Arjun's first state-level match was nothing like the district games.
The stadium was modest, but the crowd noise felt overwhelming for a twelve-year-old. He could hear the vendors hawking samosas in the stands, the clatter of bats against balls in the nets, the faint roar of local dignitaries who had come to watch the future "stars."
His father walked beside him to the dressing room. "This is big," he said softly. "You have to play your best."
Arjun shook his head. "Best isn't what I need. I need control."
His father frowned. "Control?"
Arjun smiled faintly. "Timing. Positioning. Observation. Play the game they think they're watching."
Inside the pavilion, he unwrapped his bat, noting the grain, the slight bow in the handle, the weight distribution. He had memorized this in his mind days before even touching the bat.
When he stepped onto the pitch, the bowlers looked confident. They had seen him only in practice nets, barely a blip on the radar. The first delivery was a full-length ball, swinging in marginally. Arjun left it, watching as it passed harmlessly past the off stump.
The next ball, short and fast, came at him. He ducked instinctively and guided it past point for a single. Not a flashy shot. Just placement.
Every run he scored seemed ordinary to the spectators. But Arjun knew the rhythm of the innings, the momentum of the opposition, the mental state of every bowler he faced. With every delivery, he orchestrated the game without being noticed.
By the end of the innings, he had scored 42 runs—not a record—but had tilted the match in his team's favor. His captain, an older boy from Hyderabad, patted him on the shoulder, oblivious to how much Arjun had carried.
Raghava Rao watched from the stands, quietly proud and quietly worried. The boy was no longer just a talent—he was a strategist.