The morning of Day 2 began with a quiet intensity. The Nagpur air was drier, the sun more assertive, and the cracks on the pitch a shade wider. Hyderabad had finished Day 1 with Goa at 174/5, thanks largely to Aarav's fiery second spell—a breakthrough over that had jolted the slow, grinding rhythm of the match. His double strike, first a sharp edge taken low at slip by the captain, then a searing yorker that rattled the stumps, had changed the tone of the game.
Coach Arjun had said nothing grand at stumps the previous evening. Just a pat on Aarav's back and a quiet nod. But that nod said everything.
Aarav slept well, despite the physical fatigue that still hummed beneath the surface. His body was sore, no doubt. His back ached, his legs felt leaden. But mentally? He was fresh. There was something deeply satisfying about knowing you had dragged the team back into the contest—not through theatrics, but through sheer commitment.
He took the field on Day 2 with renewed clarity. Goa was still at the crease, and Hyderabad needed to finish the job. Aarav's boots crunched softly on the morning grass as he jogged in for his warm-ups. The soreness was still there, but now it felt like a badge of honor.
Goa's overnight batsmen had survived the final overs of Day 1, but the damage was evident. The swagger was gone. They poked and prodded nervously at deliveries, unsure whether to trust their instincts or Aarav's rhythm. His spell from yesterday still lingered in their minds.
He wasn't brought on immediately. The captain started with spin, trying to exploit the early rough. But after a few overs, he tossed the ball to Aarav again.
"You've got them thinking," he said. "Let's make them act."
Aarav began his second day spell with the same discipline. There was no rush to blow through the opposition. He just stuck to his plan—hit the seam, target the top of off, mix it up with an occasional bouncer, and above all, maintain pressure.
By now, his run-up had become muscle memory. Each stride a beat in the rhythm he had carefully built over the past year. The red ball hissed off the seam, occasionally biting off the surface, keeping the batsmen honest.
In his third over of the day, he struck.
It wasn't flashy. Just a good length ball that pitched and straightened enough to catch the edge. The wicketkeeper pouched it cleanly. The dismissal wasn't met with wild celebration—just a firm fist bump with the captain and a respectful nod. This was business.
Goa was 188/6.
Aarav tightened the noose. Every ball felt like a question. And then, with the batsman on strike growing increasingly impatient, came the reward—a short ball that climbed awkwardly, took the glove, and looped into the waiting hands at short leg. Another one gone.
Goa 190/7. And the rest? A quick collapse.
Hyderabad cleaned up the tail from the other end, but it was Aarav's pressure that cracked the middle order open. He finished with 4 wickets on debut—2 from each spell—and more importantly, had bowled with heart.
Goa folded for 198.
As the team walked off the field for the lunch break, Aarav's teammates patted him on the back, their appreciation quiet but sincere. Coach Arjun offered him a bottle of electrolyte water and said, "This is how you earn respect. Not through numbers, but moments."
Aarav smiled faintly. His whites were stained, his body exhausted, but his spirit—undaunted. This was the long game. And he had arrived.