A/N: If you like the story, remember to give a review. It'll motivate me to continue with same passion ✌️😁
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Mumbai, Early July 2013
The sun had just begun to paint the sky in soft orange hues when Rocky reached the MI training facility in Bandra.
It was barely 5:30 AM, but the air already felt warm and humid, carrying the faint scent of freshly watered grass and distant sea salt.
The training ground lay quiet under a pale orange sky, dew clinging to the grass like tiny diamonds.
One month after the euphoria of Eden Gardens, the trophy, the tears, the endless camera flashes, the endless interviews, the weight of Sachin's emotional hug still lingering in his memory.
Yet here he was.
Alone.
Sweating before most of the city had even woken up.
The great Sachin Tendulkar had personally recommended the coach.
"Beta, talent opened the door for you. Now hard work has to keep it open," he had said a week after the final.
Two days later, Pravin Amre, the former India batsman and sharp Mumbai cricket mind, agreed to take Rocky on for the off-season.
Rocky adjusted the strap of his kit bag on his shoulder.
His body still carried the faint soreness from the victory parade, but his mind was restless.
___
Pravin Amre was already there.
The former India batsman stood near the practice nets in a simple white T-shirt and tracksuit bottoms, sipping tea from a steel tumbler.
He was in his early forties, calm-eyed, with the kind of quiet authority that came from years of grinding at the domestic level.
Sachin had personally called him, telling him about the situation.
"Pravin sir," Rocky greeted, voice still thick with sleep.
Amre gave a small nod, studying the boy the way a sculptor studies raw stone.
'Eighteen years old. Scored a match-winning knock in a final. But look at those shoulders, still carrying the weight of doubt.'
He had watched the IPL tapes.
The reflexes were unnatural, almost frightening.
But the technique? Raw.
Unpolished.
Like a blade that could cut brilliantly one moment and shatter the next.
"Sit," Amre said, pointing to a bench.
"Before we start, tell me something. Why are you here at 5:30 in the morning when most boys your age would still be celebrating?"
Rocky stared at the dew-covered pitch.
Memories flooded in, the dusty maidans in this life, the struggle to keep the orphanage running, Grandma Rita and others at home, the software engineer who never had time for dreams, the second chance that came with a system that vanished too soon.
"Because I know I'm still not good enough, sir. The reflexes help in matches… but in nets, I feel like I'm faking it."
Amre's eyes softened slightly.
'Honest, huh. That's rare.'
"Good. Most boys come here thinking they've already arrived. You're still hungry. That's why Sachin recommended you. Now, let's see what that hunger looks like on the field."
___
In The Nets, First Hour.
The throw-downs began slowly.
Amre stood fifteen yards away, arm loose but precise.
First ball, good length, middle stump.
Rocky's feet moved early thanks to his reflexes, but his head fell slightly forward.
The bat came down late.
Edge.
The ball flew to the slip cordon where an imaginary fielder would have taken the catch.
"Again," Amre said, no emotion in his voice.
Ball after ball. Rocky tried to focus on Ponting's balance, head still, shoulders level.
But his timing hovered stubbornly around that 36/100 mark.
(A/N: 1 point Increase after intense ipl performances, there he was mostly hitting blindly many times that's why it's barely went up. +15 instinct is different.)
Shots that looked glorious in the final now felt clunky.
A front-foot drive flew straight up.
A attempted pull went tamely to mid-on.
Frustration clawed at Rocky's throat.
'Why? I smashed Jadeja for six in the final. I made Ashwin look ordinary. What the hell is wrong with me now?'
Sweat dripped into his eyes. His grip tightened until his knuckles turned white.
After forty balls, he stepped out of the crease, breathing hard, bat hanging limply.
Amre lowered his arm and walked closer. Internally, the coach felt a strange mix of concern and admiration.
'This boy has gifts most cricketers would kill for. But gifts without foundation become curses. I've seen it destroy careers.'
"Rocky," Amre said quietly, "your eyes see the ball faster than anyone I've coached. But your body doesn't trust what your eyes are telling it yet. That's why you're mistiming. Ricky Ponting used to say, talent gets you noticed, repetition gets you remembered. So we repeat until your body believes."
He demonstrated the A4 Paper drill himself.
Imagining a small rectangle on the pitch, Amre explained, "Inside this box, you defend or leave with perfect balance. Outside, you attack. No ego. No trying to look good. Just decision-making."
Rocky nodded, throat tight.
They resumed.
For the next forty minutes, it was relentless.
Good balls. Bad balls.
Some drives finally found the middle, sweet thud that sent a shiver up Rocky's spine.
Others still betrayed him.
Once, on a short ball, he tried his signature short-arm pull too early.
The ball lobbed up pathetically.
"Damn it!"
He cursed loudly, kicking the turf.
Amre didn't scold him.
He simply said, "That anger? Channel it. Ponting used to get angry too. Then he'd channel it into the next ball."
___
Mid-Session Break.
They took a five-minute water break under the shade of a tree.
The sun was climbing higher now, turning the ground golden.
Rocky sat on the grass, knees drawn up, staring at his bat.
Amre joined him, wiping his own sweat.
For the first time, the coach let some emotion show in his voice.
"You know, when Sachin called me, he said something interesting. 'This boy reminds me of my early days. All heart, but still learning where his feet should be.' I laughed then. But watching you now…"
Amre paused, looking across the empty ground.
"I see what he meant. You have something special, Rocky. Not just reflexes. That hunger in your eyes, it's the same one I saw in a young Sachin, a young Ponting. But hunger without direction burns out fast."
Rocky's eyes stung.
He looked away, blinking rapidly.
'I don't want to burn out. I got a second life. I can't waste it being a one-season story.'
"I feel like an imposter sometimes, sir," he admitted, voice low.
"People call me the next Ricky Ponting. But in here," he tapped his bat, "I know I'm still average. The final… it felt like a dream. Now it feels like pressure."
No matter how mentally tough he thought he was, Rocky realized that the pressure of being a cricketer and a software engineer, belonged to two completely different worlds.
Back at his desk, a crash was just a bug in the code, something you could fix with a patch, a coffee break, and a few taps of Ctrl+Z.
But out here, under the unforgiving heat of the games, there was no undo button.
Performing in front of billions meant that one mistake could ignite a national wildfire, turning a lifetime of hard work into a punchline before the next ball was even bowled.
Thinking of that future where every players would get trolled, toxic fan cultures, social media and horrible trolling that even greats like Virat Kohli, MS Dhoni faced.
Rudra felt the pressure.
Amre shook his head and spoke with his gleaming with wisdom, something he had seen throughout his career,
"Everyone has to start somewhere, Rocky. Today, they're calling you Indian Punter, that's not an insult, that's a landmark."
He paused for a moment, probably reminiscing about that cruel heartbreak, then continued,
"That infamous 2003 final, where Ricky Pointing smashed Indian team enough that even fans and experts couldn't accept it and started the spring bat accusations. I'm sure, those who witnessed it live, definitely remembered that nightmare seeing you bat in IPL."
Amre placed a hand on the boy's shoulder, looked into his eyes
"Pressure is proof you care. Embrace it. Now get up. We're not done."
___
Then they moved to specific drills.
Amre focused heavily on balance and trigger movement, Ponting's obsession.
Rocky practised shadow batting with a resistance band around his waist, learning to stay still until the ball was released.
Then came throw-downs again, this time only on-drives and off-drives.
Twenty perfect ones in a row.
If he lost shape even once, they restarted.
Slowly, painfully, tiny improvements appeared.
A few drives flowed smoother.
The bat felt lighter in his hands for brief moments.
His timing didn't jump dramatically, but a couple of shots carried that crisp sound he remembered from the final.
By the end of the session, Rocky was drenched, legs shaking, but there was a quiet fire in his chest.
Amre wiped his hands and smiled faintly, the first real smile of the morning.
'This boy won't be easy. He questions himself too much. But that self-doubt might be his greatest strength if he channels it right.'
"You did well today," Amre complimented.
"Not because you hit many good shots. But because you didn't quit when it got ugly. Tomorrow we do the same. Evening session, fielding and fitness. Don't be late."
Rocky stood up, bat over his shoulder, body aching but spirit steadier.
As he walked toward the gate, the morning sun warmed his face.
He thought of the dusty maidans back home, the System that had abandoned him after giving him reflexes and aggression, and the long road ahead.
'36/100 timing. Maybe 37 tomorrow. One day it'll be 70. I'll make sure of it..'
____
Evening Session.
That same evening, under the orange glow of setting sun, Rocky returned for fielding drills.
Amre had arranged cones and a single stump.
For ninety minutes, Rocky dived, sprinted, threw.
His Predator's Pounce bursts still looked otherworldly, covering ground no normal 18-year-old should.
Direct hits from point territory found the stump nine times out of ten.
But even here, Amre pushed him.
"Faster recovery. Again."
When Rocky finally sat exhausted on the turf as darkness fell, Amre sat beside him once more.
"You know why Ricky Ponting was great?" the coach asked softly and Rocky shook his head.
"Not because he was the most talented. But because he turned practice into obsession. You have that in you, Rocky. I can see it. But obsession without rest becomes injury. Go home. Eat. Sleep. Tomorrow we do it again."
Rocky looked up at the stars beginning to appear.
A single tear escaped despite his efforts to hold it back.
Not sadness. Not joy.
Just pure, overwhelming emotion, gratitude for the second chance, fear of failing it, and burning determination to earn every single run from now on.
'This is my real battle. Not against bowlers. Against myself.'
Pravin Amre watched the boy walk away into the night, kit bag heavy on his shoulder.
"He'll struggle. He'll fail sometimes. But if he keeps showing up like this… Indian cricket might have found something special."
The grind had truly begun.
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