav didn’t move.

Rohan didn’t look at him. But Raghav felt the wave of cold fury coming off him.

This wasn’t over.

"Rishi! You’re in!" Sarma barked.

Rishi, the vice-captain, was already walking. He was a different player to Rohan. Where Rohan was "textbook" and "perfect," Rishi was a "fighter."

He was shorter, stockier, and his face was set in a permanent, analytical frown. He wasn’t here to look good. He was here to solve problems.

And as he took his stance, he looked at Raghav, not with contempt, but with a cold, piercing analysis.

He had just watched his captain, his partner, get dismantled. He was here to restore the hierarchy.

"Right," Rishi said, his voice a low, gravelly thing. "Let’s see it, then."

Raghav was at his mark. His arm was beginning to talk to him. The Iron Grip was not magic; it was a stabilizer. The muscles, torn and rebuilt overnight, were beginning to burn. The throb was returning.

He didn’t care. He began his short, rhythmic glide.

[Ball 42.1]

Rishi was waiting. His eyes were narrow. He was looking for the trick.

Raghav’s arm came over. He snapped his wrist. The Off-Cutter.

It pitched on Middle Stump and, just as it had with Rohan, it kicked, jagging back in viciously.

But Rishi was not Rohan.

He wasn’t trying to play a "perfect" block. He had waited for it, his weight on his back foot.

At the last second, he didn’t block. He jabbed.

He played a jerky, ugly, back-foot punch. He got the bat’s edge on it, but he played it with "soft hands," and the ball dropped dead at his feet.

He had survived.

He looked up at Raghav, his eyes saying, ’I see it. And it’s not good enough.’

[Ball 42.2]

Raghav knew the cutter was now expected. He glided in.

This time, he pushed it through. The Skidder.

Rishi, expecting the jag, was half-stuck. But his reactions were fast. He just jammed his bat down, a desperate, vertical chop that connected with the bottom edge of the bat.

Again, ugly. Again, safe.

Rishi was the anti-Rohan. He didn’t care about looking good. He just cared about not getting out.

[Ball 42.3]

Raghav, his arm now burning, tried the cutter again.

Rishi was ready. He went back, opened his stance, and just... nudged it.

He guided the ball, using Raghav’s own pace, into the gap at Square Leg. In a real match, it would have been a single.

The smirks were back on the faces of the district players.

Rajat, the fast bowler, called out, "There it is, boys! He’s figured him out! Just a one-trick pony!"

Rishi, from the crease, just stared at Raghav. He was the problem-solver, and he had just sent a clear message to his team: Problem solved. He’s nothing.

Raghav ignored them. He walked back, his face calm, but his 42-year-old mind was churning.

Rishi was the worst possible opponent for him. He was a survivor. He wouldn’t be fooled by tricks.

Raghav bowled again..

[Ball 42.4]

simple, straight ball. Rishi blocked.

[Ball 42.5]

A skidding ball. Rishi jammed it.

[Ball 42.6]

A cutter. Rishi nudged it.

The over was done. No runs. But no wickets. No fear.

Raghav had been neutralized.

"My turn," a new voice called.

A new batsman, one of the ones on the list—Pawan—was walking into the net. He was an aggressive, front-foot player. He was showing his arrogance. He didn’t have Rishi’s caution. He was here to hit.

"Keep bowling," Sarma ordered, his voice flat.

Raghav looked at the coach. He had been bowling for two overs. His arm was on fire.

Sarma just stared at him.

Raghav turned, and walked back to his mark.

Pawan settled into the crease. "Come on, kid. Show me that little ’trick’ ball."

[Ball 43.1]

Raghav, his arm aching, his pace dropping, delivered the Off-Cutter.

But he was tired. It didn’t "kick." It "sat up." It was slow.

Pawan’s eyes lit up. He saw the slow ball, and his front foot planted.

CRACK!

He smashed the ball, a clean, powerful On-Drive that rocketed past Raghav, missing his head by inches.

WHAM!

The ball hit the back netting so hard it sounded like a gunshot.

"YEAH!" one of the players yelled. "That’s how you do it!"

Pawan just held his pose, a picture of dominance.

[Ball 43.2]

Raghav, his jaw tight, ran in again.

He tried the Skidder. But his arm was dead. The ball was slow, flat.

Pawan saw it coming, rocked back, and smashed it. A Pull Shot.

CRACK!

Another rocket into the side netting.

"Go fetch that, water boy!" Rajat sneered from the sideline.

Raghav was being found out. His one weapon, his surprise, was gone. Now he was just a 12-year-old with a weak arm, and the district team was lining up to take their cuts.

He bowled two more balls. Both were hit, hard.

"Alright, that’s enough," Sarma called. "Pawan, you’re out. Rajat. Get your pads on. You’re batting."

Rajat’s sneer turned into a predatory grin. "Oh, this is going to be good."

"Roi," Sarma said.

Raghav looked at him, his arm hanging limp, his chest heaving.

"Keep bowling."

The team laughed. This was a public execution. Sarma was going to let his fast bowler, the one who had been mocked, get his revenge.

Rajat, his pads on, strode into the net. He wasn’t a batsman. He was a bully. He held the bat like a club.

"Okay, reserve," Rajat spat, his voice full of venom. "You and me. Let’s see what you’ve got when they’re not scared of you."

Raghav closed his eyes for just a second.

He felt the throb in his arm. He felt the burning fatigue in his lungs.

He heard his father’s broken sigh.

He heard his uncle’s voice: "Just... playing."

He opened his eyes. The 42-year-old’s resolve flooded his body, drowning the 12-year-old’s pain.

This wasn’t about tricks. This wasn’t about cutters.

This was about intent.

He started his run-up. He was barely jogging.

[Ball 44.1]

Rajat was waiting, his bat raised high, ready to send the ball into the next town.

Raghav, his arm feeling like a dead weight, bowled.

It was a pathetic delivery. Slow. Short. It sat up, a fat, hittable melon.

Rajat’s eyes were saucers. He licked his lips.

CRACK!

He Slogged it. He connected perfectly.

The ball flew, high and long, out of the nets, over the boundary fence, and into the tall grass by the school wall.

It was a monster. A hundred-meter Six.

Rajat held his bat in the air. He turned to the other players, who were roaring with laughter.

"THAT’S his spot, boys! In the grass!"

Rajat turned back to Raghav, who was just... standing there.

"Go get it," Rajat ordered, pointing with his bat. "That’s what the reserves are for. Go fetch."

The entire team was laughing. This was the hierarchy, re-established.

Raghav stood there. He looked at Rajat. He looked at the team. He looked at Sarma, who was watching, his face a mask of stone.

This was the real test. Not the cutters. This.

Raghav’s face, which had been calm, hardened.

He turned, and began the long walk. He didn’t run. He walked, slowly, into the outfield. He found the ball in the weeds, picked it up, and began the long walk back.

The team’s laughter died as he walked. His pace was deliberate. It was heavy.

He reached the crease.

Rajat was still grinning. "Ready for another one, kid? I can do this all day."

Raghav looked down. He gripped the ball. He could barely feel his fingers. His arm was completely, totally, spent.

He had one ball left. One.

He closed his eyes. He pictured Rohan, frozen on his front foot. He pictured Rajat, his feet planted, swinging for the fences.

He began his run-up.

He wasn’t gliding. He was stumbling. He was a marathon runner at the 26th mile.

Rajat saw the pathetic approach. His grin widened. He set his feet, planting himself for another mighty heave.

Raghav reached the crease.

He put every ounce of his 13.7 Strength, every bit of his 25.7 Cricket IQ, every drop of his 42 years of anger and resolve, into one, final, desperate delivery.

He did not bowl a cutter.

He did not bowl a skidder.

He did not bowl a slow, hittable piece of trash.

He remembered the Yorker. The ball that had beaten Rohan’s perfect technique.

He used his Iron Grip not to spin the ball, but to propel it.

He emptied his tank.

It was not fast. It was not a thunderbolt.

It was a low, fast, skidding Yorker, aimed not at the stumps, but at the one place a slogger always leaves open.

His toes.

Rajat, his feet planted in concrete, his mind in the clouds, was expecting another hittable, slow ball.

He saw the ball, low and fast, only when it was too late.

His bat, which was raised high for a six, was a mile away.

He tried to jam it down.

CRACK!

It was not the sound of willow. It was the sound of hard leather on bone.

The ball slammed, with a sickening thud, directly into Rajat’s unprotected front foot, just above the shoe, on the ankle.

Rajat didn’t just gasp.

He screamed.

It was a high-pitched, genuine, agonizing howl. He dropped his bat, collapsing onto the pitch, hopping and grabbing his foot.

"AAAAAGH! MY FOOT! HE HIT MY FOOT!"

The field went dead silent.

The laughter was gone. The smirks were gone.

All that was left was Rajat, a crumpled heap on the ground, and Raghav, standing at his mark, his body trembling with exhaustion, his right arm hanging completely useless at his side.

He just watched.

He had, for the second time, physically hurt a player who had disrespected him.

PHWEEEEEEEEET!

A long, sharp, final blast from Sarma’s whistle.

"PRACTICE OVER!" he roared.

The players were frozen. They were staring, not at Raghav, but at their fast bowler, who was now sitting on the grass, his face white with pain and shock.

"EVERYONE! IN! NOW!" Sarma bellowed.

The team scrambled, their faces a mix of fear and confusion. Two players helped the wincing, cursing Rajat to his feet.

They formed a tense, silent semi-circle around their coach.

Sarma stood in front of them, his arms crossed. He looked at Rajat.

"You’ll live," he grunted. "It’s a bruise. Let it be a lesson: respect the man bowling to you. Every time. Or he will put you on your back."

He turned to the rest of the team.

"This... is the Kamrup District Team. The best in the region. And today, you were arrogant. You were sloppy. And you were disrespectful."

His eyes burned.

He looked at Rohan. "You, our captain, were beaten."

He looked at Rishi. "You, our vice-captain, were stalled."

He looked at Rajat. "And you, our fastest bowler... were humiliated."

He walked over and stood next to Raghav. Raghav was just trying to breathe, his right arm so numb he couldn’t even feel his fingers.

Sarma put a heavy, calloused hand on Raghav’s shoulder.

"This," he said, his voice dropping to a low growl for everyone to hear, "is a reserve. A ’water boy.’ He is twelve. His arm is barely healed from a break. He has been bowling, non-stop, for almost an hour."

He looked at the team, his eyes full of a cold, measured fire.

"And he just dismantled you."

A thick, heavy, ashamed silence.

"The list I submitted to the ACA had sixteen names," Sarma said, his voice quiet now. "That list was... incomplete. I kept a spot open."

He looked at the official team manager, who was holding a clipboard. "Mister Baruah. Add a name. R-A-G-H-A-V. R-O-I."

Raghav’s head, which had been hanging in exhaustion, snapped up.

He felt the system flash, a bright, validating light, but he didn’t read it.

Sarma was looking at him.

"He is no longer a reserve. He is on the team. He has taken the seventeenth spot."

Sarma’s expression was still a mask of stone. "You did not ’earn’ this, Roi. You took it. This is not a gift. It is a burden. From now on, your failures are my failures. You will be held to the same standard as them. You will be better. Understood?".

Raghav, his arm screaming, his body spent, his 42-year-old mind finally seeing the path, locked eyes with his coach.

"Yes, Coach."

Sarma nodded once. "Good."

He turned to the humbled, silent, angry team.

"Now, pack the nets. All of you. Including you, Rajat. Walk it off."

The players, like scolded dogs, started to move.

Rohan Sharma, his face a complex mask of anger, respect, and confusion, walked past Raghav. He stopped.

"That... was a good spell of bowling," Rohan said, his voice stiff. It was the only apology he could offer.

Raghav just nodded. "Thank you, Captain."

Rohan walked away..

Raghav stood there for a moment, his quest complete.

The real game had just begun.

(To be Continued)