The glamour of selection day evaporated within forty-eight hours. What replaced it was a monotonous, bone-weary grind.
For the next two weeks, Arjun didn't touch a cricket ball. While the other new recruits were in the nets, spray-gunning balls all over the place and cheering when they took a wicket, Arjun was in "Exile."
Exile was the far corner of the Shivaji Park plot, near the walkway where elderly couples took their morning walks.
"Knees up! Higher!" Coach Sawant's assistant, a lanky teenager named Nilesh, barked.
Arjun drove his knees up, his canvas shoes slapping against the red dirt. High knees. Butt kicks. Lunges. Sprints.
His lungs burned. The Mumbai humidity in May was a physical weight, pressing down on his chest like a wet blanket. Sweat soaked through his white polo shirt until it was translucent.
This is the deposit, Arjun told himself, gritting his teeth as he transitioned into a squat. I can't cheat biology. My bones are soft. If I want to bowl fast later, I have to build the legs now.
But his body was fighting back. By the end of the second week, his shins were throbbing. Medial Tibial Stress Syndrome. Shin splints. The curse of every young fast bowler running on hard ground in bad shoes.
He finished his set and collapsed onto the grass, clutching his water bottle.
"Tired, Chotu?"
Arjun looked up. It was Vikram, the U-14 captain of the academy. He was tall, seemingly six feet compared to Arjun, and wore branded Adidas spikes (a luxury).
"Just resting," Arjun wheezed.
Vikram smirked, adjusting his gloves. "Sawant Sir is testing you. Most boys quit after one week of running. Don't worry, tennis ball cricket is easier."
Vikram jogged away to the main nets. Arjun watched him go.
He thinks I'm going to quit, Arjun thought. He doesn't know I've done rehab sessions harder than this for sixty-year-olds.
That night, the pain in his shins was sharp.
Arjun sat on the edge of his bed, massaging his lower legs with Tiger Balm. The strong smell of camphor filled the small room.
"Arjun?"
His father stood in the doorway. He was holding a plastic bag.
"What is that smell?" Ramesh asked, wrinkling his nose.
"Legs are hurting a bit," Arjun admitted. He didn't say how much. If he complained too much, the 'trial month' would be cancelled.
Ramesh walked into the room. He looked at the cheap canvas shoes lying by the door. The soles were already wearing thin from the friction of the red soil. He sighed.
He placed the plastic bag on the desk.
"I spoke to Sharmaji at the office," Ramesh said awkwardly. "His son plays tennis. He said footwear is important."
Arjun opened the bag.
Inside was a box. Action shoes. Not Nike or Adidas, but a sturdy, Indian brand known for durability. They were white, with thick, rubber soles and actual arch support.
They weren't spikes, but for an eight-year-old in 2006, they were a massive upgrade.
"Baba..." Arjun looked up. These must have cost ₹400 at least. A significant expense.
"Don't get used to it," Ramesh said gruffly, turning away to hide his embarrassment. "If your legs break, your mother will blame me. And finish those multiplication tables."
"Yes, Baba!" Arjun grinned. He put the shoes on immediately. They felt heavy, solid. They felt like armor.
Week 3: The Green Signal
It happened on a Tuesday.
Arjun was doing his drills when a shadow fell over him. Coach Sawant was standing there, blocking the sun.
"Up," Sawant said.
Arjun scrambled to his feet.
"Nilesh! Give him a ball."
Arjun's heart skipped a beat. Nilesh tossed him a ball. It was an old, scuffed semi-new ball. It felt heavy in his small hand.
"Net number 3," Sawant ordered. "Vikram is batting."
Arjun looked at Net 3. Vikram was there, batting against some U-12 spinners. He looked comfortable, driving everything along the ground.
"You have six balls," Sawant said. "Don't try to be a hero. Just land the ball on the pitch."
Arjun walked to the mark.
The U-12 spinner moved aside. Vikram looked down the pitch, saw Arjun, and relaxed his stance. He stood upright, resting his bat on his shoulder. He wasn't taking a stance; he was waiting for a lob.
He thinks it's going to float, Arjun analyzed. He thinks I'm going to bowl a moon-ball.
Arjun put on his new Action shoes. He felt the grip.
Ball 1: Arjun ran in. He kept it simple. He bowled a gentle delivery. It floated. Vikram stepped out and tapped it back to Arjun. "Good loop, Chotu," Vikram said condescendingly.
Ball 2: Arjun increased the rhythm slightly. Vikram leaned forward and blocked it. He yawned.
Coach Sawant frowned. He tapped his watch.
Arjun took a deep breath. Okay. Don't force pace. Just use the snap. Surprise him with the skid.
He walked back to the mark. He lengthened his run-up by two steps.
He visualized the chain. Hip. Shoulder. Whip.
He ran in.
This time, he committed. He hit the crease and let his hip snap forward.
The ball didn't come out at 145 kmph. It was probably 70 or 75 kmph. To a national player, that's slow. But to a U-14 player expecting a 40 kmph lob from an 8-year-old? It was startling.
The trajectory was flat. It didn't arc up; it shot down.
Vikram, expecting to have time to step forward, was suddenly rushed. He planted his front foot lazily.
The ball pitched and skidded off the red soil.
It zipped through the air faster than Vikram's lazy backlift could come down.
Thud.
The ball hit Vikram's pads. Right in front of the middle stump.
It wasn't painful. It didn't hurt him. But it was humiliating. Vikram stumbled slightly, trying to keep his balance because he had been caught flat-footed.
"Howzat?" Arjun asked quietly.
Vikram looked down at his pads, then at Arjun. His eyes were wide with genuine confusion. He wasn't scared; he was just... baffled. How did the ball get there so fast?
"Inside edge," Vikram lied quickly, tapping his bat. "Going down leg."
It wasn't. It was plumb LBW.
Coach Sawant adjusted his sunglasses. He didn't smile. He didn't cheer. He just looked at Arjun's release point.
"Better," Sawant grunted. "But your follow-through is messy. You're falling to the left. Fix it."
"Yes, sir," Arjun nodded.
He walked back to his mark, ignoring Vikram's sudden change in stance—the older boy was now tapping his bat harder, crouching lower, actually paying attention.
Arjun suppressed a grin.
I don't need to break their bones, he thought. I just need to break their rhythm.