Chapter 28: The Semi-final Day Match [1]
The day of the semi-final morning, Raghav woke up earlier than his alarm. There was a throbbing in his right arm that was a reminder of his powerlessness. The weight was big, a tumble of plaster, which bound him up to the fringes.
He felt useless. Chapters fırst released on novelꜰire.net
He wore with his left hand, a gradual, awkward business, which now had become exasperatingly habitual. By the time he came out of the small living room, his father was already at the table reading the Assam Tribune and taking tea. The silence of the room was even more than his cast.
Umesh didn’t look up. He was not talking about cricket, or the match, since that first night. He was waiting--waiting till the exams were over, till this hobby of his was pronounced dead. Raghav took a bite of roti, but his bowel was a knot of anxiety.
Hmph, Umesh grunted all at once, shaking the newspaper.
We are wasting more money of the people, said his father turning a page.
"What is it?" Nirmala requested, and put a glass of milk in front of Raghav.
The ACA had declared a massive District Cricket Tournament in the schools which was attended by the teams of all 27 districts-Tinsukia, Dibrugarh, Silchar, and others. A circus to the full, he said, gulping his tea, disapprovingly. As though we do not already have boys enough wasting their time.
The hand of Raghav stood still on the glass. A district tournament. A new, larger stage. A path beyond the school.
He glanced at his father, who was studying the state-government classifieds without any clue to the bomb he had just dropped. The 42 years old mind of Raghav stored the information; this was an important article to be kept in mind. However, first, he needed to get through today.
He quietly drank up his milk and the words of his father repeated in his mind. Wasting their time. I will show you not, I said to myself, the first time.
An hour after that the Don Bosco team bus, which was a decrepit, wheezing old tempo, arrived at the gates of the ACA Stadium. The contrast was harsh. The bus of Spring Dale was a new, air-conditioned one, gleaming white in color, and parked right before the main entrance.
Their rivals were already in the field, and were warming up, and doing it in time, in uniforms of crisp white and matching. The Don Bosco team, in unsuited whites, some of them yellow at the seams, walked out on the perfect green grass, and just stopped.
They were peasants on the lawn of a king. Raghav did not need to be told how frightened they were, but he could tell it with eyes, with the stillness, with the manner in which they carried their kit bags, with the straps pulled up. They looked in their melancholic eyes at the alien perfection of the grass.
The collapse started before it had a chance to happen, and Coach Sarma sensed it. "It’s the same 22 yards. Don’t let the paint fool you."
Raghav, with his left hand holding a clipboard, was on the verge of panic. He needed to be sharp.
System, he said, _Minor Intelligence Boost. [SP: 195].
The coolness of the water that he knew had swept over him. He approached Vikram and he was gazing at the vacant stands of the stadium.
Vikram, Raghav said, in a low, steady voice.
They are, they are a real team, Raghu.
And we are the team that struck a fast bowler that broke my hand, Raghav answered. "They’re clean. Let’s make them dirty. Just... stick to the plan."
The toss was made by Coach Sarma, Raghav, and Vikram.
They were awaited by Rohan Sharma, the SDI captain. He was just as Raghav recalled him; very tall, very serene, very exuding a polite confidence that was more terrifying than all the curses Thomas could utter.
He nodded to Sarma. "Coach. Good to see you." He glanced at Raghav’s cast.
Had a hard time, Rohan said, with sincere and true, polite sympathy. You heard you had a great innings against SLS.
It felt worse than an insult.
Sarma grunted. The umpire tossed the coin. It turned, flashed in the sun, and fell level.
"Tails," Rohan called. It was tails.
We will have a bowl, please, Rohan thought, without the slightest hesitation.
There passed through Vikram a wave of fear. Sarma’s face was unreadable.
It was the "by the book" move. Bring in the weaker side of the game, take advantage of the early morning moisture of the field and watch the pressure of a large stadium bring them down.
Rohan was attempting to destroy them even before they began.
Good, Raghav heard the Intelligence Boost humming. *He’s predictable. He is doing what we want to do (con).
The number two batsman Vikram and Suresh came into the field. The stadium was expansive and dead.
Raghav had Sarma on the boundary line right next to him.
He is sure of it, Sarma said to himself. "He thinks he can roll us for 50."
"Let him," Raghav replied.
The opening bowler of the Spring Dale was a tall rhythmic pacer. It was a smooth movement, a perfect movement, which could be repeated. He began his run‑up.
The first ball was a beauty. It hit on a good length, just beyond the off-stump, and seamed away. His nerves jangling Vikram, who has just seen it slip into the gloves of the keeper.
The sound was clean, loud.
The bowler took the ball, returned and threw the same ball.
Vikram left it again.
The third ball. Same.
The whole Spring Dale organization was a clockwork. They were to have the classic off-side edge, slips, gully, point, cover.
The bowler finished the over. A maiden.
The next bowler, a left-arm spinner, came on. He bowled to Suresh. His line was also tight, aimed at the Off-Stump, trying to get a Cover Drive or an edge.
Suresh, his face pale, just blocked. Block. Leave. Block.
Raghav could feel the tension. He saw Gourav, pads on, fidgeting on the bench. He was showing his nerves. His own team was getting impatient. They wanted to hit.
The "boring" part of the plan was the hardest.
The fast bowler came in for his second over.
He bowled the first ball. Outside Off-Stump. Vikram left it.
The bowler grunted, frustrated.
The Spring Dale captain, Rohan, clapped his gloves. "Good line, Ashu! He’s scared! One more!"
The bowler, spurred on, ran in hard.
But he changed his line.
He was no longer trying to be subtle. He was getting aggressive. He aimed the ball straight at the stumps.
It was a fast, Good Length ball, coming right at Vikram’s legs.
Vikram, who had been waiting for this, his body coiled, twitched. He fought the urge to plant his foot and Slog it. He remembered the gully. He remembered the "tap."
At the last possible millisecond, his wrists, trained by a week of bruises and Raghav’s relentless shouting, rolled over.
It was not a powerful shot. It was a deflection.
The ball raced away, fine, fast, and directly to the left of the wicketkeeper.
Rohan Sharma, the perfect captain, took his "hitch" step. His right foot moved first.
That half-second delay was all it took.
He dove, a full-length, desperate stretch to his left, but the ball was already past him.
It skimmed across the perfect grass, mocking the Slip fielders as it crossed the boundary rope for four.
A stunned silence fell over the Spring Dale team.
A roar erupted from the Shanti Vidya Mandir School team bench.
Rohan Sharma, the keeper, got to his feet.
He took up handful of dust from the ground and rubbing it into his gloves and his face grew in a mask of cold calculations. His eyes were upon the Fine Leg boundary.
Then he slowly turned his head, and looked right into the sideline.
He looked over the shoulders of Coach Sarma and his gaze fell on Raghav. The gracious pity died; he was aware of the reality.
He was aware that he had been spied on and he was sure that this was not an accident. The game was on.