Aarav's debut over had been a triumph, a crisp statement that he belonged. The confidence from Coach Reddy's rare thumbs-up fueled him as he continued his spell. He ran in with purpose, his action feeling smoother, his wrist snapping through beautifully. The ball zipped through the air, hitting the pitch with satisfying thuds, often beating the bat or inducing an awkward defense. His pace was evident, his line tight. He was bowling good deliveries, excellent deliveries even, ones that made the batsmen hurry, that beat the outside edge, that kissed the pads.
Yet, despite his best efforts, the wickets weren't falling. The batsmen, seasoned college players, were showing resilience. They rode the bounce, played late, or simply defended resolutely, frustrating his relentless attack. Dot balls accumulated, building pressure, but the elusive breakthrough, the satisfying clang of timber or the raised finger of the umpire, remained just out of reach. Each near-miss, each unrewarded effort, began to chip away at the calm Aarav had so meticulously built.
His second over passed similarly – sharp, accurate, but wicketless. The frustration, a silent, insidious worm, began to gnaw. He was doing everything right, or so it felt, but the scoreboard offered no tangible reward. He could feel the eyes of Coach Reddy, of his teammates, on him. Had his initial over been a fluke? Was he just a net bowler who couldn't translate aggression into wickets when it truly mattered?
As he began his third over, that creeping anxiety transformed into a tangible pressure. He tried to push harder, to generate more pace, to force the issue. His mind, instead of focusing solely on the present delivery, began to race ahead, desperate for a wicket. The precision he'd held so tightly started to fray.
His first ball in the third over was decent, but the next, driven by an urgent need for a wicket, was over-pitched. The batsman, seizing on the rare full toss, leaned into it and hammered it through the covers for four. Aarav winced. He rushed his next delivery, trying to compensate, and it slipped down the leg side, barely avoided by the batter, going for another boundary off a glance. The commentator over the PA, usually reserved, made a comment about the "pressure getting to the young bowler."
He felt a flush of heat rise up his neck. The mental calm he'd trained so hard to achieve had fractured. He bowled the remaining balls of the over with a desperate energy, but the rhythm was gone. He finished the over, having conceded nine runs, including those two boundaries that felt like a punch to the gut.
He walked back to his fielding position, his shoulders slumped. He hadn't gotten a wicket, and worse, he had cracked under pressure, proving Sameer's earlier skepticism valid. As he stood at fine leg, Coach Reddy walked across the field, signaling to the captain. The message was clear.
"Aarav," Sameer called out, walking towards him with a sympathetic but firm expression. "Coach wants to try someone else. Good effort, mate. We need to hold them now."
Aarav nodded, his throat tight. He was being taken off the attack. He had bowled three overs, giving away a few more runs than he'd hoped, and with one over to spare in his quota of four. The ball felt heavy in his hand as he tossed it back to Sameer. He had bowled well for stretches, shown glimpses of genuine talent, but he hadn't produced the wickets. And when the pressure mounted, he had faltered. The reality of competitive cricket, unforgiving and swift, had just delivered its first harsh lesson.