The morning bell rang through the courtyard of St. Xavier's High School, signaling the start of another day. Students poured through the gates, a sea of white and navy uniforms bustling toward their classrooms. Mak trailed behind, gripping his cricket bat in one hand and a slightly worn textbook in the other and school bag on his shoulder. His tall, lanky frame made him stand out in the crowd, and his tousled black hair, often hidden beneath a cap during practice, fell messily across his forehead. His dark eyes, filled with quiet determination, were fixed on the dusty cricket pitch at the far end of the school grounds. Even though it was empty, his mind filled it with the sound of cracking bats and flying balls.
"Mak, you're going to be late again!" Aisha's voice broke into his thoughts. She was walking briskly beside him, her bag slung over her shoulder, full of books. Her short, curly hair bounced as she kept pace, her deep brown eyes shining with both impatience and concern. Aisha was always put together, her uniform crisp, with her neatly tied-back shoes a contrast to Mak's slightly scuffed ones. "You can stare at the pitch later. Right now, we have maths class in the morning."
Mak shrugged, shifting his bat to the other shoulder. "I'm not staring; I'm visualizing. And for the record, you're late too."
Aisha shot him a sideways glance, adjusting the strap of her bag. "Unlike you, I am rarely late. And is that what you call it—visualization? Because last I checked, visualizing cricket doesn't help solve equations."
Mak gave a half-hearted chuckle but couldn't shake the sinking feeling in his gut. Today wasn't just any school day. It was two days before the cricket team trials—his one chance to finally make the official boys' team. Cricket had always been his passion. Ever since he picked up his first bat as a child, he had spent countless hours practicing in his small backyard. His father, a former cricketer himself, had taught him everything he knew. But now, as he faced his first year of high school, the pressure was mounting. His performance in the trials would determine whether he'd make the team, and he had to balance this with schoolwork—a task that felt impossible.
"Did you at least study for the math test?" Aisha pressed.
Mak winced as they stepped inside the noisy hallway, dodging clusters of students. "I tried... but honestly, Aisha, I don't think algebra's for me. Cricket? That's my thing."
"Cricket isn't going to get you through high school," she said, her tone a mix of sympathy and frustration. "You're going to have to pass your exams if you want to stay on the team—assuming you make it."
Mak knew she was right, but the pressure was suffocating. Everyone—his teachers, his friends, even his dad—expected him to balance both school and cricket. It was like juggling two balls, but one was always slipping out of his grasp.
They entered the classroom just before the bell rang. Mr. Iyer, their math teacher, was already at the board, scribbling equations that made Mak's head spin. Mr. Iyer was an older man, with sharp features and salt-and-pepper hair combed neatly to one side. He wore thick, rectangular glasses that seemed to magnify the sternness in his gaze. Mak slouched into his seat next to Raghav, his best friend and partner in cricket.
"You're late," Raghav whispered, nudging him. His short-cropped hair and broad shoulders gave him an athletic look, fitting for a cricket player, and his brown eyes sparkled with amusement. "What took you so long? Daydreaming about the trials?"
"Something like that," Mak mumbled, pulling out his notebook, though his mind was far from the lesson.
Math was a nightmare. Mr. Iyer's voice droned on as he filled the board with symbols and numbers that felt like a foreign language to Mak. He tried to focus, but all he could think about was how he'd tackle the fast bowlers at the trials. Raghav kept sneaking glances at his notes, where he had drawn up a game plan for Mak.
"Mak!" Mr. Iyer's voice snapped him back to reality. "Why don't you solve this problem on the board?"
The class went silent, all eyes on him. Mak felt his heart drop to his stomach. He glanced at the equation—a quadratic mess of numbers and letters—and his mind went completely blank. Sweat prickled at the back of his neck.
"I... uh..."
"Mak" Mr. Iyer said, tapping the chalk against the board impatiently.
"I don't know," Mak finally admitted, feeling his face flush with embarrassment. A few muffled laughs came from the back of the room.
Mr. Iyer sighed and shook his head. "This is why you're falling behind, Mak. Your head is always somewhere else. If you spent half as much time on your studies as you do on cricket, you'd be acing these problems." He turned back to the class, dismissing Mak's failure with a wave. "Let's move on."
Mak sank into his chair, wishing the floor would open up and swallow him whole. He didn't dare look at Aisha, who was probably giving him her trademark disappointed look.
After the torturous math class and other morning classes, Mak found himself in the cafeteria, trying to forget about the humiliating moment at the blackboard. He sat with Raghav at their usual table, though neither of them said much. Raghav was busy analyzing cricket stats on his phone, his face serious with concentration.
"You'll bounce back, man," Raghav finally said, noticing Mak's sulking. "Math's not your thing, but cricket is. And that's what matters for the trials."
"Yeah, but the trials won't help me pass my exams," Mak muttered, picking at his lunch.
"My dad keeps saying if I don't get my grades up, he won't let me join the team."
"Come on, your dad wouldn't do that," Raghav said, though he sounded unsure.
Mak knew better. His dad, a former cricketer himself—though not a national player—was all about discipline. While he was proud of Mak's skills on the pitch, he also believed in education. With Mak's recent grades in math, that balance was tipping in the wrong direction.
"I've got two days," Mak said, more to himself than to Raghav. "Two days to get my head together before the trials."
Raghav shrugged, unfazed. "You're going to be fine. You've been practicing more than anyone. They'll take one look at your batting and select you up on the spot."
Mak appreciated Raghav's confidence, but the weight of responsibility bore down on him. It wasn't just about his performance on the field anymore—it was about proving to his dad, his teachers, and even himself that he could handle it all.
The afternoon classes passed in a blur. Mak spent most of the time pretending to take notes, though his mind was already on the cricket pitch. The excitement and dread of the upcoming trials twisted in his stomach, and he could barely sit still. Finally, the last bell rang, and Mak bolted out of the classroom, his cricket bat in hand.
He headed straight to the school grounds, where a group of boys was already warming up for practice. The sound of leather balls smacking into wooden bats echoed across the field, and Mak felt his heart race. This was where he belonged.
The practice began with fielding drills, and Mak was quick to prove his agility. He dove for catches, his body moving almost without thought, the thrill of the game coursing through him. The other boys were just as competitive, but Mak felt a spark of confidence he hadn't felt in class.
"Nice catch, Mak!" someone called out after Mak snagged a difficult catch on the run.
"Keep that up."
Mak's chest swelled with pride. He could feel the energy shifting in his favor, and for the first time that day, the nagging thoughts of math tests and homework faded into the background.
When it came time for batting practice, Mak stepped up to the crease, gripping his bat tightly. The bowler was one of the fastest on the team, but Mak wasn't intimidated. He focused on the ball as it hurtled toward him, and with a fluid motion, he swung. The ball cracked against his bat, sailing through the air and over the boundary.
"Six!" Raghav shouted from the sidelines, and a few of the boys clapped.
Mak smiled to himself. This was where he shined, where he could forget the stress of school and just be himself. He hit a few more solid shots, each one building his confidence for the trials.
After practice, as the sun began to set, Mak lingered on the field, taking a moment to breathe in the cool evening air. He knew that the trials would be a test not just of his cricket skills, but of his ability to handle the pressure of everything else—school, family, expectations.
"Mak!" a familiar voice called out. He turned to see his father walking toward the field, hands in his pockets. His dad, a man in his early 40s with broad shoulders and a commanding presence, wasn't in his usual office clothes but instead wore a casual polo shirt, looking relaxed. His dark hair was beginning to grey at the temples, a reminder of the years of cricket and life experience he had behind him.
"Hey, Dad," Mak said, feeling a twinge of nervousness. He hadn't expected his father to come to the field today.
His dad smiled and clapped a hand on his shoulder. "I watched you bat just now. You're looking sharp."
Mak felt a surge of pride and a wave of anxiety. His father's praise came with unspoken expectations, and he couldn't shake the feeling that his dad was silently judging every swing of the bat.
"Thanks," Mak replied, trying to keep his voice steady. "Just practicing for the trials."
His father nodded, his expression shifting to one of concern. "I know how much this means to you, Mak. But remember, it's not just about cricket. You've got to focus on your studies too. Balancing both is important."
Mak bit his lip, nodding reluctantly. "I know, Dad. I'm trying."
"You're talented, but talent alone isn't enough. You need discipline in all areas—school, cricket, life." His father paused, looking out at the pitch. "I see how hard you work on the field. Channel that same determination into your studies as well."
The pressure of those words weighed heavily on Mak's shoulders. "I will," he promised, though he felt the knot in his stomach tighten. The fear of letting his father down loomed larger than ever.
His dad clapped him on the back. "I believe in you. Just remember, whether you make the team or not, I'm proud of you."
Mak managed a smile, grateful for the encouragement but still battling the fear of disappointing him. "Thanks, Dad. I'll give it my all."
As they walked off the field together, the sun dipped below the horizon, which cast a warm glow over the school grounds. Mak couldn't help but feel a mix of hope and dread. With the trials looming, he had two days to prove himself on the cricket pitch.
That evening, as he settled down to tackle his homework, the numbers on the page swirled and danced in front of him. He sighed, rubbing his temples. The stakes felt impossibly high, but he couldn't let the weight of expectations crush him. With a deep breath, he set his cricket bat aside and opened his math textbook, determined to find a way to balance both passions.
After all, he reminded himself, he was just getting started.
As Mak stared at the math problems in front of him, the equations seemed to morph into something unrecognizable, a jumble of numbers that felt as foreign as a different language. He took a deep breath, trying to focus. His dad's words echoed in his mind—balance, discipline, determination. He couldn't afford to fail at this.
After a few minutes of staring blankly at the page, he finally picked up his pencil. The pressure of the trials loomed large, but he had to push through the math. He forced himself to write down a few formulas, but his thoughts kept drifting back to the cricket pitch, to the feel of the bat in his hands and the thrill of hitting a six.
"Okay, focus," he muttered to himself. He flipped through his notes, trying to find a problem he could tackle. He recalled Aisha's voice reminding him of the importance of preparation. With renewed determination, he began solving a few simpler equations. Slowly, the fog in his mind started to clear, and he felt a flicker of satisfaction with each correct answer.
But just as he began to gain momentum, his phone buzzed on the desk, pulling him away from the numbers. It was a message from Raghav: Hey! Team practice tomorrow at 3.30. Be ready!
Mak's heart raced at the thought of the upcoming practice. It was a reminder that the trials were just a day away. He quickly typed back: Can't wait!
He glanced at the clock. It was already getting late, and he hadn't even finished his maths homework. Frustrated, he put his phone down and tried to concentrate once more. A few more problems passed, but his mind remained tangled in thoughts of batting averages and game strategies. Eventually, he set the pencil down with a sigh.
"The trial would be a big challenge," he thought. He could feel the anticipation coiling in his stomach, the mix of excitement and anxiety.
After a quick dinner with his family, Mak retreated to his room, his thoughts still spinning. He lay on his bed, staring up at the ceiling. The pressure of expectations felt almost suffocating. What if he didn't make the team? What if he disappointed his dad?
With a determined breath, he sat up and grabbed his cricket bat, letting its familiar weight ground him. He practiced his swings in his small room, visualizing the trials. Each swing was a reminder of why he loved the game so much—the thrill, the freedom, the camaraderie
As the night deepened, fatigue settled in, and he finally set the bat aside, closing his eyes. "Just two more day," he whispered to himself. "Just two more day until I can show them what I've got."
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