Sunday Morning. 9:00 AM.
Shivaji Park was a different beast on Sundays.
On weekdays, it was a training ground. On Sundays, it was a carnival. Every inch of the massive ground was occupied. There were corporate matches, club matches, tennis-ball tournaments, and in the corner, the Academy's internal practice match.
But the biggest difference wasn't the players. It was the audience.
The "boundary line" (a rope laid on the grass) was lined with parents. Fathers in polo shirts with crossed arms, mothers holding water bottles and Tupperware boxes. It was the weekly performance review.
Arjun stood at fine leg, adjusting his cap. He spotted his father, Ramesh, standing near the big Banyan tree. Ramesh looked out of place, wearing his office trousers and a formal shirt even on a Sunday, clutching a handkerchief to wipe the sweat.
He actually came, Arjun thought. Pressure is on.
The Bowling Spell
"Arjun! You're on from the Gymkhana End!" Vikram yelled.
Arjun took the ball. It was a 30-over match. The "A-Team" (Seniors) vs the "B-Team" (Juniors and Newbies).
Arjun was bowling to a U-12 boy named Rohan, who was known for blocking everything.
Don't try to bowl fast, Arjun reminded himself. Baba doesn't care about speed. He cares about discipline. If I bowl a wide, he'll think I'm wasting his money.
Arjun ran in. He focused on his "Action" shoes gripping the turf.
Rhythm. Load. Release.
He bowled a tight line, just outside off stump. Rohan defended. The next ball, Arjun rolled his fingers slightly—not a cutter, just holding it cross-seam. The ball skidded lower. Rohan defended awkwardly.
He bowled four overs on the trot. Figures: 4 overs, 1 maiden, 8 runs, 0 wickets.
It wasn't flashy. He didn't uproot any stumps. But to the trained eye, it was high-quality control for an eight-year-old.
Coach Sawant walked past the parents. He stopped near Ramesh.
"Deshmukh?" Sawant asked, looking at Ramesh.
Ramesh straightened up. "Yes, Sir. I am Arjun's father."
"Your boy has discipline," Sawant said, staring at the field. "Most kids just want to run and throw. He hits the spot. Good focus."
Ramesh beamed. A compliment from the coach was worth more than a gold medal. "Thank you, Sir. He studies hard too."
"Hmm," Sawant grunted. "Wait for his batting."
The Batting Collapse
The B-Team was chasing 120. They were 40 for 5.
Arjun walked out at number 7. He was wearing the oversized pads and holding the "Toothpick"—the Club Bat that was slowly destroying his hands.
The bowler was a tall U-12 pacer. He wasn't express, but he was fast enough to intimidate the little kids.
Ball 1: Short and wide. Arjun's eyes lit up. This was a boundary ball. He transferred his weight back. He engaged his core. He slashed hard, aiming for the gap at point.
THUD.
The contact sounded like hitting a wet mattress.
The bat had no "ping." It absorbed all the energy of the shot. Instead of racing to the boundary, the ball died near the cover fielder. Arjun scurried for a single.
His hands stung. The vibration traveled up his arms.
Ball 2: Arjun was on strike again. The bowler pitched it up. Arjun leaned into a classic cover drive. Foot to the pitch of the ball. Head over the knee. Perfect biomechanics.
CRACK-squeak.
The handle of the bat actually creaked in his grip. The blade twisted slightly because the wood was so dead it had lost its structural integrity.
The ball trickled to mid-off. Zero runs.
Arjun looked at the bat in frustration. He had timed that perfectly. With a decent English Willow, that was four runs. With this piece of driftwood, it was a dot ball.
From the boundary, Ramesh watched. He didn't know much about cricket technique. He just saw his son hit the ball, and the ball not going anywhere.
"He needs to eat more," Ramesh muttered to himself. "No power."
Coach Sawant, standing nearby, shook his head. He spoke loudly, ensuring Ramesh could hear.
"It is not the food, Deshmukh-ji. It is the wood."
Ramesh looked at the coach. "Sir?"
"Look at the shot," Sawant pointed as Arjun played a defensive push. "The boy has the technique. But he is trying to drive a car with square wheels. That bat is garbage. It is killing his confidence."
Ramesh looked back at Arjun. He saw Arjun shake his hand after playing a shot, grimacing in pain from the vibration. He saw the other boys with their shiny MRF and Reebok bats hitting the ball with a satisfying PING.
Ramesh fell silent.
The Dismissal
It happened in the next over.
Arjun saw a flighted delivery. He stepped out to loft it over mid-on. He got to the pitch of the ball. He swung.
The bat made a hollow tock sound.
The ball didn't clear the fielder. It looped gently and landed straight in the hands of mid-on.
"Out!"
Arjun stood there for a second. He looked at the bat. He wanted to smash it against the ground. In his 2025 life, he would have broken it.
But he was eight. He tucked the bat under his arm, lowered his head, and walked back.
He reached the boundary. He avoided eye contact with his father. He felt ashamed, even though he knew it wasn't his fault.
He sat on the grass, unstrapping his pads.
"Arjun."
He looked up. His father was standing over him. Ramesh's face was unreadable. He was holding a bottle of water.
"Drink," Ramesh said.
Arjun drank.
"The coach says you played well," Ramesh said quietly.
"I got out for 2 runs, Baba," Arjun mumbled.
"He said the bat is bad."
Arjun looked at his shoes. "It shakes a lot. My hand hurts when I hit hard."
Ramesh looked at Arjun's hands. He saw the small blister on the thumb. He saw the redness in the palm.
Ramesh Deshmukh was a frugal man. He saved every rupee. He wore the same office shirts for five years. But he was also a father.
He checked his watch. 12:30 PM.
"Pack your bag," Ramesh said.
"We are going home?"
"No," Ramesh adjusted his glasses. "There is a sports shop near the station. 'Champion Sports'. We will go there."
Arjun's heart stopped. "To buy a grip?"
Ramesh sighed, the weight of the upcoming expense already pressing on his shoulders.
"No. To buy a bat. A proper one. But..." He raised a finger. "This is your birthday gift. Six months early. No asking for anything in November. Understood?"
Arjun stood up. The fatigue in his legs vanished instantly.
"Yes, Baba! Understood!"
1:30 PM. Champion Sports.
The shop smelled of new rubber and linseed oil. It was heaven.
Ramesh stood at the counter, looking terrified at the price tags. "Show something... reasonable. For a beginner."
The shopkeeper placed three bats on the counter.
Reebok (Kashmir Willow): ₹800. Heavy.
SG (English Willow - Grade 3): ₹1,800. Good stroke, but expensive.
SS (Kashmir Willow - Selected Grade): ₹1,200.
Arjun picked up the SG. It was too expensive. He knew his father's limit.
He picked up the SS (Sunridges).
He held it. He checked the balance. It was slightly bottom-heavy, but the pick-up was light. He pressed his fingernail into the wood. It left a small indentation—soft willow. Good shock absorption.
He took a stance and shadowed a drive. Whoosh. It cut through the air smoothly.
"This one," Arjun said.
"How much?" Ramesh asked, bracing himself.
"₹1,200," the shopkeeper said. "But for you, ₹1,100."
Ramesh hesitated. That was a week's grocery budget.
He looked at Arjun. He saw the way Arjun was holding the bat—like it was a sword, like it was a part of his arm.
Ramesh pulled out his wallet. He counted the notes carefully.
"Give a cover with it," Ramesh negotiated weakly.
"Okay, Uncle. Free cover."
As they walked out of the shop, Arjun clutching the bat to his chest, Ramesh put a hand on his shoulder.
"Arjun."
"Yes, Baba?"
"That sound," Ramesh said, mimicking the sound of the other kids' bats. "The Ping sound."
"Yes?"
"Make sure this bat makes that sound next Sunday."
Arjun grinned, gripping the handle tight.
"I will, Baba. I promise."