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Test cricket is often described as a game of glorious uncertainties, but on Day 3 at Lord's, there was one absolute certainty: Joe Root.
The English captain stood like a colossus amidst the ruins of his top order. We had them at 23/2. We thought we had the game by the scruff of the neck. But Root, possessing the stubbornness of a Yorkshireman and the touch of an artist, decided to paint his own masterpiece.
The sun was beating down on the Lord's turf, flattening out the pitch. The demons of Day 1 and 2—the swing, the seam—seemed to have gone on holiday.
I stood at the top of my mark for the umpteenth time that day. My legs felt heavy. My shirt was clinging to my back.
Sanjay Manjrekar (Comms): "This is turning into a masterclass from Joe Root. He walked in at 23 for 2, facing a hat-trick ball, and look at him now. He is batting on a different surface compared to his teammates."
Shaun Pollock (Comms): "It's the balance, Sanjay. He plays late, right under his eyes. And because he plays so late, the swing doesn't affect him as much. India has thrown everything at him—pace, spin, bouncers—and he has answered with a smile."
It was the second session. Root was on 97. He was nearing his century, and the crowd was buzzing with anticipation.
Virat threw the ball to me. "One wicket," he rasped, his voice hoarse from shouting. "Just get him."
I wiped the sweat from my forehead. I summoned every ounce of energy left in my reserves.
Ball 68.4: I went wide of the crease. I aimed for the rough patch outside off-stump, trying to get the ball to kick up.
It worked. The ball hit a crack and exploded upwards, taking the shoulder of Root's bat as he tried to run it down to third man.
It flew quickly, but catchable, to the gully region. Ajinkya Rahane was off the field for a bruised finger, so Prithvi Shaw, the substitute, was standing there.
It was at a comfortable height. Shaw moved to his right. He got both hands to it.
Plop.
The ball hit his palms and popped out as if greased with butter. It fell harmlessly to the grass.
A collective gasp sucked the air out of the stadium.
I fell to my knees, head in my hands. Virat kicked the turf violently. Shaw looked at his hands, horrified, wishing the ground would swallow him whole.
Aakash Chopra (Comms): "Oh no! Oh dear, oh dear! Prithvi Shaw has put down the English Captain on 97! You do not give lives to players like Joe Root! This is a crime in Test cricket! Aarav bowled the perfect delivery, got the edge, but the hands were hard, and the chance is gone!"
Root didn't look back. He took a single on the next ball to move to 98. Two balls later, he drove Siraj through the covers to bring up a magnificent, defiant century. Lord's rose to its feet. I clapped wearily. It was a chance missed, and we knew we would pay for it.
From that moment on, Root was unstoppable. He wasn't just batting; he was channeling a higher power. He swept the spinners, he reverse-swept Jadeja, he pulled Bumrah, and he drove me.
He was possessed.
While wickets fell at the other end—Jonny Bairstow (57) provided some support before Siraj trapped him LBW, and Jos Buttler (23) was cleaned up by Shami but Root held the fort.
The Indian bowling attack toiled.
Mohammed Siraj was the pick of the bowlers in terms of heart. He kept running in, spell after spell, his energy infectious even when the fielders were drooping. He bounced out Moeen Ali and castled Sam Curran.
Ajit Agarkar (Comms): "You have to feel for the Indian bowlers. They haven't bowled badly. They've beaten the bat, found the edges, but luck has been wearing a Three Lions jersey today. Siraj has been relentless, picking up 4 wickets, but they simply cannot dislodge Root."
By the time the evening shadows lengthened, England was creeping closer to our total of 394.
I came back for one final spell with the second new ball. My body was screaming. My ankles throbbed with every impact.
Over 118: I steamed in. I yorked Ollie Robinson. The stumps flew. That was my 3rd wicket. Two overs later, I bounced out Mark Wood, who skied it to Pant. That was my 4th.
But Root remained. He ended on 180 not out. A monolithic innings that single-handedly dragged England back into the contest.
Finally, on the very last ball of the day, Mohammed Shami produced a beauty to bowl James Anderson.
England All Out: 391.
India Lead: 3 runs.
The umpire removed the bails. The day was done. It was effectively a 0-0 game now. A one-innings shootout with two days to play.
I walked off the field, my feet dragging. I had bowled 26 overs. Siraj had bowled 24. Shami 22. Bumrah, the unluckiest of us all, had bowled 20 overs for 0 wickets, despite beating the bat a dozen times.
The dressing room was quiet, save for the sound of Velcro straps being undone and ice packs being cracked open.
"Spa," Virat said simply, looking at the exhausted fast bowling cartel. "Go. Fix yourselves."
Thirty minutes later, we were in the hotel's wellness center—a dimly lit sanctuary smelling of eucalyptus and lemongrass.
I was lying face down on a massage table, groaning as a masseuse dug her elbow into my lower back. Next to me, Jasprit Bumrah was getting his calves worked on. Rishabh Pant, who had crouched for 120 overs, was in an ice bath, his teeth chattering. Mohammed Shami and Mohammed Siraj were on the adjacent tables.
"My back," I muffled into the towel. "I think I left a piece of my spine on the pitch."
"At least you got wickets," Bumrah grumbled, though his tone was light. "I think I need to perform a havana (ritual). The ball is allergic to the edge of the bat when I bowl."
"It happens, Jassi bhai," Siraj winced as his hamstring was stretched. "You built the pressure. I just ate the fruit."
"Expensive fruit," Pant shouted from the ice bath. "Root played like... like he was playing stick cricket. What was that sweep shot?"
"Don't talk about the sweep," I groaned. "I bowled a 145kmph yorker, and he reverse-swept it. That's illegal. It should be illegal."
"That drop though..." Shami muttered, his voice low. "Prithvi is going to have a sleepless night."
"He's a kid," I said, lifting my head slightly. "Rahane bhai would have swallowed it, sure. But the ball wobbled. It happens."
"We are 3 runs ahead," Pant shivered, stepping out of the ice bath and wrapping himself in a towel. "Three runs. It's basically a new match starting tomorrow."
"Exactly," I said, as the masseuse finally released the knot in my shoulder. "Day 4. We bat. We bat big. We give them 300 to chase on Day 5."
"And then?" Siraj asked, looking at me.
"And then," I smiled, wincing as the masseuse attacked my glutes. "Then we hunt."
The morning of Day 4 felt different. The fatigue of the previous day had been massaged, iced, and slept away. The sun was out. The pitch looked good for batting.
We had a team meeting at breakfast. Ravi Shastri kept it short.
"Forget the 3 runs," he said, buttering his toast. "Forget Root. He's done. He can't bat again until we say so. Today is about setting the terms. We have 10 wickets. We have 2 days. We batted poorly in the first innings after the collapse. Today, we show them why we are the number one side in the world, show them why we are the world champions."
We arrived at the ground. The atmosphere was tense. The match was perfectly poised.
I walked out to the nets for a light knock, just to get the feet moving.
Aakash Chopra (Comms): "Welcome to Day 4. It is a brand new game. India 394, England 391. A lead of just 3 runs. It's a second innings shootout. The team that holds its nerve today will win the Lord's Test. Can India set a target? Or will Anderson and Robinson run through them again?"
Sanjay Manjrekar (Comms): "The Indian openers, Rahul and Rohit, have a huge responsibility. They need to see off the new ball. If India loses early wickets, panic will set in. But if they bat two sessions... England will be scared."
I sat in the dugout, pads on, watching KL Rahul and Rohit Sharma walk out.
The Lord's slope waited. Anderson waited.
"Let's go, boys," Virat clapped from the balcony. "Fresh start. 0-0."
The umpire called "Play."
The battle for London was entering its final phase.
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Day 4 at Lord's dawned with a deceptive calmness. The sun was out, bathing the nursery ground in a golden glow, but my body felt like it had been run over by a truck. Every muscle from my neck to my calves screamed in protest, a reminder of the 26 overs I had bowled the previous day.
I sat on the balcony of the visitor's dressing room, pads already strapped on, watching KL Rahul and Rohit Sharma take their guards.
"Just see off the first hour," I whispered to myself, gripping the handle of my bat. "Just give my back an hour to wake up."
But the cricketing gods were in a capricious mood.
The world didn't listen.
Over 6.4: Mark Wood, steaming in with his tail up, produced a beauty. It was back of a length, skidding through. KL Rahul, usually so sure-footed, was late on the defense. Edge. Into the gloves of Jos Buttler.
KL Rahul c Buttler b Wood 5India: 18/1 (Lead: 21)
I sighed, grabbing my helmet. The pain in my back was instantly forgotten, replaced by the cold, sharp focus of duty.
As I walked down the stairs and through the Long Room, the reception was different. On Day 1, there had been skepticism, the booing. On Day 3, there had been silence.
Today, as I stepped onto the turf, a ripple of applause broke out. It started from the Members and spread to the Grandstand. Even the Barmy Army, usually so hostile, offered a respectful cheer. They knew they were watching a player who gave everything.
I marked my guard. Mark Wood glared at me. I glared back.
We stabilized for a moment. Rohit looked good. I hit a couple of crisp drives. But Wood was in the middle of a hostile spell.
Over 11.6: Wood banged it in short. The trap was set—three men back for the hook. Rohit Sharma, the man who lives and dies by the pull shot, couldn't resist. The ball was closer to his left shoulder than he liked, cramping him for room. He swiveled. He hit it. But it wasn't the middle of the bat. It was the toe end.
The ball looped agonizingly slowly to deep square leg, where Moeen Ali swallowed it.
Rohit Sharma c Ali b Wood 21India: 27/2
Nasser Hussain (Comms): "Wood has got both the openers! India effectively 27 for 2. For the second time on this tour, the hook has got Rohit. It is a difficult shot to keep playing against someone of Wood's pace. India are in deep trouble here."
The crowd roared. England smelled blood.
Virat Kohli walked out. The captain. The King.
The next hour was high-quality Test cricket. Virat and I batted with grit. We left the ball well. We ran hard singles. The partnership grew, and for a moment, it felt like we would weather the storm.
But Sam Curran, the man with the golden arm, had other ideas.
Over 23.1: Curran ran in from over the wicket. He had struck Virat on the knee roll the previous ball. This one was floated out wide. A nothing ball, really. But Virat was playing for the inswinger. He poked at it. Fiddled with it. The ball held its line, grazing the outside edge.
Virat Kohli c Buttler b Curran 20India: 55/3
Nasser Hussain (Comms): "GOT HIM! Kohli has fiddled at one! Sam Curran, Makes Things Happen! He just floats this one out wide, Kohli is playing for the ball coming back and it just keeps going on the angle! England are running around like headless chickens! This Test may have just been blown wide open!"
Virat stood there for a second, disbelief etched on his face, before dragging himself off the field.
The score read 55/3. Our lead was barely 58 runs. We were staring at a defeat.
Isa Guha (Comms): "You can hear the panic in the crowd, but you don't have to fear yet, India. The Prince is still there. Till Aarav Pathak is at the crease, there is no problem. He is joined by the Vice-Captain, Ajinkya Rahane. They need a partnership."
I watched Rahane walk in. He looked tense. The whole team looked tense.
Internal Monologue: If we block, we die. The lead is nothing. We need to transfer the pressure.
Joe Root brought Moeen Ali into the attack to rush through the overs before tea.
I decided it was time to send a message.
Over 28: Moeen Ali to Aarav Pathak.
Ball 1: Flighted delivery on off stump. I leaned forward and defended it solidly. Sighter.
Ball 2: Tossed up again. I didn't wait. I danced down the track, meeting the ball on the full. The swing was clean, the follow-through high. SIX! Straight over the sightscreen.
Ball 3: Moeen shortened his length slightly. I dropped to one knee instantly. Reverse Sweep. I hit it hard, past the point fielder. FOUR!
Ball 4: Moeen fired it in flat. I rocked back, using the depth of the crease. Backfoot Punch. It raced through the covers. FOUR!
Ball 5: Moeen panicked. He bowled it too full. I pre-meditated the scoop. I dipped low and ramped it over Jos Buttler's head. It bounced once before hitting the rope. FOUR!
Ball 6: Good length, turning in. I presented a dead bat. Defended perfectly.
22 runs off the over.
The momentum shifted violently. The crowd, which had been baying for blood, was suddenly hushed, then raucous in support.
Isa Guha (Comms): "And that is the release! The pressure valve has been blown off! 22 runs from the over! Aarav Pathak has decided he's not going to wait for the bad ball, he's going to create them!"
I reached my 50 shortly after, raising my bat to the balcony. Then 60. I was flowing.
But at the other end, the wickets kept tumbling. Ajinkya Rahane fought hard but edged one to the keeper.
Rishabh Pant joined me. We batted out the rest of the day with caution mixed with aggression.
Stumps Day 4.India: 181/6.Aarav Pathak: 72* Rishabh Pant: 14* Lead: 184 runs.
We had a lead, but was it enough?
Day 5: The Morning of Chaos
The final day of the Lord's Test. The equation was simple: Bat for an hour, set a target, and bowl them out.
But England came out with fire.
Over 82 (Ollie Robinson): I was on 75. Robinson bowled a jaffa. It pitched on leg and straightened, hitting the top of off. I stood there, stunned. It was the unplayable delivery.
Aarav Pathak b Robinson 75
I walked back, devastated. I wanted a century. I wanted to close the game.
Then the procession started. Rishabh Pant flashed at a wide one. Gone. Jadeja trapped LBW. Axar Patel cleaned up.
India was 209/8. The lead was only 212.
It was a losing position. England would chase 212 in two sessions easily.
Mohammed Shami and Jasprit Bumrah were at the crease. Our number 9 and 10.
The English players were chirping. Jos Buttler was having a go at Bumrah. Mark Wood was bowling bouncers at Shami's head. They were bullying us.
And then, something snapped.
The Miracle of Lord's
It started with Bumrah. Usually a smiling assassin, Jassi was angry. He exchanged words with Buttler. He pointed his bat at Anderson.
And then, he started hitting.
Over 92: Stuart Broad to Jasprit Bumrah.
Bumrah, with his unorthodox stance, decided he had had enough of the short stuff.
Ball 1: Hook shot. Top edge. FOUR.Ball 2: Broad banged it in again. Bumrah swung blindly. A massive pull shot. SIX!Ball 3: Full toss. Bumrah smashed it through mid-wicket. FOUR.Ball 4: Another bouncer. Bumrah hooked it fine. FOUR.Ball 5: Broad overstepped (No Ball). Bumrah hit it for FOUR through the covers. Ball 6: A chaotic single.
35 runs from the over! (A world record broken!)
Aakash Chopra (Comms): "Oh my goodness! Jasprit Bumrah has turned into Brian Lara! He is dismantling Stuart Broad! This is the most expensive over in Test history! The dressing room is going absolutely bonkers!"
On the balcony, Virat Kohli was screaming, punching the air. I was jumping on the railing, forgetting my aching back.
Then, it was Mohammed Shami's turn. Shami, known for his seam position, showed his bat swing. He drove Moeen Ali out of the ground. He pulled Wood into the stands.
He brought up his Half-Century with a massive six over long-on.
51 off 60 balls.
The lead swelled. 250. 260. 270.
England looked shell-shocked. They had spread the field for the tail-enders. They had lost the plot.
Over 108: Shami hit another four. The lead crossed 270.
Virat waved from the balcony. "COME IN!"
India Declares.India: 298/8 declared.Lead: 301 runs. TARGET 302 runs.
Shami and Bumrah walked off to a standing ovation. An unbeaten partnership of 89 runs for the 9th wicket.
I met them at the boundary rope, hugging Shami so hard I almost lifted him.
"What did you eat for breakfast?!" I yelled.
"Biryani power!" Shami grinned, sweating profusely.
I looked at the pitch. It was Day 5. There were cracks. The pressure was immense.
"Let's go hunting," I whispered, tossing the new ball in my hand.
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