The true face of cricket a fourteen-year-old boy telling his story
Every day didn’t care if it was summer, winter or rain I ran the course I sprinted away just to find myself adjusted in the dreams, I wanted to play. Just to be strong, just to gain might I handled my bat kept on swinging it day and night. While everybody else slept I would wake up in the morning at sharp 4 took a 5 km walk to the ground my dear home. Touched the ground felt it as some holy temple my body was longing to visit, I played every stroke like my life had given me the last of my minutes. Thunder hit me lightning struck every time the bat touched the bat touched the ball with a silk-like a touch and showed it a way out of the bounds. I shed all I could sweat, tears and blood forget my own self-chasing the Indian jersey that I so loved. At the end again fate twisted threw me in a hole where the money filled the ears of people and no one could hear my plead, no one there to give any head left all alone still hanging by a thread I chased it again every morning with the depth of desire, to gain nothing but ashes left by the burning fire.