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The air in Kuala Lumpur, Malaysia, had changed. India U-19, the tournament favorites, had bulldozed their way to the semi-final, with Siddanth Deva and Virat Kohli establishing themselves as the tournament's most terrifying, albeit contrasting, forces.
Their opponent: New Zealand.
In the team meeting, Coach Lalchand Rajput was clinical. "Listen," he said, tapping a whiteboard. "You've beaten the flashy teams. You've beaten the disciplined teams. Now you face the tough team. The Kiwis don't have the arrogance of England or the chaos of the Windies. They are a team of 11 grinders. They will run hard, they will field flawlessly, and they will never give up. They will squeeze you until you break."
He pointed to two names. "Kane Williamson. He's their anchor. He will not get himself out. And Corey Anderson. He's their hammer. He will try to hit you out of the ground. We break these two, we break the team."
He looked at Siddanth. "Sid, I need your brain as much as your arm today."
He looked at Kohli. "Virat. I need your passion... but I also need your patience."
Kohli, the captain, won the toss. The pitch was a flat, white ribbon of clay, a batsman's paradise. "We'll have a bowl," Virat announced, a surprising choice. It was a statement of pure, predatory arrogance: We will hunt you.
Siddanth understood the gamble. Kohli wanted to get an early lead and then chase whatever was left.
---
Siddanth took the new ball, the white Kookaburra feeling light in his hand. He stood at the top of his mark, the semi-final noise, the beating drums, the vuvuzelas—it all faded into a dull hum.
His first target was the 17-year-old Kane Williamson, a kid who batted with the preternatural calm of a 40-year-old monk.
Siddanth ran in.
His first ball was 149kph, a perfect, searing outswinger.
Williamson didn't flinch. He didn't try to hit it. He just... waited. And at the last possible nanosecond, with hands as soft as cotton, he played the ball, guiding its pace, deflecting it past the gully for a single.
Siddanth stared. He hadn't just survived 149kph; he had used it.
This was not going to be a battle of pace. It was going to be a battle of wits.
Siddanth, frustrated, ran in and bowled a 151kph bouncer to the other opener. The batsman, not as composed, got a terrified top edge that flew for six over the keeper's head.
Siddanth thought. This isn't working. They're too smart, or too lucky. Change the plan. Be the 35-year-old.
He took the pace off. He started bowling his wobble-seam, his pace dropping to 135kph.
The other opener, now set for pace, was completely bamboozled. He pushed at a ball that nipped away, and Shreevats Goswami took a simple catch.
WICKET 1.
But Williamson was a problem. He was an unmovable object. He was tapping, nudging, and defending. He was putting on a clinic of pure, classical batting.
The spinners, Jadeja and Appana, came on. The score ticked.
100 for 1.
150 for 1.
Williamson and Corey Anderson were now at the crease. The Anchor and the Hammer. They were building a monstrous partnership.
Kohli, pacing at mid-off, was a storm cloud of fury. "Come on, Sid! Break this!"
Siddanth was brought back in the 35th over. The ball was old. The partnership was 100+. Anderson was seeing it like a beachball, having just hit Jadeja out of the ground.
Siddanth ran in. Anderson was waiting, his bat raised, ready to launch.
Siddanth bowled his 145kph outswinger. Anderson smashed it, a flat, brutal pull that rocketed to the mid-wicket boundary. Four.
The next ball, Siddanth saw Anderson's slight tensing of his front shoulder. He's going for it again.
Siddanth smiled. He ran in, his action identical, that same 150kph, roaring approach.
But at the last second, his fingers rolled over the ball.
It was the 105kph slower-ball yorker.
Corey Anderson, his entire body uncoiling in a swing for the fences, was six months early. He was through his shot before the ball had even arrived. He could have played a second shot.
The ball, floating like a butterfly, looped under his bat and clicked into the base of the off-stump.
WICKET 2.
It was a wicket of pure genius. Siddanth just smirked at Kohli, who was roaring with laughter.
But Williamson... Williamson was still there. He batted through the entire innings, a picture of calm, and anchored his team.
New Zealand finished on 242 for 5.
Williamson was 110 not out. It was a captain's knock, a masterpiece of intelligent, calm-under-pressure batting.
The Indian team walked off the field with a 243-run target.
---
The dressing room was a tomb. 243 was the biggest target of this tournament, in a high-pressure semi-final.
"They did their job," Coach Rajput said, his voice flat. "They put a score up. Now... we do ours. This is just a number. 4.8 an over. It's a batting paradise. Just build... one... partnership."
Kohli was silent, his jaw tight. He was padded up.
The chase began. The New Zealand bowling attack was, as Rajput had predicted, smart. Their opening bowler, a tall, skiddy left-armer, wasn't 150kph. He was 135kph, but he swung the ball both ways, late and lethally.
It was a massacre.
Over 4: Tanmay Srivastava. Trapped LBW by the in-swinger. 10 for 1.
Over 6: Abhinav Mukund. Pushing at an out-swinger. Caught at slip. 15 for 2.
Over 9: Manish Pandey. Promoted up the order and completely undone by a slower-ball cutter. Clean bowled. 28 for 3.
The Indian top order had been surgically dismantled. The dressing room was in a state of shock.
In the 10th over, Saurabh Tiwary, trying to counter-attack, skied a bouncer.
35 for 4.
The stadium was silent, save for the small, screaming pocket of Kiwi fans.
Out walked Siddanth Deva. The team was 35 for 4. He walked past the batsman, going to the dressing room, the team's last hope.
Siddanth Deva adjusted his helmet, his mind clicking through a thousand failed scenarios. The Wankhede 80/4. The Delhi 92/4. This... this was worse.
He met his captain in the middle of the pitch. The world had shrunk to this 22-yard strip.
Kohli didn't look at him. He was just staring at the scoreboard, his eyes blazing, a mixture of pure, uncut rage and terrifying focus.
"Virat," Siddanth said, his voice quiet.
"Don't," Kohli snapped, his voice a low growl. "Don't say anything. Just... just be there. Don't you dare get out."
Siddanth walked closer, tapping Kohli's chest. "Hey. Look at me."
Kohli turned, his eyes like burning coals.
"Remember that night at the NCA?" Siddanth asked, his voice calm. "The T20 final. The pact. 2011."
Kohli's expression didn't change, but he was listening.
"We don't get to 2011 if we lose here, Virat," Siddanth said, his voice hard. "We don't even get to the final if we lose here. They think we're broken. They think we're just two kids. Let's show them what happens when we're all that's left."
Kohli stared at him for a long, heavy second. The rage in his eyes didn't disappear, but it changed. It was no longer wild. It was forged. It was a weapon.
He cracked his neck. "You and me, Sid. To the end. Let's go."
---
What followed was not just a partnership. It was a symphony of controlled aggression, a two-man masterpiece that would be talked about in U-19 lore for decades.
The first ten overs of their partnership were a clinic in pure, stubborn defense. Siddanth became Dravid. Kohli, with his bottomless ego, reined himself in.
They just blocked. Thud. Thud. Thud.
The Kiwi captain brought his field in, smelling blood.
Siddanth was in control, talking to Kohli after every over. "Good leave, Virat. The ball's getting older. He's losing his swing. Just wait."
Score at 20 overs: 75 for 4.
The pace bowlers came off. The spinners came on.
This was the signal.
Kohli, the master of spin, danced down the track and hit the off-spinner's first ball for a straight, clean six. It was a statement. The defense is over.
Siddanth, at the other end, was a surgeon. He would meet the ball on the half-volley and carve it into gaps that didn't exist.
They didn't just run singles. They ran twos. Siddanth set the pace, his turns at the crease a blur, and Kohli, fueled by sheer competitive spite, matched him stride for stride.
They put the "grinder" Kiwis under pressure, their perfect fielding suddenly looking ragged.
Kohli brought up his 50. A roar, a punch of the air.
Siddanth brought up his 50. A calm, professional raise of the bat.
The 100-run partnership was on the board.
Score at 35 overs: 165 for 4.
100 runs needed. 15 overs left. The required rate was 6.6.
The Kiwis had to bring their strike bowlers back.
The NZ captain brought back his 145kph quick.
Kohli, who had been waiting, pounced. He wasn't the captain anymore; he was the "chase master." He pulled him for four. He drove him for four. He was a force of nature.
At the other end, Siddanth was unleashed.
The Kiwi captain, Williamson, in a desperate move, set a deep, defensive field.
Siddanth just smiled.
He faced the spinner. The field was back. He reverse-swept him, perfectly, over the head of short-third-man for four.
He faced the pacer. The fine-leg was deep. He shuffled, went down on one knee, and scooped him, a shot of pure, unadulterated genius, for six.
The Kiwi team just... stared. They had no field for this.
Kohli was in a trance. He was hitting the ball with a sound, a crack, that was different. He brought up his century with a blistering cover-drive, roaring, punching the air, his face a mask of primal joy.
Siddanth was the perfect foil. He was the artist, the innovator. Kohli was the hammer, the king.
The Equation: 1 over left. 2 runs to win.
The scores were tied in Siddanth's mind, but the scoreboard showed 263/4.
Virat Kohli was on 123*.
Siddanth Deva was on 84*.
The partnership was 207 runs.
The Kiwi captain, Williamson, threw the ball to a tired medium-pacer. The fight was gone.
Kohli took the strike. The entire stadium was on its feet. The Indian dressing room was a line of blue statues on the balcony.
Kohli didn't wait. He didn't tap it for a single.
He was Virat Kohli.
He charged the first ball. It was a nothing, length delivery.
He met it with the full, glorious swing of his bat, his entire body, his entire soul, in that one shot.
The ball rocketed, a flat, white streak, over the long-off boundary.
SIX.
India had won. By 6 wickets.
Kohli roared, his arms held high, his bat pointed at the sky. Siddanth, at the other end, just dropped his bat and ran, leaping into his captain's arms. They were a tangle of sweat, joy, and pure, triumphant relief.
They had done it. They had stared into the abyss of a collapse and had not just won, but dominated.
As they walked off the field, side by side, Kohli slung a sweaty arm over Siddanth's shoulder.
"The pact, Sid," Kohli panted, a wild grin on his face. "The 2011 pact. It's alive."
Siddanth just nodded, a calm on his face.
"It's alive, Virat. Now... let's go win the final."