The first five days of the Deccan Chargers camp had established a brutal, efficient rhythm. Robin Singh's "work-first" philosophy, combined with VVS Laxman's quiet authority, had forged the disparate group of high-priced superstars and nervous rookies into a single, focused unit.
Then, on the fifth day, the whirlwind arrived.
Herschelle Gibbs walked into the Park Hyatt lobby not with a suitcase, but with an entourage. He was five days late, his absence excused by "family problems" that the veterans in the room understood was likely a euphemism.
He was a creature of pure, unapologetic impulse, a "party animal" by global reputation. He wore sunglasses indoors, a bright pink shirt, and a grin that suggested he knew all the world's best jokes.
Siddanth, sitting with Rohit and RP Singh over a quiet breakfast, watched him enter. His mind immediately flagged him as a high-risk, high-reward variable. This was a man who could win a match in ten balls or get himself benched for disciplinary reasons.
But as Gibbs breezed through the lobby, he spotted the players' table. His entire demeanor shifted. The grin remained, but the "party animal" was eclipsed by the "professional."
"Adam, you old dog!" he boomed, striding over and clasping Adam Gilchrist in a rough hug. "They let you out of the retirement home for this?"
"Only if you promised to behave, 'Gibbs," Gilchrist laughed, clapping him on the back.
"VVS!" Gibbs said, his tone shifting instantly to one of deep respect as he shook Laxman's hand.
He settled in, and the team, which had been wary of this new, chaotic element, settled with him. His talent was undeniable, his charisma infectious. He didn't disrupt the hierarchy; he simply found his place in it—the maverick, the enforcer, the genius. His immense talent was the passport that allowed him to move freely between the worlds of the legends and the rookies.
The remaining days of the camp blurred into a single, exhausting, "peaceful" grind. "Peaceful" in that the team had settled; "grind" in that Robin Singh was a relentless taskmaster.
For Siddanth, these days were the most important of his new career. He wasn't just practicing; he was calibrating. The System had given him the engine of a Formula 1 car, but he still had to learn how to drive it.
His days became a loop of focused perfection:
5:00 AM (Gym): While most of the team was still sleeping, Siddanth was already in the hotel gym. He has completed a full power-and-agility workout before the team session. He was building a body that was not just powerful, but indestructible.
8:00 AM (Nutrition): He put his Advanced Cooking Skills (Lv. 2) to work, collaborating with the hotel chefs to design his meals. While others enjoyed the buffet, Siddanth's breakfast was a precisely-weighed plate of egg whites, smoked salmon, avocado, and steel-cut oats.
10:00 AM (The Nets - Bowling): This was his laboratory. He spent hours with a bag of balls and a target. He mastered the "Leap" (Lv. 1), his new bounding action, learning to synchronize it with his wrist. He practiced his variations until they were second nature: the 152kph yorker, the 148kph bouncer, and the devastating 110kph slower-ball. He was relentless, bowling until his fingers, not his shoulder, were raw.
2:00 PM (The Nets - Batting): Here, he was a student. He would bat, then stand and watch. He watched Laxman's wrists, how he used the bowler's pace to guide the ball. He watched Gilchrist's feet, the explosive, stable base that generated so much power. He watched Gibbs, the sheer audacity of his shot selection, the way he manufactured angles. He was a supercomputer, downloading, analyzing, and integrating.
4:00 PM (Fielding): This was where he, Gilchrist, and Symonds set the standard. Robin Singh's drills were famously brutal. But Siddanth's Endurance and Parkour Instincts meant he simply... didn't get tired. He was the first to the ball, the fastest on the dive, and the last to leave the field.
By the end of the camp, he was no longer just the "prodigy." He was the standard. He was the fittest, most disciplined, and most versatile player on the team.
April 18, 2008.
The Park Hyatt conference room was silent, the air thick with anticipation. The 20 days were over. The practice was done. Tonight, it all began.
The entire Deccan Chargers squad was assembled. Robin Singh, for once, was not pacing. He stood at the back, arms crossed. Laxman and Gilchrist were at the front. The massive projector screen at the front of the room wasn't showing field placements or analysis. It was showing the Opening Ceremony of the Indian Premier League.
The feed from Bangalore's M. Chinnaswamy Stadium was a sensory explosion. It was a chaotic, brilliant, and slightly tacky mess of fireworks, laser beams, Bollywood dancers, and drummers suspended from wires.
"What is this?" RP Singh muttered, half-laughing, half-confused. "Is this cricket or a shaadi?"
"It's a spectacle, mate," Gilchrist replied, a knowing grin on his face. He understood. This wasn't just cricket. This was entertainment.
Siddanth watched, fascinated. This was the moment his quiet, gentleman's sport was injected with a potent, multi-billion-dollar dose of showbiz. He was watching the birth of the monster, and he was one of its first, prized children.
"This," Andrew Symonds said, his voice a low grumble, "is going to be loud."
The ceremony ended. The glitz faded, replaced by the familiar green of a cricket ground. The two captains, Rahul Dravid (Royal Challengers Bangalore) and Sourav Ganguly (Kolkata Knight Riders), walked to the center.
"Two legends," Laxman said quietly, his voice full of respect for his old teammates.
"This is it, lads," Robin Singh barked, and the room went silent. "Watch. Learn."
The coin went up.
"Bangalore has won the toss," the commentator's voice filled the room. "And Rahul Dravid has elected to field first."
A sensible, classical cricket decision. Put the opposition in, see what a "T20" score is, and chase it down.
The KKR openers walked out. The icon, Sourav Ganguly, and a hard-hitting, Kiwi keeper-batsman, Brendon McCullum.
The first few overs were cagey. The world was figuring out what this "IPL" thing was.
Then, Zaheer Khan, Bangalore's spearhead, got the big one.
"Ganguly goes! A mistimed pull shot, caught at square-leg! Sourav Ganguly is out for just 10! A huge blow for Kolkata!"
In the conference room, a few of the DC players clapped.
"Okay," Scott Styris said, "Now they'll rebuild. Maybe they'll get 140, 150."
Rohit Sharma, sitting near Siddanth, just shook his head. "I don't know, man. That McCullum... he looks like he wants to hit everything."
Rohit was right.
What happened next wasn't just an "innings." It was an explosion. It was the "Big Bang" of the IPL.
Brendon McCullum, with Ganguly gone, seemed to be released from a cage. He wasn't just hitting the ball; he was brutalizing it.
He passed 50 in 32 balls.
The DC conference room, which had been full of chat, was now quiet.
"He's got a good eye," Laxman noted, analytically.
Then, McCullum accelerated. He started walking at the bowlers. He hit Jacques Kallis, one of the greatest all-rounders of all time, back over his head. Repeatedly.
He passed 100 in 53 balls.
The room was now in a state of stunned, almost religious silence. Gilchrist and Symonds were leaning forward, their faces lit by the screen, a look of pure, predatory recognition in their eyes. He's one of us.
"He's not stopping," Halhadar Das whispered, his voice full of awe.
McCullum was now scooping the fast bowlers. He was switch-hitting. He was moving around the crease, a blur of kinetic, terrifying energy.
The RCB bowlers—Zaheer, Kallis, Praveen Kumar—had lost their minds. They had no answers. They were just feeding the beast.
"He's on 140! This is madness! Absolute madness!"
"He's taken 24 off that over! He is single-handedly destroying the Royal Challengers!"
The final over. McCullum was on 146.
He hit the last two balls for a four and then a massive six over long-on.
He finished 158 not out, off just 73 balls.
KKR: 222 for 3.
The DC conference room was dead silent. The players—these legends, these champions, these hardened pros—were just staring at the screen, their minds collectively blown.
Gilchrist was the first to speak. He just let out a low whistle. "Well. The bar's been set, lads."
"One hundred... and fifty-eight," Ojha said, as if trying to understand the number. "In twenty overs. How do you even... how do you bowl to that?"
Robin Singh was already on his feet, his face a mask of stone, but his eyes were blazing. He walked to the front of the room and turned off the TV.
"Right," he barked, the sudden silence making everyone jump.
"Forget the second innings. That's the game. You all just saw it. That's the bar. That's what this league is. It's not Ranji. It's not a Test. It's that. It's a revolution."
He looked around the room, his gaze landing on his own power-hitters: Gilchrist, Symonds, Gibbs.
"That is the fire that just got lit under all of us," Robin said. "The question is... who's going to answer it?"
Siddanth sat there, his heart hammering. His mind had known this would happen. He'd watched the match in his past life. But seeing it again... feeling it... was different.
This wasn't just a great knock. It was a statement of intent for the entire sport.
The IPL wasn't just a tournament anymore. It was an arms race.