Chapter 21: SVS v/s SLS [3]
The world returned in a wave of sound and pain.
The first thing Raghav registered was the roaring of his entire team, a chaotic mass of white uniforms, was on top of him, screaming.
Gourav was lifting him by his armpits, his face split in a grin of pure, primal joy.
"YOU DID IT! YOU DID IT! I CAN’T BELIEVE THAT YOU DID IT!"
The second thing he registered was the pain. It was a white-hot, blinding fire that shot from his right palm, up his wrist, and exploded in his forearm.
It was a pain so sharp, so immediate, that his mature slelf which had experienced its share of injuries, screamed one word: Broken..
"Get off him! Get back to your positions!" Coach Sarma’s voice, amplified by a megaphone it seemed, cut through the celebration.
As his teammates reluctantly dispersed, Raghav staggered to his feet. He cradled his right hand against his chest, his face pale, sweat beading on his forehead not from the heat, but from the shock.
He looked at the scoreboard. 10/2.
Two of the most arrogant, dangerous batsmen were gone. And he had taken the captain.
The new batsman walking to the crease.
The six-foot fast bowler, the demon who had ripped their batting order apart, was now walking in at number four. He wasn’t laughing.
His bat wasn’t resting on his shoulder. He was gripping it so hard his knuckles were white. He was marching to the crease like a man on his way to a war, his eyes locked on Gourav, a look of murderous intent on his face.
This wasn’t a batsman coming to save a match. This was an executioner coming to end it. The rıghtful source is novel_fіre.net
Raghav instinctively clenched his right hand, readying himself.
He hissed, a sharp intake of breath. The pain was so intense it almost made him vomit. He couldn’t make a fist. He couldn’t even grip the inner lining of his pants.
’It’s broken. It has to be broken.’
His heart sank, the euphoria of the catch vanishing instantly. He couldn’t catch another ball. He couldn’t even throw one. He was now, without a doubt, the single biggest liability on the field.
Just as the panic began to set in, a familiar blue light flickered in his vision, so bright it almost made him flinch.
[Miracle Play Detected!]
[Host has performed an action far exceeding current stat parameters, fueled by pure determination and a willingness to sacrifice the body.]
[Side Quest: Fielding Foundation has been updated!]
[Objective: 1/1 "Miracle" Catch registered.]
[The path to greatness is paved with such moments. The system acknowledges your grit.]
[+0.5 Fielding (Bonus Reward!)]
[+0.2 Strength (For bodily impact resistance)]
[+15 SP (Quest Reward)]
[New Stats Updated: Fielding: 8.5, Strength: 13.6]
[System Points (SP): 55]
Raghav stared at the screen, the pain momentarily forgotten. A miracle play. The system had rewarded him for the sheer, desperate will of the act.
He had sacrificed his hand for the catch, and the system had paid him out.
The +0.5 to Fielding was massive, an unprecedented leap. He could feel it, a new-found understanding of angles, a sharper focus.
But it was a cruel joke. He had the knowledge of a better fielder, trapped in a body with a broken hand.
’It doesn’t matter,’ he thought, his thoughts on his mind taking over. ’I can’t show it. If they know I’m injured, they’ll run on me. They’ll target me. I have to hide it.’
He forced his throbbing hand to hang naturally at his side, his fingers limp. He walked back to the Gully, every step a new wave of nausea.
On the boundary, Coach Sarma watched Raghav. He hadn’t celebrated the catch. He was a statue.
He watched Raghav stagger, he watched him cradle his hand, and he watched him try to hide it. Sarma’s eyes, sharp as a hawk’s, missed nothing.
He saw the grimace. He saw the limp, unnatural way the boy’s hand was hanging.
He nodded to himself, a grim, silent acknowledgment. He turned to Vikram.
"Vikram! After this over, move Roi from Gully to Deep Third Man. And put Suraj in the Gully."
Vikram looked confused.
"But Coach! He just took a blinder there!"
"He’s injured," Sarma said, his voice flat. "He won’t be able to take another. Get him to the boundary. His only job now is to get his body in front of the ball. Go."..
At the crease, the atmosphere was electric. It was Thomas versus Gourav. Pace against pace.
Over 3 (Bowler: Gourav. Batsman: Thomas)
[Ball 3.3] Gourav, still high on adrenaline, ran in. He delivered a fast Good Length ball.
Thomas, with the eyes of a fast bowler, saw it early. He wasn’t here to block. He cleared his front leg and swung, a brutal, horizontal-bat Slog.
The ball rocketed over Mid-Wicket like a missile. It was flat, hard, and unstoppable. It smashed into the boundary fence before the fielder could even move. Four
The silence was broken. The SLS dugout erupted. Thomas hadn’t just hit a boundary; he’d made a statement.
[Ball 3.4] Gourav, rattled, dug the next one in Short.
Thomas was waiting. He was on the Back Foot in an instant and unleashed a ferocious Pull Shot. The ball soared high and long, disappearing over the Deep Square Leg boundary. Six.
Just like that, in two balls, the momentum that Raghav had paid for with his hand was stolen back. Thomas was single-handedly crushing their hope.
[Ball 3.5 ] Gourav’s confidence was shattered. He bowled a nervous, floating Full Toss.
Thomas’s eyes lit up. He smashed a Cover Drive for another Four.
Thomas hadn’t moved his feet. He was just standing and delivering brutal, punishing blows. He glared at Gourav, who couldn’t meet his eyes.
[Ball 3.6] A defensive block from Thomas, just to show he could.
End of Over. 14 runs from it. The game was back in SLS’s control.
As the over changed, Vikram ran up to Raghav. "Coach says you’re moving to Deep Third Man. Suraj is coming to Gully."
Raghav just nodded, relief washing over him. The Gully was a nightmare. The boundary was a hiding place.
He jogged the long 70 yards to the boundary rope, his throbbing hand cradled against his stomach. He was as far from the action as he could be. ’Just... just don’t hit it to me,’ he prayed.
==========================
The game entered a new phase. The "Juggernaut" was back on track. Thomas, having asserted his dominance, was now batting with terrifying, calculated aggression. The other batsman, the #3, was smart. He knew his job. He blocked the good balls and gave the strike to Thomas.
The score began to climb, no longer in a trickle, but in a steady, confident flow.
24/2... 30/2... 40/2...
Prakash, the off-spinner, was brought back. Thomas just waited on the back foot and cut him, or used his long reach to drive him.
Gourav, his pace and confidence gone, was now just bowling medium-fast, trying not to concede.
The SLS dugout was loud again, their laughter echoing across the field. Raghav’s team was silent, their shoulders slumped. The spark was dying.
[End of Over 10. Score: 58/2]
They needed 39 runs to win, with 8 wickets in hand. It was a foregone conclusion.
"Get your body in front of the ball, Roi!" Coach Sarma’s voice roared from the sideline, a sharp reminder.
Raghav, who had been lost in his own painful haze, snapped to attention. He was at Deep Third Man, a lonely figure near the boundary.
The bowler was Prakash, the off-spinner. The batsman was Thomas, who was now on 41 runs. He was toying with them.
[Ball 10.1] Prakash, in a final act of desperation, tossed the ball up, slower, outside the off-stump, trying to tempt him.
It was a fatal mistake.
Thomas’s eyes lit up. It was the "come-hit-me" ball. He rocked onto his back foot to smash it through the covers.
But his IQ, unlike Raghav’s, was not his strong suit. He was a power player. He misjudged the slowness of the ball.
Instead of a clean Cover Drive, he sliced it, the ball taking the thick outside edge of his bat.
It screamed, low and fast, not towards Cover, but spinning viciously towards the gap between Point and Third Man.
The Point fielder dove, but it was too fast.
It was rocketing towards the boundary. It was heading straight for Raghav.
Raghav saw it coming. His body tensed. This was it. The moment his coach had warned him about. His only job was to get his body in front of it.
’Stop the four. That’s all. Just stop the four.’
He moved to his left, his legs feeling heavy. He got into position. He bent down, bracing for the impact.
The ball was skidding, faster than he thought.
He had to stop it with his hands. There was no other way.
He put his hands down, the correct way, the way Coach Sarma had drilled into them...
...right hand on top, left hand below, forming a cup.
His broken right hand.
’Nononono—’ his mind screamed. But it was too late.
He had a split-second, agonizing choice. Pull his hand away and let the boundary be scored, or...
He shut his eyes, his 42-year-old mind screaming in protest, his 12-year-old body’s instinct for survival at war with his one, insane goal.
He forced his throbbing, shattered hand into the path of the ball.