May 23rd, 2011. Monday. Visakhapatnam District U-16 Probables Camp.
The atmosphere at the camp was different from the trials. The trials were a noisy marketplace, full of desperate hope. The camp was a factory floor.
The sun was already stinging at 8:00 AM, baking the red soil of the Zinc Ground until it radiated heat like an open oven. Thirty boys stood in a circle. The hierarchy wasn't just implied; it was painted in neon colors.
In the center stood the "Club Kids"—led by V. Ravi (the U-16 Captain). Ravi looked like he was carved out of teak. He had thick forearms, the shadow of a mustache, and the relaxed posture of someone who owned the place. Flanking him were four fast bowlers—the "Royal Guard." They wore matching branded 'skins' under their whites to absorb sweat. They leaned on thick English Willow bats with 'SS' and 'SG' stickers that flashed in the sun. They laughed loudly, cracking inside jokes, comfortable in their territory.
Then there were the "Outsiders." Boys from government schools, steel plant quarters, and distant colonies. They wore loose cotton whites that fluttered in the wind. Their kit bags were unbranded canvas or old school backpacks. They stood silently on the periphery, eyes on the grass, trying to be invisible.
Arjun stood at the back, adjusting his cap. Ravi scanned the circle. His eyes swept past Arjun without stopping. To him, Arjun was just another face to be cut next week.
8:30 AM.
Coach Reddy walked onto the field. He was a short, stocky man with a belly that looked as hard as a rock. He wore a faded ACA cap pulled low over his eyes and carried a silver whistle that hung around his neck like a weapon.
"Circle up!" Reddy barked. "No talking!"
The chatter died instantly. Even Ravi straightened up.
"Thirty of you are here," Reddy said, his voice grating like gravel. "Only fifteen will wear the district jersey. I don't care who your father is. I don't care if you scored a century in your colony gully. Here, we start from zero."
He checked his stopwatch. "Endurance first. Five rounds. Ground perimeter. Go!"
Phweeeet!
The pack took off. The Club Bowlers sprinted to the front immediately. They treated the first 200 meters like a 100-meter dash, trying to assert dominance.
Arjun stayed at the back. He knew his reality. His "terrace gym" had built some muscle, but his lungs were still under construction. The sudden growth spurt had left his body feeling disjointed, and his cardio base was average at best. By Round 2, the heat was suffocating. His shins throbbed with the familiar ache of Osgood-Schlatter, sending sharp jolts up his legs with every stride.
Don't panic, his adult brain commanded. Don't race them. Just survive.
He focused on his rhythm. Diaphragmatic Breathing. It was a technique he had learned from a "Corporate Wellness" video to manage stress before big presentations. Technically, he had watched that video in 2023, which meant he was remembering a skill from his future which was now his past.
Great, he thought, adjusting his pace. Now I have a stitch in my side and a grammatical paradox.
He pushed the time-travel headache aside and focused on the mechanics. If this breathing could stop a panic attack during a performance review, it could handle a warm-up lap.
Inhale-two-three (through the nose). Exhale-two-three (through the mouth).
He forced his belly to expand, pulling oxygen deep into his lungs instead of shallow chest panting. By Round 3, the other sprinters were gasping, clutching their sides as stitches set in. Arjun passed them. He didn't speed up; they just slowed down.
He finished the run in the middle of the pack—around 17th. But while others were collapsing on the grass, retching or gasping for air, Arjun stood upright with his hands behind his head, expanding his ribcage, controlling his recovery.
Coach Reddy marked something on his clipboard. He didn't look up. "Water break. Five minutes. Then Nets."
10:00 AM.
"Nets!" Reddy shouted. "Batsmen, pad up. Bowlers, grab a ball."
The group split up. The brutal reality of equipment politics became clear immediately. The Assistant Coach opened a shiny new box.
Ravi's four fast bowlers walked up first. The Assistant Coach handed them Red Kings—brand new, shiny four-piece leather balls. The seams were proud and sharp. The lacquer gleamed deep red. These balls would swing. They would bounce. They would zip through the air.
Arjun walked up to the box. The Assistant Coach glanced at him. "Name?"
"Arjun. Left arm."
The coach didn't reach for the box. He reached down... to a plastic bucket on the ground. He pulled out a ball. It was grey. The red color had faded months ago. The leather was scuffed and rough, like the skin of an old elephant. The seam was beaten flat into the surface.
It was a "Dead Ball." A ball that had been bowled 500 times. It wouldn't swing. It wouldn't bounce. It would just skid low and die.
"Here," the coach tossed it. "Don't lose it."
Arjun caught it. It felt soft and lifeless in his hand. Next to him, another Outsider bowler caught a similar ball. The boy looked at the coach, his face crumpling. "Sir, this is torn," the boy complained, showing a flap of leather. "How can I bowl with this?"
"Bowl or go home," the Assistant Coach muttered, moving to the next kid.
Arjun didn't say anything. He looked at the grey lump. He squeezed it. It was soft. He walked to his mark, tossing the ball gently.
Arjun walked to the top of his run-up at Net 1. V. Ravi was batting.
Ravi was in his element. He was a classic Right-Hander who loved width. He stood slightly leg-side of the ball, freeing his arms to drive through the off-side. He had been smashing the new-ball bowlers for the last ten minutes, the sound of his English Willow echoing like a gunshot.
Arjun looked at the grey lump in his hand. He didn't complain. He didn't look for sympathy. He turned the ball over. One side was violently rough—like sandpaper. The other side was smoother, polished by sweat and dirt. He ran his thumb over the jagged leather. It snagged his skin.
Friction, Arjun thought.
Ball 1: Arjun ran in and bowled a standard length delivery. The ball hit the pitch and died. It sat up slowly—a perfect, sluggish half-volley outside off. Ravi's eyes lit up. He threw his hands at it. CRACK. The ball slammed into the cover boundary netting. "Bowl pace, oye!" Ravi shouted, adjusting his helmet. "The ball is sleeping! Put some shoulder into it!"
Ball 2: Arjun walked back. He didn't try to bowl faster. He widened his grip. He dug his middle finger into the rough seam. The Off-Cutter.
He ran in. At the last second, he rolled his fingers down the left side of the ball. The ball floated out. Ravi saw the width outside off-stump. He planted his front foot, expecting the line to hold or angle away. He wound up for a booming cover drive.
The ball hit the pitch. The rough leather gripped the concrete. Instead of going straight, it bit and jagged back in sharply.
Ravi was caught completely off guard. He had left a gap between his bat and pad, aiming for covers. The ball cut through that gap. It missed the bat, grazed the back thigh pad, and thudded into the stumps (net).
Ravi stumbled, looking down at his feet. He had been cramped for room. "Orey! Is that spin?" Ravi shouted, annoyed. "It turned a foot!"
Arjun caught the throw back. "Ball is dead," he said calmly. "It's gripping."
"Then bowl pace!" Ravi barked. "Stop floating it!"
Ball 3: Arjun bowled straight. Ravi defended it back down the pitch aggressively.
Ball 4: "Hold it!"
A voice barked from behind the net. Coach Reddy walked up. He had been standing near the umpire's position, watching the session silently.
He looked at Ravi. "Why did you get cramped on that second ball?"
Ravi shrugged. "The ball stopped, Sir. It's an old ball. Bad quality. It spun in."
Reddy turned his head slowly to Arjun. "Show me."
Arjun tossed the ball. Reddy caught it, feeling the scuffed leather. He glanced at Arjun's grip. "Cutting it in?"
"Yes, Sir. Using the rough side."
Reddy grunted. "Idea is good. Execution is lazy." He tossed the ball back hard. "You're rolling your fingers over it. Floating it. He sees the loop coming a mile away."
Reddy mimicked the action with a sharp, chopping motion of his hand. "Snap the wrist. Don't roll it. Cut it. Like chopping wood. Drive the ball into the deck. Make it look fast until it hits."
"Okay, Sir."
"Bowl one now. Do it."
Reddy stood there, arms crossed. Ravi tapped his bat, looking annoyed at the interruption, but he kept his mouth shut.
Arjun walked back. He marked his run-up. Slice it. Snap it.
He ran in. He didn't focus on the batsman. He focused on the release. Arm high. Snap. He drove the ball into the pitch harder than before, snapping his wrist down to impart heavy revolutions.
The ball came out flat and fast. It didn't float. Ravi saw the trajectory. It looked like a standard pacer delivery. He triggered forward to drive through covers again.
The ball hit the deck. The rough leather bit into the concrete. It ripped back in sharply.
Ravi's eyes widened. He tried to adjust, bringing his bat down hurriedly to defend. He was too late. Snick. The ball took the inside edge of the bat and smashed into his front pad.
"Howzat!" Arjun appealed instinctively.
Ravi glared at him, then looked at his pad. It would have been plumb LBW or a catch at short leg. "Chh!" Ravi clicked his tongue, tapping the pitch aggressively. "Garbage pitch. It's keeping low."
Coach Reddy didn't smile. He walked past Arjun to the next net. "Brain is sharp," Reddy muttered as he passed. "Wrist is weak. Fix it."
Arjun stood there, rubbing the rough side of the ball on his trousers. He watched Ravi walk away to drink water, still muttering about the pitch. Arjun looked at his own wrist. It was thin. It hurt from the snap. But for the first time, he felt a tool in his hand that worked.
He was still an Outsider. He still had the dead ball. But he had found a way to survive.