"Welcome," he said, his voice as smooth and graceful as his cover drive. "Welcome to the Deccan Chargers. Welcome to Hyderabad."
His eyes scanned the room, making contact with everyone, from Gilchrist, his old Test rival, to Das, the new rookie.
"I want to thank everyone for being here. For some of you, this is a new city. For some of us," he smiled, "this is home. But for the next twelve weeks, this room, this team... this is our home. This is our family."
It was a simple, motivational speech. He spoke of the opportunity they had, not just to play in a new league, but to build something from scratch, to forge an identity for a new team, for a city that loved its cricket.
"We have legends in this room," he said, nodding towards Gilchrist and Symonds. "We have champions," he said, his eyes finding RP Singh. "And we have the future," he added, his gaze resting on uncapped players.
"But a team is more than just a collection of great players. It's about a shared goal. Our goal is to win. To do that, we need the best structure. And that starts with our coach."
Laxman gestured to a man sitting in the front row. "It is my great privilege to introduce the head coach of the Deccan Chargers... Mr. Robin Singh."
A smattering of applause. Robin Singh, a former India all-rounder known for his electric fielding and gritty, no-nonsense attitude, walked onto the stage. He was the opposite of Laxman. Where Laxman was graceful silk, Robin Singh was pure, functional steel.
He took the mic, his eyes already scanning every face in the room. He wasn't smiling, but his energy was palpable, a focused intensity that demanded attention.
"Thank you, VVS," he said, his voice energetic and commanding. "Thank you to the Deccan Chargers management for choosing me." He nodded to the franchise owners in the front row, then turned his full attention to the players.
"Gentlemen. Welcome to the team."
He let the words hang for a beat. "Look around you. This is, without a doubt, the most talented, most powerful, most-talked-about team in this entire league. You are here for a reason. You're here because of your World Cup medals," he nodded to Gilchrist, RP, and Symonds. "You're here because of your talent," his eyes glanced at Rohith Sharma and Ojha again. "You're here because you are the best."
He took a step forward, his welcoming tone sharpening into a blade.
"But I'm going to be honest with you. As of this second, that reputation means absolutely nothing. That reputation won't win you a single match. The IPL is not a celebration of your past. It's a six-week war."
Siddanth felt a jolt of respect. This was a man who saw through the hype.
"It's a sprint," Robin continued, his voice gaining pace. "The teams that win this trophy will be the fittest, the most disciplined, and the hungriest. My job is not to manage your reputations. My job is to make sure we are that team. I don't need a room full of superstars. I need a superstar team. I need men who will work, sweat, and fight for the man next to them."
"It starts tomorrow," he said, his voice dropping slightly, becoming more direct. "9 AM. After breakfast, the bus leaves from the lobby."
"Not 9:01. Not 9:02. 9 AM. Sharp. We travel to the stadium for our first field session. We will practice. We will find out who we are as a unit."
He put the mic down. "For now, the evening is yours. Get to know each other. Eat well. Sleep. We'll meet in the lobby at 7 PM for a team dinner. Dismissed."
The lights came up. The room exhaled. The message was clear. The holiday was over.
The next morning, the Park Hyatt lobby was a river of blue and gold training kits. At 8:50 AM, Siddanth was already there, nursing a black coffee; he had just finished his breakfast, now with his kit bag at his feet. He watched the team assemble. The rookies, like Das, had been there since 8:30, terrified of being late. The senior pros, RP and Venugopal, arrived at 8:55.
At 8:59, Gilchrist, Laxman, and Symonds walked in, looking like three men heading to a board meeting, not a practice. At 9:00 AM, Robin Singh walked out of the elevator, looked at his watch, and nodded. "Bus is outside. Let's go."
The Deccan Chargers team bus was a sleek, air-conditioned vessel. The hierarchy re-established itself naturally: legends at the front, pros in the middle, rookies at the back. Siddanth sat with Halhadar Das, the two of them silent, just watching, absorbing the dynamic.
The bus pulled out of the opulent, tree-lined quiet of Banjara Hills. It sped past the morning traffic, which is quite less, a 30-minute journey towards the dusty, sprawling expanse of Uppal, where the Rajiv Gandhi International Stadium, their new fortress, waited.
The stadium was a massive, concrete coliseum, empty and silent in the morning light. They were directed to the "away" dressing room, a spacious, functional area that would be their home for the next three weeks.
"Find a locker, get changed, pads on," Robin Singh barked. "Nets in fifteen. Let's move."
Siddanth found his locker. "DEVA," a simple sticker read. He changed quickly, his movements economical, his mind already running pre-match simulations. He did his activation stretches, making him feel light, coiled, and ready.
His goal for today was simple. He wasn't here to impress. He was here to learn.
His Brett Lee template was a weapon, yes, but it was an inexperienced one. The System gave him the skill, the raw 150kph+ pace, the "Javelin" and "Leap" enhancements. But it didn't give him the 10,000 hours of muscle memory. It didn't give him the experience of bowling to a man like Adam Gilchrist. It didn't give him the control to harness that new, explosive power.
He'd made "silly mistakes." They weren't mistakes; they were the gap between raw talent and earned wisdom. Today, he would start closing that gap. He needed to test his bowling against men who had faced the real deal.
The stadium's practice facility was world-class. Four nets, side-by-side, each with a fresh, green-tinged pitch.
Robin Singh barked out the order:
"Net 1, Styris! Net 2, Rohit! Net 3, Silva! Gilly and VVS will bat last. Bowlers, line up. You get two overs each, then rotate. Let's see what we've got."
Siddanth saw the batsmen. Scott Styris, the Kiwi all-rounder, all muscle and utility. Rohit Sharma, the languid, brilliant prodigy, fresh off his own T20 World Cup win. And Chamara Silva, the wristy, difficult-to-set-a-field-to Sri Lankan.
RP Singh took the first new ball, his long hair flying as he ran in. Chaminda Vaas, the veteran, was next.
Then, it was Siddanth's turn. He felt the eyes of Gilchrist and Laxman, who were standing behind the nets, watching.
He chose Net 3. Chamara Silva. A smart, experienced international. A perfect first test.
He stood at the top of his mark, the red cherry feeling small in his hand. He took a deep breath. The world went silent, save for the 22 yards in front of him.
He started with a 12-step run-up, not his full, explosive "Leap" approach. He was testing the waters.
Ball 1: 142kph. Angling away. Silva, expecting a gentle medium-pacer from a 17-year-old, was late, his block a hurried, defensive jab. The ball thudded into the meat of the bat, but the message was sent.
Ball 2: Siddanth added the explosive bound at the crease. 150kph. Silva, who had composed himself, was suddenly taken aback. The sheer, raw pace was on him before he could complete his trigger-movement. He just managed to jam the bat down, the ball rocketing off the edge and into the side netting. He shook his hands, the vibration stinging him.
Ball 3: Silva was set. He was an international. He wouldn't be beaten by pace alone. He shuffled, his bat raised, his eyes wide and focused. Siddanth ran in this time; He wasn't just hurling it; he was aiming it.
The ball left his hand. 152kph. It started on the middle stump, a red streak... and then, in the last few feet, it swung viciously away. It was a perfect, unplayable outswinger. Silva, forced to play, lunged. The ball screamed past his outside edge, missing it by a millimeter. The whoosh of its passing was audible. It smashed into the keeper's gloves with a crack that echoed across the practice ground.
Adam Gilchrist, who was watching from behind, just looked at his own (imaginary) stinging hands and gave a slow, impressed nod.
Robin Singh, who had been waiting for a mistake, just... watched. His face was impassive, but he didn't bark a correction. He just made a note on his clipboard.
Ball 4: Siddanth had shown the cannon. Now, he showed the brain. He deliberately dialed the pace back. 105kph. He focused not on his shoulder, but on his wrist. He ran in, same explosive action, but at the last second, he rolled his fingers over the seam. The wobble-seam.
Silva, braced for another 152kph thunderbolt, was now facing a wobbling, dipping, 105kph delivery. He was all at sea. His prod was nervous, weak.
Ball 5: Siddanth did it again. 125kph. Wobble-seam. Silva, forced to play, pushed at it, his feet stuck in ground. It was a weak defensive shot.
Ball 6: Siddanth took a deep breath. Okay. One more. The full statement. He went back to his 17-step run-up. He wasn't just aiming. He was unleashing. 153kph. It was a bouncer. It was so fast, Silva didn't even duck. He just froze, his eyes wide, as the ball screamed past his helmet, a red streak of pure, unadulterated menace. The ball hit the net-keeper's mat with the sound of a gunshot.
"OVER!" the net captain called.
Siddanth, his heart hammering, his body thrumming with adrenaline, just nodded. He walked to the back of the line, past Scott Styris, who was padded up and waiting.
The Kiwi all-rounder looked him up and down, a new, impressed respect in his eyes. "Jesus, kid. Warn a guy before you try to take his head off, eh?"
Siddanth just smiled. "Sorry, sir. Still working on the steering."
He was breathing hard, not from fatigue, but from the sheer, exhilarating, terrifying power he now commanded.