I am the best, and that is all that matters.
With the willow, I ooze confidence, and my swagger intimidates the opposition. Funny. Is this the same person who intentionally undersells himself? Last I recall, my mom was complaining about this trait to my colleague-turned-friend, but here, the opposition was desperate to see the self-assurance shatter. But then again, who would blame them?
Before stepping onto the field, I was anonymous for most. Out of shape, dealing with policy-making, radiating nerd vibes with stacks of books on his desk – they judged the book by the cover. Within two months, the narrative transformed from “Aap khelo koi baat nahi” (Play, it does not matter how good you are) to “Aap kay liyay special tayari ki hay” (We have prepared plans to deal with you). Why? Scoring for fun and scaring the batters with thunderbolts, there was a stark difference between me and my foes.
But despite all this, there exists an unspoken barrier that outweighs the tangibles. While one can fool the world by maintaining an icy cool exterior, if your brain has chariots racing before the bowler takes his first stride – not even prayers can defend your impending doom. You can have the skills of Maxwell, but without this mental peace, you’ll be nothing more than another Haider Ali.
There’s no doubt the opposition had thrown fierce competition by introducing their latest secret weapon – collective bullying of one (me) individual. The chants, the trash talk, the intimidation. I have been in much worse, where entire schools root for their teams, shout abuses at our minor victories and express disapproval of our victory. Rather than getting on my nerves, these measures fueled my excessive confidence as their antics proved you are head and shoulders above your favourites.
The bowler began running in. My bat was set, legs in a squat position to minimise the yorker threat, eyes fixated on the bowler’s hand, technically sound, but… it did not feel right. Somewhere out there, the body was signalling the lack of conviction. No, I did not fear the staggering pace of the bowler. Yes, he bowled rockets, but I did smash a six.
WOOOOOSHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH
The ball raced past the outside edge. In a sport, time is of the essence. I was caught ball-watching as my bat never arrived on time. This was the fifth time he was bowling, and by now, I was well acquainted with his pace. As the ball was thrown back to the bowler, my inner voice murmured, "Yeh waisay hee taiz hay" (He is super fast). But I knew I lied to myself as we were in the 3rd match, and his pace had considerably diminished, with fatigue kicking in.
They all came charging in - encircling an already demotivated figure. The opposition shouted at the top of their lungs, celebrating a guaranteed win. With the woodwork rattled by the tape ball, the batter had to leave the field, cursing his bad luck with the ball smashing onto his right leg and deflecting onto the off-stump.
As I lay in my bed, after a hot-water shower, the humiliation of being bowled replayed. Within no time, the unrest in my brain was blamed for the uneasiness while batting. While I fondly remember bashing Steven Smith for getting annoyed at the miniature robot outside the boundary line, the bottom line is that mental clarity and calmness are pivotal to acing a sport. At that moment, my head was tangled in a web of thoughts, hindering my focus. The bitter taste of defeat (the first over a year), coupled with the horrendous collapse of the team, cast clouds of doubt. The free flow of the bat faced stiff resistance with the confusion over intent and the burden of responsibility. In the end, it was my brain that let me down, and not the skill of the bowler.
