Chapter 7: Shadows of the Past
Two weeks into the state team training, the rhythm of the routine began to settle. Mornings were spent on the field, afternoons in the gym, and evenings poring over notes in my diary. Coach Verma's drills were relentless, aimed at turning raw potential into consistent performance. My body ached in ways I hadn't felt even in my 2025 timeline, but there was a strange satisfaction in knowing I was starting from scratch, rebuilding everything step by step.
It wasn't just my physical body that needed rebuilding. My relationships with the team were still unsteady. Most of the seniors viewed me with curiosity, sometimes dismissing my unconventional style as the overconfidence of a "kid with a lucky streak." The juniors, though respectful, kept their distance. I couldn't tell if they saw me as competition or as someone to learn from.
The only one who was overtly friendly was Aditya Sinha. He had a way of blending arrogance with charm, effortlessly slotting himself into conversations with seniors while flashing me a polished smile that didn't quite reach his eyes.
"You've got some interesting shots, Patel," he said one evening after practice, leaning casually against the pavilion wall. "Where'd you learn the paddle sweep? Street cricket?"
"It's something I picked up," I replied, careful not to give away too much.
He nodded, his expression inscrutable. "Keep at it. You might make it far if you don't overplay your hand."
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A Visit from the Past
A few days later, during a break between sessions, I found myself sitting under the shade of an old banyan tree that bordered the ground. My notebook lay open in my lap as I scribbled thoughts on adapting to the pre-T20 batting style.
"Arjun?" a voice interrupted.
I looked up to see Coach Kulkarni standing a few feet away, his ever-watchful eyes scanning me.
"Coach!" I stood, surprised but happy to see him. "What are you doing here?"
"I came to watch how my players are doing," he said with a small smile, sitting down on the bench beside me. "You're looking good out there, but something feels...different. You're holding back."
His observation startled me. I hadn't realized how obvious my calculated restraint had become. I scrambled for a response.
"I'm trying to pace myself, sir. No need to attract too much attention yet."
Kulkarni tilted his head, studying me. "A smart approach, but don't lose yourself in it. Cricket is as much about instinct as strategy. Play your natural game when the moment calls for it."
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The Ghost of a Rivalry
As practice wrapped up later that day, Coach Verma announced that the selectors were organizing an intra-squad match to assess us before the first tournament. The excitement among the players was palpable. Practice was one thing, but an actual match was a different beast.
The teams were divided evenly, with Parthiv captaining one side and Aditya Sinha leading the other. I was placed in Aditya's team, batting at number four. When the lineups were read aloud, I noticed Aman Chauhan smirking. He was in Parthiv's team, and something in his gaze told me he was looking forward to facing me again.
On match day, I woke before dawn, my nerves frayed but controlled. As I packed my kit bag, a stray memory surfaced from my previous life—my first real confrontation with Aman. In that timeline, I'd played cautiously, giving in to his intimidation. He'd dismissed me cheaply, and his taunts had echoed in my head for weeks.
Not this time.
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The Match Begins
Aditya won the toss and chose to bat first. The early overs were steady, with our openers laying a solid foundation. When our number three fell to a quick yorker, my name was called.
Walking out at 56/2, I felt a familiar mix of excitement and dread. The fielders were chirping as usual, trying to unnerve me, but I tuned them out. Aman was brought on for his second spell almost immediately after I took guard.
His first ball was a sharp in-swinger, aimed at my pads. I flicked it confidently through mid-wicket, earning a nod of approval from Aditya at the non-striker's end. The next delivery was short, and I ducked under it, smiling inwardly at Aman's predictable aggression.
The third ball was the real test—a bouncer that climbed sharply. In 2003, most batsmen would either duck or fend at deliveries like this, but I couldn't resist. My back foot pivoted instinctively, and the pull shot I'd practiced countless times sent the ball hurtling toward the square-leg boundary.
The field erupted into stunned silence. Even Aman froze, his glare meeting mine for an extended beat before turning back to his mark.
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A Message Delivered
The innings progressed with calculated precision. I stuck to the fundamentals for the most part, building a steady partnership with Aditya. Every now and then, I sprinkled in an unorthodox shot—an uppercut here, a paddle sweep there—enough to hint at versatility without appearing reckless.
When I reached fifty, I noticed selectors murmuring to each other near the pavilion. Aditya clapped me on the back as I jogged back for a second run.
"Well played, Patel," he said with a grin that felt more genuine this time. "Keep going. Let's show them what this team can do."
By the time I was dismissed for 71, the stage was set for our team to post a commanding total. But the real victory came later, during the chase.
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Aman's Outburst
When Parthiv's team collapsed under the pressure of our bowlers, Aman was the last wicket to fall. Caught in the deep while trying to slog his way out of trouble, he stormed off the field, his temper unchecked.
As I helped Aditya collect water bottles near the boundary, Aman brushed past us, his shoulder colliding with mine.
"Don't get too comfortable," he growled, barely audible. "One lucky innings doesn't make you a star."
I watched him walk away, his frustration as loud as the cheers of my teammates. Aditya chuckled, shaking his head.
"Guess you've made your first rival."
I smiled, unfazed. "It was only a matter of time."
As the sun dipped below the horizon, painting the sky in hues of gold and crimson, I felt the weight of Aman's challenge settle on my shoulders. It wasn't just about winning matches anymore—it was about navigating the fragile web of competition, camaraderie, and ambition in this unforgiving game.
The stakes were climbing, and I was ready.