June 1978. KSCA B Ground.
The abdominal guard was a piece of hard plastic that felt like wearing a turtle shell in your underwear. It chafed. It pinched. It was uncomfortable.
"Adjust it," Srinivas Reddy whispered, kneeling to tie Varun's pad straps. "It must sit tight. If it moves, it is useless."
They were in the changing room of the B Ground, a smaller field adjacent to the main stadium. It was the first official practice match: KSCA Under-10 vs. The Bangalore United Cricket Club (BUCC).
BUCC was old money. Their boys arrived in cars that looked waxed. Their kit bags were leather. Their whites were a shade of cream that suggested expensive detergent.
Varun stood up. He stamped his feet. The second-hand Adidas spikes crunched on the concrete floor. He was wearing the new gloves, the new socks, the new shirt. He felt armored.
"Batting order," Coach Rahul Krishnamurthy announced, walking in with the team sheet. "Rohan opens. Varun, number four today. We need runs in the middle."
Number four. The premier position.
"Yes, sir," Varun said.
He walked out to the boundary to watch the match. The sun was fierce. The heat shimmered off the pitch.
When Varun walked out to bat, the score was 20 for 2. The BUCC bowlers were accurate. They didn't bowl fast; they bowled line and length, boring, nagging deliveries that landed on a spot and nipped away.
Varun took his guard.
The wicketkeeper was a boy named Siddharth Menon. He was tall, with a confident, sneering face and a helmet with a shiny blue grille.
"Fielding close!" Siddharth shouted. "Watch the edges, boys. This one looks like he bought his kit at a flea market."
The slip fielders laughed.
Varun froze. He tapped the bat on the crease.
In baseball, catchers talked trash. You ignored it, or you told them their mother was a goat. It was noise.
But this was personal. It was about class.
"Say something," Chuck Thomas urged. "Tell him his dad bought his spot."
Varun turned to look at Siddharth. "Shut up."
Fuck I should have said something smarter.
"Ooh, angry," Siddharth laughed. "Careful, Bata shoes. Don't trip."
The bowler, a medium-pacer named Vikram Hegde, ran in.
He bowled a wide ball, tempting the drive.
Varun was angry. He didn't check his shot. He threw his hands at it, wanting to smash the leather off the ball, wanting to hit it right into Siddharth's teeth.
Whoosh.
He missed by a mile. His feet were stuck in cement. He had slashed at it like a woodchopper.
"Well bowled!" Siddharth cheered. "He has no technique! Just a slogger from the streets."
Varun felt the blood rushing to his ears. The shame was hot and prickling. He gripped the handle until his knuckles turned white inside the green gloves.
"Calm down," the Whisper said. It was sharp, like a slap. "Anger makes you stiff. Stiff makes you slow."
Varun stepped away from the wicket. He unstrapped his gloves. He took a deep breath. He looked at the boundary.
His father was there. He was watching the game and praying that the cost of the equipment in his head was worth it.
He sold the watch, Varun thought. He sold time for this.
He put the gloves back on. Click. Rip. The Velcro sound was grounding.
He turned back to the crease. He didn't look at Siddharth. He looked at the stumps at the other end.
"Don't hit the man," the Whisper advised. "Hit the gap."
Vikram Hegde ran in again. Same ball. Wide. Tempting.
Varun didn't slash.
He stepped forward with his left foot, leading with his head. He leaned into the shot, waiting until the ball was right under his eyes.
He didn't try to hit it hard. He just opened the face of the bat a fraction of an inch.
Tok.
It was a soft sound. A surgeon's cut.
The ball raced through the gap between cover and point. The fielders chased it, but the outfield was fast. It hit the rope.
Four runs.
Siddharth stayed quiet.
Next ball. Vikram corrected his line. He bowled straight, aiming for the pads.
Varun didn't try to heave it to leg. He presented the full face of the bat, leaning forward, and punched it straight back past the bowler.
The On-Drive.
The ball rolled past the umpire, dissecting the field. Four more.
"Field change!" the BUCC captain shouted, moving a fielder to long-on.
Varun smiled. He was feeling comfortable
He batted for an hour. He didn't slog. He drove. He cut. He ran hard singles.
He reached 48.
Rohan Chandrasekhar, who had been watching from the pavilion after getting out for 15, was standing up. Coach Krishnamurthy was clapping.
Varun faced a new bowler, a spinner.
The ball drifted in.
Varun stepped out. He met it on the full. He didn't want a single. He wanted the milestone.
He swung the Kashmir Willow in a clean, high arc.
Thwack.
The ball sailed over the bowler's head, over the umpire, and landed on the roof of the small pavilion.
Six runs.
54 Not Out.
He raised his bat. It wasn't a humble wave. He held it high with one hand, pointing the blade at the sky.
The boys on the boundary cheered and screamed. Even the BUCC parents clapped politely.
Siddharth Menon walked past him as the teams switched sides for the drinks break.
"Lucky innings," Siddharth muttered.
Varun looked at him. He didn't need to be Chuck Thomas. He didn't need to be aggressive.
"Check the scorebook," Varun said calmly.
He walked off the field. Srinivas was waiting with the water bottle. He didn't hug Varun. He didn't cheer, but he gripped his shoulder tightly. Varun could feel the unsaid words, the emotion behind it.
He just looked at the sweat soaking Varun's shirt, the red dust on the Adidas shoes, and the scuffed face of the bat.
"You played straight," Srinivas said.
" Mostly," Varun drank the water. "I hit a six at the end."
"I saw," Srinivas said. "Don't make a habit of it. The ground is safe."
Varun wiped his mouth. He looked at the scoreboard. Varun Reddy: 54*
In baseball, you hit a home run and trotted around the bases. The moment was over in twenty seconds.
Here, you built a monument. You stayed out there. You owned the time.
And for an hour, he had owned everything.