The young man picks up his gloves and helmet. He gets up and makes his way down the steps, and out of the pavilion. He walks briskly out into the bright sunshine and steps over the boundary rope. He barely registers the loud cheers of the 30,000 spectators as he squints up at the sun, tries to get the circulation in his legs going again and rolls his arms around to shake off a bit of stiffness. He passes his teammate who has his helmet off and bat tucked in under his arm. No words are exchanged. With a few more purposeful strides, he is in the middle. He hears the fielders say something, but he’s too distracted for the words to register. The opening batsman at the other end is bumping gloves with some comforting words of encouragement, he just nods and looks down at the crease. There are a few grooves made with the spikes of the earlier batsmen, he picks one that looks comfortable, plants his bat vertically, holds up a couple of fingers and looks down the wicket at the umpire who confirms his guard.
He now takes a breath, loosen his batting gloves and pulls the straps back to fasten them down again. The bat feels comfortably familiar in his hands. He can feel his heart racing under his jumper. His nerves are jangling. He is now becoming aware of the noise in the ground. The spectators are becoming louder. The wicket keeper continues to chatter in his ear. The feeling is alien, yet strangely familiar. He steps away from the wicket and takes a couple of minutes to look around the field.
When was the first time he had gone through this ritual? He was much younger, wearing bright white equipment fresh from the cricket shop his dad had taken him over the weekend. His coach had asked him to open the innings. At 9, he was shorter than most of the boys of his team, and his bat felt quite heavy and unnatural in his hands. He was scared, yet excited to be there. His mouth was dry, and he was barely able to see through the grill of his helmet at the bowler running in. He saw the ball land not far from him, and he swung his bat just the way he had trained with his coach. The ball pinged off his bat, he had never experienced a better feeling or heard a better sound. He heard his teammates and his parents screaming, and saw his coach standing as the umpire beaming as he waved his hands to signal a boundary. Life was never the same again.
He shakes his head to put this flashback out of his mind. It is comforting but he has a job to do now. He twirls his bat in his hands, steps up to the wicket, and gets into his familiar stance. The umpire lowers his left arm to let the bowler know that play can resume. The chattering from the fielders quietens down as the bowler charges in, hair flying, chest heaving, legs thudding rhythmically. He reaches the crease, leaps up and lets the ball fly towards him. Overpitched, just outside off-stump and 14 years of instinct takes over. Confident stride towards the ball, knees bent just so, bat swinging down in a smooth arc, familiar, sweet sound of the ball meeting the bat. Beats the fielder at cover and rolls over the boundary rope before he takes two strides towards the non-striker. Thunderous applause around the ground. He turns around towards the pavilion where he knows his parents are seated. He suppresses a smile and turns back. This is what he is destined to do. Hello world!