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Year: 2003.
The world of cricket was a kingdom, and Australia was its absolute tyrant.
In every Indian tea stall and living room, the trauma was a living thing. The 2003 World Cup Final wasn't just a loss; it was a massacre. Ricky Ponting's bat had felt like a weapon of war. Glenn McGrath's deliveries were surgical strikes. The "Invincibles" didn't just win games; they broke spirits.
But in a small corner of a high school field in India, spirit was the only thing Jatin Ninaniya had in abundance.
THWACK!
The sound wasn't the elegant 'click' of a textbook cover drive. It was the violent, woody crack of a rebellion.
"Jatin! What in the world was that?!"
Coach Sharma's voice exploded across the nets. His face was a shade of red that matched the old SG ball in his hand.
Jatin Ninaniya stood at the crease, leaning casually on a bat that looked like it had seen a thousand street fights. He wasn't the tallest boy in the academy—standing at a height that many scouts would overlook—but his presence felt like a live wire.
"It was a boundary, Coach," Jatin replied. His voice was flat, eyes already tracking the next ball.
"A boundary? You moved your back foot toward the off-stump and slapped a good-length delivery over mid-wicket like you were swatting a fly! That's not cricket, Jatin. That's madness!"
Jatin didn't look back. He tapped his bat twice—tap, tap—a rhythm that calmed his racing heart.
You call it madness. I call it survival, Jatin thought.
His personality was a paradox. Off the field, he was quiet, almost invisible. But the moment he gripped a bat, he transformed. He had the fire of a young Virat Kohli—a relentless, aggressive energy that demanded respect.
And his playstyle? It was pure Virender Sehwag.
Minimal footwork. Maximum intent. If the ball was meant to be hit, Jatin didn't care about "line and length." He only cared about the boundary.
"Next ball!" Jatin called out.
The bowler was Rohan, the school's premier off-spinner. Rohan was a "tactician." He spent his nights watching videos of Shane Warne, trying to replicate the "Ball of the Century."
Rohan smirked. You want to play like a butcher? Fine. I'll treat you like one.
Rohan approached the crease, his fingers flicking the seam. The ball left his hand with a beautiful, high loop. It was a classic "trap"—the kind of delivery that invited a big hit only to dip at the last second and take the edge.
Jatin saw the flight. He saw the dip.
Most batsmen would have reached forward to defend. Jatin did the opposite.
He stayed deep in his crease, cleared his front leg, and unleashed a horizontal-bat slash. It wasn't a pull shot. It wasn't a cut. It was a "Jatin Special"—a flat, brutal strike that sent the ball screaming through the air, inches above the bowler's head.
BOOM!
The ball thudded into the iron fence at the back of the nets with a deafening clang.
"Is that 'proper' enough, Coach?" Jatin asked, his eyes flashing with Kohli-esque defiance.
The nets went silent. The other students stopped their drills. Among them was Arjun Singh, the team's best fielder and Jatin's closest friend.
Arjun was the "Rock Lee" of the group. He didn't have Jatin's "Monster" talent for hitting, but he had a different weapon: [Spatial Perception]. Arjun could see a ball's trajectory three seconds before it landed. He lived for the dive, the catch, the impossible save.
Arjun watched Jatin and frowned. He knew the trouble Jatin was courting.
"Jatin, stop," Arjun whispered from the sidelines. "You're showing too much 'Ego.' Coach will bench you."
But Jatin wasn't listening. His gaze was fixed on the entrance of the nets.
A tall figure stood there, leaning against the gate. He was dressed in the pristine whites of the 'Champions Academy'—the elite rival school. This was Kabir Malhotra.
Kabir was the "Sasuke" of the local circuit. A left-arm pacer with a legacy. His father had played for the state; his grandfather for the country. Kabir didn't just bowl; he dissected batsmen. He had the [Sharingan Eye] for cricket—an ability to see the slight tremble in a batsman's grip or the shift in their weight before the ball even left his hand.
"So this is the 'Rebel' I've been hearing about?" Kabir's voice was like ice. "The boy who thinks he can destroy the Australian Era with gully cricket shots?"
Jatin adjusted his gloves. The air between the two boys grew heavy. This was the clash of two ideologies.
Kabir represented the "Elite System"—the disciplined, McGrath-style accuracy.
Jatin represented the "New Age"—the fearless, Sehwag-style aggression.
"The Australian Era is just a wall, Kabir," Jatin said, stepping out of the nets to face him. "And walls are meant to be broken."
Kabir laughed, a cold, sharp sound. "You talk a lot for someone who hasn't even played a District match. Next week, our schools meet. I'll be the one taking your middle stump. Let's see how much 'fire' you have when you're walking back to the pavilion for a golden duck."
Kabir turned and walked away, his presence lingering like a threat.
Jatin felt a familiar itch in his legs. It wasn't just cricket. He wanted to run, to dribble, to strike. In his mind, the boundaries of the cricket field were merging with the goalposts of a football pitch.
He wanted to be the best in the world. And he didn't care if he had to break every rule in the book to get there.
"Coach!" Jatin yelled, turning back to the nets. "Forget the defense drills. Give me the fast bowlers. I want to learn how to hit the ball harder."
Coach Sharma sighed, but he signaled the pacers to pad up.
The journey from a dusty high school net to the World Cup had just begun. And Jatin Ninaniya was going to do it his way.
[Author's Note: Welcome to the journey! This is a story of ego, sports, and breaking the 'Invincible' mold. If you liked the first chapter, don't forget to add to your Library!]