The College Dream
Every schoolboy dreams of the day he steps into college—a world where boring uniforms are history, and you can come and go as you please. College promises your own “adda,” that perfect hideaway where you can hang out with buddies, and maybe, just maybe, convince your parents to finally agree to that long-awaited bike. So was Mine. As far back as I can remember, all I ever wanted was to get out of school and into college. But as the old Chinese saying warns, "Be careful what you wish for." My wish came true too, and not quite as expected.
I started college with sky-high hopes. Sure, there was the thrill of something new, but reality showed up fast, and with it came a not-so-fun surprise: a uniform code for the first semester. I later learned it applied to everyone but was enforced strictly for freshers—so much for freedom on Day 1.
My first semester at Boston College rolled along about as eventfully as a lazy cat's afternoon nap—that is until the much-anticipated cricket tournament arrived. Now, calling it “great” might be a stretch, but for the cricket fanatics in my city, it was nothing short of a festival. Colleges and clubs from every corner gathered to battle it out for the coveted cup, and where was this showdown taking place? None other than the iconic Capt. Roop Singh Stadium. Yes, the same place where floodlights kissed the sky for international games, where legends had once sweated & battled it out, and etched their names into history with each crack of the bat. The air itself seemed to hum with the weight of history and the emotions of countless cricket fans who had once stood on this sacred ground.
The Unwanted Debut
For most of my teammates, playing in that stadium was like walking into a dream—a sacred temple of cricket where they could almost hear the ghostly echoes of Tendulkar’s bat-smacking leather. But me? I felt no such reverence. My world was basketball. By the time I was 14, I had already played in state and national tournaments. Give me a basketball court over a cricket pitch any day—it’s easier to navigate when you’re not dodging balls the size of small planets. Cricket? It was like trying to understand a language I’d never spoken. Besides, I could probably take apart a .30 Springfield rifle blindfolded before I could hit a cricket ball.
Playing in that stadium was a dream for some, but for me, it was just another field—just not my field.
But fate, as it often does, had other plans, and so did the Cricket Gods (or devils, in this case). Our grand college team, for all their zeal and fervor, was... well, a player short.
Enter ME: a 6-foot-tall, 170-pound human bulldozer, someone they believed could intimidate the other team just by standing there. Did I know anything about cricket? Not a chance. Did I look like I could knock out an opposing player with a glare? Apparently, Yes.
After some convincing—most of it along the lines of “You won’t have to do anything, just be there and look menacing” and “Dude, just stand there”—I reluctantly found myself roped into the team. And so began my crash course in cricket. Over the next few days, I learned the essentials: how to hold a bat without poking someone’s eye out, how to bowl without face-planting mid-delivery, and, most importantly, how to avoid complete and utter public humiliation. “This is hallowed ground,” they’d remind me like we were embarking on some kind of spiritual pilgrimage. “Don’t mess up the grass.” – Alright Good Lord, I thought, I won’t plow through it like a Tractor.
The Meltdown
Soon, the dreaded day came when the tournament schedule was released, and guess who we were up against? None other than the Young Boys Cricket Academy (YBCA). For those unfamiliar, YBCA is Gwalior’s elite cricket institution, teeming with Ranji Trophy players like a factory churning out sports legends. It was the equivalent of an army of well-drilled professionals squaring off against, well, us—a bunch of college students who’d barely figured out which end of the bat to hold. David vs. Goliath? More like David wielding a limp spaghetti noodle for a sling.
No wonder our morale plummeted. Most of the guys were ready to surrender before the match even started. Coach—who was also our principal—vanished into his office, likely reliving memories of his shattered cricketing dreams. We imagined him in there, gazing forlornly at a dusty photo of his younger self holding a bat, wondering where everything had gone wrong.
But after a night of existential crisis, Coach emerged the next morning with renewed vigor, like a phoenix rising from ashes, as if possessed by the spirit of a man who still believed in miracles. He dragged us back onto the field, determined to whip us into shape. If you’re picturing a rousing Rocky-style training montage, dial it down a notch. It was more like a group of disinterested college kids chasing after balls, praying for divine intervention - Rain may be. Sure, we went through the motions—sprinting, catching, pretending to care—but we all knew how this was going to end. You know, those underdog sports movies where the scrappy team beats the odds? Spoiler Alert: This wasn’t one of them.
The Great Debacle
Before we knew it, the big day was upon us.
At 6 AM sharp, we trudged into the stadium—yes, 6 in the morning. This wasn’t college, where you could roll in late and hope your professor was feeling lenient. No, this was WAR. Except, instead of soldiers, we looked more like a group of lost tourists, wandering around a battlefield we had no business being on. As we stepped onto the field, I caught sight of a familiar face—Sandeep Tembe, my senior from school, a Ranji Trophy player, pacer & captain of YBCA. He looked as shocked to see me there as I was to be standing in the middle of a cricket ground. “I didn’t know you played cricket,” he said, raising an eyebrow. “Neither did I,” I replied, and we both chuckled. Our captain, however, wasn’t amused. I got the classic “fraternizing with the enemy” glare, which was a No-No, even for our ragtag bunch.
I returned to my team and warned them we were about to be decimated. “This guy will eat us alive,” I said, but nobody took me seriously. Sure, I tried to instill some healthy fear, but they shrugged it off. On the flip side, YBCA’s team was probably wondering about the giant from Boston College who moved like a lumbering ox, wondering if we might surprise them. Fear is a two-way street, after all.
When the captains met for the toss, our captain, Ankur Malik, faced off against ST. We lost the toss—big surprise. The cosmos might as well have sent us a telegram that morning saying, "You’re done for." But does anyone ever listen to the universe? Of course not.
From the very first ball, it was clear we were in over our heads. These guys were ruthless, they were Monsters. Every ball seemed to be toyed with, sent flying across the field like it had been launched out of a cannon. They weren’t playing cricket—they were painting the field with our hopes and dreams. Every boundary was like another nail in our coffin. By the fifth over, YBCA was toying with us. One of their batters even had the audacity to reverse sweep our best bowler for six, while we scrambled around like headless chickens. Half our team was slipping and sliding across the outfield because no one had thought to invest in proper spikes.
And when we weren’t slipping, we were chasing balls that seemed to be mapping every corner of the ground. They were making a mockery of us, scoring at will, barely breaking a sweat. We were like extras in a movie—just there to make the stars look good. By the end of their innings, they’d racked up a casual 167 runs, losing only four wickets in twenty overs. We? We were just grateful to be off the field, licking our wounds and wondering how we’d survive the rest of the day. But the damage was done.
The Inevitability of Defeat
It was our turn to bat now.
Back in the dressing room, tension hung thick in the air, the kind that gets into your bones and makes every breath feel heavy. And this wasn’t just any dressing room—it was the same dressing room, where legends like Tendulkar and Jadeja had cheered their victories and sulked over their defeats. Now? Now it was the site of our existential crisis.
Chasing 167 was a joke like being asked to climb Mount Everest without oxygen. We weren’t under any illusions—we knew we weren’t chasing that score. We just hoped to lose with dignity, except for our captain, who was riding high after somehow fluking two wickets, including ST’s. I mean, he was practically glowing with pride. Me? I was hoping for a walkover, but as I told you earlier, fate had other plans.
AM and Sibi John were sent out to open for us, and as I predicted, ST was all set to lead the bowling attack. I’d warned AM that ST’s bowling came at you like a bullet train, but of course, I was brushed off as the guy who barely knew how to hold a bat. Fifteen minutes later, AM came trudging back into the dressing room, pale as a ghost, muttering something about “not being able to see the ball.” And that pretty much set the tone for the rest of the innings. One by one, like soldiers marching into a hopeless battle, our players went out to the middle and returned almost immediately, faces blank, wickets scattered.
It was like watching a slow-motion train wreck—every ball ST hurled seemed faster than the last, cutting through the air with a hiss, thudding into the wicketkeeper’s gloves before our batters even had a chance to blink.
Funny though, as I stood there watching the chaos unfold, all I could think of was Alfred Tennyson’s poem—The Charge of the Light Brigade. It felt oddly appropriate for our situation:
"Forward, the Light Brigade!"
Someone had blundered.
Theirs not to make reply,
Theirs not to reason why,
Theirs but to do and die.
Into the valley of Death
Rode the six hundred.
Except in our case, it wasn’t the valley of death; it was the cricket pitch at Capt. Roop Singh Stadium. And we weren’t six hundred—we were just eleven hopeless souls walking into a barrage of yorkers, bouncers, and general humiliation.
It was one thing to watch the scoreboard ticking away, but another entirely to watch as our top batsmen fell, one by one, like dominos. Every time a new batter walked in, the YBCA team seemed to sense our desperation, and with each ball, they seemed to exude even more confidence. It wasn’t long before the spectators began to lose interest. It’s hard to cheer for a team that’s being so thoroughly thrashed; it’s like cheering for a butterfly in a lion’s den.
The 250-Pound Fortress
When the seventh wicket fell, Vineet Saxena was guarding one end, exhausted to the core, clinging to the hope of a miracle. That miracle appeared in the form of Ashish Gaira—our 250-pound secret weapon. If there was ever a man built to withstand the onslaught of bouncers and yorkers, it was AG. The guy was massive; he made the stumps practically invisible to the bowlers, like a human fortress standing in their way. If cricket had an award for “Best Human Obstacle,” AG would’ve won it hands down. And somehow, against all odds, he stayed out there.
While the rest of us had folded like cheap lawn chairs, AG dug in, holding his ground. Each delivery whizzed past like a bullet, but he wasn’t fazed. He may not have been graceful—far from it, actually—but he stood there, immovable, like a wrecking ball they couldn’t quite knock down. The guy even managed to score 23 runs (highest from our side), keeping the scoreboard ticking when the rest of us were just grateful to have survived the onslaught. Every time he blocked a ball or somehow nudged it away, you could hear the collective groans of the bowlers—they just couldn’t get past him.
AG might not have led us to victory, but he made sure he went down swinging, quite literally.
The Duck
Finally, it was my turn. With a mix of trepidation and resigned expectation, I stepped up to the pitch. VS was still holding his ground, eyes pleading with me, as if begging, 'Please, Bhai, don’t get out now.'
My practice sessions had seen a few balls fly out of the field—thanks to a combination of sheer luck and the fact that our practice field was more of a postage stamp compared to the vast expanse of the stadium. Expectations had somehow escalated to the point where people thought I might pull off a miracle. My goal was simple: Survive. Easier said than done, right?
Decked out in my pristine white armor, I took a deep breath and exchanged a silent nod with VS. We both knew what was coming; this was a formality. The spinners had entered the fray—those sorcerers who made the ball defy laws of physics and make it dance to their tune. Pacers, you read the line and swing, hoping for the best. Spinners? They demanded reading a complex ballet of angles and body posture, something that felt like trying to solve a Rubik's Cube while blindfolded.
I faced the first delivery, and oh boy, did it spin. I swung hard, but the ball barely trickled towards the midpoint of the pitch. It felt like I’d hit it with a feather rather than a bat. “Must be a fluke,” I thought. Second ball, same story—a mighty swing, and the ball seemed to have a personal vendetta against me, refusing to travel more than a few feet. It was like trying to throw a stone into the ocean and expecting a splash.
As I continued to flail about, trying to make contact, every ball felt like it was dancing just out of reach. My efforts were so futile that even the crowd began to feel pity for my plight. I finally managed to connect with a delivery, sending it with what felt like Herculean effort. It barely rolled past the midfield. At this point, I was convinced someone had moved the boundary farther back just to spite me.
Then, it happened. A sneaky spinner delivered a ball that seemed to vanish before my eyes, and with a sharp clatter, I was clean-bowled. Out for a Duck. My brief, uneventful innings had ended, and I was left standing there, convinced that cosmic forces were conspiring against me.
The Epic Humiliation
The match concluded with our score languishing at a pitiful 72. The closing ceremony was a spectacle of strained grins and hollow congratulations, predominantly aimed at YBCA. We, the vanquished, the fallen heroes, shuffled back to campus, our spirits as battered as our scorecard. I was somewhat relieved to leave that field—feeling the weight of defeat lift from my shoulders, even if it left a bitter taste in my mouth. At least I didn’t end up in the hospital with a broken rib or a concussion.
Coach, in a rare display of empathy, granted us the following day off—a small concession we seized with the enthusiasm of the defeated. We did make it into the local newspapers, though our mention was more for the sheer absurdity of our defeat than for any cricketing skill. Headlines like “Boston’s Brave Attempt Falls Flat “, “Cricket Catastrophe”, and “Boston Bows Out” greeted us the next morning. Not even one local daily showed mercy towards us.
Since that match, Boston College kept its distance from cricket—at least until I graduated. As for me? I found my way to volleyball. Turns out, the six of us were pretty good at it. Over the next two years, we finished as runners-up twice in the inter-college championships, always falling short to Laxmibai National Institute of Physical Education. Still, it was way better than cricket. At least the volleyball court doesn’t betray you or plot against you. But let's save those stories for another time.
There’s always a Lesson
And so, that was my cricket adventure—a foray into the heart of cricket’s sacred ground, tarnished by a defeat that felt both inevitable and humbling. But looking back, it wasn’t the loss that mattered most. It was the lesson. I came to understand the value of staying in your lane and playing to your strengths. There’s wisdom in knowing when to pursue what you truly grasp, whether in sports, relationships, or career choices.
Sometimes, it's wiser to stick to what you know best—especially when you’re stepping onto a field where legends once played.
