The first match of the senior training camp began under a sharp October sun. The outfield shimmered, the pitch was hard and true, and the white boundary lines gleamed like chalked ambition. This wasn't a warm-up. This was a proving ground.
The format: 30 overs per side.
The two teams—Team Red and Team Green—had been finalized. Each squad had fourteen players, three reserves, and one captain. Mayank Rawat, a composed Ranji-level batter, led Team Red. Divakar Singh, last year's Vijay Hazare captain, helmed Team Green. His place in the final squad was already secure.
Nikhil wasn't in the playing XI.
He didn't sulk. He didn't protest. He opened a fresh notebook and titled the first page:
"Shadow Captain's Log – Match 1"
His goal: to study every decision made by both captains and record what he would've done in their place. Not just to learn—but to lead, someday.
Toss & Opening Strategy
Team Red won the toss and chose to bat. Mayank's decision was clear: post a big total, apply scoreboard pressure.
Nikhil noted:
Red bats first. Good call—pitch looks flat, outfield quick.
If I were Divakar, I'd open with spin to break rhythm early.
Divakar opened with pace instead—two overs of tight line, but no wickets.
Mentors Kaif (Team Red) and Raina (Team Green) stood silently near the dugouts, arms folded. They weren't allowed to intervene. Their job was to observe, take notes, and debrief after the match.
First Innings: Team Red Batting
By the 5th over, Team Red was 48/0. Their openers were aggressive, targeting square boundaries. Mayank rotated the strike smartly, using the pace of the bowlers.
Nikhil scribbled:
Red exploiting gaps well. Field too deep too early.
Divakar reactive, not proactive. Needs to bring mid-off up.
In the 9th over, Divakar finally introduced spin. The result: a mistimed loft, caught at long-off.
Nikhil underlined:
Spin worked. Should've come earlier.
By the 15th over, Team Red was 121/2. The umpires called for the scheduled five-minute drinks break.
The Break: A Missed Opportunity
Nikhil carried water bottles out with Raina, who walked beside him quietly, eyes scanning the field.
As they reached the huddle, Nikhil leaned toward Divakar.
"Skipper," he said, voice low, "midwicket's too square. They're targeting that gap. Maybe bring him straighter and push third man finer?"
Divakar didn't even look at him. "Thanks. But I've got it."
Nikhil stepped back, nodded once, and handed over the bottles.
Raina said nothing. But as they walked back, he murmured, "Good read. But not everyone's ready to listen."
Nikhil didn't take it personally. He just flipped to a new page in his notebook and wrote:
Suggested field tweak: ignored. Lesson: Insight means nothing without trust. Fix: Earn that trust. Quietly.
Second Innings: Team Green's Chase
Team Green began their chase with fire—62/1 in 6 overs. But a middle-order collapse followed. Divakar, batting at four, tried to stabilize, but the required rate kept climbing.
Nikhil watched every over, every misfield, every mistimed shot. He logged it all.
Team Green fell short by 19 runs.
Post-Match Debrief
After the match, the teams gathered in their respective dressing rooms. The mentors finally spoke.
Raina addressed Team Green. "You had the firepower. But you didn't adapt. Field placements, bowling changes, batting order—every decision matters."
Kaif told Team Red, "Good win. But don't get comfortable. One match doesn't make a squad."
Nikhil returned to Room 101, notebook open, Veer resting beside his bed. He flipped past his tactical notes and began a new page—not about others, but about himself.
"Match 1 – Shadow Captain Notes. Lesson: Leadership isn't just about calling shots. It's about earning ears. Fix: Keep learning. Keep logging. Goal: Be the player captains turn to. Reminder: I'm not just watching. I'm preparing."
But as he stared at the ceiling, another thought surfaced—one that hadn't made it into the notebook yet.
Watching the match unfold, Nikhil had realized something deeper: In a balanced game, where rhythm mattered more than risk, he was confident—almost certain—that he could deliver without error. His game was built for control, for shaping innings, for absorbing pressure.
But when the tempo shifted—when the team needed acceleration, urgency, unpredictability—he struggled. Fast-tracking the game wasn't his natural gear. And that, he knew, was a gap.
So he didn't sleep.
He walked back to the nets at 11:30 PM, when the academy lights were dim and the field was silent. He set up cones, marked imaginary fielders, and began a solo drill.
For 15 overs, he alternated:
One over played at high tempo—aggressive footwork, boundary intent, fast singles.
One over slowed down—defensive strokes, strike rotation, calculated nudges.
He tracked his own rhythm, forced himself to switch gears, to adapt mid-over.
Then he picked up the ball.
He imagined bowling to one of the toughest batters in the world—someone who read spin early, punished width, and danced down the track without warning.
He bowled off-spin for another 45 minutes, adjusting flight, grip, and pace. He visualized the batter's footwork, anticipated shots, and set imaginary fields.
By the time he returned to his room, it was 2:12 AM.
His shirt was soaked. His fingers were raw. But his mind was clear.
He opened his notebook one last time and wrote:
"Lesson: Adaptation isn't just mental. It's mechanical. Fix: Train for tempo shifts. Goal: Be versatile. Reminder: I'm not here to play one kind of match. I'm here to play any match."
Then he placed Veer beside his pillow, turned off the light, and slept like someone who had already begun to change