May 20th, 2011. Friday.
The Zinc Ground (VDCA Stadium) determines by sunset, Arjun would either enter the district system — or disappear from it forever.
The morning sun was already beginning to bake the red clay of the outfield, sending shimmers of heat rising off the pitch. Over 350 kids had descended on the stadium, a sea of mismatched whites and hopeful faces. The registration desk near the pavilion was a mosh pit of shouting parents, nervous teenagers, and harried volunteers. The air smelled of Zandu Balm, cheap deodorant, dust, and the metallic tang of anxiety.
Arjun adjusted the strap of his kit bag. It felt heavier today, loaded not just with his gear, but with the weight of the deal he had struck at the dinner table.
Ramesh stopped his scooter near the main gate at 7:00 AM. The engine idled with a rhythmic thug-thug-thug. Arjun hopped off. His whites were ironed crisp, the creases sharp enough to cut paper, but his shoes betrayed his reality—old canvas Batas, scrubbed aggressively with white chalk the night before to hide the scuffs.
"Go," Ramesh said, checking his Titan watch. "I have a meeting at 10. Don't be late for the registration."
Arjun grabbed his kit bag. "Okay. You can leave, Dad. It will take all day."
Ramesh nodded, his face unreadable behind his spectacles. "Call me from the PCO when you are done. Keep the change for lunch."
Arjun turned and walked into the crowd. He didn't run. He didn't look around with wide eyes like the others, soaking in the 'grandeur' of the district stadium. He moved with a strange, conserved energy—like a marathon runner at the starting line, knowing exactly how many miles lay ahead.
Ramesh put the scooter in gear to leave. The traffic on the highway was picking up. But he didn't accelerate.
He watched his son's back. Arjun stood in the registration line, calm amidst the chaos. He wasn't fidgeting. He wasn't swinging his bat wildly like the kid next to him who was trying to practice cover drives in a two-foot space. Arjun just stood there, staring at the pavilion, his stillness cutting through the noise.
Ramesh turned off the ignition. He rolled the scooter backward, parking it under the shade of a large Neem tree across the road. He unbuttoned his collar to let the breeze in.
Just ten minutes, he told himself. I'll just see which group he is in. Then I'll go.
8:15 AM.
The selection process was brutal. It was affectionately known in local circles as the "Cattle Class." There were four nets set up on the far side of the ground. To speed things up, the organizers were batching kids by specialty, treating them less like athletes and more like inventory.
"RIGHT ARM FAST BOWLERS! NET 1 and 2!" a volunteer screamed, his voice cracking. "BATSMEN! NET 4!"
A stampede of three hundred boys rushed towards those nets. It was a crush of bodies, everyone terrified of being left out.
"LEFT ARM BOWLERS! NET 3!" the coach screamed through a megaphone.
Ramesh sat up straighter on his scooter. He saw Arjun stand up from the bench. While the other queues were overflowing, the line for "Left Arm" was thin—maybe only 15 boys. Most kids wanted to be fast bowlers like Brett Lee or batsmen like Sachin. Left-arm medium pace was an anomaly.
Smart, Ramesh thought, a faint smile touching his lips. Less competition. Better odds.
Arjun walked to Net 3. Sitting behind the net on a plastic chair was P.R. Narayanaswami (Swami Sir). The Head Selector. A legend in Vizag cricket circles, known for his thick mustache and his terrifying silence. He looked bored, flipping through his clipboard, swatting away flies.
The boy before Arjun ran in. He was a tall, lanky kid who looked fast. He windmilled his arms and bowled a delivery that flew four feet wide of the stumps. Swami Sir didn't even blink. He waved his hand dismissively. "Next."
Arjun stepped up. He handed his slip to the assistant coach. Ramesh squinted from across the road. The distance was too great to hear anything, but he saw Arjun point to his left arm and say something short.
Arjun marked his run-up. It wasn't long. Just twelve steps. He didn't need a runway; he needed rhythm.
Ramesh held his breath. His hands gripped the handlebars of the scooter. He hadn't seen Arjun play properly in years. In his mind, Arjun was still the clumsy ten-year-old who dropped catches in the park and cried when the ball hit his shin.
Arjun turned at his mark. He started his run. It wasn't fast, but it was rhythmic. Thud. Thud. Thud. His new height made his strides look long, slightly loping, like a wolf trotting through the woods.
As he reached the crease, his body straightened. Run. Lock. Release.
He bowled over the wicket. The ball pitched on a good length. It wasn't express pace—it wouldn't terrify anyone. But because of his left-arm angle, it naturally slanted across the right-handed batsman. The batsman, expecting a straight ball, poked at it tentatively. Whoosh. The ball beat the outside edge, missing the wood by an inch, and thudded into the net behind.
Swami Sir sat up. He pushed his sunglasses up to his forehead. He leaned over to the assistant coach, Rao Sir. "Did that swing?" Swami Sir asked, his voice low.
"No , Sir," Rao muttered. "Natural angle."
"One more," Swami Sir called out. "Attack the stumps."
Ball 2: Arjun walked back. He didn't look at the selector. He looked at the middle stump. Tighten the screw. He ran in again. This time, he put more shoulder into the delivery. The ball pitched on middle stump. It gripped the surface and straightened just a fraction—the "nipper" he had practiced against the wall for months. The batsman was cramped for room. He tried to flick it to the leg side but was too late. The ball rapped the pad. A solid, dull sound. Thwack.
Plumb.
Swami Sir didn't clap. He didn't smile. But he picked up his pen and circled something on Arjun's form. "Note that number," Swami Sir said to Rao. "Chest number 184." Rao scribbled it down, looking at Arjun with a curious expression.
From the roadside, Ramesh let out a long, shaky exhale. He felt a strange tightening in his chest. It wasn't just pride. It was memory. It triggered a ghost from 1985. The days when Ramesh stood in a similar line, hungry and hopeful, before the responsibilities of life forced him to choose a desk over a pitch.
He watched Arjun walk out of the net, wiping sweat from his forehead with his sleeve. The boy looked confident. He looked like he belonged there.
Ramesh checked his watch. 9:15 AM. He was going to be late for the meeting. His boss would be furious. But as he kick-started the scooter, the annoyance wasn't there. He took one last look at his son—who was now sitting calmly under a tree, eating a banana—and drove away.
2:30 PM.
Arjun was still waiting. He had finished bowling at 9:00 AM. It was now past lunch. The excitement of the morning had evaporated, replaced by the grueling reality of the heat. The temperature had touched 38 degrees Celsius.
He hadn't sat on a chair. There were no chairs. He had been standing or sitting on the hard concrete steps for six hours. His knees were throbbing. Standing on concrete all day made it feel like needles were being driven into his tibial tuberosity. But he didn't complain. He didn't rub his knees. He ate a banana. He drank water. He waited.
"Number 180 to 190! Batting!" a voice boomed.
Arjun stood up. His legs felt stiff, like rusty hinges. He stretched his hamstrings quickly, grimacing slightly, and padded up.
He walked into the net. The bowler wasn't another trial kid. It was a U-19 club player—a guy with a bandana, sweat dripping off his nose, looking annoyed that he had to bowl to juniors in this heat.
"Right arm fast," the bowler grunted, rolling the ball in hand.
Arjun took his stance. His bat—freshly balanced by Shiva—felt light in his hands. He tapped the ground. Tap. Tap.
Ball 1: Short and wide. The bowler wanted to scare him. Arjun watched it. Every other kid today had tried to slash this ball for six to impress the selectors. They wanted to show power. Arjun let it go. He swayed back, watching the ball sail harmlessly into the net. Discipline. Swami Sir, watching from the side, didn't react. But he didn't look away either.
Ball 2: Good length, aiming for the off-stump. Arjun leaned forward. He used his long stride to get to the pitch of the ball, smothering the spin or swing before it could happen. He presented the full face of the bat. The Forward Defense.
Thud.
The ball dropped dead at his feet. Soft hands. High elbow. "Good defense," Swami Sir muttered. "Clean."
Then, the selector leaned forward. He wanted to check the engine, not just the brakes. "Okay, last ball," Swami Sir shouted. " Finish the Innings. Hit it."
The bowler grinned. He knew the drill. The kid would try to slog, lose his shape, and get bowled. It happened every time. The bowler ran in hard. He fired a full delivery on the stumps, looking for the crushing yorker.
Arjun saw it. He knew he couldn't clear the boundary with brute power. He is weak to muscle it over cow corner. So he used physics.
He didn't swing across the line. He cleared his front leg slightly to make room. He leaned into the ball, using the bowler's own pace against him. He lofted it straight back over the bowler's head.
The Lofted Drive.
He timed it perfectly. The ball sailed in a high arc, clearing the net and landing near the sightscreen with a soft thud. It wasn't a brute slog. It was a calculated extension of his defense.
"Shot," the bowler muttered, surprised. He looked back at the ball, then at Arjun.
Swami Sir didn't say anything just looked more at him for brief moment and then he just marked his sheet again. "Next."
6:00 PM.
The sun had set, turning the sky a bruised purple. The list was pasted on the pavilion pillar. The mob rushed forward. A wave of white uniforms pushing and shoving.
Arjun stood at the back, waiting for the chaos to die down. His knees were on fire now. The adrenaline had worn off, leaving behind a dull, throbbing ache. He just wanted to go home and ice them.
After ten minutes, the crowd thinned. Some boys were crying. Others were shouting into phones.
Arjun walked up to the pillar. VISAKHAPATNAM DISTRICT U-16 PROBABLES CAMP
He scanned the names. V. Ravi
K. Siva Kumar
He went down. No. 24: Arjun (Left-Arm Med / RH Bat)
There it was. He wasn't a star. He wasn't in the Top 10. He was a "Probable." A backup. A "maybe." But he was in the system.
He walked to the PCO booth outside the gate. He inserted a one-rupee coin and dialed home.
"Hello?" Ramesh's voice came through.
"Dad," Arjun said, his voice hoarse from dehydration. "I'm done."
"And?"
"I made the list."
There was a pause. A silence that felt heavy but warm. "I know," Ramesh said quietly. "I saw the bowling."
Arjun blinked, leaning against the grime-streaked glass of the booth. "You stayed?"
"For a bit," Ramesh said, his voice returning to its usual practical tone. "Wait at the gate. I'm coming to pick you up. And... ask Mom to make chicken tonight."
Arjun smiled, a tired, genuine smile. "Okay, Dad."
He hung up the phone. Step 1 was complete. But as he looked back at the stadium, at the lights flickering on in the committee room where the coaches were debriefing, he felt a chill. Being invisible was safe. Being on the list meant everyone was watching now. And the real test hadn't even begun.