The hierarchy of the summer camp was simple. It was defined by the nets.
Net 3 was for the beginners and the "softies", boys who backed away from the stumps when the ball was thrown. Net 2 was for the intermediates.
Net 1 was the slaughterhouse.
This was where the Under-14 state hopefuls bowled. They were teenagers with wispy moustaches and genuine aggression. They bowled on a hard matting wicket that made the ball zip off the surface like a skipping stone.
Varun was in Net 2, blocking throw-downs from an assistant coach. It was mind-numbing.
Step. Block. Reset.
"I'm going to fall asleep," Chuck grumbled. "I can hit this guy with a toothpick."
Varun watched Net 1 through the green mesh divider.
There was a bowler there, a lanky boy named VIjay 4Gowda. He had a long, rhythmic run-up. When he released the ball, it hit the mat with a sharp, violent crack. The batsman, a boy wearing a full helmet (a rarity), was hopping around the crease, terrified.
Murthy blew his whistle. "Water break!"
The boys swarmed the water drum. Varun stood back, wiping sweat from his eyes with his sleeve.
Murthy was standing near Net 1, talking to Gowda. Varun walked over.
"Sir?"
Murthy looked down. "What is it, Reddy? Go drink water."
"I want to bat here," Varun said, pointing to Net 1.
Murthy raised an eyebrow. The heavy moustache twitched. "This is for the seniors. The ball is fast here. You are-what? Seven?"
"I can handle it," Varun said firmly.
Gowda, who was wiping the ball on his trousers, laughed. "He's the size of a stump, sir. I'll kill him."
Murthy looked at Varun's shoes. They were cheap white canvas sneakers from the local Bata store. The soles were worn smooth.
"You don't even have spikes," Murthy said. "You'll slip."
"I won't slip," Varun lied.
Murthy sighed. He liked the boy's hands, they were soft and quick, but arrogance needed to be cured early.
"Fine," Murthy said. "Pad up. Vijay, bowl half-pace to start."
"Full pace," Varun said.
Gowda stopped laughing. He looked at Murthy. Murthy nodded. "Full pace. Let him learn."
Varun strapped on his pads. He walked into Net 1. The atmosphere was different here. The matting was black with tire marks from the ball. The net felt claustrophobic.
He took his guard.
"Okay," Chuck Thomas said, waking up. "Now we're playing."
Gowda walked back to his mark. It was a long way back. He turned and started running.
He was fast. Much faster than any bowler Varun had faced so far.
Gowda leaped and hurled the ball.
It was a blur.
In baseball, you look for the release point. You track the spin. Varun picked it up instantly.
Fastball. High.
The ball hit the mat and exploded upward. A bouncer.
Varun's instinct, the Chuck Thomas instinct, was to lean back and uncork a hook shot. To send it into the bleachers.
"No helmet," the Whisper hissed. "Too high. Let it go."
Varun swayed back. The ball whistled past his nose, smelling of leather and polish. It hit the back net with a frightening force.
"Too fast for you, baby?" Gowda jeered.
Varun tapped the crease. "Just a heater," he thought. "I've seen 98 mph. This is maybe 70."
The next ball was fuller.
Varun stepped forward. He wanted to drive.
But as he planted his front foot, his smooth canvas sole skidded on the slick matting. He lost his balance.
His foot slid out. He collapsed onto one knee. The ball jagged past his outside edge, missing the off-stump by an inch.
"Told you," Murthy barked from the side. "No traction. Get out."
"No," Varun scrambled up, dusting off his whites. He looked at his shoes. Useless.
"Anchor the back foot," the Whisper advised. "If the front foot slips, play from the back."
Gowda ran in again.
He saw the slip. He smelled blood. He bowled a short-of-length ball, aiming for the ribs.
Varun didn't step forward. He stayed back. He pressed his back foot hard into the crease, using it as a pivot.
The ball rose.
Varun didn't swing across the line. He rose on his toes, getting on top of the bounce. He brought the bat down in a straight, punching motion.
The Backfoot Punch.
It was the most aristocratic shot in cricket. It required zero brute strength and perfect timing.
CRACK.
The Kashmir Willow met the ball at the top of its arc. The timing was pure.
The ball shot back down the pitch, past Gowda's ankles, faster than it had come. It hit the back net low and hard.
Gowda froze in his follow-through.
Murthy stopped writing on his clipboard.
Varun held the pose for a second, high elbow, weight perfectly balanced on the back foot. He didn't smile. He just looked at Gowda.
"Next," Varun said.
Gowda bowled four more balls. Varun defended two and punched two more through the covers. He didn't slip again because he didn't lunge. He let the ball come to him.
When the session ended, Varun unbuckled his pads. His hands were vibrating, but it was a good vibration. The hum of contact.
He walked out of the net.
Rohan, the rich boy with the Adidas shoes, was waiting for him.
"That was a amazing," Rohan shouted, slinging his arm around Varun's shoulders. "Who taught you that?"
"No one," Varun hummed. He sat down to untie his canvas shoes.
Rohan looked at Varun's feet. He looked at the worn soles. Then he looked at his own kit bag.
"My brother has an old pair of spikes," Rohan said casually. "He grew out of them. Size 4. Might fit you."
Varun looked up. He knew what charity looked like. He had seen his mother accept rice from neighbors when they didn't earn enough money in that month.
"I don't need them," Varun said.
"They're just sitting in the garage," Rohan shrugged. "They're useless to us. Rubber spikes. Good for matting."
Varun hesitated. He looked at his canvas shoes, then at the black matting where he had almost humiliated himself.
"Take the shoes," Chuck Thomas said practically. "You can't hit if you keep slipping."
"Bring them," Varun said, his voice low. Pride stung. I
"Okay," Rohan said. "Tomorrow."
___________________________________
Rohan arrived in a white Ambassador car driven by a chauffeur in a khaki uniform. He stepped out, carrying his kit bag and a plastic grocery bag.
Varun was waiting by the gate, kicking a stone against the curb.
Rohan walked over and held out the plastic bag. "Here."
Varun took it. He looked inside.
The shoes were white Adidas, slightly yellowed with age, with three black stripes on the side. The soles were studded with hard rubber pimples- "studs," they called them.
"My brother wore them for one season," Rohan said, adjusting his collar. "They might smell a bit."
Varun sat on the curb immediately. He untied his canvas shoes and pulled them off. He slid his feet into the Adidas.
They were a size too big. There was a gap at the heel. But when he tightened the laces, pulling them until the leather groaned, his foot locked in.
He stood up. He stomped on the asphalt. Crunch.
The rubber studs bit into the ground. It felt like having claws.
"Thanks," Varun muttered. His ears burned. He didn't look at Rohan.
"Don't worry about it," Rohan grinned. "Let's go. Vijay wants a rematch."
______________________________________________
Net 1 was different today.
Murthy wasn't just watching; he was umpiring. He stood behind the stumps at the bowler's end.
"Match simulation," Murthy announced. "Six balls. If you get out, you get out. Reddy, you're up."
Varun walked in. The studs crunched on the coconut matting. He scratched his guard. He felt rooted to the earth.
Gowda was at the top of his mark. He wasn't laughing today. He had been punched off the back foot by a seven-year-old yesterday, and his ego was bruised.
"He's going to bring the heat," Chuck Thomas predicted.
Gowda ran in. He leaped.
He didn't bowl at the stumps.
He released the ball wide of the off-stump.
It was a good length, swinging away.
Varun threw his hands at the ball, trying to slash it through the covers.
The ball moved away late. The bat swished through empty air.
Thwack. The ball hit the back net.
"Ooh!" Gowda jeered. "Fishing? We catch fish in the river, Reddy, not in the nets."
"Play straight!" Murthy yelled. "Why are you chasing it?"
Varun reset. He tapped the bat.
"It was in the zone," Chuck argued. "I could have poked that to right field."
"It is the Corridor of Uncertainty," the Whisper murmured. "Fourth stump line. If you hit it, you edge it to the slips. If you miss it, you look foolish."
Gowda ran in again. Same ball. Wide. Swinging away.
Varun's muscles twitched. He wanted to hit it. The urge to swing was a physical addiction.
He slashed again. This time, he got a thick edge. The ball flew dangerously low to where a second slip would be standing.
"Out!" Murthy shouted. "Caught at second slip! Get out of the net!"
Varun stood there, stunned. "I hit it."
"You edged it," Murthy said. "In a match, you are walking back to the pavilion. Next!"
Varun walked out, dragging his bat. He felt the heat in his face. Tears stung in his eyes.
He sat on the grass, watching the other boys.
Rohan went in. Gowda bowled the same wide ball.
Rohan didn't swing. He lifted his bat high, turning his head to watch the ball go past into the keeper's gloves.
"Good leave," Murthy called out.
Varun frowned. Good leave?
In baseball, not swinging was passive. It meant you were waiting for a walk. It meant you were hoping the pitcher made a mistake.
In cricket, Rohan looked like he was in charge. By not hitting the ball, he was telling the bowler: Your best delivery is not worth my time.
"You don't have to hit everything," the Whisper explained. "There is no strike zone. The stumps are the target. If he misses the stumps, you don't have to play."
It was a revelation. It was anti-baseball.
You could win by doing nothing.
_______________________________________________________
The next day, Varun was back in Net 1.
He was wearing two pairs of socks to make the Adidas fit tighter.
Gowda looked at him. "Ready to fish again, little man?"
Varun took his stance. He visualized the stumps behind him. Three sticks of wood. That was his castle. Everything else was open territory.
Gowda ran in.
He bowled the outswinger.
The ball drifted wide, asking to be driven.
Chuck Thomas screamed: "Smash it!"
Varun bit his lip. He overrode the instinct.
He planted his front foot, covered the line of the off-stump with his body, and lifted his bat straight up in the air. He turned his head, watching the ball sail harmlessly past his shoulder.
Thump. Into the back net.
Gowda scowled.
"Boring!" Gowda yelled. "Hit the ball!"
Varun didn't answer. He tapped the crease.
"He's angry," the Whisper noted. "You are winning."
Gowda ran in again. Faster. Wider. Trying to tempt him.
Varun shouldered arms again. He lifted the bat high, an exaggerated pose of arrogance. I see it. I judge it. I ignore it.
Gowda glared at him. He had wasted two balls. He had spent energy for nothing.
"Now," the Whisper said. "He will overcorrect. He will come straight."
Gowda lost his patience. He tried to bowl a yorker at the toes. He wanted to break the stumps.
He missed his length. It was a juicy half-volley on the legs.
Varun didn't leave this one.
He flicked his wrists. The Kashmir Willow met the ball with a beautiful, fluid motion.
Crack.
The ball disappeared into the leg-side netting.
Varun stood there, bat resting on his shoulder.
"Good leaves," Murthy muttered from the side behind the stumps. "And good shot."
Varun looked at Gowda. The older boy was breathing hard, hands on his hips.
Varun realized then that the 'leave' wasn't passivity. It was a weapon. It forced the bowler to come to you.
He looked down at his borrowed shoes. They were dug deep into the matting.
He wasn't slipping anymore.