The break between innings was brief but charged with quiet intensity. Water bottles were passed around, gloves were changed, and final words exchanged. Having set a competitive target of 180 for 7, Aarav's team knew early wickets would be crucial. Aarav himself jogged lightly along the boundary, keeping his muscles warm, his mind sharper still. The time had come for him to potentially contribute with the ball.
The sun had risen higher now, burning away the morning cool. The pitch, dry and cracking slightly at one end, still had enough in it for bowlers who dared to bend their backs and extract some life. Coach Reddy gathered the team into a tight huddle, his words crisp and focused, cutting through the general chatter. "Wickets up front. Keep it tight. Build pressure." His gaze swept over each player, lingering for a fraction longer on Aarav.
Aarav nodded, adrenaline surging beneath his calm exterior. He wasn't opening the attack—Coach had gone with the experienced pacers, Rohit and Iqbal, both seniors with proven records. Aarav understood the decision. This was about control and immediate impact, not ego or experimentation. He would have to wait his turn, watching from the field.
The first few overs played out like a dream for his team. Rohit, bowling with rhythm and aggression, got the early breakthrough in the second over, an outside edge caught safely in the slips. A cheer erupted from the fielders. Iqbal followed up with a beauty—a full delivery that swung late and trapped the batter plumb in front, earning a confident LBW appeal and a raised finger from the umpire. The opposition was 40 for 2 in the first six overs, a mirror image of the dominant Powerplay his own team had boasted earlier, but this time, the scoreboard stood against the opposition. The early wickets fueled the team's energy, tightening the fielding and sharpening their intent.
Then came the call that Aarav had been waiting for, the moment he had mentally prepared for countless times.
"Aarav, next over," Coach Reddy's voice was firm, a short, decisive nod accompanying the words.
A jolt, both electric and familiar, shot through Aarav. He pulled off his cap, handed it to the umpire, and began walking towards the top of his mark, his gaze already fixed on the distant stumps. The field shifted subtly as per the coach's instructions—a deep third man, a fine leg, cover brought in tight, a solitary slip still in place, poised for any nick. His heart thumped a fierce rhythm against his ribs, but his breathing, a result of weeks of mental training, remained even, controlled. This was his moment. A real match. Not nets, not dreams, not simulations. The cool, hard feel of the ball in hand, the world watching, waiting.
He began his run-up smoothly, the rhythm of his spikes scraping the turf familiar and exhilarating. He hit the crease, coiled, and unleashed his first delivery. It was short of a length, rising sharply, forcing the batter to fend it off awkwardly. A solid thud of the ball meeting the bat's splice. Dot ball.
Aarav turned back, wiping a bead of sweat from his brow—he hadn't even noticed he was sweating until that moment. Second ball—fuller, shaping in just enough. The batter drove, but mistimed it, sending the ball straight to mid-off, who scooped it up cleanly. Another dot ball. A murmur of approval rippled from the dugout, followed by a sharp, encouraging clap from Raghav at point.
Ball three—back of a length again, nipping in off the seam. The batter was cramped for room, the ball struck his thigh pad and dribbled away towards fine leg. Aarav screamed an impassioned appeal, a primal roar, but the umpire slowly shook his head. Close. Very close.
Fourth ball—this was his best yet. Seam upright, wrist perfectly behind the ball, it pitched on off-stump and jagged away sharply off the dry surface. The batter pushed tentatively and missed completely, the ball whizzing past the outside edge. The collective 'oohs' from the fielders rang loud, a symphony of anticipation. Aarav walked back with a slight, almost imperceptible smile playing on his lips. He was in the zone.
The over ended with just one single conceded. A statement made, loud and clear, in his debut over. From the boundary, Coach Reddy met his eyes and gave a rare, almost imperceptible thumbs up, a gesture that spoke volumes.
Aarav exhaled, a deep, cleansing breath. He was in the game now—not just as a boy with dreams, but as a bowler, in full command of his craft, his mind clear, his body responsive. His team had struck early. Now, with every ball he bowled, they would continue to squeeze, to build the pressure.
The match was far from over. But Aarav Reddy had arrived.