Last four and a half minutes

One of my entries for the RCB Chief blogger.

He does what he has been doing for the last three balls. He follows the cycle. The cycle of looking at his partner, looking at the dug out, looking at the field and looking at his bat. None of it is planned. He knows his partner at the other end isn't the man for the job. He might as well expect the bowler to get possessed by that bowler from college he so wacked around. Its nine needed off three. He's always dreamed about living in a moment like this. To be given a chance to prove that he's that proverbial stuff that legends are made of. But its one thing wanting to be at a particular place at a particular time for a particular purpose and another to score nine runs off three balls. That too off someone who has bowled three yorkers out of three, all of which he somehow managed to hit away for a couple each. Nine off three. Thats three per ball, three runs to run of every ball to follow? His legs shake at the thought of it. He takes his stance, eyes mid on. Yes mid on it is. His best chance. Dammit, its another one of those ankle breakers, but he's gotten it away to mid on. Its racing away to the fence, his heart is pounding as he sets off for the second, hoping against the hope that the outfield helps him. In comes the throw. Its two. Dammit!

Seven off the last two. His legs are giving up now, he's run eight runs in the last four balls and plenty before them. He knows now for sure that he hates the game. May be his dad was right. May be Physics Honours isn't so bad. Ah his mind digresses. He follows the cycle again. Its seven off two now. He can hear his heartbeat now, but he isn't complaining, at least its suppressing the noise from the stands, at least he can now hear himself think. He contemplates peddling it over the short leg or better still over the keepers head like Dilshan. Yes thats perfect, he's practiced that in the nets and he's almost certain he can pull it off. Almost certain! Dammit! Two balls, what the hell is he thinking, this isn't a time for some childhood excuse of a shot, this is the deal, the deal he grew up dreaming of being a part of. He knows he will either win it or lose it for his team now, nothing else matters to him, his personal best score, the fact that he's been running all those doubles with cramped legs, nothing. He knows he cannot run another two and he knows his partner isn't an option. It is this ball or its over. He has to get it away. Yes, thats his plan. He will get this one away. He wont eye a region. He will play it as it comes and get it away to the boundary. He takes his stance, looks at the dug out through the corner of his eye. He can see most of them have given up. The joy, they say, in life lies in doing stuff that other people say you cant. He clears his head, looks straight ahead, the bowler runs in, its a tad short and wide, just the way he likes them. He rocks back, a little further than he normally would to give himself a few extra milliseconds to place it perfectly. And perfectly he does. Nobody's cutting this one off, he knows it from the moment he hit it. The fielders don't move. The stands erupt. The dug out is on its feet and cricket again feels like another day in office. His partner comes and pats him, says another one of those and we can spend the rest of the night drinking and that he'll buy. Sweet proposition.

Three more off the last one. His heart is a bass drum now. He's almost certain that the stump mic will pick his heart beat. He breaks the cycle. He just looks at the field once. Nothing unexpected. He's going to keep it simple. It will be another boundary. He cannot run anymore, thats for certain. He takes his stance, tries not to predict where the ball is going to land but he can't help it. He is anticipating. He knows it. He knows its going to be a yorker. The guy bowling is a genius. He's bowled four in this over already. Its going to be another one. He cant possibly get it away to the boundary. Hands begin to shake. Eyes blur. Heart has already broken his ribs. He finds himself clueless. The bowler runs in, shoots in another one of those yorkers, he gets it away with a flick towards mid on but places it exactly where he wanted it to. He's quick of the blocks, knows he's good for two, he has tied the game, a game that was lost, that has got to be enough but he notices the fielder will need to change the arm to throw the ball back, he leaves the crease for the third, the most important third in his life. Twenty yards more and he is legend. Sixth sense tells him the ball has been thrown and will win. He is really stretching those cramped legs, one final push, he dives, fully stretched lands in the crease, the throw comes in. He is safe. His legs are bruised but his spirit isn't. Not anymore it isn't.

Next thing he remembers is being fed all sorts of liquids in the dressing room, people chanting his name in the stands, the scorecard reading his teams victory and his teammates delirious. A twelve year career and all he remembers now are those four and a half last minutes. He doesn't want to think about it. He just wants to sleep. The sleep that beckons one after a job well done.