The air inside the Wankhede Stadium was thick—a suffocating, electric mix of sea salt from the Arabian Sea and the sweat of thirty-three thousand screaming fans. For five-year-old Ravi, the world had shrunk to a bright green circle under the blinding glow of the floodlights.
He sat perched on his father Mohan's shoulders, his small fingers digging into his father's hair for balance. Ravi was swallowed by a blue India jersey three sizes too big, the sleeves drooping past his elbows. He didn't care. His eyes were locked on the man in the center of the pitch.
The King's Command
Down on the grass, Virat Kohli was adjusting his helmet. The stadium chant was a rhythmic, pulsing heartbeat that shook the very concrete of the stands: "KO-HLI! KO-HLI!"
Ravi watched as the Australian fast bowler began his sprint. To a five-year-old, the bowler looked like a giant, a blur of white clothing and aggression. He delivered a thunderbolt—a 150 km/h delivery aimed directly at Kohli's ribs.
"Look, Ravi!" Mohan shouted over the roar, pointing a finger. "Look at his eyes! He never blinks!"
Kohli didn't flinch. With a surgical flick of his wrists, he redirected the ball's incredible speed, sending it screaming through the mid-wicket gap. It wasn't just a hit; it was a statement of dominance.
The Final Strike
The match reached its breaking point. India needed four runs to win off the final ball. Kohli stood on 96 runs. The pressure was a physical weight that silenced the crowd for a split second as the bowler began his run-up.
The bowler leaped into the air and fired a desperate, toe-crushing yorker. Kohli stepped back, cleared his front leg with the grace of a dancer, and swung. The sound of the ball hitting the "sweet spot" of the willow bat was like a gunshot.
The ball climbed higher and higher, disappearing into the dark Mumbai sky before landing deep in the stands.
The stadium exploded. Blue glitter rained from the rafters. Mohan was jumping, screaming, and crying all at once. But Ravi remained still on his father's shoulders, his small hands trembling. He watched Kohli stand in the center of the pitch, bat raised high like a sword, bathed in golden light.
The vows
In that moment, the "spark" was ignited.
"Papa," Ravi whispered, his voice tiny against the backdrop of a nation celebrating. "I'm going to be him. I'm going to wear the blue jersey. I'm going to win the World Cup."
Mohan pulled Ravi down and looked him in the eyes. He saw a transformation. The playful child was gone; in his place was a boy with a purpose.
"Then we start tomorrow, Ravi," Mohan promised. "We go to the stadium. We train until you are the one they are chanting for."
Ravi nodded, clutching his small plastic bat. He didn't know it yet, but that "Cricket DNA"—the lightning-fast reflexes, the wrist-work, and the refusal to back down—was about to be tested in a world where the bats were round and the "pitch" was a diamond made of dirt.