The regional tournament opener wasn't just another game—it was a stage. Teams from neighboring states gathered at the city stadium, bringing with them a buzz of expectation, chatter from small yet passionate crowds, and the constant thrum of high-stakes ambition.
Our team arrived early to familiarize ourselves with the ground. The wicket, fresh and slightly green, was a bowler's dream—a condition Aman would relish. While we were warming up, I noticed the opposition. They looked disciplined, their players discussing strategies in huddled groups. Among them was a tall left-arm spinner I vaguely remembered from my previous timeline: Kartik Deshmukh, a player who would go on to represent India for a short but memorable stint.
This tournament felt different. It was no longer about individual performances. We were playing for state pride, with the entire dressing room united under one goal: winning.
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A Tense Start
The opposition captain won the toss and elected to bat first. Parthiv gathered us in a tight huddle, his voice sharp and focused.
"This is our chance to set the tone for the tournament. Bowl smart, stay aggressive, and remember: they're under as much pressure as we are."
Aman started the proceedings, his fiery pace unsettling the opening batsmen. The first wicket fell in the third over, Aman knocking over the stumps with a vicious inswinger. His celebration was muted—a single raised fist, a stark contrast to his usual exuberance.
The bowlers maintained a tight grip on the game, with the opposition struggling to score freely. Kartik, batting at five, steadied their innings, showcasing the calm demeanor that would later become his trademark. But the real drama began in the 35th over when Aman, frustrated by a series of edges that didn't carry, bowled a bouncer that grazed Kartik's helmet.
The atmosphere grew tense. The umpire called it a no-ball for height, and Kartik smiled wryly, adjusting his helmet. He responded with a cover drive that raced to the boundary, silencing the field for a moment. I watched from cover, both impressed and intrigued by his composure.
The opposition posted 232—an average target but challenging enough given the conditions.
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The Chase Begins
Our openers made a steady start, putting up 40 runs in the first ten overs. Aditya, batting at three, looked confident, but a mistimed pull saw him dismissed for 18.
At 57/2, I was called to the crease. The crowd murmured as I walked out, my name now slightly more familiar thanks to the magazine article and our previous victory.
Facing Kartik's left-arm spin was like solving a puzzle. His flight was deceptive, drawing me into drives that turned just enough to keep me guessing. But it was his arm ball—subtle, quick, and deadly—that had me on edge.
I settled in, focusing on rotating the strike rather than dominating. I knew Kartik was testing me, probing for weaknesses. As I adjusted, I let muscle memory take over, relying on my extensive experience from the timeline ahead. When Kartik floated one slightly fuller, I stepped out and lofted it cleanly over his head for six.
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Mid-Innings Drama
By the 30th over, the game was finely balanced. Parthiv, batting alongside me, kept the scoreboard ticking while I anchored the innings. But a direct hit from the deep sent him back to the pavilion, leaving us at 168/4 with the lower order exposed.
As the tension built, Kartik returned for his final spell. The first ball to me was slower, drifting away, and I misjudged it completely, missing a sweep attempt. The slip cordon erupted in appeal, but the umpire shook his head.
"Close one," Kartik said as he walked past me, his tone teasing but not unkind.
The pressure mounted. The run rate crept up, the field closed in, and every dot ball felt heavier. But I remembered Coach Kulkarni's advice: "Don't lose yourself in the moment. Play your natural game."
With 34 needed off the final four overs, Aman walked in at number eight. The memory of our shared friction lingered in my mind, but there was no room for grudges now.
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A Partnership of Necessity
"Aman," I said as we met mid-pitch. "Just play straight and trust me to take the risks when needed."
For a moment, he looked at me, his eyes betraying a flicker of uncertainty. Then he nodded.
To his credit, Aman held his nerve, rotating the strike while I picked gaps in the field. A pulled boundary brought the equation down to 12 off the final over.
Kartik was given the ball.
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The Final Over
The field was spread, the tension almost tangible. Kartik started with a sharp yorker, which I dug out for a single. The next delivery was slower, and Aman flicked it through mid-wicket for two.
Nine needed off four.
Kartik shortened his length slightly, and I seized the opportunity, executing a scoop shot—a move I had held back throughout the game. The ball raced over fine leg for four, drawing cheers from the crowd.
With five needed off three, Kartik tossed up another arm ball, but this time I swept hard, sending it skidding past square leg for another boundary.
The scores were tied. One run to win.
Kartik's final delivery was flat and fast, targeting the stumps. I stepped out, meeting it with a firm push to mid-off, and called for a quick single. Aman charged down the pitch as the throw came in, and we both dove.
The stadium erupted as the umpire signaled the run as complete.
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Victory and Reflection
The dressing room was electric with celebration, but I sat quietly in a corner, replaying the match in my mind. I had contributed to another victory, but Kartik's skill and composure had left an impression. Would my choices today shape him differently in this timeline, too?
The future was evolving, one small decision at a time. I was no longer just a passenger in this second innings. I was a player rewriting the script.
The journey had only just begun.