Mumbai, 2009 — Shivaji Park Trials
The morning sun poured gold over Shivaji Park, glinting off the dew-kissed grass and the glistening helmets of a dozen hopefuls.
Bats tapped nervously against pads, boys whispered prayers, and cricket bags larger
than their owners were slung over bony shoulders. This was not just a selection trial—it was the unofficial gateway to greatness in Mumbai cricket.
Ishaan Verma stood at the edge of the ground, biting his lower lip, fingers fidgeting with the worn grip of his taped-up bat. His kit looked outdated—borrowed pads, mismatched gloves, a bat so light it was almost a toy. But his eyes, they burned.
Pramod Kulkarni, clipboard in hand and whistle dangling around his neck, surveyed the crowd with the sharpness of a hawk. He called names off a list, barely glancing up. Ishaan waited, heart thudding.
"Ishaan Verma," Kulkarni finally called.
Ishaan stepped forward. His stomach churned, not from nerves, but from the plate of leftover poha he had eaten at 6 a.m. He walked into the practice net, the crunch of gravel under his shoes sounding louder than
it should have.
The first delivery came fast and full. Ishaan met it with a confident straight bat. The second, a rising bouncer, had him ducking slightly late, but he avoided it. The third he flicked effortlessly off his pads—it flew to midwicket. His hands were sure, his eyes sharper than ever.
But the net session lasted only ten deliveries.
Kulkarni didn't say a word. Just blew his whistle and scribbled something.
Ishaan walked out, half-hopeful.
Two days later, the selection list was pasted on the notice board outside the coaching shed. Boys crowded around it, shouting names, slapping backs.
Ishaan pushed through, his heartbeat hammering in his ears.
He scanned the list.
No Verma. No Ishaan.
He blinked. Scanned again.
Nothing.
Silence hit him like a bouncer to the ribs.
Then came the white noise of murmurs.
"Didn't make it?" someone said.
"I thought he batted okay."
"Maybe he's too small."
"Maybe not from the right background."
Ishaan turned and walked away before their words could bruise further.
That evening, Raghav waited with two cups of chai. Meera had made his favorite sweet parathas. But Ishaan didn't speak.
He sat on the window ledge, watching the street lights flicker on, his bat lying untouched in a corner.
"You know," Raghav said gently, "Tendulkar didn't get selected in his first trial either."
"I'm not him," Ishaan mumbled.
"No. You're not. You're you. And that's even better."
Silence again.
Then Meera stepped in and handed him a diary.
"What's this?" he asked.
"Write what you felt. Every bit. Then write what you'll do next."
It felt silly at first. But that night, Ishaan wrote:
They didn't see me. I don't blame them. I wouldn't see me either in this kit. But one day, they won't be able to look away.
And below that:
Plan: Practice 2 hours extra every day.
Watch one video of a great batter. Fix my footwork. Find weight for bat.
The next few weeks were a blur of obsession.
Ishaan would wake at 4 a.m., run laps of the park, and practice with a tennis ball tied to a string in his living room. He would watch YouTube clips of Jacques Kallis's balance, Ponting's pull shots, and Tendulkar's straight drive. Then he would try to replicate them using his own shadow.
On weekends, he convinced the watchman to let him use the parking lot as a mini net.
He stuck old newspapers to the wall to use as targets.
Every failure fueled him. Every drop of sweat reminded him of what he owed—not just to himself, but to his father who kept rewiring broken meters under the sun, to his mother who walked to work so they could save bus fare.
One Sunday, a letter arrived.
It was handwritten. From Coach Kulkarni.
*Ishaan,I didn't select you because you lacked strength in your footwork and confidence under pressure. But I saw your instinct. I'm opening a weekend bootcamp. You want to learn? Show up at 5:30 a.m. sharp. No excuses. Bring your own breakfast.*
That was all.
Ishaan's eyes widened. He folded the letter carefully, tucked it into the back of his diary, and circled the date on his wall calendar.
The bootcamp was hell.
Five boys. Two hours. Nonstop drills.
Kulkarni ran it like a military base. If you dropped a catch, you ran a lap. If you missed a line, you got pushups. But it wasn't cruel—it was refining.
Ishaan struggled at first. His muscles ached.
He dropped sitters. But slowly, something changed. His hands became steadier. His reflexes sharper. His stance firmer.
Kulkarni never praised him directly. But he let Ishaan bat longer in nets. Occasionally, he nodded silently after a well-executed shot.
One afternoon, Ishaan was cleaning his bat when a neighbor uncle walked past.
"Still chasing that cricket dream?"
Ishaan nodded.
The man chuckled. "You know, dreams are expensive. You need connections, money, real gear. Not everyone makes it."
Ishaan looked up, calm.
"Then I'll make it anyway. Without all that."
The man laughed, shrugged, and walked on.
Ishaan didn't watch him go. He picked up his bat and shadow-practiced a square cut.
One night, Ishaan rewatched Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire on a secondhand DVD his friend had loaned him. The Yule Ball scene came on.
Emma Watson, as Hermione, descended the stairs in that soft periwinkle gown, and something fluttered inside him.
He paused the movie. Rewound. Watched it again.
It wasn't just about beauty. It was poise. Command. A girl walking into a hall full of people who underestimated her—and owning it.
He opened his diary and wrote:
She changed the room by walking into it. I want my batting to do that.
At the next practice match, Kulkarni gave Ishaan the opening slot.
First ball: an inswinger. He defended with soft hands.
Second ball: cut away for four.
Third ball: driven over the bowler's head.
Ishaan batted for 45 overs. Scored 98 not out. Missed the century, but gained something greater.
After the match, Kulkarni finally spoke.
"Keep this up, and they'll rewrite lists for you."
Weeks later, another selection list was posted—for the Mumbai Under-12 zonals.
Ishaan walked up quietly, eyes scanning.
This time, his name was there.
Verma, Ishaan — Opening Batsman.
He didn't scream. He didn't jump. He walked back to the Shivaji Park stand, sat under the old tamarind tree, and let the silence hold him.
Then, for the first time in months, he smiled wide.
He had fallen. Been ignored. Told no.
But now…
He had begun to rise.