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The walk back to the Pavilion at Lord's is unlike any other journey in cricket. It is a pilgrimage through history.
As Ajinkya Rahane and I crossed the boundary rope, the roar of the general crowd began to fade, replaced by the polite, rhythmic applause of the MCC members. These were the guardians of the game, men and women in egg-and-bacon ties and tailored blazers, standing in the Long Room. They had watched Bradman, Sobers, Richards, and Tendulkar walk this path. Today, they were clapping for Aarav Pathak.
I carried my bat—the MRF Legacy Edition—under my arm, my helmet in my other hand. The sweat matted my hair to my forehead, and every step felt heavy. A century at Lord's is physically demanding, but the emotional toll of battling the Barmy Army, the swing, and the weight of expectations was heavier.
"Well played, lad," an elderly member murmured as I passed, nodding respectfully.
"Thank you," I managed to whisper, my throat dry.
As we emerged from the Long Room and into the sanctuary of the Indian dressing room, the atmosphere shifted from reverent silence to raucous celebration.
Whweeeet!
A piercing whistle cut through the air. I looked up to see Shubman Gill and Prithvi Shaw leaning over the railing, grinning like Cheshire cats.
"Sher aya! Sher aya!" (The Lion has arrived!) Prithvi shouted, clapping furiously.
The entire squad was on its feet. Rohit Sharma, usually so laid back, was clapping with his hands high above his head. Ishant Sharma, nursing his injury, gave me a nod of profound respect. Even the support staff, the masseurs, and the analysts were beaming.
I raised my bat one last time, acknowledging the pack. I didn't have the energy for a fist pump or a roar. I just smiled—a tired, satisfied smile.
I collapsed onto my designated spot on the cushioned bench. The adrenaline that had fueled my muscles for the last six hours suddenly evaporated, leaving behind a deep, aching fatigue.
"Easy, tiger," Shubman was there instantly, a cold bottle of water in his hand. He unscrewed the cap before handing it to me.
I took it, drinking greedily. The cold liquid shocked my system, waking me up just enough to start the process of de-armoring.
I peeled off the gloves, which were soaked through. Then the arm guard, the chest guard, the thigh pads. Each piece of equipment hitting the floor felt like shedding a layer of skin. Finally, the heavy pads came off. My legs felt light, floating.
I leaned back against the wall, sliding down until I was horizontal on the sofa. I closed my eyes, the afterimages of the red Duke ball still dancing behind my eyelids.
The dressing room buzzed with the low hum of analysis and packing up, but I tuned it out. I just breathed. In. Out.
"Right, listen up."
The booming baritone of Ravi Shastri cut through the chatter. I didn't open my eyes, but I could hear him pacing the center of the room.
"We are in a commanding position," Shastri declared. "269 for 3. It's a good day. A great day, actually, barring the hiccup at the end with Virat. But we don't stop here."
He paused, and I could feel his gaze land on me.
"Aarav played a blinder today. That counter-attack in the second session broke their backs. But tomorrow is different. The ball is still new. Anderson will be fresh. We cannot just go out there and swing."
His voice dropped an octave, becoming more strategic.
"If we bat normally, just sensible cricket, we bat until Tea. Maybe even the whole day. We aim for 450. Maybe 500. If we get 500 on this track, with the way it's starting to keep low, we dictate terms. We bury them."
He continued, addressing me directly. "Aarav, you're on 118. You've done the damage with the strike rate. Now, you anchor. You don't need to chase the game. Let Jinks play his natural game. You rotate. Make them bowl to you. Make them tired. Can you do that?"
Lying on the sofa, my eyes still shut, I lifted my right hand and gave a lazy, emphatic thumbs up.
"Good lad," Shastri chuckled. "Rest up, boys. Bus leaves in 30 minutes."
The bus ride back to the hotel was a blur of city lights and exhausted silence, but by the time we reached the hotel, the mood had lifted. Food does that to cricketers.
We gathered in the team dining room. The spread was magnificent—grilled chicken, pasta, salads, dal, rice—nutritionally balanced to aid recovery. But tonight, there was a special addition.
"Is that... is that Tiramisu?" Rishabh Pant's eyes widened as he pointed to the dessert station.
"Recovery carbs," I grinned, piling a healthy serving of salad onto my plate but eyeing the dessert for later. "Coach said 500 runs. I need 500 calories to get there."
I sat down at a large round table with Shubman, Rohit, Jassi (Jasprit Bumrah), and Siraj. The tension of the match was left at the ground. Here, we were just a group of guys teasing each other.
"So, Jassi," Rohit started, a mischievous glint in his eye as he cut his chicken. "I saw Sanjana on the TV broadcast today. She looked very... professional."
Bumrah, usually so composed, blushed slightly, looking down at his dal. "She is doing her job, Rohit bhai."
"Of course, of course," Shubman chimed in, leaning forward. "But I noticed when you were bowling that spell in the morning, she was standing near the boundary for a piece to camera. Did you bowl that bouncer extra fast to impress her?"
"I bowl fast for the wicket, not for the camera!" Bumrah protested, though he was smiling.
"Arey, lie!" Siraj laughed, slapping the table. "I saw you fix your hair before the run-up! Who fixes hair before bowling a yorker?"
"That was the wind!" Bumrah defended himself, laughing. "You guys are impossible."
"It's the power of love, Jassi bhaiya," I added, taking a bite of my cheat meal—a slice of pizza I had smuggled onto the plate.
The laughter rang out, echoing off the walls. It was these moments—the shared meals, the relentless teasing—that forged the bond we needed on the field. We were a family away from home, finding joy in the mundane to balance the extreme pressure of our profession.
Back in the room, the vibe shifted. Shubman and I were roommates here. It was a comfortable pairing; we were close friends, similar ages, and we understood each other's silence.
I showered, washing away the grime of London, and changed into comfortable tracks and a hoodie. I picked up my phone. It was flooded with messages—Instagram tags, Twitter mentions, texts from friends back home.
But there was one call I had to make.
I sat on the edge of my bed. Shubman was lying on his, scrolling through his iPad.
"Calling the Boss?" Shubman asked without looking up.
"Calling the Boss," I confirmed.
I dialed the number saved as 'Sasur Ji' (Father-in-Law).
It rang twice before the face of Sachin Tendulkar filled the screen. He was beaming.
"There he is!" Sachin's voice was warm, filled with pride. "The Lord of Lord's!"
"Hello, Papa," I smiled, feeling the exhaustion melt away slightly. "Did you watch?"
"Watch? I didn't blink!" Sachin laughed. "That upper cut off Mark Wood? Aarav, that was risky!"
"Calculated risk," I defended myself playfully. "Top edge was safe."
"And the sweep off Anderson?" Sachin shook his head, his eyes twinkling. "I played at Lord's for two decades. I never managed to get my name on that Honours Board in the Test match list. I have a hundred in the charity match, but not a Test. And you... you have done it three times in, what, three months?"
There was no jealousy in his voice, only the pure, unadulterated pride of a mentor and a father.
"I'm just trying to catch up to your 100 hundreds, sir. Only few to go," I joked.
"You will get there," he said seriously. "You have the hunger."
Suddenly, the frame crowded. Anjali Tendulkar appeared, pushing Sachin slightly to the side.
"Aarav! Beta, you look tired," her motherly instinct kicked in immediately. "Are you eating properly? Are you icing your shoulder?"
"Yes, Mom, yes," I laughed. "Physio is taking good care. Food is good."
"Congrats, jiju! (Brother-in-law)" Arjun popped up in the background. "That helicopter shot was sick! You have to teach me the wrist position."
"Done, Arjun. When I'm back in Mumbai."
Then, a soft, beautiful face squeezed into the corner of the frame. Shradha. She didn't say anything yet, just smiled at me with eyes that said everything. I saw you. I'm proud of you.
"And look who else is here," Sachin said, turning the phone slightly. Sara waved from the sofa behind them.
"Hi Aarav! Amazing game!" Sara cheered. Then she looked at the screen closer. "Is Shubman there?"
I turned the phone towards the other bed. "Gill! Attendance!"
Shubman sat up quickly, fixing his hair instinctively. "Hello sir! Hello ma'am! Hi Sara!"
Sachin's expression softened as he looked at Shubman. He knew the struggle Shubman was going through—sitting on the bench, watching KL and Rohit cement the opening spots, waiting for a chance that seemed elusive.
"Shubman," Sachin said, his voice dropping to that serious, coaching tone. "How are you holding up, son?"
"I'm good Dad" Shubman said, though his smile didn't quite reach his eyes. "Just... practicing hard. Being ready."
"Good," Sachin nodded firmly. "Listen to me. In a long career, waiting is part of the game. I waited five years to win a World Cup. You are a generational talent, Shubman. Everyone knows it. Your hands, your time... it is rare."
Shubman listened, absorbing every word.
"This time on the bench? It isn't a punishment. It is preparation. When you burst into this XI, and you will, make sure you are so ready that they can never drop you again. Don't let your chin drop. Keep the fire."
I saw Shubman's shoulders straighten. Validation from the God of Cricket was powerful medicine.
"Thank you, Dad," Shubman said, his voice steady. "I won't give up."
"We know you won't," Sara added softly from the background.
We chatted for another ten minutes—about the London weather, the team atmosphere, and Arjun's bowling speeds—before the family decided to let us sleep.
"Aarav," Shradha said before they hung up. "Call me?"
"Five minutes," I promised.
The call ended. Shubman looked at me. "He's right, you know. You are playing like a dream, but I'm coming for the spot one day."
"I expect nothing less," I threw a pillow at him. "But for now, I have a date call. Do not disturb."
I grabbed my phone and stepped out onto the small balcony attached to our room. The London air was crisp and cold, a stark contrast to the warmth of the room. I closed the glass door, locking the noise of the world outside.
I sat on the patio chair, wrapping my hoodie tighter around me, and pressed video call.
Shradha picked up instantly. She was lying in bed back in India, wearing her oversized Tshirt and pajamas.
"Hi," she whispered.
"Hi," I replied, my voice dropping to a hush.
For a moment, we didn't speak. We just looked at each other. The chaos of the 100-ball century, the screaming fans, the media scrutiny—it all faded away. Here, I wasn't the 'Prince' or the 'King of Cricket'. I was just Aarav.
"You looked angry today," she observed quietly. "When you flexed at the crowd."
"They were annoying me," I admitted, rubbing the back of my neck. "They kept saying I was a one-hit wonder. I wanted to show them I'm here to stay."
"You did," she smiled. "My dad was jumping on the sofa. Mom was terrified you were going to pull a muscle doing that pose."
I chuckled. "I might have pulled a little one. But it was worth it."
"Are you hurting?" she asked, her tone shifting to concern.
"Shoulder is a bit stiff. Wrists are sore. But it's a good pain. The kind that comes from a job well done."
"I miss you," she said suddenly, the vulnerability cracking through.
My heart squeezed. "I miss you too. This tour... it's long. And being away from you is the hardest part. Harder than Anderson's swing."
"Cheesy," she rolled her eyes, but she was blushing.
"Only for you," I teased. "So... fiancee. Have you thought about the wedding colors yet? Or are we still debating between peach and gold?"
"I'm thinking gold," she mused. "To match the trophy you're going to bring home."
"No pressure then," I laughed.
"Never," she said firmly. "You're going to win, Aarav. I know it. Just... be careful? Don't let the aggression eat you up. Remember to play with joy."
"I will," I promised. "As long as I have you watching, I have joy."
We talked for another hour. We talked about the mundane things—her day at the clinic (she was studying physiotherapy), the new dog her friend got, the weird dream she had. It was normal. It was grounding.
As the clock struck midnight in London, my eyes grew heavy.
"Go to sleep, King," Shradha whispered. "You have a fortress to conquer tomorrow."
"Goodnight, Shradha. I love you."
"Love you more."
The screen went black. I sat there for a moment longer, looking at the London skyline. The lights of the city flickered like stars.
I stood up, feeling the cold bite my skin, but inside, I felt warm. I had my team. I had my family. I had her.
I walked back into the room, ready to rest. Tomorrow, we bat.
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Day 2 at Lord's began with a deceptively bright sun, but the air retained the crisp chill of the previous evening. The pitch had hardened, but the cracks were just starting to open up, promising variable bounce later in the game.
Ajinkya Rahane and I walked out to the center to a ripple of applause. We were 269 for 3. A position of strength.
"First hour," Jinks muttered, punching his gloves together. "Respect the good balls."
"Respect is my middle name today, Jinks," I grinned, though we both knew that was a lie.
Mark Wood started the proceedings with the new ball, which was still hard and shiny, only a few overs old. He steamed in from the Nursery End, the pace immediately touching 93mph.
We started well. I clipped Wood off my pads for a couple, and Rahane played a gorgeous square drive off Anderson. The scoreboard ticked over.
In the first ten overs of the morning, we moved the score past 300. The psychological barrier was broken.
Aarav Pathak: 125* Ajinkya Rahane: 18*
I was seeing the ball like a football again. The fatigue from the previous day had vanished, replaced by the rhythmic trance of batting. I wanted a 'Daddy Hundred.' I wanted 150. Maybe 200.
But cricket is a game of millimeters.
Over 92.3: Mark Wood to Aarav. Wood banged it in short. It was a heavy ball, rising sharply towards my left shoulder. I had been pulling him successfully all match. The instinct took over. I pivoted, transferring my weight back, and went for the pull shot.
But the ball arrived a fraction of a second faster than I anticipated. It skidded off the surface.
I didn't get the meat of the bat. It hit high on the splice—the sticker of the bat.
The ball flew high into the deep square leg region. It hung in the air for what felt like an eternity.
Jonny Bairstow, fielding at deep backward square, started running. He ran to his left, eyes locked on the white cherry against the blue sky. He dived full length, his body horizontal to the ground.
Thud.
He rolled over, the ball clutched firmly in his right hand.
Aarav Pathak c Bairstow b Wood 129 (132 balls)India: 312/4
A collective groan echoed from the Indian fans, but Bairstow was up and sprinting, celebrating a stunner.
I stood there for a second, looking at the spot on my bat where the ball had hit. Mistimed. Just a fraction late. The disappointment hit me like a physical blow. I had thrown away a chance to bat England out of the game completely.
Shoulders slumped, I tucked my bat under my arm and began the long walk back.
But then, I heard it.
It started as a ripple and grew into a wave. The Barmy Army—the same section of the crowd that had booed me, jeered me, and chanted "Who are ya?"—was standing up.
They were clapping.
It wasn't the polite applause of the Members; it was the loud, rhythmic applause of respect. They acknowledged the battle. They acknowledged the entertainment.
I looked up, surprised. I saw a few guys in the front row tipping their imaginary hats.
A lump formed in my throat. I raised my bat towards them, tapping it against my helmet. Then I turned to the Pavilion balcony where the MCC members were also on their feet.
Respect earned.
I walked into the dressing room, the applause fading behind me, but the frustration bubbling inside.
"Bad shot," I muttered to myself as I threw my gloves onto the bench.
"Great innings," Rohit said, patting my back. "Forget the shot. Look at the board."
I sat down, unstrapping my pads, hoping the rest of the lineup would capitalize on the platform.
Unfortunately, my wicket was the loose brick that brought the wall down.
The famed Indian collapse, a ghost we thought we had exorcised, returned to haunt us.
Rishabh Pant came out with intent but nicked a widish delivery from Robinson to the slip cordon. Gone for 15.India: 335/5
Ajinkya Rahane, usually the anchor, was strangled down the leg side by Anderson. A soft dismissal. Gone for 25.India: 350/6
Then, the tail was exposed to the swinging ball. Ravindra Jadeja tried to farm the strike but was trapped LBW by Wood. Axar Patel got a beauty from Anderson that straightened. Md. Siraj swung wildly and missed.
Jasprit Bumrah faced three balls before his stumps were rearranged by Wood. A duck.
From 312/4, we crumbled to 394 All Out.
We hadn't even crossed 400. We had lost 6 wickets for just 82 runs.
The mood in the dressing room shifted from optimism to a tense quiet.
Ravi Shastri stood in the middle of the room, his arms crossed. He didn't yell. He just looked disappointed, which was worse.
"We left 50 runs out there," Shastri said, his voice gravelly. "Maybe 70. That was sloppy. We let them off the hook."
The umpires called for the break. Since the innings ended close to the scheduled time, it was extended into Tea.
We had 20 minutes to regroup.
Shastri pulled up a chair. "Right. It's done. We can't bat again right now. We have a score on the board. 394 is crucial runs in a Test match. Now, we have 45 overs left in the day."
He looked at the bowling unit. Bumrah, Aarav, Shami, Siraj.
"45 overs," Shastri repeated. "I want 3 wickets. Minimum. If we get 3 wickets tonight, we win the day. If we let them settle, we are chasing the game tomorrow. The pitch is hardening. Use the slope."
The bell rang. Tea was over.
We walked out onto the lush green turf of Lord's. The crowd cheered, anticipating the English response.
Virat Kohli called for the huddle near the boundary rope.
We linked arms. The circle of blue.
Virat stood in the center. His eyes were blazing. The disappointment of his own dismissal and the team's collapse was fuel for his aggression.
"Listen to me!" Virat barked, looking at every single one of us. "Forget the batting. It's gone. Look at that scoreboard. 394. They have to score that just to reach us. We are in the game."
He pointed to the pitch.
"This 45 overs is the most important session of the match. They will come out defensive. They will try to survive. We do not let them survive. We attack. Every ball. I want noise. I want energy. If the ball goes to the boundary, you chase it like it's the last ball of the World Cup."
He looked at Bumrah , Aarav and Shami.
"Jassi, Aarav, Shami. Hunt. Make them play. Make them fear the new ball."
He clapped his hands together, a sharp, violent sound.
"Three wickets, boys! Let's rip their throats out! Let's go!"
"COME ON INDIA!" we roared in unison, breaking the huddle.
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The sun was beginning to dip, casting long, dramatic shadows across the Lord's turf. The air was electric. We had set a target of sorts—not in runs, but in attitude. 45 overs to bowl. 394 runs on the board.
The English openers, Rory Burns and Dom Sibley, walked out to the middle. They looked tentative, perhaps sensing the wounded animal that was Team India after our batting collapse.
Aarav stood at the top of his mark at the Pavilion End. he rolled my left shoulder over, feeling the stretch. The ball in my hand was new, hard, and dark red. The seam stood up like a mountain range.
Sanjay Manjrekar (Comms): "Welcome back. It is a crucial session. India was bowled out for 394, a collapse of epic proportions, but they have runs on the board. Now, it's over to the bowlers. Aarav Pathak, the man of the moment with the bat, has the new ball in hand."
Shaun Pollock (Comms): "He's had a fantastic start to his career with the ball too, Sanjay. 17 innings, 53 wickets. He bowls express pace, 145 clicks plus consistently. A proper left-arm fast bowler is a luxury for any captain."
Aarav looked at Virat Kohli. He was standing at mid-off, polishing the ball vigorously before tossing it to me.
"Aarav!" Virat shouted, his voice cutting through the crowd noise. "Hit the deck! Make them smell the leather!"
We gathered for a mini-conference. Jasprit Bumrah, Virat, and I.
"Slope is dragging it in," I said, pointing down the hill. "I'll aim for the off-stump, let it angle away or nip back."
"Keep it tight," Bumrah nodded. "I'll attack from the other end."
I walked back to my mark. 25 yards. I turned. The crowd quieted down.
Aakash Chopra (Comms): "Here we go! The Prince with the ball. Run-up start hota hai... speed, aggression, and raw talent. Let's see if the English openers can handle the heat."
I ran in. The rhythm felt perfect. My boots hit the turf with a solid thud-thud-thud.
Ball 0.1: Good length, angling across Burns. He left it alone. The ball thudded into Rishabh Pant's gloves with a satisfying smack. 146 kmph.
Ball 0.2: Fuller. Burns defended nervously.
It was a maiden over. I glared at Burns, just letting him know I was there.
The first hour was a test of patience.
Bumrah and I bowled in tandem. I was finding my rhythm, hitting the 148 kmph mark consistently, making the ball talk. Burns and Sibley, however, were in survival mode. They weren't looking to score; they were looking to not die.
Bumrah, usually the miser, was struggling slightly with his line. He tried too hard for the magic ball, drifting onto the pads a few times. Sibley clipped him for a couple of boundaries.
By the 13th Over, England was 22/0. Rory Burns: 11 Dom Sibley: 11
Of those 22 runs, 19 had come off Bumrah. I had bowled 6 overs for just 3 runs.
Ajit Agarkar (Comms): "India keeping it tight, but they need a breakthrough. Bumrah hasn't quite found his radar yet. Kohli is looking restless."
Virat walked up to me as I finished my over. "You're bowling beautifully. Keep going. I'm bringing Miyan (Siraj) on from the other end. Jassi needs a breather."
Mohammed Siraj replaced Bumrah. The energy changed instantly. Siraj doesn't just bowl; he scuffles. He runs in like he's late for a fight. He found his line immediately, nagging Sibley just outside off stump.
Over 15.2: I was back at the top of my mark.
I looked at Dom Sibley. He has a peculiar technique—very open-chested, prone to falling over to the leg side.
I remembered Trent Bridge. I remembered how he got out.
I looked at Virat. He knew. Virat moved KL Rahul to a catching position at short mid-wicket. It was a specific plan. A trap.
Aakash Chopra (Comms): "Dekhiye, field placement dekhiye. Short mid-wicket lagaya hai. This is a trap. Virat Kohli is playing chess here. One time is an accident, two times is a coincidence, three times is a pattern. Can Sibley resist the temptation?"
I ran in. I didn't bowl the outswinger. I bowled the heavy ball—back of a length, angling into the pads.
Ball 15.2: 147 kmph.
Sibley saw the line. His eyes lit up. He thought he could clip it through square leg for a single. He planted his front foot, but his head fell over. He closed the face of the bat too early.
Chip.
The ball didn't go along the ground. It floated.
It was almost in slow motion. Sibley looked horrified as the ball looped gently through the air, straight into the bucket hands of KL Rahul at short mid-wicket.
"CATCH IT!" I screamed, even though it was already caught.
KL Rahul held it, threw the ball in the air, and roared.
Dom Sibley c Rahul b Aarav 11England: 23/1
Aakash Chopra (Comms): "OUT! CAUGHT! It is a replay! It is a cut-copy-paste dismissal! One time is an accident, two times is a plan! Sibley has gifted his wicket again! You cannot blame India's planning, you have to blame the execution! He plays early, leading edge, and straight to the man waiting for exactly that shot! The Prince strikes first!"
I leaped into the air, punching the sky. Virat came sprinting from slip, screaming, "I TOLD YOU! I TOLD YOU!"
We huddled, high-fiving. The deadlock was broken.
"One brings two!" Pant shouted from behind the stumps. "Come on, Aarav bhai! Danda udao! (Knock the stumps out!)"
Haseeb Hameed walked out to bat at number 3. It was his comeback Test after years in the wilderness. The pressure on him was immense.
I stood at the top of my mark. The crowd was buzzing.
I looked at Hameed. He was taking his guard. Middle stump.
I felt a surge of energy. The adrenaline from the wicket was coursing through my veins. I didn't want to bowl a setup ball. I wanted to destroy him.
Aakash Chopra (Comms): "Haseeb Hameed on strike. Comeback man. He needs to survive this first ball. Aarav Pathak has his tail up. Look at the run-up... slightly faster, slightly more aggressive."
Ball 15.3:
I ran in. The rhythm was frantic. My arm speed was a blur.
I released the ball. It was a thunderbolt.
152 kmph.
It was full. Very full. A inswinging yorker that started on off-stump and tailed back in late.
Hameed didn't have a chance. He tried to bring his bat down to drive, but his feet were stuck in cement. He played inside the line, anticipating the angle across, but the ball defied him.
CRASH.
The sound of the ball shattering the stumps is the most beautiful music in the world. The off-stump didn't just fall back; it cartwheeled out of the ground, spinning in the air before landing five yards behind the keeper.
"YEAHHHHHHHHH!"
I didn't just scream. I turned to the section of the crowd that had been giving me grief earlier—the Barmy Army.
I put my finger to my lips. "SHHHHHHH!"
Haseeb Hameed b Aarav 0 (1)England: 23/2
Aakash Chopra (Comms): "CLEAN BOWLED! DANDA BAHAR! (Stumps out!) Golden Duck for Hameed! Welcome back to Test cricket, son! That was a heat-seeking missile! 152 clicks! You can't play that first up! Aarav is on a Hat-trick! And look at the celebration! He is shushing the Lord's crowd! The Prince demands silence!"
Virat Kohli came charging from the slip cordon. He didn't high-five me; he jumped on my back, screaming into my ear. "YOU BEAUTY! YOU ABSOLUTE BEAUTY!"
Siraj grabbed my head, shaking it. "Hat-trick! Hat-trick lele bhai!"
I shrugged Virat off, laughing, adrenaline shaking my hands. Two balls. Two wickets.
The scoreboard read 23/2. Lord's was stunned.
The atmosphere was suffocating. A Hat-trick at Lord's? It was the stuff of dreams.
Joe Root, the England captain, the best batter in their team, walked out. He looked calm, but I knew his heart was racing. Facing a hat-trick ball against a bowler bowling 150+ is not a comfortable place to be.
I walked back to my mark. The crowd was on its feet. The Indian fans were clapping in rhythm. One, two, three!
Sanjay Manjrekar (Comms): "This is the moment. Joe Root vs Aarav Pathak. Hat-trick ball. What does he bowl? Another yorker? A bouncer?"
Shaun Pollock (Comms): "He has to make him play. At 150, reaction time is zero."
I stood at the mark. I took a deep breath, trying to lower my heart rate.
Ball 15.4:
I ran in. The crowd noise faded into a white noise hum.
I hit the deck hard. It wasn't a yorker. It was a length ball, short of a good length, angling into the body. A rib-tickler.
Root was expecting the full ball. He was slightly late on the adjustment. He tried to fend it off, to drop his wrists.
The ball kissed the shoulder of the bat.
Snick.
It flew in the air.
Time stopped.
It went towards the gully region. But because of the sheer pace—149 kmph—it didn't carry to the fielder. It flew over the cordon but didn't have the legs to reach the boundary.
It landed safely in no-man's land, spinning viciously on the turf.
"OHHHHHHHH!"
The entire Indian team had their hands on their heads. Virat collapsed to his knees, slapping the ground. Pant kicked the turf in frustration.
I stood in the middle of the pitch, hands on my hips, staring at the spot where the ball landed. Inches. Just inches from immortality.
Joe Root jogged a single to get off the strike. As he passed me, he slowed down slightly. He looked at me, a wry smile on his face.
"Rapido, mate," Root muttered, patting my lower back with his gloved hand. "Proper rapid."
I couldn't help but let out a breathy laugh. "Saved by the pace, Joe."
The crowd exhaled. A massive cheer of relief went up from the English fans.
Aakash Chopra (Comms): "Bach gaye! (Saved!) Joe Root survives by the skin of his teeth! It took the edge, it flew in the air, but it lands safely! What a spell this is! Aarav Pathak is breathing fire! He has set Lord's alight!"
I walked back to my mark, wiping sweat from my forehead.
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