Aarav stood at fine leg, the sting of being taken off the attack still fresh. He watched from the periphery as the game progressed, the opposition slowly but steadily inching towards the target. His earlier missteps, the two boundaries conceded in his third over, replayed in his mind. He felt a familiar frustration, the echo of the World Cup loss, the anger at not being able to make the crucial impact. Doubts, like insidious whispers, began to creep in: Was this dream too big? Was he truly capable, or just a boy with an overactive imagination?
The middle overs had been a mix of tight bowling and cautious batting. The opposition had lost two more wickets, bringing their total to four down, but their run rate was healthy. As the innings progressed towards its climax, the pressure mounted on both sides. The scoreboard read 142 for 4 after 16 overs. They needed 39 runs from 24 balls – a chaseable target in T20 cricket, especially with two set batsmen at the crease.
Coach Reddy, ever the strategist, had kept Aarav out of the attack through the 14th, 15th, and 16th overs. Aarav expected a senior bowler to finish off the innings, perhaps the captain himself. He felt a resigned disappointment, accepting that his chance was probably gone.
Then, he heard the call.
"Aarav! Your over. Let's get a breakthrough."
Aarav snapped his head towards the dugout. Coach Reddy's gaze was fixed on him, an unspoken challenge in his eyes. The 17th over. The death overs. This wasn't just another over; it was a high-pressure gamble, a desperate roll of the dice. The coach, despite Aarav's earlier wobble, was putting faith in him when it mattered most.
A strange calm descended over Aarav, the kind he had rehearsed countless times in his mental nets. The doubt, for a moment, receded. This wasn't about redemption for the team's past loss, or even for his earlier bad balls. This was about seizing the moment, proving to himself and to his coach that his "cricket fire" wasn't just for theory and practice, but for the actual crucible of a match.
He walked to the top of his mark, the ball now feeling like a smooth, perfectly weighted extension of his hand. The field was set: deep cow corner, long-on, fine leg up, a tight inner ring. The crowd murmured, sensing the tension.
His first ball: a full, fast delivery, aimed at the blockhole. The batsman managed to dig it out, a single squeezed to long-on.
Second ball: Aarav ran in with a furious intent, channeling Dale Steyn's aggression. It was a searing yorker, delivered with pinpoint accuracy, pitching perfectly and crashing into the base of leg stump. Timber! The bails flew. Clean bowled! A roar erupted from Aarav, a primal scream of triumph. The team mobbed him, shouting congratulations. 143 for 5.
The new batsman walked in, clearly rattled. Aarav barely noticed. He was in a trance, the rhythm flowing through him. He sprinted in again.
Third ball: Aarav sent down a fuller delivery, hoping to tempt the new batsman. He got a thick edge, but it flew wide of the slip cordon, squirting down to third man for a single. Frustration pricked, another ball where he felt he deserved more.
Fourth ball: He aimed for the stumps, trying to compensate, but the batsman adjusted quickly, getting a lucky inside edge that raced past his leg stump and scurried away to the boundary for four. Aarav winced, another boundary off his bowling. The doubts, though momentarily pushed back, tried to claw their way in again.
Fifth ball: He took a deep breath, pushing the frustration aside, focusing only on the process. His run-up was clean, his action powerful. He delivered a searing bouncer to the other set batsman, who had been quietly accumulating runs. The ball rose sharply, unexpectedly. The batsman, surprised, tried to fend it off, but could only glove it. The wicketkeeper, agile behind the stumps, sprang up and took a brilliant catch. Caught behind!
A second wicket in the over! A roar erupted from the fielders. Raghav rushed over, embracing Aarav, shouting, "You beauty, Aarav! This is it!" The umpire's raised finger was the sweet confirmation.
148 for 6. Two crucial wickets in a single over, turning the tide of the match. The opposition, moments ago comfortable, was now reeling.
Aarav stood at the top of his mark, the ball still in his hand, his chest heaving not from exertion, but from the overwhelming surge of adrenaline and vindication. The whispers of doubt that had plagued him for weeks, months even, suddenly faded, replaced by a profound sense of clarity. He wasn't perfect, he hadn't bowled every ball flawlessly, but when it mattered most, under the fiercest pressure, he had delivered. He was a bowler. And this was just the beginning.