The sodium lamps flickered above Mohit as he leaned against his battered red hatchback, the only witness to countless night games. In the stillness, the roar of Hyderabad was muted—only the distant hum of bikes and the whistle of the breeze broke the silence. Mohit traced the paint above the car's number plate, recalling the hundreds of matches played on this stretch of road."Mohit, toss the ball!" called Imran, his childhood friend, pad-less and tireless as ever.Mohit grinned, brushing hair from his eyes. In these moments, surrounded by friends and the endless possibilities of the night, he felt invincible—or as his shirt declared, a lone wolf. In the shadows, he was more than a cricketer; he was the heartbeat of the game on these raw city roads.The first ball cut through the night. Mohit bowled, the world watching in the sparks between headlights and the rush of adrenaline. Each delivery told a story—of hope, struggle, and the defiance of every "not good enough" ever hurled his way.This was the city that built him: Hyderabad, a place where every boundary was a statement and every wicket a promise.
The match ended with laughter and teasing echoes drifting down the empty road. Mohit and his friends piled near the red car, some sprawled on the hood, others sitting on the faded curb, all catching their breath. The energy from the late-night game still lingered in everyone's smile. Hyderabad's night breeze whispered its approval, rustling the dried leaves that clung to the edge of the pitch.Imran, always the optimist, tossed a worn-out cricket ball into the air. "You see the way Mohit turned that last over? Even SRH scouts would've noticed that six!" he said, eyes shining with pride.Someone else chimed in: "Well, maybe if the floodlights were actual stadium lights, bhai."Mohit laughed, but deep inside, a spark was kindling. The notion that he could be more than a street cricketer—maybe even catch the attention of real selectors—pressed itself into his chest like the humidity after a storm.As the moon rose higher, the group started to scatter. Some friends cycled away, promising to return Saturday. Imran lingered, always the last to leave. He watched Mohit out of the corner of his eye. "What happens if you get chosen one day, haan? Will you forget these night matches?"Mohit shook his head slowly, the seriousness of the question not lost on him. "None of this happens without this place, yaar. The road, you, the laughs. I'd bring the spirit with me, wherever I go."Imran gave him a playful shove. "Just don't forget your roots when you're playing for Hyderabad or even India, Mr. Lone Wolf."The silent highway was now theirs alone—the car, the moon, and the steady thrum of a city that never really slept. Mohit leaned back one last time, tracing the constellations above the dark horizon, dreaming of bigger grounds but determined to honor where it all began.As he slid into the driver's seat, Mohit made a silent pact with the night: every drive, every match, every chance—he'd carry his friends, his city, and every starlit over with him.And so, with headlights cutting through the velvet black, Mohit drove home, the hopes of an entire street team tucked beside him like a loyal friend, ready for whatever dawn might bring.