Shadows Of The Stumps

Chapter - 52

The stands, which had been roaring with chants and cheers just hours ago, were now eerily silent. Empty plastic seats stretched across the stadium, and the floodlights cast long, pale shadows over the pitch. The once lively energy had faded, leaving only the sound of a few distant murmurs from the dressing room and the soft sweep of the breeze that ruffled the boundary ropes.

Virat sat alone in the stands, elbows resting on his knees, his hands clasped tightly together. His eyes were fixed on the pitch—silent, unmoving. The same 22 yards that had seen his triumphs now felt like an endless stretch of failure.

The defeat weighed heavily on him. Twelve years of unbeaten Test dominance at home, shattered in a single match. Questions swirled in his mind—about his form, his decisions, and whether the game still had room for him. 

He'd retired from T20s hoping to channel his focus into the longer formats, his favourite formats but now, even here, the rewards seemed to elude him.

Meera, walking along the edge of the field, she scanned the field one final time, her gaze landed on Virat. The sight of him, sitting so still, cut through the remnants of her exhaustion. She sighed, adjusted her pastel sweatshirt, and made her way toward him.

Without a word, Meera plopped down beside him, her shoulder brushing lightly against his. She rolled up her sleeves to her elbows as she sat fiddling with her watch strap.  There was no need to rush—she knew Virat well enough to understand that sometimes, presence was better than words.

After a few minutes, Virat exhaled deeply, his voice low and heavy with frustration. "It's like... I don't even know anymore, Meera." 

He ran a hand through his hair. "I thought I'd left the failures behind with T20s, but it's following me here too. I haven't done anything great in Tests either... I just—" He broke off, shaking his head. "What if this is it? What if I've run my race?"

Meera rested her chin on her knees, watching him out of the corner of her eye. "One game, Virat," she said quietly. "It's just one game. Not your entire life."

He scoffed, bitter. "The internet doesn't see it that way."

"The internet forgets," Meera countered gently. "One good innings, and they'll move on like nothing ever happened. That's how it's always been. People celebrate your centuries and forget your ducks the moment you rise again."

Virat let out a humorless laugh. "Doesn't feel like that right now."

"Look," Meera continued, shifting to face him. "Did you really think we could stay undefeated at home forever? No team does. It's cricket—sometimes, the other side plays better, and today, New Zealand did. They outplayed us, fair and square. That doesn't mean we're bad cricketers or that we should give up."

He rubbed his hands over his face, his breath heavy with frustration. "Still hurts, though."

"Of course, it does," Meera admitted, her voice soft but firm. "But you know what hurts more? Letting one loss define you. Cricket isn't about never falling, Virat—it's about how you get back up after each fall. We can't control every outcome, but we can choose how we respond."

Virat stared at the pitch, silent, absorbing her words. The weight of the loss was still there, sitting heavy on his chest, but Meera's calm presence seemed to make it a little easier to bear.

She smiled, nudging him lightly with her shoulder. "And seriously—one loss in twelve years? That's not exactly a failure, you know. It's just... cricket."

Virat chuckled, a tired but genuine sound. "You make it sound so simple."

"It is simple. It just doesn't feel like it when you're in the middle of it," Meera replied, standing up and dusting off her sweatshirt. "Come on. The rest of the guys are still in the dressing room, and I'm sure Rohit has been entertaining the media at the conference."