Disclaimer : I am going back to 3rd person POV. Please bear that in mind when reading.
The Wankhede was alive. Not just noisy—alive. A sea of blue jerseys swayed to chants of "Mumbai! Mumbai!" with drums, trumpets, and whistles creating a rhythm that made the ground pulse like a heartbeat. The humid air was thick, heavy, clinging to every breath, and yet somehow it seemed to fuel the energy of the crowd rather than sap it.
On the giant screen, "Target: 161" flashed in bold, and with that, the Mumbai openers marched out. Every step they took onto the turf was greeted with a roar as though a king was entering his kingdom.
Aarav stood inside the team huddle, trying to focus. Steve Smith's words were steady, firm, but they seemed to echo inside his mind.
"Control the controllables. Stay calm. Hit your areas."
Ajinkya Rahane clapped Aarav on the back before dispersing. "Remember, don't think about the crowd. Just one ball at a time. The rest will follow."
But Aarav's stomach churned. He had bowled in pressure before—yes. But not here. Not inside the powerplay, with only two men out, against batsmen who hunted mistakes like sharks sniffing blood.
Washington Sundar started from one end, as planned. A 17-year-old kid, calm beyond his years, sent down an opening over worth gold—just three runs, all in singles. It was almost too perfect.
Then Smith looked across and lifted his hand.
"Aarav, you take the next."
It felt like a jolt of electricity had run through Aarav's spine. Him? Second over? His instinct was to look around, half-expecting Smith to mean someone else. But no. The ball was tossed his way, and suddenly it was there—cold, hard, shining under the lights—sitting in his palm like a responsibility too big for his grip.
He took it, rubbed the seam, but his fingers were slick with sweat. He wiped them on his trousers once, twice, then pressed the ball into his palm as if trying to fuse it with his skin.
Walking back to his run-up, the noise of the crowd changed. It wasn't just cheering anymore. It was anticipation, a kind of primal excitement. They knew he was inexperienced. They smelled an opportunity.
"Come on, Parthiv!" someone screamed from the stands."Take him downtown!" another voice carried.
Aarav glanced at the batsman waiting for him—Parthiv Patel. Compact, experienced, with the look of someone who had faced hundreds of overs in the powerplay. At the non-striker's end was Jos Buttler, bat resting casually against his thigh, already tapping the pitch as if preparing for fireworks.
Aarav exhaled. He remembered the Delhi game, when he swung hard for a six and threw away his wicket for 15. He remembered Gujarat, where his bowling figures had left him gutted—one wicket but leaking runs when his team needed control.
But he also remembered his diary. "Don't fear mistakes. Learn from them."He remembered Dhoni's voice at nets. "Pressure is an illusion. The batsman feels it too."And he remembered Kavitha. That late-night call after the Gujarat loss. Her voice soft, yet firm. "Don't let one match define you. You're bigger than that, Aarav. Next time, go in free. Just bowl like you know you can."
The umpire raised his hand. Play.
The field was set tight—slip in place, point inside the circle, mid-on and mid-off up. No safety nets.
Aarav tapped the ball on his thigh, shut his eyes for half a second, and whispered to himself:
"One ball at a time."
He began his run-up. His spikes dug into the turf, the thud of each stride swallowed by the roar of fifty thousand voices. His heart raced, but his eyes stayed locked on the stumps.
The first ball of Aarav's first ever over inside the powerplay…
Would he seize it, rising to the occasion?Or would the fire of Wankhede consume him?
The answer lay in the air, waiting to be delivered.
To be continued…