The bus ride back to the Gymkhana Grounds on Day 2 was a different beast. The chaotic, noisy-kid energy of the previous morning was gone, replaced by a quiet, electric tension. The 10-over sprints were over. Today was about 15 overs—a format that, for 10-year-olds, was a test of endurance as much as skill.
Siddanth felt it in his legs. His 10-year-old muscles were sore. He'd pushed his body to its absolute limit, and he knew his Stamina (D) was his weakest link.
"You okay, Siddu?" Arjun asked from the next seat. His face was pale, but his eyes were bright. Yesterday's heroics had replaced his fear with a kind of reverent awe.
"Just stiff," Siddanth replied, rolling his shoulders. His 30-year-old mind was already calculating. Two matches today. 15 overs each. That was 30 overs of high-stakes cricket. He had to be smart. He couldn't afford to be just "AB." He had to be a general.
Coach Narendar stood at the front of the bus as they pulled in. "Listen up, champs!" he boomed, but his jovial tone was gone, replaced with a sharp, metallic edge. "Yesterday was the party. Today is the job. We are playing St. George's Grammar School in the quarter-final. They are a disciplined team. They won't give you bad balls. You won't win by slogging. You'll win by thinking."
His eyes found Siddanth in the middle of the bus. "Deva. Those circus shots of yours... they were good for 10 overs. Today, I want an innings. I want you to be there at the end. No silly stuff, understand? I want responsibility."
It was a test. A 30-year-old's mind recognized it instantly. The coach wasn't telling him not to play his shots; he was telling him to justify them.
"Yes, Coach," Siddanth said, his voice clear and steady.
"Good. We're chasing. Now, let's go warm up."
The Quarter-Final: The Thinking Man's Chase
HPS vs. St. George's (15 Overs)
St. George's, as Coach Narendar had warned, was a unit. They looked like they'd been drilled by a military sergeant. They won the toss, batted first, and played with a frustrating, copybook precision. They didn't hit boundaries; they nudged, pushed, and ran hard, turning ones into twos and putting HPS's fielders under immense pressure.
Siddanth, bowling his 3-over spell, was forced to dig deep. He needed his 30-year-old brain.
He noticed the St. George's captain, a solid, well-built 12-year-old, had a pre-set trigger movement, shuffling to the off-stump.
Sloppy, Siddanth thought. He's opening himself up for an inswinger.
But Siddanth couldn't bowl an inswinger. His natural movement was away.
So, don't use swing. Use... deception.
His 30-year-old memory flashed—Zaheer Khan in the 2011 World Cup. The knuckleball.
On the last ball of his second over, he set his field. He jogged in, his action identical, but at the last second, he held the ball with his knuckles, not his fingertips.
The ball floated, 20 kph slower than the batsman expected.
The batsman, already through his shuffle, was comically early. He tried to pull, missed, and was hit dead in front.
The "thwack" of the ball on the pad was the loudest sound on the ground.
"HOWZAT!" Siddanth roared, a genuine, instinctive appeal.
The umpire's finger went up.
Siddanth's teammates mobbed him. Coach Narendar, on the boundary, spat out his water.
Siddanth's spell of 2 for 14 in 3 overs had choked the St. George's innings, but they were a gritty team. They scrambled, fought, and clawed their way to a final, formidable total.
Target: 105 runs in 15 overs.
It was just under seven an over. For 12-year-olds, on a big ground, this was a fortress.
"Right," Coach Narendar said, his face grim. "105. That's not a joke. Rohan, Sameer," (the openers) "get us a start. Deva, you're at four. And you're staying there till the end."
The chase began. It was a disaster.
The St. George's opening bowler was tall, and he bowled a tight, unhittable, 6th-stump line.
Rohan (C): c. Keeper b. Seshank (4)
Sameer: lbw b. Amir (1)
HPS was 12 for 2 in the 4th over.
Siddanth walked out heavy English willow in his hand. The entire ground was silent. The St. George's team was chirping, their tails up.
"Here comes the circus clown!" one of them yelled.
Siddanth's 30-year-old mind put a wall up. Noise. Ignore it.
Arjun walked out from the non-striker's end, his face white. "Siddu, they're... they're really good."
"They're not good, Arri," Siddanth said, tapping his own helmet. "They're boring. And boring is predictable. Just... stay with me. Don't run us out."
For the next five overs, Siddanth Deva did the impossible: he stopped being AB de Villiers. He became Rahul Dravid.
He activated his 360° Field Awareness not to find boundaries, but to find the safest single.
He played with a dead bat. He let the ball hit the willow, and it dropped, lifeless, at his feet. He met every ball with the full, classical face. He defended his wicket like it was his family's honor.
The St. George's bowlers, so used to batsmen self-destructing, were baffled. They kept bowling their perfect line, and Siddanth kept perfectly blocking it.
He and Arjun built a partnership. It wasn't pretty. It was ugly, functional, and deeply frustrating for the fielding side.
HPS: 45/2 after 9 overs.
The scoreboard was moving, but not fast enough. The required rate had climbed.
60 runs needed from 36 balls.
The St. George's captain brought back his tall opening bowler.
"Now," Siddanth whispered to himself.
The bowler charged in, landing a perfect yorker. Siddanth, his Reflexes (C) on high alert, jammed the bat down.
But this wasn't a block.
He didn't just stop the ball; he steered it. He opened the bat face at the millionth of a second of impact, and the ball squirted past the keeper's left side, racing away for four.
It was a shot of impossible, ridiculous timing.
The bowler was furious. He'd been beaten by a defensive shot.
He overcompensated, bowling the next ball short and wide.
Siddanth was waiting. He didn't pull. He activated Innovative Shot-Making. He upper-cut it, using the pace, and the ball flew over the slips for another boundary.
10 runs from two "perfect" deliveries. The momentum had shifted.
The equation came down.
19 runs needed from 12 balls.
The St. George's captain, panicking, brought on his off-spinner. He'd seen Siddanth get out to spin in the practice. He'd done his homework. He set a deep field. 6 fielders on the leg side.
The coach's words rang in Siddanth's ears: No silly stuff.
Siddanth looked at the field. A reverse sweep isn't silly if it's the right shot.
He activated the Innovative Shot-Making skill.
Ball 1: The spinner floats one up, outside off. Siddanth, in a blur, switched his stance. A perfect, clean, left-handed reverse-sweep. The ball screamed through the empty point region for four.
Coach Narendar, who had been pacing, stopped dead.
15 off 11.
Ball 2: The bowler, terrified, darts one in, full and on the legs. He's followed the batsman.
This is it.
This was the shot from his gully-cricket dreams.
Siddanth didn't just shuffle. He cleared his front leg, exposed all three stumps, and went down on one knee. It was a scoop, a sweep, a flick—it was all three.
The bat connected. The ball flew, high and fast, over the short fine-leg's head. It wasn't just a four. It had the legs.
SIX.
The entire HPS dugout, including the bored teacher, was on their feet, screaming.
The St. George's team was broken. They were just 10-year-olds who had seen something that didn't make sense.
Siddanth calmly knocked the next four balls for two singles and a two, finishing the match with three balls to spare. He raised his bat, not with a 10-year-old's wild celebration, but with a 30-year-old's grim satisfaction.
He was 55 not out.
"Deva," Coach Narendar said as he walked off, a towel around his neck. "I have no idea what that... thing... you did was. But it was the right shot. Now go rest. The semi-final is in two hours."
The Semi-Final: The Warriors' Stand
The two-hour break was a special kind of agony. Siddanth's 10-year-old body, which had just run a marathon and fought a war, was screaming. His legs were cramping. His Stamina (D) was flashing a bright, mental red.
Arjun brought him a banana and a bottle of water. "Dude. That six..."
"Water," Siddanth croaked, his 30-year-old mind focusing on electrolytes and recovery.
Their semi-final opponent was HPS-Ramanthapur, a rival branch of their own school. This wasn't just cricket; this was a grudge match. They were loud, they were aggressive, and they had a "star" batsman who had hit four sixes in his quarter-final.
Coach Narendar won the toss. He looked at Siddanth, who was stretching his quads with a pained expression. He made a snap decision.
"We bat first. Deva, you're opening. I'm not saving you. I need your runs now, while you can still stand. Go out there, get as many as you can, as fast as you can. We will defend whatever you give us."
Siddanth nodded. This was it. No strategy. Just one last, brutal effort.
He walked out, his legs feeling like overcooked noodles. His Reflexes (C) felt sluggish.
The HPS-R rival bowler charged in. He was fast and wild.
The first ball was a short, nasty bouncer. Siddanth's 30-year-old mind saw it, but his 10-year-old body was too slow. He couldn't duck. He just managed to get his bat up, and the ball clanged off the sticker and flew over the slips for four.
Ugly, he thought. But it's four.
He was dropped on 11. A simple catch to mid-off. His timing was completely off.
This wasn't a test of skill. It was a test of pure, animal grit.
He couldn't play his classical shots. He couldn't play his innovative shots. His body was refusing.
So, he just... fought.
He used his Enhanced Hand-Eye Coordination (B-) as a last line of defense, turning certain dismissals into fluky inside-edges that ran away for runs. He was hit on the thigh pad, on the chest. He was cramping so badly that he could barely run.
He and Arjun (who came in at #3) just scrapped.
In the 12th over, Siddanth was 48 not out. He was completely gassed. He knew he had one, maybe two, overs left in him before his legs gave out completely.
Okay, AB. One last time.
He took a deep breath. He activated Innovative Shot-Making, pushing through the pain.
The medium-pacer, smelling blood, ran in to bowl.
Ball 1: Full, on off-stump. Siddanth didn't move his feet. He just fell into the shot, a sort of half-scoop, half-drive, that flew over extra cover. Four.
Ball 2: The bowler, enraged, bowled a bouncer. Siddanth, on pure instinct, just swiveled, his Acrobatic Instincts taking over, and helped it over the keeper's head. Four.
Ball 3: The bowler tried a yorker. Siddanth was waiting. He went down on one knee, and with a scream of effort, reverse-slapped the ball through point for another boundary.
It was three shots that had no business being in a U-12 rulebook.
The bowler's next ball was a wild, frustrated full-toss, and Siddanth, trying one last impossible, one-handed swat, was clean bowled.
He walked off, dragging his bat, to a standing ovation.
He had scored 62.
HPS, on the back of his sheer willpower, had posted 124/5 in 15 overs.
He collapsed on the bench, his body shaking. "Coach... I can't bowl. My... my arm is dead."
Coach Narendar looked at him, not with a coach's eye, but with something else. Respect.
"You've done more than enough, Deva. You've given us a fortress. Now Sit here. Watch. And think."
The HPS-R chase began. Their star batsman, the one who hit sixes, came in at #3 and started, as promised, hitting sixes. He was big, strong, and he was murdering HPS's bowling.
They were 70/2 in 8 overs. They were cruising.
Siddanth, icing his shoulder, watched him. The kid was powerful, but he shuffled. He shuffled a lot, getting way outside his leg stump to free his arms.
SIddanth's Tactical Acumen lit up.
He called over Rohan, the HPS captain. "Rohan. Tell Sameer," (their medium-pacer) "don't bowl at the stumps. He wants you to bowl at the stumps."
"Then where do I bowl?" Sameer panted, terrified.
Siddanth looked him in the eye. "Bowl a wide yorker. As wide as you can on the offside. He'll be shuffling away from it. He'll be off balance. He'll have to reach."
Rohan, who now trusted Siddanth implicitly, relayed the command. "Do it, Sameer. Wide yorker."
Sameer nodded, terrified.
He ran in. The star batsman shuffled, expecting a ball on his legs.
Sameer, with all his concentration, hurled the ball. It was a perfect, wide, off-stump yorker.
The star batsman, already committed to his leg-side movement, had to lunge for it. He was off-balance, his feet in a different zip code from his hands. He reached, lost his grip, and spooned a simple, looping catch straight to the man at point.
Silence.
The star batsman was out.
And with that, the HPS-R team crumbled.
Siddanth, from the bench, was a 10-year-old general.
"Move fine-leg deeper for this guy, he's a sweeper."
"Tell the bowler to go around the wicket, he's cramping the new batsman."
His 360° Field Awareness was working even from the sidelines. He saw the gaps before the batsmen did.
HPS-Ramanthapur was all out for 94.
HPS had won by 30 runs. They were in the final.
The team didn't just cheer. They stormed the bench. They lifted Siddanth, cramps and all, onto their shoulders. He was their hero, their freak, their leader.
Coach Narendar just watched, a huge, disbelieving smile on his face. "I've been coaching for twenty years," he said to the bored teacher, who was now wide awake. "I have never... ever... seen anything like that."
On the bus ride home, Siddanth was so tired he couldn't even keep his eyes open. He slumped against the window, the 7.0% template he'd just earned buzzing in his subconscious. He was in more pain than he'd ever been in his 30-year-old life, but his 10-year-old face wore a small, satisfied smile.
Tomorrow was the final.