Summer holidays of 1998. We retired after a long, hard day of cricket. We played six matches at an average score of twelve. I top scored the fourth match with a twenty seven. The seventh match I won the toss and put my brother to bat. My brother played formidable defense and made one hundred and twenty seven before sun went down. Not a huge one I know for I made a three hundred and thirteen few years back with the same opposition, my brother.
My brother was a good player of the game but not good enough to match my skills, mainly because when he was off for his post graduation for two years, I got to play lot of cricket, at school, at the streets, beach and at home all alone. I would practice front foot defense seven hundred times a day. Throw the ball at the wall – go for the defense and back to position before the ball arrives again. I would do this half the day and go for back foot strokes during rest. More than that, I mastered playing limited space cricket. In a sit out of three hundred and fifty square feet with an old broken shoe rack at one corner, a huge metal frame leaning on the wall behind the bowling end and another wall of the same height behind the batsman. This customized version of cricket was played with a light tennis ball and with no stumps. Three consecutive times the ball beats the bat, one is declared out and of course one pitch one hand catches were always part of the game. Every ball struck earned a run and anything hit on the shoe rack fetched two. Anything that rose above the metal frame was awarded a six and ball hit straight back at the wall behind the bowler below the frame was granted four. Sledging was permissible to any extent but physical abuse.
Strategies ran through my mind, prayers loped in my heart; my blood was warm amid frustration, set up a sleepless night for me.
The day arrived, a fresh start, a brighter day, and loads of confidence to salvage the bat from the hands of my brother, I began bowling. The first ball I bowled, I dropped a sitter, pitching plum in front of me. I gave it my right hand but could not gather. Never the less, I patted myself for the wonderful start.
My brother scored a one hundred and fifty soon. That was the last time I counted him raising his bat at me. Within an hour from then his score was two hundred and seventy two, three hundred and four just before we went for lunch. He snatched the mango from my hand and yelled “mangoes are not for losers”. I was calm as I knew it was part and parcel of the game. I had done more than this when I scored my triple century.
Back at the field, my desperate attempt failed to get his wicket well within three hundred and thirteen, my best. I failed, lost my cool and never attempted any half chances thereafter. He was scoring everywhere. I would have swayed my hands at least three thousand times at him that day. He reached eight hundred and seventy eight.
I felt miserable that evening. He declared the score to my dad at dinner. My mom, who hardly knows the game burst with laughter for even she knows a seven hundred plus score, was comical. Until then I thought cricket was the only talent I possessed, I felt ashamed. But I did not want to give up. As soon as I picked his wicket I knew that the bat would be in my hands. So calmed myself to sleep and got up fresh the third day.
Sad, his run making flourished again. Eight hundred in a jiffy, nine hundred and he derisively did not punch his bat in the air. He shrieked “I shall take that next at thousand bro”. At least before a thousand was only a distant dream. Thousand hundred and seventy four at lunch, I almost bust out of fatigue. One last try before I give up I thought and bowled post lunch but no good gods supported.
At thousand one hundred and sixteen, I knew I did not throw the ball, but it left my hand at its will, and fell short at the pitch. My brother attempted an unintended stroke before losing his wicket by giving me a catch. I lay flat on the floor for at least five minutes with my brother brutally smiling to reiterate that it was nothing of my effort to get him out. I did not bother for bat was in my hand now Fresh energy got into my system, rushed of blood. I knew how to make big runs. I would have made it at least ten times more than my brother. I remembered all the fun I made of him when I scored my triplet. My first thought was to reach to hundred before the day ended.
Well, got out of the first ball. My brother shredded his ribs laughing at my upshot. He rolled on the floor mocking at me. I stood still, in disbelief. All that I needed was another chance, I cried foul at his genuine wicket, I protested I was not ready to face, I lost my sane and yelled, but all the while he was laughing at me. Finally, I begged him to offer me another chance to play, but, why would he? He played his turn, why would someone be interested to bowl? My brother got a call on his phone and went inside leaving me there
I fell pale and sick on the floor. I cried, literally. I was there on my knees for more than half an hour. Felt so lonely and wretched. 27th May 1998, that was the last day I played cricket at home. For the fear that I would lose the toss
