The Dressing Room Of Eden Gardens

Till Our Lungs Catch Fire

Things were heating up. Laxman had known they would as soon as Rahul had turned to him before parting ways and said in a low flat voice, "Call. I will run,".

Laxman had turned to him a bit surprised, "What?"

Rahul's sunken eyes had peeked out at him, an intensity blazing in them though they were still hazy despite the treatment they had recieved at lunch, "You heard me," he had said. Then with a disdainful glance towards the press box he had walked off towards the other end.

Laxman had smiled. Call it delirium from the pain, or just the heat having messed his head up enough if you will, but till then he had been trying to keep strike for the sole reason that he needed Rahul to survive. It was a risky gameplan, but one he had thought necessary seeing Rahul's condition. But Rahul didn't want protection anymore. He was ready to fight, ready for a scrap. And that gave Laxman so much freedom. People underestimated how much of an attack rotating strike was in cricket. How much it kept the opposing captain on his toes.

He knows before the session starts, Waugh was not going to have a pretty two hours.

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Steve was not having a pretty two hours, like he had thought he would. Dravid was struggling with a capital S, Laxman was tiring so mightily that Dravid had begun shielding him. But somehow the two were going on and on, repelling them, especially repelling poor poor Jason again and again. He had heard rumors of both the batsmen's ill health. And as soon as he had began attacking them in the second innings, it began becoming more and more evident that they were indeed not doing too well. Laxman had had to be stretched out by the physio once, looking like he was holding back pain by his teeth and a lot of embarrassment. He kept listing sideways in over breaks, touching his back. Dravid had keeled and nearly fallen over, a legitimate reaction for anyone getting hit in the gut by Gillespie but the second he had taken his helmet off for the first time that day, Steve was taken aback by how terrible he looked, nearly making him feel bad for refusing him water. Nearly, because Rahul should have stayed in bed and not be out here giving him the most painful headache by struggling on just as painfully.

Was Steve feeling like a bit of a douche when he had begun refusing the Indians drink breaks? Yes. And had Laxman thrown that scoff in any other situation, he would have taken it as a challenge and given Gillespie the right to hit as many bodyline bouncers as he wanted.

Instead he gives a flat smile and a shrug before moving back to his position. Because in Steve's opinion, yes he was a bit of a douche, he had to be a bit of a douche. It was alright to be a villain if you want to win, it was how he and his brother were raised. It was the survival of the fittest out there. People weren't going to remember these things years later, but they were going to remember the numbers. And damn it if he was going to let number 17 and 18 fall from his hand. He hadn't trotted up those 16 wins just to fall to Ganguly's depleted team. He didn't like the look in both Dravid and Laxman's eyes. So yes, he was going to use any weapon in his arsenal as long as he saw their backs. 

Unfortunately, neither of them seemed ready to show their backs. If anything the more he attacked, the harder they were defending. Worst of all: they had begun running. Dravid had just pulled Ricky for a well placed four but Mike had managed to stop it. Only for it to result in an overthrow. Dravid had instead run four. Warney with his endless quips and humor used to always throw about "I will do it when the Indians start running," when asked to do anything.

Well. Shane better be ready to actually start listening to him because the Indians indeed were running. And that was endlessly worrying him.

For the first time he was wondering if that dinner nearly three years ago, when he had let the kid pick his brains endlessly for two hours, had been a bad idea. If they managed to not win this because Steve had felt a little, tiny bit of empathy for that fresh faced kid three years ago, Mark was going to announce it to the team and he would be endlessly roasted for it.

He sighs and crouches again, waiting for Warne to begin his run up, watching as Laxman flexes his neck, touches his back and gets in stance. He needed a break much more than the two sick patients stubbornly not letting the day be easier for neither him nor themselves; and that was a sentence he had never thought he would be thinking. Indians indeed were running today.