Date: 6th January 2013
Bangalore, 6:45 AM — just before the city could stretch its limbs.
The early dawn mist still hugged the yellow streetlamps as Arjun Desai stepped out of the narrow lane behind Srinivasa Nilaya, his breath fogging slightly in the cold morning air. A duffel bag swung on his shoulder. His hair was still damp from a rushed bath, and his school uniform was half-tucked — to fool anyone who might spot him on the road into thinking he was headed for extra classes.
But there was no school today.
Not for him.
By 7:10 AM, he was already at Vinay Bakery, sipping on a lukewarm glass of Bournvita with Karthik, Sameer, and Vinay — his partners in both crime and cricket. All four had skipped tuition or lied at home about going for early morning school PT drills.
"Sameer, got the ten bucks?" Arjun whispered, his eyes darting to make sure no familiar adult faces were around.
Sameer held up a crumpled note. "Ten and a half. The half's for luck."
Vinay grinned. "Let's go meet our future, boys."
The walk from Basavanagudi to Cubbon Road was filled with a strange silence — like the world itself was holding its breath. Auto rickshaws coughed past them, flower vendors set up their stalls, and newspaper boys pedaled by with the smell of fresh print trailing behind.
Then it rose —
The outer wall. The iron gates.
The legend.
M. Chinnaswamy Stadium.
Not many outsiders would understand the magic of that curved concrete arch or the green netting that hid the inner sanctum of Karnataka cricket. But for Arjun, this wasn't just a stadium.
It was Eden. It was Mecca.
It was the field where AB de Villiers had reverse-scooped a fast bowler for six and smiled like it was normal.
It was where RCB lost painfully, dramatically, and still packed the stands every year with hope.
It was home.
"Gate B has the least security," Vinay said, gesturing. "My cousin says there's a small crack in the fence near the gardening area. Groundsmen go in from there."
They waited ten more minutes, pretending to eat peanuts near the juice shop. Then, one by one, they slipped past a half-ajar iron grill near the practice nets, crouching like thieves. Arjun's heart pounded so hard, he feared it would echo into the concrete corridors.
Inside, they crouched behind a pile of coiled hosepipes and buckets of chalk powder.
And then —
They saw it.
The inner nets. Four turf pitches. Cones arranged like military formation. Men in Karnataka kits warming up under the faded orange sunlight. Some were limbering up. Others were already bowling.
"Dude… is that Mayank Agarwal?" Sameer whispered.
"I think… yeah! That's Padikkal too!" Karthik added.
They watched, wide-eyed, as bowlers ran in — fast, rhythmic, lethal. The sound of the ball hitting the net echoed across the empty stands. Coaches paced up and down, shouting instructions. A cameraman was recording the session from behind a plastic screen. It wasn't match day, but it felt like one.
Arjun stood pressed against the railings, fingers white from gripping the iron. He didn't blink, but his eyes narrowed as the batsman took guard at the crease. The field was set with a deep square leg, a backward point, and a short cover, designed to cut off the flashy cuts and drives the batter favoured.
Arjun knew this was a batsman who liked to attack early — the slight open face of the bat hinted at a flick or a cut shot waiting to happen.
He started with a probing off-spinner, flighting the ball just outside off stump. The batsman stepped out confidently and played a firm cover drive, the ball racing along the turf just past the diving short cover. The shot was crisp, a perfect blend of timing and placement, but Arjun noted how the batsman had left a gap between cover and point. He made a mental note to drift his next delivery more sharply.
On the next ball, Arjun drifted the ball wider outside off, then spun it sharply back in. The batsman, caught off-guard by the late turn, could only jab at the ball, sending it weakly towards mid-on where the fielder was ready to cut off the run.
The batsman adjusted, standing tall and playing late. When Arjun floated a slower, looping delivery that tempted the batter to reach forward, the batsman leaned into a crisp flick through midwicket, the ball skimming past a sprawling mid-on. The fielders shuffled quickly, but the batsman had comfortably eked out a couple of runs.
Arjun felt a surge of excitement. Each ball was a puzzle; each shot an answer he had to anticipate and outwit. His field was a mix of attacking and defensive — a deep square leg to catch any risky sweeps, a cover and point to stop the drives, and a short fine leg for the glance behind.
He noticed the batsman's impatience growing with each deceptive flight and dip. He saw the bowler whisper a silent promise to himself, and he watched the spinner — tall, slim, with an easy action — flight one over the net. The batsman came down the track, missed, and the keeper whipped off the bails in one smooth motion.
"Perfect line… into the drift… then turned," Arjun whispered.
He didn't know the terms like loop, pivot, or release angle. But he could see it — feel it. The ball danced in the air like it had a mind of its own. That was it. That's what he wanted.
Not just to play.
To make the ball talk.
"One day," he murmured to himself, eyes still locked on the net session. "That'll be me."
He imagined it — the buzz of the crowd, the heat under the helmet, the thump of boots on turf. A white ball in his palm. A batter at the other end not knowing what would come next.
"Imagine bowling your first over here," Karthik said, snapping him out of his trance.
Arjun nodded slowly. "I don't want to imagine. I want to do it."
Suddenly, a whistle blew. One of the groundsmen was walking toward them.
"Go! Go! Go!" Sameer hissed, and the four of them bolted — ducking behind a wheelbarrow, sprinting past the drainage pipes, slipping out of the same crack in the fence.
They didn't stop until they were halfway to MG Road.
Out of breath. Sweaty. Smiling.
It wasn't a long visit. They didn't even get a photo. But Arjun had seen enough.
Enough to feed his obsession.
That night, back in his room, under a flickering study lamp, Arjun pulled out his notebook again.
He turned the page and scribbled furiously.
Step One: Done. Sneak into Chinnaswamy and feel the dream.
Step Two: Search for local tournaments that get real attention — tournaments where Coach Murali might scout talent.
Step Three: Join a real academy. One that has nets like those.
Step Four: Get selected for Karnataka's youth team.
Step Five: Bowl in Chinnaswamy — not as a fan, not behind a fence — but in the center. Under lights. With a crowd.
Flipping through a crumpled newspaper clipping, Arjun's eyes locked on an announcement for the KSCA U-16 Leather Ball Tournament 2013, held across various grounds in Bangalore. Entry required a team, but the competition was known for attracting coaches like Coach Muralidharan — strict, methodical, a former Ranji coach turned club mentor, who believed in hard drills and discovering raw talent.
Arjun didn't have a team yet. But he thought maybe, if he could hustle enough to join a ragtag side or play as a guest player, he could get his name noticed.
Plus, there was a small cash prize for top performers — just enough to buy new gear or pay for bus rides. Not too much money to risk losing focus, but enough to keep the dream alive.
He circled the tournament details and smiled.
The dream was no longer just about sneaking in or watching from afar.
It was about stepping onto that turf, ball in hand, eyes fierce, ready to make the ball talk.
Because that was the only way to get from dreaming to playing —
And from playing, to belonging.