The hum of the hostel's ancient air conditioning unit did little to drown out the internal monologue replaying in Aarav's head. Raghav's casual jibe—"All the greats started somewhere"—had burrowed deep, no longer a joke but a persistent, irritating whisper. He rolled over, pulling the flimsy sheet higher, but the image of Steve Smith's unshakeable grin, then Dhoni's desolate walk back to the pavilion, persisted.
Too late. It's too late. The thought was a comfort, a convenient excuse to extinguish the spark that Raghav had ignited. He was twenty. Most aspiring cricketers, the ones who genuinely made it, were already grinding through academies, playing state-level age-group cricket, their paths set years ago. He was neck-deep in engineering textbooks, not bowling drills.
Then, another memory surfaced, something he'd read years ago, a fleeting article about an Australian cricketer. A strange, almost improbable career arc.
Mike Hussey.
The name echoed in his mind. Mr. Cricket. He remembered the details now, piecing them together from old sports pages. Hussey hadn't made his Test debut until he was nearly thirty. Thirty! For years, he'd toiled in domestic cricket, dominating for Western Australia, scoring mountains of runs, yet overlooked by the national selectors. He was older, considered past his prime by the time he finally got his chance. And when he did, he didn't just play; he excelled, becoming one of Australia's most consistent and beloved batsmen, earning the nickname "Mr. Cricket" for his sheer dedication and all-around game.
Aarav sat bolt upright. The idea, initially a fleeting fancy, now took on a new, urgent dimension. Hussey's story wasn't about raw talent discovered young; it was about relentless perseverance, an unwavering belief, and a refusal to give up on a dream, no matter how distant it seemed. It was about perfecting his craft, quietly, diligently, waiting for his moment.
If Hussey could wait until almost thirty to explode onto the international scene, why couldn't Aarav, at twenty, at least start the journey? The thought was a jolt of pure adrenaline. He wasn't aiming for the national team tomorrow, or even next year. He was aiming to understand the game on a deeper level, to learn what it took, to transform this burning frustration into something constructive.
The anger about the World Cup loss hadn't subsided, but it had morphed. It was no longer a destructive fire but a focused energy. He thought about the gaps in India's bowling attack, the lack of genuine pace, the inability to consistently get early wickets against world-class batsmen. He pictured Smith's calm demeanor, unperturbed by anything thrown at him. That's what's missing, Aarav thought, that cutting edge. That early strike.
He swung his legs off the bed, the concrete floor cool beneath his bare feet. The old bat in his room, forgotten and dusty, suddenly seemed like an artifact waiting to be rediscovered. He wasn't going to be Mike Hussey, the late-blooming batsman. But perhaps, just perhaps, he could be his own version of a late bloomer, a fast bowler who found his rhythm when others thought it was too late.
The challenge that Raghav had playfully thrown now felt like a gauntlet. And Aarav, fueled by the memory of a cricketing legend who defied expectations, was ready to pick it up. The campus nets, once a distant, ignored backdrop, now beckoned with a newfound urgency. His engineering studies would continue, but a new, secret curriculum had just begun.