The Lucknow Cricket Academy stood tall under the October sun, its turf freshly rolled, nets taut, and stands empty but expectant. Nikhil stepped out of the cab, kit bag over his shoulder, eyes scanning the campus that would host his next test.
He walked past the security gate, through the corridor lined with framed jerseys and newspaper clippings. At the end of the hallway stood a large notice board, freshly pinned with two sheets of paper.
He leaned in.
List A: Vijay Hazare Trophy Camp – 30 Names List B: Syed Mushtaq Ali Trophy Camp – 30 Names
His eyes darted to List A first. He found his name—Nikhil Sharma, third from the bottom. A quiet smile tugged at his lips.
Then he scanned List B. Familiar names popped out—Arav Singh, Manav Desai, both from his zonal squad. He felt a flicker of warmth. They'd made it too. But they were in Syed Ali.
He stepped back, absorbing the reality. From his zonal team, he was the only one in the Vijay Hazare camp. The long-format path. The grind. The proving ground.
A voice behind him said, "Only seven will make the final squad from each list. Thirty names, but only the ones who shape games will survive."
Nikhil turned.
It was Mohammad Kaif, dressed in a crisp UPCA training polo, clipboard in hand.
Beside him stood Suresh Raina, sunglasses perched on his head, smiling like he'd never left the field.
Kaif nodded at Nikhil. "You're the boy from Chandpur. I've read your file."
Raina added, "You've got a calm game. Let's see if it holds under fire."
Nikhil nodded, unsure if he should speak. But Kaif broke the silence.
"Relax. You're not here to impress us. You're here to prove yourself to the game."
Out on the field, the other shortlisted players were already warming up—stretching, jogging, shadow batting. Their kits were fresh, their shoes spotless, their expressions a mix of nerves and ambition.
Nikhil joined them, placing his bag near the boundary. He spotted a few familiar faces from past tournaments, but most were strangers—taller, louder, more polished.
He didn't mind.
He looked down at Veer, his bat, and whispered, "Let's earn our place."
Coach Rameshwar blew the whistle. "All right, boys. Welcome to the camp. This isn't a selection. It's a filtration. You'll be tested—technique, temperament, fitness, and match impact. Seven will make it. The rest will wait another year."
The players formed a circle. Rameshwar continued, "Vijay Hazare is not about flair. It's about foundation. Build innings. Build pressure. Build belief."
Nikhil stood tall, eyes steady.
Kaif and Raina walked the perimeter, watching silently.
As the drills began, Nikhil felt the turf under his spikes, the sun on his neck, and the weight of expectation—not from others, but from himself.
He wasn't just here to play.
He was here to belong.