There are some dreams that never really leave you.
They stay tucked away somewhere in a corner of your heart,
waiting patiently. Sometimes, if you're lucky, life gives you a chance to touch
them again.
For me, that dream was always cricket.
The Dreams of an Eleven-Year-Old
Growing up in the 90s, life was simple.
All I wanted to do was watch cricket and play cricket.
Nothing else mattered.
An eleven-year-old boy's week revolved around school,
homework, and one burning question:
"When can I play cricket next?"
At school, opportunities were scarce. Lunch break was
everything.
The moment the lunch box was shut, we would rush to the
ground. For twenty glorious minutes, the world disappeared. No classes, no
exams, no books. Just cricket.
The best days were when a teacher was absent.
Those unexpected free periods felt like winning a lottery.
If the class leader played his cards well, it might even become an unofficial
games period. And just like that, another precious hour of cricket appeared out
of nowhere.
The rest of the time, cricket lived through television.
ESPN. Star Sports. DD Sports.
That's where heroes were made.
Javagal Srinath charging in with that powerful run-up.
Venkatesh Prasad nipping the ball around. Fast bowlers were superheroes. Every
boy wanted to be one.
You imagined yourself steaming in, rattling stumps, sending
bails flying, watching batsmen stare back with fear in their eyes.
Reality, of course, was slightly different.
I didn't quite have the build, the strength, or the stamina.
In my mind, I was bowling thunderbolts.
In reality, the ball probably floated down slow for the
batsman to hit it out of the ground.
But that didn't matter.
Every ball felt fast when you were eleven.
And every dream felt possible.
Last Sunday: Living That Dream
Fast forward nearly three decades.
Last Sunday morning, under heavily overcast skies, I found
myself standing at the cricket nets with my friend Harisankar.
The conditions were perfect.
Dark clouds.
A hint of moisture in the air.
The kind of weather that makes fast bowlers smile before
they even pick up the ball.
And for the next hour, we bowled.
Not gentle medium pace.
Not half-hearted deliveries.
We ran in full tilt.
The red ball swung.
It seamed.
Established batsmen like Sharath hopped, fended and
occasionally looked uncomfortable.
For a little while, we weren't forty-somethings with
responsibilities and creaking bodies.
We were those same schoolboys again.
Except this time, the dream felt real.
Eventually, I padded up to bat.
Now, being a tail-ender, this was always going to be an
adventure.
But the adrenaline was pumping .
The new ball was flying.
It whistled past the edge.
It climbed unexpectedly.
Every delivery seemed far quicker when you were standing at
the other end.
As they say, I got a taste of my own medicine.
And then came the inevitable.
One ball sneaked through the gap between the thigh pad and
the batting pad and struck home.
That was enough batting for the day.
My contribution with the bat was officially over.
Missing a Friend
There was also a small sadness that morning.
A familiar face was missing.
Zaheer Chettan, a fellow Loyola school alumnus and someone nearly
twenty years senior to me, had stopped coming to the nets.
What made him special wasn't just his cricket.
It was his presence.
His stories.
His easy-going nature.
The friendly banter that kept everyone laughing between
deliveries.
People like that make places feel alive.
You look forward to seeing them every week.
And when they disappear, you realise how much they
contributed to the joy of the experience.
So if you're reading this, Zaheer chettan...
Come back.
We miss you.
The Cost of Being a Fast Bowler
For the next two days, I limped around like a wounded
veteran.
Every staircase became an obstacle.
Every chair required careful planning.
Only by Wednesday did I finally start walking normally
again.
The body was reminding me that I was no longer eleven.
The heart, however, refused to listen.
A Perfect Cricketing Sunday
By the following Sunday morning, we were back.
Back at the nets.
Back with the red cherry.
Back bowling as fast as our ageing bodies would allow.
For another hour we pushed ourselves.
We ran in hard.
We played good cricket.
And by the end of it, on a sunny day we were completely
exhausted.
The satisfying kind of exhausted.
The kind that reminds you you've spent your morning doing
something you genuinely love.
But the day wasn't over.
Not even close.
That evening, Greenfield Stadium in Thiruvananthapuram
hosted the ODI between India and the West Indies.
We watched Virat Kohli and Shubman Gill produce masterful
centuries.
The crowd roared.
Runs flowed.
The atmosphere was electric.
Yet, for a fast-bowling enthusiast, the real magic lay
elsewhere.
Watching Jayden Seales.
Watching Alzarri Joseph.
Watching Prasidh Krishna.
Watching Gurnoor Brar.
The pace.
The carry.
The bounce.
The effort.
The sight of the ball thudding into the keeper's gloves
after racing off the pitch.
For anyone who appreciates fast bowling, it was pure
theatre.
A thing of beauty.
Grateful for the Journey
And somewhere during that day, I realised something.
The eleven-year-old version of me would have absolutely
loved this.
Bowling fast with friends on a Sunday morning.
Sharing laughs at the nets.
Feeling the ache of a well-earned bruise.
Then spending the evening watching some of the world's
finest fast bowlers do what they do best.
What more could that little boy have asked for?
As adults, we often spend our lives chasing bigger things.
Promotions.
Targets.
Deadlines.
Responsibilities.
But sometimes happiness arrives in much simpler forms.
A red cricket ball.
A cloudy morning.
Good friends.
A packed stadium.
And the chance to live, even briefly, the dream you once
carried as a child.
The Dream Continues
This coming Gandhi Jayanti, October 2, there is a
Back-to-School cricket event at Loyola where it all started.
My bowling partner and I will be turning up for opposite
sides.
For once, we'll be competing against each other.
I'm sure there will be sledging.
I'm sure there will be bragging rights on the line.
And hopefully, there will be a few decent deliveries too.
As I look forward to that day, I can't help but smile.
Because the truth is, childhood dreams rarely come true
exactly the way we imagined.
But every now and then, life surprises you.
And if you're lucky enough to be forty, bowling fast with
friends in the morning and watching world-class fast bowlers in the evening,
then perhaps you've come closer to that dream than you ever realised.
And for that, I'm deeply grateful. ❤️🏏
