CHAPTER 45: THE RIPPER

Chapter 45: The Ripper

[Score: 35/0. Overs: 7.0. Batsmen: Akhil 19*, Bikash 12*. Bowler: Raghav R.]

Raghav stood at the top of his bowling mark. The white, hard, match ball felt heavy and real in his right hand. His Iron Grip closed around the seam, a familiar, solid vice.

In front of him, the field was a strange, aggressive, hybrid creature of his own design.

Pawan, the team’s best fielder, was crouched at Short Leg, uncomfortably close, his helmet grille glinting.

Rishi, the "problem-solver," was at Gully, his knees bent, waiting for an edge.

Aakash, the keeper, was standing up to the stumps, his gloves raised, his glasses fogging slightly in the humidity.

This was a field designed to suffocate.

Twenty-two yards away, Akhil, the Sivasagar captain, watched this. He was a "scrapper," and this setup was an insult. It was a trick. He showed his contempt by tapping his bat on the crease, then pointing it, playfully, at Raghav.

"Hey, kid!" he yelled, his voice echoing in the vast, near-empty stadium. "You sure you’re not a bit... slow... for a field like that?"

The Sivasagar dugout, a small cluster of boys by the boundary, laughed.

On the Kamrup sideline, Rajat, the injured fast bowler, scoffed. "He’s going to get murdered. This is a joke."

Raghav didn’t answer. He didn’t look at Akhil. He looked at the spot on the pitch he wanted to hit.

His perspective, seasoned by a lifetime he alone remembered, had already analyzed this batsman. ’He’s arrogant. He’s a "hitter," not a "batsman." He’s expecting a trick.’

So, Raghav decided, he would give him nothing.

He began his run-up. The short, simple, rhythmic glide.

[Ball 7.1]

His arm came over. His pace was medium, at best. He bowled a simple, straight, Good Length delivery. No cutter. No skidder. It was the most "nothing" ball he could possibly bowl.

Akhil, who had set himself for a spinning, jagging, trick ball, was completely baffled.

He was showing his confusion. His feet, which had been ready to dance, were stuck. He was forced into a clumsy, stiff-legged Block. The ball thudded, harmlessly, into the middle of his bat.

"There it is, boys!" Rajat yelled from the side. "Just a normal, slow bowler!"

Raghav just walked back. His face was blank. ’Good. He’s confused.’

[Ball 7.2]

He ran in again. Same glide. Same pace.

He delivered the exact same ball.

A Good Length, straight, simple delivery on Middle Stump.

Akhil was annoyed now. He was the captain. He was set on 19. This... this water boy... was boring him.

He played another block, this one more aggressive, more forceful. He was showing his impatience.

[Ball 7.3]

Raghav saw it. The impatience. The fatal flaw of the "scrapper." They hate, more than anything, to be bored.

He ran in. Same glide.

Akhil, his mind made up, was convinced Raghav was just a slow, one-note bowler. He was going to create a shot.

But Raghav, his analytical mind one step ahead, pulled his length back. It was a fraction Shorter-of-a-Good-Length.

Akhil, already committed to coming forward, was caught. He was cramped. He tried to force a Pull shot on a ball that wasn’t short enough.

CLACK!

He got a thick, ugly Inside Edge. The ball thudded, hard, into his own thigh pad and dropped at his feet, nearly rolling back onto his stumps.

A collective "Aaaaah!" came from Aakash and the Short Leg fielder.

Akhil was now furious. He had been made to look clumsy. He had been made to look weak.

[Ball 7.4]

Raghav walked back. He saw it all. The flushed red on Akhil’s neck. The death-grip on the bat. The batsman was no longer thinking about "tricks." He was no longer thinking at all.

He was just angry.

’Now,’ Raghav thought. ’Now I give him the trick.’

He began his run-up. The identical glide. The identical arm action.

Rohan, at Mid-Off, leaned in, his eyes narrowed. He felt the shift.

Akhil saw the "same" ball coming. He was going to smash it. He planted his front foot, his body coiling for a massive, redeeming On-Drive.

But this time, Raghav’s hand, his Iron Grip, did its work.

His wrist snapped. His fingers ripped down the hard, new seam of the match ball.

It was the Off-Cutter.

The ball pitched on Middle Stump, looking exactly like the first three deliveries.

Akhil, his swing already in motion, was committed.

And then the ball hit the pitch.

It didn’t just "turn."

It kicked.

It exploded off the rough, hard surface, jagging back in, violently.

Akhil’s bat, swinging on the path of the ball that wasn’t there, sliced through empty air.

Whoosh.

The ball, moving like a snake, passed the inside of his bat.

It passed the inside of his front pad.

Aakash, the keeper, who was standing up, was the only one who saw it. He saw the ball’s destination.

CLACK!

It was not the sound of the bat. It was not the sound of the pad.

It was the sharp, crack of wood.

The Leg Stump bail, struck with vicious force, flew up into the air. It spun, end over end, and landed on the grass.

WICKET!

The field went dead silent.

The Sivasagar dugout, which had been laughing, was a silent row of shocked faces.

Akhil, the captain, was frozen in his Drive pose, a statue of disbelief. He stared at his stumps. He looked at the umpire.

Aakash, the wicketkeeper, was the first to react.

"YES! YES! GONE! BOWLED HIM!"

He roared, ripping his gloves off and throwing his head back.

The Kamrup team, as one, exploded.

They sprinted in from all corners of the field.

"YES, RAGHAV! YES!"

"WHAT A BALL! WHAT A BALL!"

Pawan, the Short Leg, was the first to reach him, pounding him on the back. Rishi, from Gully, sprinted in, his face a mask of pure, analytical shock.

Rajat, on the sideline, was standing, his mouth half-open. "What... what the hell... was that?"

Rohan Sharma, at Mid-Off, just stood there, his hands on his hips. He was watching Akhil. He wasn’t celebrating. He was... analyzing. He had been a victim of that same, impossible delivery. He was watching, with a cold, detached respect, as his rival captain was dismantled.

Akhil, his face a dark, furious red, finally moved. He tucked his bat under his arm and began the long walk off. He didn’t look at anyone. He had been tricked. He had been humiliated. He had been beaten.

Raghav just stood at the center of the storm. He didn’t pump his fist. He didn’t yell. His arm was screaming in agony from the effort of that one, perfect ball. He just took a deep, ragged breath.

’One,’ he thought.

[Score: 35/1. Overs: 7.4. Batsmen: Bikash 12*. New Batsman: ?]

The umpire picked up the bail and reset the stump.

The new Sivasagar batsman, a small, nervous-looking boy (let’s call him Romen), was walking out, his steps slow and heavy. He looked like a man walking to his own execution.

He walked past Bikash, the other opener, who was still at the non-striker’s end, his face white.

"What... what was that?" Romen whispered.

Bikash just shook his head. "I don’t know," he muttered. "It just... it moved. Watch yourself."

Romen, his heart pounding, took his stance.

Raghav had two balls left in his over.

Rohan, now a true believer, kept the field. The Short Leg. The Gully. He was showing his trust. "Go on, Raghav," he yelled. "Finish him."

Raghav looked at Bikash, who had crossed over to the striker’s end. Bikash was showing his fear. His feet were like cement.

[Ball 7.5]

Raghav knew the batsman was terrified. He was expecting the "magic" ball, the cutter.

So Raghav gave him the opposite.

He glided in. His arm action was identical.

But this time, he bowled the Skidder. He pushed it through, fuller, faster, on Off-Stump, using the Iron Grip to just propel it.

Bikash, who was expecting the ball to jag in, was frozen. His feet didn’t move. He just pushed his bat out, a late, panicked, defensive jab.

He was beaten for pace. The ball just missed his Outside Edge.

Whoosh!

Aakash took it, his gloves snapping shut. "Aaaaaah!" he screamed.

Bikash was a nervous wreck. He had no idea what was coming.

[Ball 7.6]

One ball left. Raghav felt the pulsing throb in his forearm. It was a race against time. He had to finish this.

’He’s scared of the fast one. He’s scared of the one that moves in.’

Raghav’s seasoned mind made the call. ’One more. The big one.’

He ran in. The same glide. The same arm action.

Bikash, his mind poisoned, was playing for the Skidder. He was playing for the last ball he faced.

He set himself, his bat coming down in that same, panicked jab.

But Raghav’s wrist snapped.

He ripped his fingers down the seam.

It was the Off-Cutter. Again.

The ball pitched on Middle Stump, a perfect, tempting, straight delivery.

Bikash pushed at it.

And the ball kicked. It jagged in.

It beat his bat.

It beat his defensive push.

THWACK!

It was not the sound of wood. It was the dull, heavy thud of leather on pad.

The ball slammed, hard, into Bikash’s front pad, dead in front of Middle Stump.

Raghav didn’t even wait.

He spun around, his right arm—his sore, aching, weaponized arm—raised high to the sky.

"HOWZAT!" he roared.

The entire Kamrup team erupted with him.

"HOWZAT! GONE! PLUMB!"

The umpire, who had seen it all, didn’t hesitate.

His finger went up.

WICKET! LBW!

The field exploded.

If the first wicket was a celebration, this was a coronation.

The Kamrup team didn’t just pat Raghav on the back. They mobbed him.

"TWO! TWO IN AN OVER!"

"WHAT IS HAPPENING!"

Pawan, the Short Leg, was the first one there, grabbing Raghav in a headlock. "You’re a freak, man! A freak!"

Sahil ran in from the outfield. "He’s a magician!"

Rohan Sharma just ran up, his face split in a grin of pure, unadulterated shock and joy. He grabbed Raghav by the shoulders.

"That... that... is what I’m talking about! YES, RAGHAV!"

He was screaming the name.

[Score: 35/2. Overs: 8.0. (Wicket on last ball)]

The game was shattered. Sivasagar was in ruins. Two set batsmen, gone in three balls.

Raghav stood at the center of the mob, his arm on fire, his body aching, just trying to breathe.

[SYSTEM NOTIFICATION: ’Partnership Breaker’ (Micro-Achievement) Unlocked!]

[+50 System Points Acquired. Total SP: 1350]

[Hidden Quest ’More Than a Reserve’: Progress 3/11 (Selected), (Broke Partnership)]

On the sideline, Rajat was silent, his face white. Chinmoy, the all-rounder, was just staring, his resentment now mixed with a terrifying, undeniable awe.

Coach Sarma was a mask of stone. He watched the celebration. He watched the two new, terrified Sivasagar batsmen (Romen and a new one, Pawan) meet in the middle of the pitch, their shoulders slumped.

He watched Raghav, the 17th man, who was now being escorted back to his fielding position by a grinning, ecstatic Rohan.

Sarma just pulled out his notebook and made a small, sharp mark next to Raghav’s name.

The "water boy" was now the team’s executioner.

(To be Continued)