The Power of Love

Chapter 10

The dawn of the match day was tinged with a cocktail of emotions; a burning desire to embrace Shubman mingled with the fear of being a distraction. So, I refrained from calling, sending only a message to let him know I'd be there, a silent supporter in the VIP section.

As the captains emerged for the toss, the air was electric with anticipation. Victory favored India, granting them the chance to bat first under an azure sky that promised runs aplenty.

Yashasvi and Rohit bhai approached the crease with a swagger that spoke of battles won and challenges yet to come. The English bowlers, seasoned James Anderson and fiery Mark Wood, unleashed a barrage of disciplined deliveries. The Indian openers, undaunted, weathered the storm and then surged forward, stitching together a century partnership that had the crowd on its feet. But the triumph was marred just before lunch as Anderson's cunning delivery claimed Rohit bhai, out lbw for a valiant 45. India regrouped at lunch with the scoreboard reading a promising 120/1.

The post-lunch session welcomed Shub to the battlefield. His bat, an artist's brush, painted strokes of cautious elegance against England's relentless attack. Side by side with Yashasvi, they wove a tapestry of runs, with Yashasvi's bat singing to the tune of a half-century. Yet, debutant Tom Hartley's spin wove a different tale, snaring Jaiswal for 65. The quick departures of Devdutt Padikkal and Sarfaraz Khan left India teetering at 180/4, but Shub stood unshaken, his half-century a testament to his resolve as tea was called.

The final session was a crescendo of Shub's symphony. With Ravindra Jadeja as his steadfast ally, they crafted a partnership that was nothing short of a masterpiece. Shubman's dance against the spinners was mesmerizing, his cover drives a chorus that echoed around the stadium. His century came with a display of sheer power, a six that soared over long-on and into the annals of cricketing glory. Though Jadeja departed after a gritty 40, Shubman's masterclass continued, his unbeaten 145 guiding India to a formidable 320/7 at stumps.

The accolade of Player of the Match was a crown well-deserved, and as the interviewer posed the question, "Hello Shubman. How do you feel?" his eyes found mine, and a shared smile passed between us. "I feel good," he replied, the simplicity of his words belying the depth of his achievement.

"And to whom would you like to dedicate this success?" the interviewer probed further.

Without hesitation, Shubman's answer was a balm to my soul, "My sister." The moment was a silent acknowledgment of bonds that run deeper than the game.

As the award was bestowed upon him, he retreated to the sanctity of the dressing room, leaving me by the VIP stands, lost in a sea of thoughts amidst the scrolling on my phone. The stadium began its transformation for the night, the pitch tucked away under covers, and the players' conversations a distant murmur. The day's play might have ended, but the emotions it stirred would linger long after the fans had departed and the lights had dimmed.