If bowling was about anatomy, batting was about equipment.
Arjun realized this the hard way fifteen minutes later.
"Batsmen, pad up!" Coach Sawant yelled, blowing his whistle.
The hierarchy of the academy immediately revealed itself. The seniors, like Vikram, unzipped massive Reebok and SG kit bags. They pulled out white pads that actually stayed white, gloves with reinforced protection, and bats that looked like polished furniture.
The juniors—the "rich" ones—had their own Size 4 or Size 5 bats, usually bought by overenthusiastic fathers.
Then there was the "Club Pile."
Arjun stood near the rusted metal trunk where the academy stored communal gear. It smelled of old sweat, mildew, and wet leather.
He dug through it.
Pad... pad... both left-legged. Useless. Gloves... stiff as rigor mortis.
He finally found a pair of ambidextrous pads that were only slightly too big. He strapped them on. They clattered against his shins like plastic buckets.
Then, he reached for a bat.
He pulled out a 'BDM' with black tape wrapped around the bottom of the blade. He gripped it.
Heavy, he thought, his wrist sagging immediately.
In his previous life, Arjun had treated dozens of teenagers for "Tennis Elbow" (Lateral Epicondylitis). The cause was almost always the same: a young kid using a bat that was too heavy. The forearm muscles strain to lift the weight, putting massive stress on the tendon attachment at the elbow.
This is a Size 6. It weighs 2.5 pounds. For a 25kg kid, this is an orthopedic disaster waiting to happen.
He threw it back.
He rummaged deeper. He found a Size 4 bat. The handle was frayed, the rubber grip was peeling off like dead skin, and the wood looked dry and brittle. But it was light.
"You're taking that toothpick?"
Arjun looked up. A boy with thick glasses and a helmet that rattled on his head was staring at him.
"It's light," Arjun said. "Better for the wrists."
"It has no stroke," the boy said wisely. "The ball won't travel. Take the MRF one. It's heavy but it hits hard."
"I'll manage," Arjun said. He prioritized his tendons over boundaries.
Net Number 4 (Junior Net)
The bowling was erratic. The U-10 bowlers struggled to pitch the ball on the strip.
Arjun took his stance.
He adopted a balanced stance—knees slightly bent to engage the quadriceps, head still.
A chubby boy ran in and bowled a half-volley on leg stump.
Arjun's eyes lit up. This was bread and butter.
He leaned forward. But as he tried to bring the bat down, he realized a critical flaw. His mind knew the shot, but his grip strength was non-existent.
He mistimed it. The ball hit the toe of the bat.
Zzzzz.
A violent vibration shot up the handle, through his palms, and rattled his forearm bones.
Arjun winced, shaking his hand.
Diagnosis: No shock absorption, he thought grimly. Dead wood plus weak grip equals micro-trauma. If I hit ten shots like that, my hands will be numb.
"Use your feet!" Coach Sawant shouted from his chair. "Don't just stand there like a statue!"
Arjun gritted his teeth. Okay. Soft hands. Don't fight the ball. Guide it.
Next ball. Short and wide.
A normal eight-year-old would slash at this. Arjun knew that with this "toothpick" bat and his noodle arms, a slash would result in a catch at point.
He reacted. He waited. He transferred his weight back, watching the ball all the way onto the bat.
Instead of hitting it, he used the pace of the ball. He just opened the face of the bat at the last second—a backfoot steer.
Click.
It wasn't a loud sound. But it was clean. The ball raced through the point region, hitting the net.
The boy with glasses gasped. "Shot, yaar."
Arjun didn't smile. He looked at his thumb. The peeling rubber grip was chafing the skin.
The Test
"Last six balls for the new boy!" Nilesh yelled.
Coach Sawant walked over to the junior net. He stood behind the umpire's stumps. The pressure in the net instantly tripled.
The bowler, terrified of Sawant, lost his grip. He bowled a full toss at Arjun's head. A "beamer."
It was a dangerous ball.
Arjun didn't flinch. His proprioception—his sense of body position in space—was elite, even if his muscles weren't.
He didn't duck blindly. He saw the line.
He just... swayed.
He arched his lumbar spine, moving his head out of the line of fire, watching the ball sail harmlessly past his nose. It was calm. Clinical.
Sawant's eyebrows shot up. Most kids panicked. This kid moved like he had done it a thousand times.
"Good eyes," Sawant muttered. Then he barked, "Next ball! Pitch it up, idiot!"
The bowler pitched it up. A straight ball.
Arjun stepped forward. He presented the full face of the bat. A classic forward defense.
Thuck.
Soft hands. He absorbed the momentum of the ball, killing it dead at his feet.
"Elbow up!" Sawant corrected, though the elbow was perfectly high. "Again."
Arjun played the next four balls defensively. He didn't try to hit boundaries. He showed Sawant what he wanted to see: Technique. Patience.
"Okay. Out," Sawant said.
Arjun unstrapped his pads. His shins were sweating. His thumb was stinging.
"Boy," Sawant called out as Arjun was putting the bat back in the trunk.
"Sir?"
"Tell your father to buy you a bat," Sawant said, adjusting his hat. "That piece of wood is garbage. It has no sweet spot. It will ruin your technique because you will try to hit too hard to make the ball travel."
"Yes, Sir," Arjun said. "I'll ask."
He knew the answer would likely be 'No', or 'Wait for Diwali'. But the diagnosis was correct.
The Ride Home
The bus ride back was torture. The evening rush hour had begun. Arjun was squashed between a man smelling of fish and the metal door.
He looked at his hands. A blister was forming on his index finger.
He closed his eyes, swaying with the bus.
Problem: Weak forearms and wrists. Consequence: Can't control the bat. Can't absorb impact. Solution: Grip strengthening.
He checked his mental inventory. Pocket money: ₹10 per week. Gym membership: Impossible.
He needed a rehab tool. Something that provided resistance and eccentric loading (strengthening the muscle as it lengthens).
He looked out the window as the bus passed a construction site. Bamboo scaffolding. Tarps.
Suddenly, a memory from his past life surfaced. Not a medical textbook, but an interview.
Dhoni. The helicopter shot. How did he get that wrist power? Rubber tyres.
Arjun smiled.
It made physiological sense. Hitting a rubber tyre creates a massive rebound force. Your wrist has to fight to stabilize the bat against the bounce-back. It recruits every stabilizer muscle in the forearm. It was the poor man's physiotherapy band.
He got off at his stop and didn't go home immediately. He went to the local raddi-wala (scrap dealer) shop near the colony gate.
"Uncle," Arjun asked the old man sitting amidst piles of newspapers.
"What do you want, beta? Comics?"
"Do you have an old scooter tyre? A punctured one?"
The man frowned. "Tyre? What will you do with a tyre?"
"Project," Arjun lied.
The man pointed to a corner. "Take that punctured Chetak tyre. ₹20."
Arjun checked his pocket. He had exactly ₹20—his emergency bus fare.
He hesitated. Then he handed over the note.
He dragged the dusty, heavy rubber tyre home, ignoring the strange looks from the neighbors.
His mother opened the door. Her eyes went wide.
"Arjun! What is this dirt?"
"Exercise equipment, Ma," Arjun panted, dragging it to the balcony.
He didn't have a bat yet. But he had a stick. And now he had a tyre.
If he hit this tyre 200 times a day, the eccentric load would build his wrists faster than any expensive gym machine.
It was old-school. It was dirty. But it was medically sound.
"Wash your hands!" his mother yelled.
"Yes, Ma," Arjun said, looking at the black rubber circle.
Rehab starts tomorrow, he thought.