Damien Stevens POV
November 1976
For me, it wasn't about the numbers. Andrei could have his graphs and his system screens. My world made sense in the sound of leather on willow, the smell of freshly cut grass, and the electric silence of a field right before a bowl.
Cricket was the perfect system. It had rules—beautiful, complex rules—but within them, it was all about people. The bowler's mind games, the batsman's nerve, the silent conversations between fielders. I could feel it. When a batsman shuffled his feet a certain way, he was nervous about the short ball. When the bowler's shoulders tightened, he was going for the slower yorker. Dr. Reid said I had a gift for reading people. On the pitch, it wasn't a gift; it was my primary weapon.
But the other thing about cricket, the thing Father understood and Andrei was starting to, was that it wasn't just a game. Not here, not in England. It was a language. The men who ran banks, owned newspapers, and sat in Parliament spoke it. They made deals in the pavilion, built connections on tour. It was a club, and I wanted to be its star player—literally and figuratively.
That's why the choice was so clear: Harrow.
I'd done my research. I'd pestered Father to get prospectuses from all the major schools. Rugby had its name, Eton had its prestige, but Harrow had a culture built on the field. The photos showed vast, perfect greens. The write-ups boasted of more cricket pitches than any other school, professional coaches, and a fixture list against the best in the country. It wasn't just a subject there; it was a pillar.
One evening, I laid my case out on the study floor like a general with a map. Prospectuses were open to the sports pages.
"Look," I said, pointing to Harrow's listing. "Twelve cricket pitches. Twelve. They have a bursar for cricket equipment. Their head of sport played for Middlesex. At Eton, it's one of many activities. At Harrow, it's a tradition. If I want to play for a county, I need to be seen by the right people, young. This is where they look."
Andrei, who'd been pretending to read a book on tax law, peered over. "The alumni network is statistically significant in finance and politics, not just sport. A shared institutional background reduces transaction costs in future dealings."
I blinked. "Yeah. What he said. It's where you make friends who matter."
Father leaned down, a familiar, assessing look in his eyes. "And the studies? It's a demanding school, Damien. Can you handle the books and the batting?"
"That's the other part," I said, my excitement building. "It's not one or the other. At Harrow, they expect you to do both. It teaches you to manage your time, to focus completely on what's in front of you. If I can handle Latin at eight and net practice at nine, I can handle a port ledger and a shareholder meeting." I was parroting things I'd heard him say, but I meant them. The discipline was the same; the field was just different.
Then I showed them my real insight. I pointed to a photo of a handsome, old pavilion. "And this is where the business comes in. Right now. Not later."
"How?" Mother asked, intrigued.
"The game needs money," I said, the ideas tumbling out. "The gear, the tours, the grounds. What if our family didn't just play? What if we helped support? Not like a charity, but properly. We could sponsor a bowl at Harrow—the 'Stevens End'. We could invest in a company that makes better cricket bats or helmets. Andrei's always talking about 'identifying markets' and 'synergy'. Well, the market is every boy who dreams of being at the crease, and every man who pays to remember he once was. The synergy is that they'll see our name where they love the sport."
The room was quiet. Andrei was looking at me with a new expression—not the usual tolerant older-brother look, but one of calculation. I'd spoken his language.
"You see the infrastructure," he said slowly. "Not just the game, but the economy around it."
"Exactly!" I said. "I play. I get good. People know my name. Then, when I talk about Stevens cricket gear, or a Stevens sports complex, they listen. It's not cheating. It's… it's building a brand on something real."
Father put a heavy hand on my shoulder. "You've thought this through."
"It's all connected, Dad," I said, my voice earnest. "The pitch, the school, the business. Harrow is the best place to start all of it. It's the training ground. For all of it."
I saw the decision in their exchanged glance. It was yes.
Later, Andrei came to my room. "The sponsorship idea. It's efficient. It builds brand affinity with a high-value demographic from an early age. I will help you model the potential return on investment."
I grinned. "Thanks. But first, I need to make sure I'm good enough for them to want my name on their wall."
He almost smiled back. "A calculated performance. I understand."
As he left, I picked up my cricket ball, feeling its perfect seam. Harrow wasn't just a school choice. It was my first proper shot—a deliberate, strategic drive down the ground. I wasn't just choosing a sport or a business. I was choosing the field where I could master both.
A/N
Damien's path is set, blending personal passion with shrewd strategy. His choice of Harrow will pull the family into the world of elite sports. How will Andrei begin to 'model the investment' for cricket sponsorships, and what will be the first ripple effect of this decision on the family's social standing or business interests?