The night sky above NeoDelhi Cricket Dome shimmered like a field of distant fireflies. Hover drones blinked lazily as the day's practice ended, their faint hum fading into silence. The ground that had roared with digital applause an hour ago was now empty—except for one man and a boy.
Mohan Rawat, one of the stadium's senior ground staff, pushed his maintenance cart along the turf. His hands, calloused and rough, had spent half a lifetime caring for this field. Every blade of synthetic grass, every embedded sensor—he treated them as sacred.And following him, barefoot, was his son.
Ravi Rawat, 18, wiry and curious, walked quietly behind his father. He never said much. His eyes, however, missed nothing—every bowler's stride, every batter's stance, every shimmer of the ball under floodlight.
He loved being here, even if he wasn't allowed to play.
"Don't touch the ball, Ravi," Mohan called out without looking. "Those things cost more than our rent."
"I know, Papa," Ravi muttered, eyes still fixed on the practice nets.
A group of academy boys were packing up their gear. Their laughter echoed through the empty dome. Ravi had been watching them all evening, studying how they released the ball—fast arm, slow arm, the way their fingers rolled over the seam.
One bowler, in particular, had thrown a slow bouncer—a deceptive delivery that floated up then dipped sharply. The coach had praised it. Ravi had watched every frame of it, memorizing the angle, the rhythm, the timing.
When the stadium finally went dark, and the boys left, Ravi lingered.
"Papa," he said softly. "You go ahead. I'll help you load later."
Mohan frowned but trusted his son's silence. "Don't break anything," he warned, and disappeared through the service gate.
The dome lights dimmed to their midnight hue—cool blue strips along the boundary. The turf sensors glowed faintly beneath the mist. Ravi picked up a stray smart ball lying near the pitch. Its neon lines blinked alive as it recognized movement.
He took a breath.Ran a few steps.And bowled.
The ball whirred, spun, and bounced exactly as he'd imagined. The slow bouncer—the same one he had seen hours ago. The ball's data blinked on the digital board by accident:
Speed: 118 km/hTrajectory: 0.8 arcDeviation: natural mimicry – perfect
Ravi's eyes widened. "It worked," he whispered.
Unbeknownst to him, someone was watching.
Up in the glass control room, Coach Rajveer Anand, the academy's senior mentor, was still checking analytics. The board suddenly flashed new data, though the AI had marked the ground as inactive.
He frowned. "Who's bowling at this hour?"
Zooming in through the drone feed, he saw a boy—skinny, barefoot, wearing a torn t-shirt—throwing with balance, rhythm, and uncanny precision. Every ball replicated the technique his academy students struggled to master.
Rajveer walked down quietly, boots crunching the artificial turf. The boy was about to throw again when a deep voice echoed:
"Who taught you that delivery?"
Ravi froze mid-action. "S-sir, I… I was just—"
Rajveer raised a hand, smiling slightly. "Relax. I'm not angry." He picked up the ball, checked its data reading. "You've seen this delivery once, right?"
Ravi nodded nervously. "Yes, sir. I was just trying… it looked nice."
Rajveer chuckled, a mix of disbelief and admiration. "You copied it perfectly. Even my advanced bowlers can't get this spin pattern."
He circled the boy once, studying his stance. "You're not from the academy, are you?"
"No, sir. My father works here. Ground staff."
Rajveer's smile softened. "Ah. The soul of the stadium."
The next morning, Ravi returned with his father. Mohan's face was full of worry."Sir, if he's done anything wrong—"
Rajveer interrupted gently. "Your boy did something very right. I want to train him."
Mohan looked stunned. "Train him? But we can't afford those programs, sir. They cost—"
"I didn't ask for payment," Rajveer said firmly. "Only commitment."
He turned to Ravi. "Come tomorrow at five a.m. We'll start before the others."
Ravi's heart thumped. "Yes, sir."
Days turned into weeks.Under the pale dawn lights, Ravi trained tirelessly. Rajveer taught him grip, control, rhythm, and breathing.But what amazed the coach most was Ravi's instinct. He learned by watching, by feeling, not by data.
"Machines can read your speed, Ravi," Rajveer often said. "But they can't read your heart."
Then came the district selection trials.Ravi bowled well—his line, length, and variation sharp. But when the AI evaluation board analyzed his numbers, they flashed red:
"Statistical consistency: 47%. Rejected."
Rajveer argued, pleaded. But the committee said coldly,
"We select by data now, not emotion."
That night, Ravi sat outside the stadium, head down."Maybe cricket isn't for people like us anymore," he said quietly.
Mohan said nothing, only placed his rough hand on his son's shoulder.
The next morning, someone knocked on their small apartment door.It was Rajveer. He handed Ravi a digital pass shaped like a cricket ball.
"DTG – Dehradun Training Ground. Government Talent Scheme. For players with raw instinct."
Rajveer smiled. "They're starting a new program—no AI interference, no bias. Just pure cricket. Go there, Ravi. That's where you'll truly begin."
Mohan looked at his son with proud, misty eyes. "Go, beta. Make your own pitch."
Ravi looked at the pass, then at the stadium beyond the window—the place where his dream had accidentally begun.
He whispered,
"One day, I'll come back here… not as a worker's son. But as India's hope."
And with that, his journey began—from the silent stands to the center of the pitch.