#----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------#
Author Thought
There is no true player without adversity, rivalry, competition, and the bonds of camaraderie. Our protagonist's journey will be shaped by many trials—each challenge not just endured but conquered on the field. Respect from teammates will not be won with mere words, but earned through grit, perseverance, and unwavering commitment to the game. True greatness does not lie in raw talent alone, but in the relentless drive to refine that talent through hard work and discipline.
As someone wise once said, "I fear not the person who has practiced 10,000 moves once, but I fear the person who has practiced one move 10,000 times".
#----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------#
The academy ground was quieter than usual that morning. The dew still clung to the grass, and the cones were laid out in perfect symmetry. But Nikhil felt the weight of every stare as he walked in—his shirt faded, his spikes mismatched, and Shera tucked under his arm like a secret weapon.
"Who let the chai boy in?" someone muttered.
Nikhil didn't flinch. He'd heard worse. He just tightened his grip on Shera and walked to the warm-up area.
Coach Devraj was already there, stopwatch in hand. "You're late," he said.
"It's 5:58AM," Nikhil replied.
Devraj raised an eyebrow. "Two minutes early is still late in cricket."
The warm-up was brutal. Shuttle runs, ladder drills, core planks. Nikhil's legs burned, his breath came in gasps, but he didn't stop. He watched the others—how they moved, how they recovered—and mirrored them with quiet precision.
After drills, Devraj gathered the boys. "Today's focus: footwork and judgment. You'll face spin and pace. No pads. Just bat and instinct."
The boys groaned. Nikhil didn't. He was used to playing without gear. He stepped into the net, third in line.
The first two boys struggled. One misjudged a googly and got bowled. The other edged a bouncer and winced as the ball grazed his thigh.
Then it was Nikhil's turn.
The bowler was Kabir, the academy's star pacer. Tall, smug, and precise. He looked at Nikhil like he was a joke.
"Hope your bat doesn't fall apart," Kabir said.
Nikhil didn't respond. He tapped the crease with Shera and waited.
The first ball was fast and short. Nikhil swayed back, letting it pass. The second was full and swinging in. He stepped forward and drove—clean, low, and straight.
The sound echoed again.
Kabir frowned.
Devraj nodded. "Good. Now spin."
The spinner was Rohan, a left-arm tweaker with a deceptive action. His first delivery was a loopy flighted ball. Nikhil waited, then danced down the track and lofted it over mid-off.
The boys watching went silent.
After the session, Devraj pulled Nikhil aside. "You read the ball well. But you're still stiff. Loosen your shoulders. Trust your wrists."
Nikhil nodded.
As he walked back to the tea stall, Kabir caught up with him. "You think one good net makes you special? You're not academy material. You're just a street kid with a lucky bat."
Nikhil turned. "I don't need to be academy material. I just need to be match material."
Kabir scoffed and walked away.
That evening, Nikhil sat with his father, who was feeling better. "You're training now?" he asked.
"Yes. Coach says I might get into the district team."
His father looked at him, tired but proud. "Just don't forget where you come from."
"I won't," Nikhil said. "But I also won't stay here forever."