Give some suggestions on what you want in this fan fic
Also leave some reviews
-----
The 148kph ball that shattered the stump at the Gymkhana nets was a sonic boom that echoed all the way to Mumbai.
Siddanth Deva was no longer just Hyderabad's "prodigy batsman." He was, in the parlance of the domestic circuit, a "freak."
Coach Vijay Paul was not laughing. He was a pragmatist, and he now had a diamond-tipped drill in his toolkit that he was terrified would shatter.
"You are a batsman, Deva," he said, his voice a low growl in the humid, cramped visitor's dressing room at Wankhede Stadium. "A batsman who, on occasion, can be a shock weapon. You are not a workhorse. I will not have you tearing your shoulder off in your first season."
Siddanth just nodded. "Four overs, Coach. A four-over burst, as hard as I can. That's all you'll ever get from me as a bowler."
Coach Paul's eyes narrowed. This wasn't asking. He was stating his terms of service. "Fine. A four-over burst. Now go pad up. We won the toss. We ball."
The decision to ball first on a hazy Wankhede morning was a good decision. Mumbai, the "Khadoos" giants of domestic cricket, lived for this. Their fortress. Their crowd.
Hyderabad's seamers, Rajesh and the rest, were disciplined. They got an early wicket, the opener.
In at number three, all quiet technical perfection and no fuss, walked Ajinkya Rahane. He wasn't a name yet, just a rumor of a domestic run-machine, a "Wall-in-training." He blocked. He left. He was perfect.
At the other end, the second opener fell.
In at number four walked the player that the entire stadium was waiting for. He had that lazy, loose-limbed grace, that aura of effortless talent. Rohit Sharma. He was 20, just breaking into the national side, but not yet a star. He was pure, unadulterated potential.
And the two of them—Rahane, the technician, and Rohit, the artist—began to bat.
It was beautiful. It was terrifying. Rahane was the anchor, all classical cover drives and textbook defense. Rohit was the aggressor, all lazy elegance, "pinging" the ball to the boundary with a flick of the wrists that defied physics.
The scoreboard ticked. 100 for 2. 150 for 2. The game was slipping away.
Rakesh, the captain, walked over to Coach Paul on the boundary. "They're not trying to hit. They're just... batting. Rajesh is tired. The spinners aren't turning it."
Coach Paul just looked into the field, at Siddanth, who was at mid-off, just watching.
"Deva!" the coach roared. "Get warm. Four-over burst. Now."
Siddanth felt the jolt. He took off his sweater. He began his stretches, his muscles tingling with kinetic energy.
He was handed the ball.
Rahane was on 70. Rohit was on 45.
Siddanth marked his run-up. The long, angled, explosive run of Brett Lee. He stood there at the Wankhede, his heart a calm, cold drum.
He activated **Predator's Focus**. He activated **"The Javelin."**
He ran in.
His first ball was not a loosener. It was a statement. He exploded through the crease, a blur of white, his arm a whip.
**149kph.**
It was a bouncer, aimed at Rahane's helmet.
Rahane, the technician, had perfect reflexes. He swayed, his eyes wide with shock. The ball *hissed* past his grille. The wicketkeeper, a veteran, took it at head height, his hands recoiling as if stung. He stared at Siddanth.
Wankhede was silent.
Agarkar, on the Mumbai balcony, literally sat up. "What the...?"
Siddanth walked back.
Second ball. Rahane was set for the pace. He was expecting another bouncer.
Siddanth used his 35-year-old brain. *Pace isn't enough. He's too good. Outthink him.*
He ran in, his action identical. The same explosion. The same whip-like arm.
But this time, his **Sleight of Hand** dexterity came into play. He didn't bowl the 150kph rocket. He bowled the 105kph slower-ball yorker.
Rahane, his weight already rocked back, his feet set for the bouncer, was completely, hopelessly deceived. He was a statue as his bat was still in the air.
The ball, a floating, magical, evil thing, looped under his bat and *clicked* into the base of the off-stump.
**BOWLED.**
Siddanth roared. It was a raw, primal sound, a release of pent-up adrenaline. His teammates mobbed him. Rahane, out for a brilliant 70, just stood there, staring at his stump, before walking off, completely mystified.
**Mumbai: 168 for 3.**
In walked the new batsman. Siddanth was on fire. The captain, Rakesh, ran up. "Again! Get him!"
Siddanth looked to the non-striker's end. Rohit Sharma, who had been watching this all with a lazy, amused look, was now just... smiling. An infuriating, knowing smile.
Siddanth went back to his mark. *This one. This is the one that matters.*
He ran in. He hurled it. **151kph.** A body-line bouncer, aimed right at Rohit's ribs, designed to cramp him, to make him flinch.
Rohit didn't flinch. He didn't pull. He didn't hook.
He just swiveled. In a microsecond, he got inside the line, and with those supernatural, elastic wrists, he *helped* the 151kph delivery on its way. It wasn't a shot of power. It was a shot of pure, unadulterated timing.
The ball *flew*. Flat, hard, and fast, over the fine-leg boundary for six.
Siddanth, at the end of his follow-through, just stopped and stared. *He... just did that. To 151kph. Like it was... nothing.*
Rohit just adjusted his gloves; that lazy smile never left his face.
Siddanth was angry. He grabbed the ball. *You want to hit? Hit this.*
He ran in and hurled it, his action breaking, pure rage. **152kph.** Full, and a foot outside off-stump.
Rohit Sharma's eyes lit up.
He didn't smash it. He just... *caressed* it. He leaned into a cover drive, his body a perfect, fluid arc. The ball, hit with the force of a 152kph delivery, rocketed past extra-cover. Four.
The duel was over. Rohit had won.
Siddanth, fuming, completed his over. His 4-over spell: 1 wicket for 28 runs. He had gotten the "Wall." He had been humiliated by the "Artist."
Rohit went on to make a sublime, lazy 94 before falling to a tired shot. Mumbai, on the back of their two young prodigies, posted 410.
---
Now, it was Hyderabad's turn.
And Mumbai's attack.
Ajit Agarkar, lean, wily, and still possessed of that whip-like 140kph pace that had graced grounds from Lord's to Melbourne, took the new ball. Alongside him was the burly, awkward, and deceptively brilliant off-spinner, Ramesh Powar.
Hyderabad's openers, as they so often did, faltered. Agarkar, moving the new ball with the late, wicked swing of a seasoned pro, had one caught at slip.
**Hyderabad: 38 for 1.**
Ambati Rayudu stormed out, his bat punching the air with every step. He was a man on a mission, a volcano of talent simmering on his home turf. He needed to make a statement.
He lasted fifteen minutes.
It was a brilliant, chaotic cameo. He smashed Agarkar for two boundaries, his wrists a blur, but the veteran was too smart.
Agarkar bowled three outswingers, then brought one back in, a classic trap. Rayudu, his feet planted, was struck dead in front. LBW for 21.
**Hyderabad: 64 for 2.**
Siddanth Deva walked out. The Wankhede, which he had only ever seen on TV, was a wall of sound. The balconies were packed. This was the spiritual home of Indian batting, and he was the unwelcome guest.
He took his guard.
His first test was Agarkar, his blood up. The man was a master of the reverse-swinging yorker, even with a ball only 20 overs old. He charged in, the quintessential Mumbai *"khadoos"* (stubborn) professional, and hurled a 138kph in-swinger at Siddanth's toes.
Siddanth saw the setup. His reflexes took over. He jammed his bat down, his wrists opening the face at the last millisecond, and *squeezed* the ball. It shot past the gully fielder for four.
A gasp, then silence. Agarkar stared. Siddanth just tapped the pitch.
Then came Powar. He was all loop, flight, and drift. He was bowling to the 17-year-old, tempting him, tossing the ball up like a poisoned apple.
Siddanth's **Dancing Skills** were made for this. He didn't just step out; he *glided*. He met the ball on the half-volley, not to smash it, but to drive it, firmly, along the grass, past mid-on. Four.
The battle was set. It was a war of attrition.
He built a partnership with the senior keeper. He left balls, blocked, and only his **Innovative Shot-Making** when the field was absurd. He reverse-swept Powar, but only when the man at short-leg was breathing down his neck.
He was a wall. A gritty, frustrating, 360-degree wall.
He ground his way to 50. Then 80. Then 100. His third First-Class century. It wasn't pretty. It wasn't explosive. It had taken 220 balls. But it was, as Coach Paul would say, *"the job."*
He was finally out for 130, caught at deep cover trying to accelerate with the tail. He had batted for almost six hours.
**Hyderabad: 390 all out.**
He walked off to a standing ovation. Not a roar, but a slow, respectful applause from the Wankhede faithful. They knew grit when they saw it.
In the dressing room, Rayudu, who had been watching every ball, just nodded. "Good knock, Sid."
**Hyderabad: 390. Mumbai: 410.** A 20-run lead for the hosts.
---
The match was now a thriller. Mumbai, in their second innings, had to score quickly to set a target.
But the pitch was now a Day 3 wicket. It was breaking up.
Mumbai came out firing. Rohit was treating Hyderabad's spinners with contempt, hitting them with the turn.
Rakesh threw Siddanth the ball.
He ran in, not 150kph, but a still-quick 140kph. He was bowling to a plan. He had his captain put a man at deep square-leg, right on the rope.
He bowled a 140kph bouncer.
Rohit, his eyes lighting up, went for the hook. He connected. But at 140kph, he couldn't "help" it. He had to *power* it. And he was a fraction late.
The ball soared, high and long, towards the boundary. The fielder, positioned exactly for this, just... waited. He took the catch two feet inside the rope.
**Rohit was out for 20.** A huge wicket.
Siddanth clutched his shoulder. He was done. But he had done his job.
Without Rohit, Mumbai faltered. Rahane, the technician, tried to grind out a 50, but the rest of the batting collapsed to the spinners.
**Mumbai: all out for 180.**
**The Target: 201 to win. In one and a half sessions. On a Day 4 Wankhede pitch.**
The air was thick with tension. This was a nightmare scenario. Powar, the off-spinner, was going to be unplayable. Agarkar, the veteran, was already reversing the ball in the nets.
Hyderabad's chase was a predictable catastrophe.
20 for 1. 40 for 2. 60 for 3.
Rayudu, again, was out to a brilliant, unplayable delivery from Powar that spun out of the rough.
**80 for 4.**
Siddanth walked out. He had to score 121 runs, with the tail, on a minefield, against a "Khadoos" Mumbai attack baying for blood.
He couldn't be AB. He couldn't be Lee. He had to be *Dravid*.
He ground. He blocked. He used his **Predator's Focus** not to attack, but to *survive*. He watched the ball out of Powar's hand, his reflexes making the "exploding" deliveries seem to move in slow motion. He didn't hit them. He *absorbed* them, his hands soft, the ball dropping dead at his feet.
He was 30 off 100 balls. The scoreboard was barely moving. But he was *there*.
He was batting with the #9, Rajesh, the workhorse seamer.
**Hyderabad: 161 for 8.**
**40 runs needed.**
The 35-year-old mind: *Now.*
Agarkar was off. The second-string pacer was on. Siddanth's eyes lit up.
First ball: He gave himself room and *smashed* it over extra-cover. Four.
Second ball: He walked across his stumps and, *flick-scooped* him over fine leg. Four.
Then Agarkar was given the ball by his captain.
It came down to the last over. Agarkar to bowl.
**Hyderabad: 195 for 8.**
**6 runs needed to win.**
Siddanth was on 88*. Rajesh, the #9, was on strike.
*Ball 1:* Agarkar to Rajesh. A terrifying, 140kph yorker. Rajesh, bravely, jammed his bat down. It squirted into the gully. No run.
*Ball 2:* Agarkar to Rajesh. Bouncer. Rajesh, his eyes wide, ducked. No run.
*Ball 3:* Agarkar to Rajesh. Another yorker. Rajesh swung, a desperate, blind heave. He got an inside edge! The ball missed the stumps by an inch and raced towards fine-leg. They scrambled a single!
Siddanth was on strike.
**5 runs needed. 3 balls.**
The entire Wankhede was on its feet. Agarkar was breathing heavily, his 30-odd years of experience weighing on this one ball.
*Ball 4:* Agarkar steamed in. He bowled a perfect, dipping, reverse-swinging outswinger. Siddanth, drove it. He threaded the gap at deep cover. They ran one. They ran two. They turned for the third. Siddanth's **Parkour Instincts** and A+ Stamina made the difference. He dove. He was in.
**2 runs needed. 2 balls.**
*Ball 5:* Agarkar. He went for the yorker again. Siddanth saw it. He jammed the bat down. He *squeezed* it. The **Sleight of Hand** specialty. The ball shot past the diving gully. They sprinted. One run.
**Scores are level. 1 run to win. 1 ball left.**
The stadium was a tomb. Agarkar. Siddanth. 201 runs on the line.
Agarkar ran in. He went for the bouncer. The "scare" tactic.
Siddanth didn't hook. He didn't duck.
He *ramped* it.
It wasn't clean. It was an edged, ugly, desperate, brilliant shot. The ball flew off the top edge, over the keeper's head, and bounced once.
They ran.
**Hyderabad had won. By 2 wickets.** (The official margin, though 1 wicket was left.)
Siddanth was on his knees, not in celebration, but in pure, agonizing exhaustion. He finished 91 not out.
The Hyderabad dugout stormed the field, a wave of screaming, joyous white. They piled on top of him.
Agarkar, his hands on his hips, just watched. He walked over, picked up the ball, and as he passed the pile, he tapped Siddanth's shoulder. "Congrats, kid," he grunted.
On the Mumbai balcony, Rohit and Rahane stood, side-by-side, watching a 17-year-old celebrate on their home turf. They had just seen a 17-year-old do to Agarkar what they couldn't.
Coach Paul met him at the boundary, his face a mask of stone.
"I'm too old for this," the coach growled, but he was fighting a smile. "You were reckless. That ramp... was a circus. But you were *there*. You did the job."
He clapped Siddanth on the back, a hard, painful, proud slap.
"Now, pack your bags. We're going to the Final. Against Delhi."