The Gymkhana coach stayed one week, then returned to Lahore.
He left Sandalbar's men with the basics: how to run in properly, how to land the front foot, how to release the ball without "throwing" it, and how to repeat the same action without breaking down. The four tall men Jinnah had picked—broad shoulders, long arms, heavy chests—were finally bowling with real pace.
But once the coach left, the training began to soften. The men still came, but their effort was uneven. They treated practice like a duty, not like a weapon.
Jinnah noticed.
Inside his mind, Bilal spoke again.
Teach them one thing that feels like magic. Then they'll start taking it seriously.
Jinnah raised an eyebrow. "Magic?"
Reverse swing, Bilal said.
Jinnah was amused by the word, but Bilal's tone stayed sharp.
There will come a time when the British won't be able to win their own game. Not because you have more strength, but because you'll understand the tricks better than them.
Jinnah didn't argue. He simply called the four fast bowlers and the rest of the team to the yard at Headquarters and told Ahmed to bring the old balls—the worn ones nobody liked.
When the men gathered, Jinnah held up a scuffed ball.
"This is your advantage," he said.
A bowler frowned. "Sir, that ball is finished."
Jinnah's voice stayed calm. "That is why it becomes useful."
He turned the ball in his hand.
"From today, you do one thing," he said, making it as simple as possible. "Keep one side shiny. Keep the other side dull."
The men watched closely.
"The shiny side," he said, "you protect. You polish it. You do not rub it on the ground. You do not scratch it with your nails. You do not let it become rough."
He pointed to the other half.
"The dull side," he said, "you let it stay dull. You do not polish it. You do not try to 'fix' it. You let it age."
Ahmed Khan, standing to the side, immediately understood the real point: this wasn't about one bowler. It was about team discipline.
Jinnah looked at the whole group.
"This ball belongs to all of you," he said. "If one man ruins the shiny side, the trick is gone."
The men nodded. That logic they understood.
Then Jinnah turned to the four tall bowlers.
"And you," he said, "deliver fast."
The bull-necked bowler asked, "That's it, Sir?"
Jinnah gave a faint, controlled smile.
"That's it," he said. "One side shiny, one side dull. Bowl fast. Keep the seam straight."
Bilal's voice in Jinnah's mind was satisfied.
Simple rules. Big effect. Now they'll respect the process.
They began practice immediately.
At first, nothing looked different. The ball came in hard, the batsman swung, the wicketkeeper caught. The men kept polishing one side with their sleeves, keeping the other side untouched, like a ritual.
Then, after enough fast deliveries with the old ball, something changed.
One ball traveled straight—and then shifted late.
Not a dramatic curve. Just enough to miss the middle of the bat.
The batsman cursed and looked down at the pitch as if the ground had betrayed him.
The bowler stared at the ball in his hand, suddenly alert.
The others began talking over each other.
"It moved at the end."
"Like it changed its mind."
The cricket-experienced man from the city took the ball, examined it, and nodded slowly.
"That's it," he said. "That's the trick."
Jinnah watched their faces change. Their laziness was gone now, replaced by curiosity and ambition.
Inside his mind, Bilal spoke quietly.
Now they understand. This isn't just strength. It's control.
That night, the team sat together near their quarters, speaking in low voices.
The scar-armed runner said, "So we don't need to beat them with guns."
A Farabi corporal replied, "We beat them with rules."
The bull-necked bowler turned the ball in his palm like a new kind of weapon.
"One side shiny," he said. "One side dull."
He looked at the others.
"And fast."
For the first time since the coach left, the men were not training because Jinnah ordered it.
They were training because they had discovered a method that felt like power—without giving the Empire any excuse to punish them for using it.