Chapter 27: Forging the Ugly Weapon
The next morning, the sun was already beating down on the Don Bosco ground, kicking up a dusty haze.
It was Monday. The semi-final against Spring Dale was on Saturday. They had five days.
Coach Sarma gathered the fourteen boys. His face was like stone.
"You all know Spring Dale," he began, his voice flat. "You know they are the champions. You know they are better trained, better funded, and have not lost a match in two years. If we play a normal game of cricket, we will lose."
The team shuffled. This was not the pep talk they were expecting.
"We are not going to play a normal game of cricket."
He turned and pointed to Raghav, who stood beside him, clipboard in his left hand, cast on his right.
"Roi," Sarma barked.
"Yes, Coach."
"Tell them."
Raghav felt fifteen pairs of eyes lock onto him. He was a newbie with a broken arm in there eyes, trying to tell seniors how to play.
"Their captain, Rohan Sharma, is also their wicketkeeper," Raghav said, his voice clear. He'd used 10 SP on an Intelligence Boost just for this meeting.
"He's a genius. He anticipates everything on the Off-Side. But... he's slow to his left. He has a technical flaw. A half-second delay."
He paused, letting the beat land.
"So," Raghav continued, "we are going to play 90% of our match on the Leg Side."
Vikram frowned. "What do you mean? Like, Pull Shots?"
"No," Raghav said. "They're too smart. They'll just put a fielder at Deep Square Leg. I'm talking about ugly cricket. I'm talking about Leg Glances. I'm talking about Flick Shots. We're not trying to hit boundaries. We're trying to hit the ball fine, just past the keeper, over and over, until he breaks."
A thick silence fell over the group.
It was Gourav who broke it, a short, disbelieving laugh.
"A flick? Sir, that's a tap. It's a girl's shot. It's weak. We need power! We need to hit them hard, like we did to SLS!"
Coach Sarma's eyes snapped to him.
"You," Sarma said, his voice dangerously quiet, "hit one six against SLS. And then you got yourself out. Raghav, with a broken hand, stayed in and won the game. Your way is loud. His way is winning. We will do it his way."
Gourav's face flushed. He shut his mouth.
"Now," Sarma bellowed, "Pair up! Prakash, you're on. Bowl. I want you to aim for their legs. Only for their legs. Everyone else, get a bat. You will practice the Flick Shot until your wrists bleed. Move!"
The next three hours were chaos.
It was a disaster.
These boys were brawlers. They were Sloggers and Drivers. They knew one way to play: plant the front foot, see ball, hit ball.
The Flick Shot, in contrast, was all subtlety. It was about timing, not power. It required delicate wrist-work, letting the bowler's pace do the work.
Gourav was the worst. He kept trying to hit the flick, planting his foot and swinging, sending the ball spooning up to Mid-Wicket for an easy catch.
"No!" Raghav shouted, his patience shredding. His cast was itching, and his inability to show them was driving him insane.
"You're too early! And stop planting your foot! You have to wait for it, and use your wrists!"
Gourav threw his bat onto the dust. "I am using my wrists! I don't know what you're talking about! 'Wait for it'? It's a fast ball! If you can do it so well, you show me!"
He gestured angrily at Raghav's plaster cast.
An emotional beat landed. The whole team stopped, watching.
Raghav was the brain, but he had no authority. He was just a kid telling them they were wrong
Raghav looked at the bat, then at his cast, then at Gourav's frustrated face. The 42-year-old mind took over. Shouting wouldn't work.
"Alright," Raghav said, his voice quiet. He walked over. "Forget the textbooks. Forget 'wrist-work.' You're in the gully. Your house is behind you. Your neighbor's angry uncle is at Mid-Wicket. Your mother's prize-winning flower pot is at Cover. You're playing with a hard tennis ball. Where do you hit it?"
Gourav paused, the anger on his face fading into confusion.
"...What?"
"Where do you hit it so you don't break anything and you can keep playing?" Raghav pressed.
Vikram, leaning on his bat, suddenly snorted. "You hit it late. You just tap it. Behind you. Towards Fine Leg."
"Exactly," Raghav said, his eyes locking on
Gourav. "You don't swing. You don't try to kill it. You let the ball come to you, and you just... tap it. You're not trying to smash it.... You're just trying to be annoying. Let the bowler's pace do all the work."
Gourav picked up his bat, his expression thoughtful. He was no longer thinking about a 'flick shot.' He was thinking about gully cricket.
"Prakash," Raghav ordered. "Again. Aim for his legs."
Prakash bowled. The ball came in, fast and straight at Gourav's pads.
Gourav didn't plant. He didn't swing. He just... waited.
Click.
His wrists, almost by instinct, rolled at the last second. The ball deflected off the bat and raced away, fine and fast, past the imaginary wicketkeeper, exactly into the 'safe' zone.
The field went silent.
Gourav stared at where the ball had gone, then at his bat, then at Raghav.
A slow grin spread across his face. "Huh. That... was easy."
"Again," Sarma barked, his voice betraying a hint of approval.
The next three days were the most grueling, monotonous, and painful practice of their lives.
Raghav was relentless.
He spent another 20 SP on two more Intelligence Boosts [SP: 205], his mind sharp as a razor, his voice growing hoarse.
"No, Vikram! You're rolling your wrists too early! Wait! Wait... Now!"
Click.
"Suresh! That's a Pull Shot! You're dead. Spring Dale's captain will have a man there. I want it finer! I want it almost behind you!"
Thwack (The ball hit Suresh's pads).
"Again!"
They practiced nothing else. Their legs were a mess of purple and blue bruises from the balls they'd missed.
Their wrists ached as they were tired and they were bored but they were learning.
Click. Click. Click.
The sound of the Leg Glance became the new rhythm of the Don Bosco ground.
_____________
On Friday evening, the day before the match, Sarma called them into a final huddle. They were exhausted. They looked miserable.
"Tomorrow," Sarma said, "Spring Dale is going to come out. They will bowl a perfect line, just outside Off-Stump, and they will wait for you to make a mistake."
He paced in front of them, his shadow long in the setting sun.
"You will not make it. You will let those balls go. You will bore them. You will bore the crowd. You will bore me."
The team looked confused.
"And then," Sarma said, his voice dropping, "you will see their captain get frustrated. You will see him talk to his bowler. And that bowler will change his line. He will get aggressive. He will aim for your stumps. He will aim for your legs."
He stopped and looked at each of them, his eyes like steel.
"And the moment he does... you will tap them to death."
He clapped his hands once. "Go home. Rest. Tomorrow, we play ugly."
Raghav stayed behind, packing the kit with his left hand.
"You're enjoying this, aren't you?" Sarma said, watching him.
"They hate me, Coach," Raghav said, a small, tired smile on his face.
"Good," Sarma replied. "It's not your job to be liked, Assistant Coach. It's your job to be right."
[System Points: 205]
(To be Continued)