The bowler's expression had changed. No longer confident, no longer mocking—just pure frustration.
Zaid could see it in his eyes.
But he wasn't about to show mercy.
The bowler stormed in again, his footsteps hammering the ground. A full-length delivery, swinging in late.
Zaid stepped forward and drove it straight back.
Crack!
The ball raced past the bowler, skimming the grass as it thundered toward the boundary.
The fielders barely moved.
Four.
The opposition's captain cursed under his breath. He signaled for a field change, bringing in another fielder close.
Zaid just smiled.
Too late.
The next ball.
A short-pitched delivery—fast, rising sharply.
Zaid swayed back, letting it pass. A dot ball, but a message was sent.
The bowler was running out of ideas.
Zaid glanced at the scoreboard. His score was climbing.
But he wasn't thinking about personal milestones.
He was thinking about winning.
The bowler wiped sweat off his forehead, frustration evident in every movement. His pace had dropped slightly, his shoulders tense.
Zaid could sense it. He had broken his rhythm.
The fielders were restless. They knew Zaid wasn't just surviving—he was controlling the game.
The bowler charged in again.
This time, it was a slower ball, disguised well.
Zaid picked it up instantly.
He waited that extra fraction of a second, then flicked it over mid-wicket.
The ball sailed past the infield.
The fielder sprinted, diving near the rope—but it was in vain.
Four more.
The pressure mounted.
Zaid didn't celebrate. He just adjusted his gloves and took his stance again.
The bowler glared at him.
One thing was clear now—Zaid Khan was no ordinary batsman.
Zaid tapped his bat against the pitch, his focus unwavering.
The opposition was crumbling.
The fielding captain walked up to the bowler, whispering something—a last-ditch strategy.
Zaid smirked. They were desperate now.
The bowler took a deep breath and stormed in.
A full, wide delivery—tempting Zaid to reach for it.
But he wasn't falling for it. He let it go.
The wicketkeeper clapped his gloves together. "Scared now?"
Zaid ignored him.
The next ball came—fuller, straighter.
Zaid stepped forward and whipped it off his pads.
The sweetest sound of leather meeting willow.
The ball shot past square leg. The fielder chased it, but the outfield was too fast.
Four.
The bowler sighed, hands on his knees.
Zaid took a deep breath.
This was just another step in his journey.
He wasn't just playing a match—he was making a statement.
Zaid adjusted his stance, eyes locked onto the bowler.
The match was nearing its climax, but he wasn't thinking about the end—he was thinking about the next ball.
The bowler, visibly drained, ran in again.
A yorker, fired in at the base of the stumps.
Zaid reacted instinctively.
He brought his bat down in a flash, digging it out with precision.
The ball deflected toward mid-wicket, and Zaid sprinted.
"Run!" he called.
His partner responded, and they stole a quick single.
The crowd applauded, sensing the inevitability of the moment.
Zaid looked around.
The fielders moved sluggishly, their shoulders dropping. They had lost the fight.
But Zaid wasn't done yet.
He wanted to finish this in style.
The tension in the air was thick, but Zaid felt nothing but clarity.
His eyes were locked on the bowler, his heartbeat steady.
The equation was simple now. One big shot. That's all it would take.
The bowler stormed in, putting everything into this delivery.
A full-length ball, straight and fast.
Zaid stepped forward.
And then—he swung.
Crack!
The sound echoed through the ground as the ball soared over long-on.
The fielder at the boundary didn't even move.
Six!
The crowd erupted.
The fielding captain dropped his head. The bowler turned away, defeated.
Zaid stood tall, bat raised.
Victory.
His teammates rushed onto the field, cheering, patting his back.
But Zaid?
He just smiled.
This was only the beginning.
Zaid walked off the field, his bat resting on his shoulder. His teammates surrounded him, cheering, clapping him on the back. He had done it.
But as the noise settled, reality set in.
This was just a local match. A small step in a much bigger journey.
Coach Arif approached him, a proud yet serious expression on his face.
"You played well, Zaid. But remember, talent alone isn't enough. You need discipline. Hard work. Are you ready for that?"
Zaid met his gaze and nodded. "I am."
The coach smiled. "Good. Because this was just the start. The real grind begins now."
Zaid clenched his fists.
He wasn't just playing for fun. He was playing to reach the top.
And he wouldn't stop until he got there.