In the Mehdipatnam community hall, a hundred people were on their feet, their hands on their heads, a single, collective gasp sucking the air from the room. On the projector screen, the ball was a comet, arcing down, down, down towards the deep mid-wicket boundary. It was going for six. South Africa would win.
"HE'S GOT HIM!" David Lloyd's voice crackled, breaking with the strain. "PARNELL HAS HIT IT! HE'S HIT IT HIGH, HE'S HIT IT HARD! IT'S GOING, IT'S SAILING... IT'S GOING FOR SIX! SOUTH AFRICA... NO... WAIT!"
Siddanth Deva, stationed at deep square leg, was already moving. He had calculated the trajectory, the wind, the dying speed of the ball. Now running with all his strength towards the ball.
He wasn't just running. He was flying.
"THERE'S A MAN UNDER IT! THERE'S A MAN SPRINTING... IT'S SIDDANTH DEVA! HE'S RUNNING... HE'S NOT GOING TO GET THERE... HE'S NOT..."
The world narrowed to the white ball. He saw the seam. He heard nothing. He ate up the yards, his body a low, perfect blur of motion. He had two seconds.
The boundary rope was three feet behind him. The ball was dying, dropping fast.
He didn't brake. He didn't slow.
He launched.
He went airborne. He was horizontal, parallel to the grass, his left arm fully extended, a single, desperate prayer.
His fingers grazed the leather. He instinctively curled, his fingers clamping around the hard seam with a grip of steel, one-handed.
He hit the ground, the impact jarring his every bone, and rolled, his body absorbing the momentum to stay away from the boundary line.
He stood up. The ball was in his hand.
"HE'S GOT IT! HE... HAS... GOT IT! HE'S GOT IT! I DON'T BELIEVE IT! I DO NOT BELIEVE WHAT I HAVE JUST SEEN! SIDDANTH DEVA HAS TAKEN A ONE-HANDED, FULL-LENGTH DIVE TO WIN THE WORLD CUP! THE CATCH OF THE TOURNAMENT! THE CATCH OF A LIFETIME!"
For a second, Siddanth just stood there, the ball clutched in his hand. The 1-run loss in the Ranji final, the 96* not out, the failure—it all evaporated in that single moment.
He roared. He hurled the ball high into the empty sky and spread his arms wide, his head tilted back.
"COME ON!"
He heard the thunder of footsteps. He turned and saw Virat Kohli, his face a mask of pure, disbelieving ecstasy, sprinting at him like a madman.
"BEN STOKES!" Virat screamed, his voice cracking.
Virat didn't slow down. He launched himself and tackled Siddanth in a diving, joyous hug. The two of them went down, laughing and screaming. A second later, the rest of the team—Jadeja, Tanmay, Goswami—arrived, piling on top of them in a heap of blue jerseys, tears, and triumphant shouts.
Siddanth was at the bottom, the wind crushed out of him, the weight of a nation's hopes replaced by the weight of his victorious teammates, and he had never felt more alive.
---
The awards ceremony was a blur of gold medals and flashbulbs. The Kinrara Oval was alive, the small Indian contingent making enough noise for a packed Wankhede.
"And now, the awards for the tournament," the announcer's voice boomed. "The Golden Bat, for the tournament's highest run-scorer, goes to Indian batsman... Tanmay Srivastava! 262 runs!"
Siddanth clapped wildly as his teammate went up, Srivastava's calm smile finally breaking into a wide grin as he accepted the award.
"And the Golden Ball, for the tournament's leading wicket-taker... from South Africa... Wayne Parnell! 18 wickets!"
Siddanth applauded politely. He got 18... I got 17. The 1-run loss felt like a premonition. But it didn't matter. They had the only trophy that counted.
As a local Malaysian dignitary began a long, droning speech about the spirit of cricket, Siddanth tuned it out. The adrenaline was fading, and his body was feeling the impact of that dive.
Status, he thought, his eyes glazing over as he stared at the podium.
[SYSTEM HOST STATUS: SIDDANTH DEVA]
TEMPLATES:
AB de Villiers (Batting/Fielding): 80.0% (MAX)
Brett Lee (Fast Bowling): 40.0%
PHYSICAL ATTRIBUTES:
Strength: A
Agility: A+
Reflexes: A+ (S-Tier w/ Predator's Focus)
Hand-Eye Coordination: A+
Stamina:S-Rank
Endurance:S-Rank
[SYSTEM NOTIFICATION]
ACHIEVEMENT UNLOCKED: "WORLD CHAMPION" (Win an ICC World Cup event).
REWARD: Template Integration Voucher (Major).
Siddanth's heart hammered. A voucher...
[SYSTEM PROMPT]
Voucher applied to Brett Lee template.
Calculating...
[+20% Integration Voucher] applied to [Brett Lee Template].
A new, deeper jolt—not the explosive burst of the 40%, but a feeling of absolute control—surged through him.
[NEW TEMPLATE INTEGRATION: Brett Lee (60.0%)]
[NEW SKILL UNLOCKED: "THE LEAP" (Passive, Lv. 1)] (Integrates the "kangaroo" jump into the bowling action, increasing momentum at the crease, generating +5kph average pace and extreme bounce.)
[SKILL UPGRADE: "THE JAVELIN" (Lv. 3)] (Injury risk is now ZERO. Sustained 150kph+ bowling is now the baseline.)
Siddanth let out a slow, shaky breath. He was no longer just a kid with a rocket arm. He was a durable, sustainable, terrifying engine of one of the fastest bowlers in history.
"...and now, the captain of the 2008 Under-19 World Cup Champions, India... VIRAT KOHLI!"
Siddanth snapped back to reality, the blue screen vanishing. He roared, joining his teammates, as Virat, his face a mask of pure, unadulterated joy, ran up the steps. He took the gleaming silver and gold trophy, kissed it, and then lifted it high, a spray of confetti exploding around them.
The team surged forward, grabbing the cup, each man desperate to touch it. They began a victory lap, Kohli and Siddanth, the two pillars of the team, holding the trophy together, their faces a perfect picture of triumphant, exhausted youth.
---
The hotel that night was not a hotel. It was a carnival.
The team management, knowing they had captured lightning in a bottle, wisely gave up on curfews. The main conference room was turned into a makeshift nightclub, a stereo blasting the hits of 2008—Pappu Can't Dance, Singh is Kinng, Low by Flo Rida.
It was a scene of pure, teenage chaos. Ravindra Jadeja was trying to teach everyone a complicated Garba step. Manish Pandey and Tanmay Srivastava were in a heated debate about the final's turning point.
And in the center of it all, Virat Kohli and Siddanth Deva were on a table, dancing badly, shouting the lyrics to We Are The Champions.
Siddanth danced, he sang, he ate an entire pizza by himself, and he laughed until his stomach hurt. This was the joy he'd missed in his first life, the pure, unfiltered, idiotic joy of being a successful, celebrated teenager.
The party finally died at 2 AM, the players collapsing in their rooms, the World Cup trophy safely ensconced in Coach Rajput's room.
They spent three more days in Malaysia, a blissful, responsibility-free haze of sightseeing and team dinners, before they were finally given their tickets home. "Go," Rajput had told them, a rare, proud smile on his face. "Go home to your families. You've earned it. We'll be in touch."
The flight from Kuala Lumpur to Hyderabad was long, but Siddanth didn't sleep. He just stared out the window, the gold medal heavy in his carry-on bag.
When he walked through the sliding glass doors of the Begumpet International Airport, he was expecting to see his parents. He wasn't expecting a war horn.
"HE'S HERE! OYE! CHAMPION! HE'S HERE!"
Arjun, Ravi, and Sameer tackled him, a messy, laughing pile of bodies right in front of the baggage claim. Arjun had a homemade banner that read: "OUR SIDDU IS A CHAMPION" with a crude drawing of the World Cup.
"Get off me, you idiots!" Siddanth laughed, trying to wrestle free as Arjun ruffled his hair.
"A champion has come!" Arjun announced to the entire arrivals hall. "Make way! Make way for the World Cup hero! Did you see the catch, Ravi? He flew! Like a bloody eagle!"
"Shut up, man," Siddanth grumbled, his face turning red, but he was grinning from ear to ear. The teasing was the most normal, wonderful thing he'd felt in months.
"Oh, he's too good for us now," Sameer said, grabbing his kit bag. "He's 'Siddanth Deva, International Superstar.' He probably won't even play gully cricket with us anymore."
"I'll still beat you one-handed," Siddanth shot back, the familiar, easy banter flowing back instantly.
They continued teasing him, a running commentary of his fame, all the way out of the terminal and into the car. "Did you bring us anything? Duty-free? No? What kind of champion are you?"
But as they drove out of the airport and turned towards his colony, the teasing stopped. Arjun just pointed out the windshield.
"Uh... Siddu... I think you might be a big deal."
Siddanth looked. The entrance to his colony was blocked. Not with a gate, but with a crowd. There were hundreds of people. Banners were hanging from the balconies: "WELCOME HOME, HYDERABAD'S PRIDE!" and "HYDERABAD'S HURRICANE!"
And then, he heard it. The unmistakable, thunderous, chaotic beat of a dhol band.
"You've got to be kidding me," Siddanth whispered.
The car was forced to stop. The crowd saw him. A roar went up. The doors were pulled open. Arjun and his friends were pushed aside as the colony elders rushed forward, placing a massive, fragrant marigold garland around Siddanth's neck. The dhol players erupted in a frantic beat, and people started throwing flower petals.
He was lifted out of the car and onto the shoulders of his neighbors, a "parade" of people dancing, cheering, and whistling, carrying him the final hundred meters to his front door. He was being paraded through his street like a conquering Roman general. It was the most embarrassing and most wonderful moment of his life.
At the door, the chaos parted.
Sesikala stood there, her face a beautiful, tear-streaked mess. In her hands, she held the silver aarthi thali, the camphor flame flickering brightly. She was trembling, her eyes fixed on his.
The dhols went quiet. The crowd hushed.
She performed the aarthi, circling the flame in front of his face, warding off the evil eye, her lips moving in a silent prayer of thanks. She pressed the red tilak onto his forehead, marking him as her son, her champion, her safe-and-sound boy.
Then, She just threw her arms around his neck and buried her face in his chest, sobbing. "My son," she wept. "My son is home. You're safe. You're safe."
Siddanth held her, his own eyes burning, the smell of camphor and his mother's saree filling his senses. "I'm home, Amma. I'm okay. We won."
"I know," she sniffled, pulling back. "I saw."
Vikram stepped forward. He wasn't smiling. His face was a mask of stoic pride that it was more powerful than any cheer. He put his hands on Siddanth's shoulders, his grip like steel, just looking at him, a silent, father-to-son communication of everything that was unsaid.
"You did it," Vikram whispered, his voice thick. "You actually... you did it."
Then, he pulled his son into a hug so fierce it cracked Siddanth's ribs, a hug that said you are my son, and you are my hero.
"Come," Sesikala said, finally wiping her tears, grabbing his hand. "Come inside. I made your favorite. I made kheer."
He walked into his home, the roar of the crowd fading behind him, the smell of cardamom and sweet, warm milk welcoming him back. The gold medal was in his bag, the 60% Brett Lee template was thrumming in his veins, but this... this was the real reward. He was home.