My daughter plays cricket with kids from the nearby slum.
She has the full kit.
Pads. Gloves. Two bats. Half a dozen balls. Stumps and bails.
The slum kids? None of it.
So, I make sure she bats at least six times before being declared out.
She needs to practice her strokes. Without fear.
I’ve built a net practice pitch in our garden.
Her coach comes twice a week.
The slum kids let her play on, even when they get her out.
For as long as she wants.
Her bat. Her ball. Her rules.
Kids, I tell you. LOL.
Anyway. Big news.
She’s been selected for the district cricket team.
The chairman of the selection committee told me personally.
On the 7th tee at the golf club.
(He’s a cheat, by the way, but who isn’t?)
A slum kid says she doesn’t deserve it.
Doesn’t deserve it?
She scored a century.
He made 49 runs.
Sure, he only gets to bat once.
They play by “fair” rules on their local ground.
No nets. No coach.
He says he’s busy delivering milk and newspapers in the morning.
Washing cars. Attending school.
Caring for siblings. A drunk father.
Dropping and picking up his mother from work.
No excuses.
He lacks fire.
Look at my daughter.
She wakes up at 5 a.m. sharp.
Freshly squeezed orange juice.
Two eggs.
Lovingly prepared by our chef, who adores her.
Ravi, our driver, arrives early.
Loads her kit. Drives her to practice.
She toils all day under the sun.
When it gets too hot?
A short break in the air-conditioned clubhouse.
Protein shakes. Lunch delivered from the Taj.
She’s been doing this since she was 4.
At 16, she’s made it.
On merit.
If she can do it, so can you.
Isn’t she an inspiration?
Image: https://www.turbosquid.com/3d-models/3d-cricket-ball-1743676
