Mumbai, 2010 — Under-14 Mumbai Squad Trials
The selection board didn't even use a colored marker this time. Just a thin black ballpoint scrawled names across a white A4 paper taped to the Shivaji Park noticeboard. Ishaan Verma was the twenty-third name on the list—but that didn't matter. He was on it.
He stared at it in silence, then quietly stepped back and walked away while other boys celebrated. He didn't need loud cheers or phone calls. His victory had always been internal.
Later that day, Coach Kulkarni pulled him aside and handed him a white envelope.
"No one else knows yet. You'll report to Wankhede this Friday. You've been invited to the BCCI's Elite Youth Camp. Don't make noise about it. Just be ready."
Ishaan's hand shook as he opened the envelope. The letterhead was real. The emblem was heavy.
The words—short and to the point:
Player: Ishaan Verma.
Age Group: U-14 Elite.
Location: Wankhede Stadium, Mumbai. Mentor Coach: Mr. Sachin R. Tendulkar.
His fingers trembled.
Wankhede. To anyone else, it was a cricket stadium. To Ishaan, it was Olympus.
He'd once stood outside its gates for hours, watching Tendulkar's farewell speech through gaps in a security fence. He had memorized every line. That day, his father told him, "You'll play there someday." And he believed it—not because he was cocky, but because doubt never did anything for the poor.
Friday came.
Ishaan woke at 4:00 AM, dressed in a spotless Shivaji Tigers training kit, and carried his bat wrapped in a towel like a sacred relic. Meera packed extra lunch.
Raghav gave him his own wristwatch—an old Titan with faded numbers.
"It's not fancy," Raghav said, "but it runs on time, like you should."
He arrived before anyone else.
The stadium looked different from the inside.
More alive. The seats curved like waves around the pitch. The turf glistened as if lit from within.
One by one, other players trickled in. All boys between 12 and 14. Some wore sponsored kits. Some had custom gear.
Ishaan stood quietly in the corner.
Then, the room fell silent.
A figure walked in wearing a simple white tee, blue jeans, and sneakers.
Sachin Tendulkar.
His aura didn't shout. It whispered and the world bent to listen.
"Welcome," he said, smiling. "You're not here because you're good. You're here because you could be great.
That's a big difference."
He looked around the room, then directly at Ishaan for half a second.
Ishaan felt his knees lock.
The first day was fitness. No batting. Just grueling drills.
Shuttle runs. Core tests. Reflex work.
Endurance circuits.
Ishaan didn't lead. But he never finished last.
On day two, the nets were prepared.
Every boy was given six overs to face pace, spin, and swing.
When Ishaan's turn came, he took guard, tightened his gloves, and whispered, "Bat, listen to me today."
The first few deliveries were decent. He left with discipline. Drove with grace. Then came a left-arm chinaman bowler with a tight action and wicked turn.
He tossed one up.
Ishaan stepped forward, leaned, and met it with the full face of the bat. Straight drive. Perfect.
A slow clap echoed.
It was Sachin.
He had walked out of the coaching hut and was now leaning against the net post.
"You play with time," he said. "That's rare."
Ishaan didn't know whether to speak or nod, so he froze.
Sachin smiled. "Tomorrow, you bat first."
That night, Ishaan couldn't sleep.
He sat in the corner of his room, diary open. Wrote:
He watched me. He clapped. I don't care if I fail tomorrow. Today, I was seen.
Then, a second line:
One day, he won't just remember me. He'll say, 'That's the boy who became better than all of us.'
The next day was match simulation.
Ishaan opened the innings. The field was set like a real game. Umpires in uniform.
Scoreboard running.
The first over was tight. Ishaan left everything outside off. Kulkarni always said, "Let the ball get lonely."
In the second over, the bowler pitched short.
Ishaan pulled cleanly. Four.
Next ball: full and wide. He sliced it past backward point.
He batted for 14 overs, retired on 67.
At the end, Tendulkar called him.
"You're not afraid of space. That means you see the ball early."
Ishaan smiled nervously.
"Where do you train?"
"Shivaji Park, sir. Under Coach Kulkarni."
"Good man."
Then he paused. "Do you watch yourself bat?"
"No, sir."
"You should. It's like watching someone else play your dreams. And sometimes, that's when you correct your nightmares."
The camp ended in five days. On the last morning, before dispersal, every boy was handed a certificate.
Sachin gave them out personally.
When he handed Ishaan his, he said, "Keep it safe. Not because it has my name—but because you earned it without asking."
Ishaan took the paper. Didn't cry. But later, in the train home, he stared at it the whole ride.
Back home, Raghav hugged him hard.
Meera served shrikhand and puris.
"I want to go back," Ishaan said.
"You will," Meera said. "As a player. Not a camper."
Raghav pulled out a surprise. A new bat.
"Someone donated it to the community coaching trust," he said. "Kulkarni sir made sure you got it."
It was heavier. Firmer. Professional grade.
Ishaan held it like it was a newborn.
Later that night, he wrote in his diary:
Today, I touched the future. Now I know how it feels. Now I'll chase it without pause