Mumbai, 2007 — July to October
The monsoon lingered longer than usual that year. Shivaji Park, normally teeming with the crack of leather on willow, had transformed into a soggy patchwork of puddles and half-drowned boundary lines. But for Ishaan Verma, the ground had become a sacred space of healing.
Every morning, he arrived before the sun could cut through the clouds, dragging a rake and a heavy roller behind him. With the help of two ground boys, he pushed water off the pitches, dried the turf with old bedsheets, and drew fresh creases. No cameras. No selectors. No spectators. Just the sound of work.
For three months after his father's passing, Ishaan turned silence into practice and grief into rhythm.
Coach Kulkarni had given him space.
"You come back when you're ready," he'd said at the cremation, resting a heavy hand on Ishaan's shoulder. "Cricket will wait. Loss doesn't."
But Ishaan hadn't waited long.
Ten days after the funeral, he returned to Shivaji Park, not to play, but to watch. He sat under the old tamarind tree, pad in hand, scribbling notes, watching bowlers' actions, tracking angles of bounce. It was Rudra who noticed first.
"You're planning innings before you've even padded up."
Ishaan had smiled faintly. "That's how I start healing."
By mid-July, the Under-16 Mumbai Selection Trials were announced. Unlike the Under-14 zonals, these were competitive, cut-throat, and flooded with talented kids from across the state. The age gap, now larger, meant Ishaan would be up against boys taller, stronger, and already hardened by high school cricket leagues.
Coach Kulkarni wasn't concerned.
"You're 13, but your brain bats at 18."
Ishaan was still unsure. His body was growing but lean, and his strength didn't match his timing. He had added strokes, yes — the ramp shot, the check drive, the sweep off leg-spinners — but he lacked the raw muscle others boasted.
So he made a plan.
Each morning began with hill sprints at Malabar Hill's base, followed by 200 sit-ups and 50 push-ups. Then came breakfast — dates, milk, eggs, and bananas — whatever the family budget allowed. He spent the afternoons with Kulkarni, mastering footwork drills and sharpening reflexes using hanging balls and mirror bats. Evenings were for shadow-practice in the hallway, his father's voice ringing in his head:
"You don't need crowds to imagine victory. Just enough room to dream."
Rudra joined often, bowling with a taped tennis ball under streetlights. "One day," he said one evening, "they'll make a biopic on you, and this gully will be in the trailer."
Ishaan smiled. "Only if I make the Under-16 cut."
"You will," Rudra said confidently. "Because no one's playing against life the way you are."
August 2007 — Selection Day
The trials were held at Cross Maidan — a battlefield of youth cricket where noise competed with ambition. Ishaan, wearing the same faded kit from Sri Lanka, walked through the gates quietly. Others flaunted new shoes, shiny stickers, and brand-sponsored kits. A few looked at him, confused.
"Isn't that the U-14 guy?"
"Didn't his dad just pass away?"
"Thought he took a break."
Ishaan heard it all. But he wasn't here to prove his presence. He was here to make it impossible to ignore.
The selection format was brutal — four practice matches in two days, each player getting a maximum of 10 overs to bat or bowl, depending on their skill. One bad session could end it.
Ishaan was slotted in the third match. He watched the first two closely, noting how the selectors leaned in when players adapted to difficult bounce or built partnerships.
When his turn came, he opened the innings.
The first over: two leaves, a tight single, a mistimed square cut.
The second: full delivery, straight drive. Four.
Then the storm came.
He unleashed a counterattacking 78 off 58 balls, dancing down the track to spinners, driving on the up against pacers. The innings wasn't just stylish — it was strategic. Every shot answered a question, every run declared intent.
Selectors watched. Murmured. Scribbled.
Coach Kulkarni stood behind the sight screen, arms folded, hiding a smile.
By evening, Ishaan was back home. Exhausted, but lighter.
Meera served him hot rotis and curd.
"You played like he was watching, didn't you?" she asked.
Ishaan nodded.
"He always is."
The selection list came out two days later.
Ishaan Verma — Opening Batsman, Mumbai U-16 Probables.
The Camp — Navi Mumbai Cricket Complex
The Under-16 Mumbai camp was a different world altogether. Here, boys carried protein shakers, spoke of batting averages like stockbrokers, and compared toe guards and thigh pads like car fanatics.
And here, Ishaan met Aarav Malhotra — son of a retired Test player, future captain material, and the most polished cricketer Ishaan had seen at that age.
Aarav batted like silk. Leg-side flicks like Laxman. Cut shots like Rohit. And he had charm — that unteachable magnetism that pulled selectors, coaches, and media toward him like a tide.
But what struck Ishaan most wasn't his game. It was his gaze.
Aarav didn't look at opponents. He looked through them.
Rudra, visiting during one weekend match, leaned over the fence and said, "He's not just good. He's… branded."
Ishaan nodded. "Which means I have to be unforgettable."
Their rivalry wasn't spoken. Not yet. But on the last day of camp, in a match simulation, they opened together.
And something happened.
Aarav stroked an early 30. Crisp. Elegant.
Ishaan, at the other end, dug in. His 42 took longer but felt harder earned.
Then came a mix-up. A call. A sprint. A direct hit.
Aarav was run out.
He glared at Ishaan. Said nothing. But the crack had formed.
India U-16 scouts were present that day.
Only one opener would go through to the West Zone camp.
And both boys knew it.
October 2007 — The Selection Letter
The envelope arrived with a cream border. BCCI insignia in gold. Meera brought it in with shaking hands.
"Who is it from?" she asked, already knowing.
Ishaan opened it.
Dear Mr. Ishaan Verma,
You are hereby selected to represent the West Zone U-16 Team for the upcoming Challenger Youth Trophy.
The rest of the letter blurred.
Ishaan looked up.
"It's happening again."
Meera hugged him. "He would be dancing on the roof."
That night, Ishaan opened his father's final letter again. Read it once more.
And whispered to the air: "One century. One hundred chances to thank you."
Meanwhile…
Far away, in a training camp in Delhi, Riyan Singh watched a news report.
"Mumbai's Ishaan Verma — U-16 call-up. Known for calm, class, and comeback spirit."
Riyan switched off the TV.
He turned to his father.
"Remember that name."
His father, a stern man with a military moustache, replied coldly, "No need. Beat the name, not just the boy."
Riyan went back to practice. Googly after googly. Tossed with malice. Ripped with purpose.
Back in Mumbai, Ishaan was packing for the West Zone camp.
As he placed his father's diary into his kit bag, next to his new bat, he smiled.
The long summer had passed.
The boy was now stepping into autumn.
And the journey was only just beginning.