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November 14, 2021. The Chase.Target: 183 Runs.
Over 17. The Dubai International Stadium.India: 139/5.Target: 183.Equation: 44 runs needed off 24 balls.
The stadium was vibrating. The noise was a physical entity, pressing against the eardrums of every soul inside. But in the center, amidst the cauldron, there was a strange, focused quiet between the two batsmen.
I walked down the pitch to Hardik Pandya. He was chewing his lip, his eyes darting around. He had survived the hat-trick ball in the previous over, but he hadn't yet found his rhythm. He was batting on 1 off 1 balls.
"Hardik," I said, my voice cutting through the noise. "This is it. Trent Boult. Their best bowler. If we break him here, we break their spirit."
Hardik looked at me. He looked at the scoreboard. Then he looked at Boult, who was marking his run-up with the grim determination of an executioner.
"He's going for the yorker," Hardik whispered. "He wants to kill the game now."
"Then let him try," I bumped his fist. "Watch the ball. Hit the ball."
Kane Williamson brought his field in slightly. He knew this over was the championship rounds. If Boult went for 5 runs and a wicket, New Zealand would have one hand on the trophy. If he went for 15... India would be favorites.
Trent Boult stood at the top of his mark. The left-arm assassin. The man who had removed Rahul in the first over.
Ball 17.1: Hardik took his stance. Deep in the crease. Boult ran in. He didn't look for swing. He looked for the base of the stumps. 143 kmph. A searing, swinging yorker aimed right at the toes. It was a ball that would have bowled 99% of batsmen. But Hardik Pandya has wrists made of steel and rubber. He didn't try to dig it out defensively. He cleared his front leg, creating room where there was none. He whipped his wrists. The Helicopter flick. He dug the ball out from under his feet and launched it over long-on. The connection was sweet, metallic, and perfect.
SIX!
Ian Smith (Comms): "Oh no! Oh no, Trent! That was the perfect yorker! How has he done that? Hardik Pandya has just dug a grave for that ball in the stands! That is unbelievable wrist power! He was looking rusty, but he just woke up!"
Ball 17.2: Boult was rattled. He grimaced. He wiped the ball. He decided not to go full again. He pulled his length back. Good length, angling across off stump. Hardik was waiting. He stayed back. He swiveled on his hips. The Pull Shot. He didn't try to hit it for six. He rolled his wrists over the ball, keeping it flat, finding the gap between deep square leg and deep mid-wicket. The ball raced across the dew-slicked outfield like a tracer bullet. FOUR.
Sunil Gavaskar (Comms): "And now the placement! First the power, now the precision! 10 runs off the first two balls! The pressure has just transferred from the batting side to the bowling side in the blink of an eye. Hardik Pandya is announcing himself!"
Ball 17.3: Boult went wide yorker. Hardik reached out and squeezed it to deep point. "ONE! ONE!" I was already sprinting. I wanted the strike. I needed the strike. We crossed. 1 Run.
Equation: 33 runs needed off 21 balls.
I was on strike. 50 (18 balls).* I adjusted my helmet. I looked at Trent Boult. He looked tired. The humidity was getting to him. He wiped sweat from his eyes.
Ball 17.4: Boult ran in. He knew he couldn't bowl full to me because of the helicopter shot. He couldn't bowl short because of the upper cut. He tried the 'heavy ball'. Back of a length, into the body. It was a good ball. But I was in God Mode. I stood tall. I didn't back away. I punched it. It wasn't a pull. It wasn't a drive. It was a standing punch off the back foot, hitting through the line on the up. The ball flew over the bowler's head. It kept rising. It sailed over the sightscreen.
SIX!
Harsha Bhogle (Comms): "That is a shot of absolute authority! He has stood there like a statue and dismissed Trent Boult from his presence! Straight back over the head! The stillness of the head, the speed of the hands... we are watching greatness unfold!"
Ball 17.5: Boult lost his line. The pressure was suffocating him. He tried a slower bouncer. But he telegraphed it. The arm speed slowed down. I saw it out of the hand. I waited. I had time to make a cup of tea. I swiveled. I didn't just hook it; I smashed it. Flat. Hard. Over backward square leg. It crashed into the advertising boards on the full.
SIX!
Isa Guha (Comms): "Carnage! Absolute carnage in Dubai! Trent Boult, one of the best bowler in the world, is being taken apart! Two sixes in two balls from Aarav Pathak! The New Zealand shoulders are drooping. Kane Williamson looks shell-shocked!"
Equation: 21 needed off 19 balls.
The Indian fans were delirious. They were jumping, hugging, crying. The flags were waving so hard it looked like a blue ocean storm.
Ball 17.6: Last ball of the over. Boult just wanted to get out of there. He bowled a wide yorker. I could have tried to slice it for four. But I looked at Hardik at the non-striker's end. He was pumped. He was ready. I dug it out to deep cover. "One." We jogged the single.
End of Over 17.India: 163/5.Hardik Pandya: 12 (4).* Aarav Pathak: 63 (21).*
24 Runs off the over.
The equation had melted. 20 runs needed off 18 balls.
The Release
As we walked towards each other for the mid-pitch chat, the noise was deafening. Hardik looked at me, his eyes wide, adrenaline pumping through his veins. He grabbed my glove and punched it hard.
We bumped fists. I threw my head back and let out a roar that was lost in the crowd's noise, but Hardik heard it.
"ONE MORE!" I screamed, pointing at the scoreboard. "ONE MORE GOOD OVER!"
"We got this!" Hardik yelled back.
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Over 18. The Dubai International Stadium.India: 163/5.Hardik Pandya: 12 (4).* Aarav Pathak: 63 (21).* Target: 183.Equation: 20 runs needed off 18 balls.
The laws of time seemed to suspend themselves inside the Ring of Fire. The humid air, usually heavy and oppressive, now felt thin, sucked out of the stadium by the collective inhalation of thirty thousand souls.
The noise had transcended volume. It was no longer a sound; it was a vibration that rattled the teeth and hummed in the marrow of the bones. It was the sound of a billion dreams colliding with the fear of another heartbreak.
Kane Williamson gathered his team. He didn't shout. He didn't wave his arms. He spoke softly, his eyes scanning the field, moving a fielder three inches to the left, another two yards back. He was the grandmaster trying to save a game of chess against an opponent who had just flipped the board.
He tossed the ball to Tim Southee.
Southee, the veteran, the warhorse. He looked weary. His jersey was soaked through, clinging to his back like a second skin. He wiped the ball on a towel, then on his trousers, trying desperately to find a dry patch. The dew was glistening on the grass like a million tiny diamonds, beautiful and treacherous.
In the Dugout:
The camera panned to the Indian camp. It was a tableau of agonizing anticipation.
Rohit Sharma, the man who had hit five centuries in 2019 World Cup, the man who had seen it all, couldn't watch. He sat with a white towel draped over his head like a monk in prayer, staring at the pitch, his legs bouncing rhythmically. He was shielding himself from the hope.
Ravi Shastri sat reclined in his chair, his sunglasses reflecting the floodlights. He held a glass of water or perhaps something stronger to calm the nerves swirling it gently. His face was a mask of granite, impassive, unreadable. But the knuckles gripping the glass were white, betraying the turmoil inside.
Rishabh Pant, Suryakumar Yadav, and Jasprit Bumrah stood near the boundary rope, their fingers crossed, lips moving in silent players. They were like schoolboys watching a penalty shootout.
And Virat Kohli. The Captain. The man playing his final innings as the T20 skipper. He stood alone near the drinks cooler. His hand was tucked under his chin, his fist clenched so tight the veins popped. He wasn't blinking. He was channeling every ounce of his will onto the pitch.
Harsha Bhogle: "It has come down to this. 20 runs. 18 balls. In normal circumstances, with two set batsmen, the batting side walks this home. But this is a World Cup Final. The ghosts of the past are watching. New Zealand will not give this up. Tim Southee has the ball. Aarav Pathak has the strike. History is waiting to be written."
Ian Smith: "Tim Southee has to be perfect. He cannot miss his length by an inch. If he goes full, he goes into the stands. If he goes short, he goes into the stands. He has to find that awkward length, that corridor of uncertainty that makes Aarav think. New Zealand needs a dot ball. They need wicket. They need a miracle."
Isa Guha: "Look at the field. Williamson has brought the third man up. He is inviting the cut shot, hoping for an edge. He has pushed mid-off back. He is daring Aarav to hit straight against the swing, if there is any left. The tension... you can cut it with a knife."
I stood at the crease. I looked around. The blur of the crowd. The flags waving like a turbulent ocean. I took a deep breath. The air smelled of cut grass and ozone.
I tapped my bat. Tap. Tap. I looked at Southee. I saw the fatigue in his eyes. I saw the fear.
Ball 18.1: Southee ran in. He ignored the field. He backed his experience. He bowled a wide yorker. Executed to perfection. It was painting the tramline. I threw my hands at it, looking to slice it over point. I missed. The ball thudded into the keeper's gloves. Dot Ball.
Williamson clapped. The equation tightened. 20 runs off 17 balls.
Ian Smith: "Gold! Pure gold from Southee! That is exactly what was needed. A dot ball is like a wicket at this stage. The pressure ticks up. Can he do it five more times? Aarav Pathak just had a swish at that. Nerves?"
Sunil Gavaskar: "It was the right ball. But look at Aarav. He isn't flustered. He is walking away from the crease. He is resetting."
I walked away from the crease. I chewed my gum. I didn't look at the dugout. I knew they were panicking. Calm down. One hit changes it.
Ball 18.2: Southee sensed an opening. He thought the wide line was the trap. He tried to bowl the same ball again. But he missed his length by six inches. It turned into a low full toss outside off. I didn't slice it this time. I shuffled across. I got under it. I whipped it. The No-Look Shot. I kept my head down, staring at the pitch, while my arms followed through with a violent flourish. I didn't need to see it. The sound told me everything. The ball sailed over the cover boundary.
SIX!
Ian Bishop: "THE SWAG! THE AUDACITY! He hasn't even looked at it! He knew the moment it left the bat! Tim Southee misses his mark, and Aarav Pathak punishes him with the disdain of a monarch dismissing a servant! That releases the pressure valve! That brings the equation down!"
Equation: 14 runs off 16 balls.
Ball 18.3: Southee was rattled. He wiped his forehead. He went straight. He aimed for the pads, hoping for an LBW or to cramp me. 138 kmph. I didn't try to hit it hard. I used the pace. I opened the face of the bat at the last second. I guided it past the short third man fielder. It was delicate. It was surgical. The ball raced across the lightning-fast outfield. FOUR.
Sunil Gavaskar: "Smart cricket! He has the power, but he has the touch too! He knows third man is up. He just used the pace. 10 runs off 2 balls. Half the target is erased in two deliveries. India can smell the trophy now! The panic is shifting to the Black Caps!"
Equation: 10 runs off 15 balls.
Ball 18.4: Southee looked at Williamson. Williamson looked helpless. He just nodded. Trust your gut. Southee went back to his stock ball. The slower cutter into the pitch. I read it from the hand. I waited. I stayed on the back foot. I pulled it. I didn't keep it down. I hit it flat and hard over mid-wicket. It was a bullet. It cleared the rope with ease.
SIX!
Isa Guha: "Carnage! Absolute carnage! Three boundaries in three balls! Aarav Pathak is in a hurry! He wants to finish this right now! New Zealand are broken! Look at the Indian dugout!"
Equation: 4 runs off 14 balls.
The Indian dugout was no longer sitting. The entire squad—players, support staff, reserves—had lined up along the boundary rope. They stood arm-in-arm, a wall of blue, their bodies tense, ready to sprint. Rohit Sharma had taken the towel off his head. His eyes were wide, a smile playing on his lips, tears already forming in the corners. Virat Kohli was bouncing on his toes, screaming something that no one could hear. Ravi Shastri had put his glass down. He was standing, arms crossed and trying to balance himself.
Harsha Bhogle: "The Indian team is on the boundary line! They are ready to invade the pitch! They know it! The crowd knows it! 4 runs to win. 14 balls to get them. Surely, surely, this is it! The wait of 14 years is moments away from ending!"
Ball 18.5: I was on 90. I walked down the pitch to Hardik. Hardik was grinning like a maniac. "Finish it, man! Finish it in style!" "One hit," I smiled, popping a bubble. "Just one hit."
I went back to the crease. The crowd was chanting. "Vande Mataram! Vande Mataram!" AARAV! AARAV! The sound was spiritual. It washed over me, lifting me up.
Southee stood at the mark. He looked defeated. He just wanted to bowl the ball and go home.
Southee ran in. He bowled a good length ball on middle stump. A standard, honest delivery. But for a man who stands more than 6 feet tall, for a man in the form of his life, it was the perfect length. The Pull Shot Length.
I saw it. Time seemed to slow down. I saw the seam rotating. I saw the dew on the leather. I transferred my weight back. I swived. I swung the bat with everything I had. Every hour of practice, every moment of pain in the IPL, every criticism from the media, every sacrifice—it all channeled into this one swing.
CRACK!
The connection was divine. The ball didn't just fly; it rocketed. It went high. Higher than the floodlights. It sailed over deep mid-wicket. It sailed over the stands. It sailed out of the ground. It crashed into the Solar Panels on the roof of the Dubai International Stadium.
SIX!
Ian Bishop: "IT'S GONE! IT'S GONE INTO THE NIGHT! AARAV PATHAK HAS WON THE WORLD CUP FOR INDIA! LOOK AT IT GO! HE HAS HIT IT OUT OF THE EMIRATE! NEW ZEALAND ARE HEARTBROKEN AGAIN, BUT YOU CANNOT DENY THE BRILLIANCE! INDIA ARE THE CHAMPIONS OF THE WORLD!"
Isa Guha: "SCENES IN DUBAI! LOOK AT THE EMOTION! Aarav Pathak removes the helmet! He screams at the sky! He has single-handedly dragged India to the summit of world cricket! What a player! What a moment! The Prince has become the King!"
Harsha Bhogle: "The long wait is over! 14 years of pain, washed away by one swing of the bat from the Prince of Indian Cricket! Virat Kohli has his trophy! India has its new hero! The domination is complete!"
The moment the ball left the bat, I knew. I dropped the bat. I ripped off my helmet. My hair was a mess, my face flushed with the heat of battle. I didn't run. I stood in the center of the pitch. I pumped my fist into the air—once, twice, three times. A release of pure, unadulterated passion. I looked at the crowd. I blew a flying kiss to the section where Shradha and Sachin were sitting.
Then, I turned my back to the camera. I pointed both thumbs at the name on the back of my jersey. PATHAK.04.
Then, the wave hit me. Hardik Pandya reached me first. He jumped, wrapping his legs around my waist, screaming into my ear. Then Virat Kohli arrived. Rohit Sharma tackled us both. Rishabh Pant did a cartwheel before jumping into the pile. Bhuvi was crying, tears streaming down his face as he grabbed my head.
I was buried. I couldn't breathe. I was surrounded by the smell of sweat and victory. I looked up through the tangle of arms. I saw the Dubai sky. I saw fireworks exploding above the Ring of Fire.
I closed my eyes and let the noise wash over me.
India: 185/5 (17.5 Overs).India won by 5 wickets.T20 World Cup Champions 2021.
Ian Bishop: "Look at Virat Kohli! The emotion! He is hugging Aarav Pathak like he is his own brother! He knows what this means. He knows who delivered this. A 21-year-old boy has carried the hopes of a billion people and delivered them safely to the promised land. A star is not born today; a legend is confirmed."
The team finally let me up. I stood there, gasping for air. Virat grabbed my face. "You did it. You actually did it." "We did it, Skip," I choked out.
I looked around the stadium. The Sea of Blue was dancing. I saw Kane Williamson standing near the pitch, shaking hands with his players. He looked gutted, but he walked over to me. "Well played, mate," Kane said, shaking my hand warmly. "Too good. Simply too good."
"Thanks, Kane," I said, the respect immense.
Then, the presentation party began to set up. The trophy shimmered in the center. I walked towards my team, towards the family I had chosen.
The journey was complete. And the World Cup was coming home.
Aarav's Innings, if there is any calculation mistake, forget it, this is final:
1+6+0+6+6+1+1+6+1+1+4+1+6+1+1+1+6+6+6+6+6+1+0+6+4+6+6
The above is his ball by ball innings.
Total Runs: 96
Total Number of 6s: 13
Total Balls Played: 27
Strike Rate: 355.56
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The moment the ball cleared the solar panels and disappeared into the Dubai night, the hierarchy of world cricket didn't just shift; it shattered.
I dropped my bat. It hit the turf with a dull thud that was instantly swallowed by a noise I had never heard before. It wasn't just a cheer; it was a sonic boom of release from a billion souls.
I ripped off my helmet, my hair matted with sweat, my face flushed with the heat of the battle and the desert humidity. I threw my head back and roared—a primal, animalistic sound that tore from my throat, expelling every ounce of pressure, every doubt from the IPL, every critique, every weight I had carried for the last month.
For a split second, I stood alone in the center of the Ring of Fire, arms wide open, a gladiator who had slain the beast.
Then, the blue wave hit me.
Hardik Pandya was the first projectile. He didn't run; he launched himself. He wrapped his legs around my waist, screaming incoherently into my ear, his grip so tight I thought he might crack a rib. "Tu devta hai! Tu devta hai!" (You are a god!) Hardik screamed.
Then came the rest. Rohit Sharma sprinted from the dugout faster than he had run between the wickets in years, tackling us both. Rishabh Pant did a cartwheel before diving into the pile. Suryakumar Yadav and Ishan Kishan were jumping on top, creating a human pyramid of joy.
I was buried. I was crushed into the pitch. I couldn't breathe. The smell of sweat, grass, and victory was suffocating, but it was the sweetest scent I had ever known.
But amidst the chaos, the jumping, and the screaming, one moment cut through everything.
The pile separated slowly. The players moved aside, creating a path. Walking through it was Virat Kohli.
The Captain. The man who had just captained India in T20s for the final time. His face was a mess of emotions. His eyes were red, swollen with tears that he wasn't trying to hide. He looked like a man who had walked through fire and finally found water.
He didn't offer a handshake. He didn't go for a high-five. He walked straight up to me, grabbed my face with both hands, his grip trembling slightly, and pulled my forehead to his.
"Thank you," Virat whispered, his voice cracking, barely audible over the din of the stadium. "Thank you for saving this. Thank you for saving me."
He pulled back, looked me in the eyes, and then kissed me on the cheek,a gesture of pure, unadulterated brotherhood.
"You did it, Skip," I said. "We did it for you."
Virat shook his head, smiling through the tears. "No. You did this. You carried us. I love you, brother. I love you."
He hugged me then, a bone-crushing embrace that told me more than any press conference ever could. In that hug, the torch wasn't just passed; it was shared.
I finally broke away from the huddle, gasping for air. The stadium was a sea of Indian tricolors. The song Vande Mataram was blaring from the speakers, and 30,000 people were singing along.
I needed to find my anchor.
I walked towards the VIP box, shielding my eyes from the floodlights. The cameras zoomed in, broadcasting my face to the world. They thought I was looking for the legend, Sachin Tendulkar. And I did see him—standing with his arms raised, clapping rhythmically, a proud smile on his face.
But my focus was locked on the figure sitting right beside him. Shradha.
She was standing, clutching the railing. She was crying openly, her mascara smudged, her hand covering her mouth in disbelief. She looked radiant.
I stopped. I raised my right hand. I pressed my four fingers against my lips. Then, slowly, deliberately, I moved my hand in her direction, blowing the kiss across the expanse of the outfield.
The Flying Kiss.
To the millions watching on TV, to the commentators, it looked like a charismatic celebration with the crowd. A showman acknowledging his audience. But she knew. I saw her laugh through her tears.
I placed my hand over my heart, held it there for a second, and then bowed deeply to the crowd—a theatrical, grateful bow to the sea of blue that had chanted my name until their throats were raw.
I turned back to the pitch. The New Zealand players were standing there, watching us celebrate. It is the cruelest part of sport—to have to stand and watch the other team live your dream.
I walked over to Kane Williamson. He looked gutted. His shoulders were slumped, his cap pulled low. But when he saw me, he straightened up. A gentleman to the end.
"Well played, mate," Kane said, extending his hand. His grip was firm. "Too good. Simply too good."
"Thanks, Kane," I said, holding his hand with genuine respect. "You guys were amazing. That partnership... you had us scared."
Kane chuckled, a dry, sad sound. "Yeah, well. We thought 182 was enough. We didn't account for the whirlwind. Enjoy it, Aarav. You deserve it."
I shook hands with Trent Boult, who looked at me and just shook his head. "Congrats man."
"Thanks," I grinned.
The presentation ceremony was set up on the outfield. A podium bathed in purple light. The ICC officials were assembling.
Ian Bishop, the voice of iconic moments, stood with the microphone. His presence added a layer of gravitas to the evening.
Ian Bishop: "Ladies and gentlemen, please welcome the runner-up captain, Kane Williamson."
Kane walked up to polite applause. He spoke with grace, praising India, acknowledging the dew, but never making excuses. He was dignity personified.
Then, Bishop turned to the camera.
Ian Bishop: "And now, the winning captain! The man who lifts the trophy in his final game as T20 skipper! King Kohli!"
The roar was deafening. Virat walked up, looking relaxed now, an Indian flag draped over his shoulders like a cape.
Ian Bishop: "Virat, emotions running high. You finally got a fifty in the final, but the team was struggling at the start. less than 6 runs an over for the first 10 overs. Was that the plan?"
Virat Kohli: "Not really the plan, Ian. To be honest, we were searching for rhythm. The pitch started to hold up a lot; it was turning square for Santner and Sodhi. We realized if we lost wickets there, the pressure would be too much on the lower order. So Rohit and I decided to take it deep. But looking back... with the way he batted... I think we were just warming up the stage."
Virat laughed, a sound of pure relief.
Ian Bishop: "And your star player? You know who I am talking about."
Virat Kohli: "Yeah! Aarav!"
Virat turned, pointing at me standing with the team.
"He is my man! Whenever I need anything runs, he scores them. Wickets, he gets them. He single-handedly won us 4 or 5 games in this tournament. When we were down against Pakistan, he stood up. When we were down against England, he stood up. Tonight... I mean, look at the scorecard. All of us batsmen go out there to construct an innings, work hard for singles... he just walks down and hits it into the orbit."
Virat's voice turned serious, filled with admiration.
"He was the relief we needed in our team. And I am saying this on record to the whole world: he is one of the best talents I have ever seen. From today, even though I am his captain or a big brother, as he says, I am a fan of Aarav Pathak."
The crowd erupted. To hear Virat Kohli, the greatest batsman of his generation, call himself a 'fan' was the ultimate validation.
Ian Bishop: "Thank you, Virat. We will call you back for the trophy soon. But before that, let's distribute the individual awards. We have a stellar panel here to present them: Mr. Brett Lee, Mr. Sunil Gavaskar, Mr. Sachin Tendulkar, and ICC Chairman Mr. Ehsan Mani."
The podium glittered under the lights. The trophies were polished silver, reflecting the dreams of every young cricketer.
Ian Bishop: "First, for a match-winning 85 not out off just 26 balls, and 3 crucial wickets... I would like to call Aarav Pathak to collect the Player of the Match award from the speed legend, Mr. Brett Lee!"
I jogged up the stairs, my spikes clattering on the metal. Brett Lee, the man whose mechanics were now part of my biology, was beaming.
"Well bowled, mate," Lee said, shaking my hand firmly. "That 156kmph bouncer to Guptill? That was beautiful. Reminded me of my younger days."
"Learned from watching you, Binga," I grinned. "You were the blueprint."
I took the medal and the crystal trophy. I posed for the photo, the flashbulbs blinding me. I turned to leave, to go back to the huddle.
Ian Bishop: "Aarav! Aarav, hold on! Don't go anywhere!"
I stopped, confused, half-turning back.
Ian Bishop: "You might want to stay right here. Because we are not done with you yet. Ladies and Gentlemen, for a performance that defies logic... I would like to call the Player of the Tournament award... from the Legend himself, Mr. Sunil Gavaskar!"
The stadium erupted again. I laughed, shaking my head in disbelief. The Double.
Sunil Gavaskar walked forward, his eyes shining with pride behind his glasses. He looked like a grandfather watching his grandson graduate. He hugged me tight.
"You made us proud, son," Sunny whispered in my ear. "You played like a true Indian Tiger. Keep your feet on the ground, and the sky is yours."
I took the second trophy. It was heavier, larger. I shook hands with Sachin Tendulkar. He didn't say anything; he just squeezed my hand tight—a silent message of love and pride that resonated louder than words. I shook hands with Ehsan Mani.
Then, I walked over to Ian Bishop for the interview. I was holding a trophy in each hand, struggling to hold the microphone. Bishop kindly held it for me.
He looked at me, then looked down at his notes. He let out a long breath, shaking his head.
Ian Bishop: "Aarav... I have the stats sheet here. And I just want to read this out for the world, because I don't think we will ever see this again in our lifetimes."
He raised the microphone, his voice booming across the stadium.
Ian Bishop: "Total Innings Batted: 4. Not Outs: 3." "Total Runs: 494."
The crowd cheered at the number.
Ian Bishop: "He shattered the record for most runs in a single edition. He faced just 220 balls. Strike Rate of 225." "29 Fours. 39 Sixes. Total 68 boundaries." "And a batting average... of 494.00."
Bishop paused, letting the absurdity of the number sink in. The crowd was screaming, unable to comprehend the math.
Ian Bishop: "And with the ball... 18 Wickets. Economy of 5.27. Bowling Average of 7.22. Only 130 runs conceded in the entire tournament." "And the Catch of the tournament to top it off."
Bishop looked at me, his eyes wide. "Aarav... are you even real? Talk to us. You had a terrible IPL. You were criticized. Experts wrote you off. How did you turn it around to produce... this?"
I took a deep breath. I looked at the trophies in my hands. I felt the weight of them.
Aarav: "Honest answer, Ian? It was the support. When the world was doubting me, when I was struggling to put bat on ball in the IPL... my dressing room was shielding me. My coach, Ravi Shastri, backed me publicly. My captain, Virat bhai, backed me. The team told me I wasn't a liability. They told me I was the X-factor."
I looked at the group of players waiting for me near the boundary. Pant was dancing. Rohit was waving.
Aarav: "When you have a family like that behind you, you don't play for yourself. You play for them. I had to give them a return gift, didn't I?"
I laughed, and the crowd laughed with me.
Aarav: "And... well, my captain was leaving the captaincy today. Virat Kohli. He has given everything to Indian cricket. He is my idol. One of the batsmen I admire most in the world..."
I paused, looking up at the ICC guests.
Aarav: "...my second favorite batsman after Sachin Sir."
I pointed at Sachin Tendulkar. The camera cut to Sachin, who threw his head back and laughed, clapping enthusiastically.
Aarav: "I had to give Virat bhaiya the best farewell gift possible. This trophy... these runs... they are for him. He deserves to hold it more than anyone."
Ian Bishop: "Wonderful words from a wonderful player. Ladies and Gentlemen, the Player of the Tournament, the King of this World Cup... Aarav Pathak!"
I raised both trophies high above my head. Fireworks exploded from the roof of the stadium, painting the sky in gold and blue.
I walked back to my team.
Finally, the moment arrived.
Ian Bishop: "And now... the moment India has waited for since 2007! I invite the BCCI President Sourav Ganguly and ICC Chairman Ehsan Mani and the Legend of the game, the god of the game Sachin Tendulkar to present the T20 World Cup Trophy to the captain... VIRAT KOHLI!"
Virat walked up to the podium. He shook hands with Ganguly, Sachin, who hugged him warmly. He took the trophy. The silver cup that had eluded him for so long.
He walked back to the team. We were waiting behind the 'Champions' board.
Virat didn't lift it immediately. He looked at us. He looked at me. He walked straight to me and Pant. He handed the trophy to us.
"Lift it," Virat mouthed.
I grabbed one handle. Pant grabbed the other. Virat stepped back to the side, letting the team take the spotlight.
"3... 2... 1..."
We lifted the World Cup high into the air.
Confetti cannons fired. Gold and blue glitter rained down on us. The firework display lit up the Dubai skyline. The song 'We Are The Champions' blasted from the speakers.
I screamed. I closed my eyes and screamed until my lungs burned. I felt hands on my back, arms around my neck. I opened my eyes and looked at the trophy. It was heavy. It was beautiful. It was ours.
In the corner of my eye, I saw Virat Kohli standing at the edge of the group, clapping, a peaceful smile on his face. He had his trophy. But more importantly, he had found his successor.
I looked at the camera. The Prince is becoming the King. And the World Cup was finally coming home.
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Author's Note: - 5700+ Words 😮😮{Long too long chapter...}
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