The Elusive Trophy!

Gurugram, 4th Oct 2026: 5 dot balls. What started as a piece of cake (2 runs in 8 balls) had suddenly become a mountain to climb, and we were on the cusp of a spectacular loss, quite literally snatching defeat from the jaws of victory.

I was participating in an intra-society cricket tournament, held every year in my society. It is this time of the year when the handful of fit guys and a bucketload of paunch uncles (I am somewhere in between presently) get together and try to prove to each other that “we still got it”.

Spoiler alert: most of us don't!

However, the competitive fervour was in full swing. The premise: 8 teams, bought by a franchise owner. The owner may choose to retain a player from the previous edition, while all other players are up for auction. (Personal milestone: honoured and privileged to be retained by one of the franchises; gave me a sense of responsibility, one of my key motivators.) So we began planning and scouting a full two months before the actual competition.

We had played the last edition as well and had not exactly set the stage on fire, getting knocked out in the group stages itself. A key learning from last year was to get folks who could bat long, instead of bang-bang kinda folks, and at least 2 full-time bowlers.

Between the owner and me, we created a detailed list (yup, using AI) of people who would fit in each position, their roles, possible upper auction price limit, and so on. We also unearthed a few uncapped players who we thought could surprise others! Thus, we were ready for the auction. And amazingly, we were able to get 80% of what we had planned for.

The team had won on paper.

Then began the practice, and as it usually happens, there were certain characters in the team. 3-4 were there for almost all training sessions, 3-4 made special appearances, and 2 just disappeared altogether. We gradually became more confident, assigning clear roles to each, getting the batting, bowling, and fielding order in place, and then awaited the final competition.

(The seriousness with which our team was practising made others notice as well!)

And then came match day 1. We batted first and made a strong total of 62 in 8 overs, with me playing the anchor innings (my assigned role).

Because of the carefully planned auction, we had two of the best bowlers (one highly experienced spinner and one young lad, a bowling all-rounder) in our ranks. Up until the 6th over, the match was ours, and that's where cricket tells you why it is so interesting. The other team needed 29 runs at the end of 6 overs. 

At the end of the 7th over, they needed 7!

The game changed completely in the 7th over and, quite suddenly, we lost the match.

I had chipped in with the ball as well, bowling my quota of 2 overs and taking a wicket. While genuinely pleased with myself, I also felt let down by that one over and, of course, amazed at the opposing batsman who took the match away from us (the same guy won man of the tournament as well!).

After match 1, the supposedly winning-on-paper team lost!

A similar thing happened in match 2. We had the match in control and were chasing a low total (42 in 8 overs). I walked in to bat at my favourite number 3 position, hoping to anchor the innings again.

On the very second ball, while taking a slightly risky single, I slipped and fell face-first! I was run out, which led to a kind of batting collapse, and we ended up losing the second match too!

The won-on-paper team was seeing the tournament slip away!

Just goes to show that in sports (and life), the best-laid plans can go for a toss. So now, game 3, and we needed a miracle to make it to the semi-finals.

Here goes: We HAD to win (and by a margin), and hope the team in 2nd place lost both their matches, and the team in 4th position won, but with a small margin. The probability of all of that happening was probably less than 5%.

However, we did ourselves a favour and won our match, pushing our probability to maybe 10%. After an hour, we got the news that the 2nd-place team had just lost one of their games, so our probability now increased to 15%.

The won-on-paper team was now praying for the Math Gods to help us.

The last group match started at around 11:30 pm. All of us were closely following the score (from the comfort of our homes, thank you technology!), and were shocked in the first over of the chase itself. The team that was in 4th position (and needed to win small for us to go through) had smashed 19 in the first over itself. A new probability had emerged, with the 4th-placed team now looking like a strong contender, as they were at 32 at the end of two overs!

The non-optimistic me dozed off, phone in hand, hopes dashed by this turn of events.

I woke up after 2 hours to see our team's WhatsApp group buzzing. The first message I read:

“We qualified.”

Rubbing my eyes, I went through the 100 or so messages. The 4th team lost 3 wickets on the trot after I dozed off, then made a comeback and won the match, but with a small margin.

We thus made it to the qualifiers on sheer luck and fortune, for a change, favouring us! Anyone remotely interested in cricket was marvelling at how we had made it, none more than us!

Next was the semi-final, with the table toppers of the other group and a strong bowling team. This is where our team just clicked, bowling incredibly well. No extras, spot-on fielding, dream spells by 3 bowlers (Not me though, I got hit for a six. As everyone else, rather sympathetically, put it, it was the last over, so one was on the cards anyway. I still don't believe them. I should have done better).

We restricted our opponents to a measly 35 runs, and very cautiously cantered to the winning runs, without much fuss. Here again, I put on my anchor hat, but got out towards the end, with 3 runs left to win in 2 overs.

The won-on-paper team was, incredibly, in the finals!!!

The final, which was completely unexpected after day 1, had arrived.

For the franchise owner and me, this was a small win in itself. Two months of planning had led to this, and now was the time to execute everything. We bowled first, and bowled decently, but without the discipline of the semi-finals. We ended up giving 13 extras, which propelled their score to above 50, which, for a final, can be daunting.

Cut to the chase, we had both our openers out in quick succession, and it was a familiar situation for me: our backs against the wall. I took to my usual role of dropping anchor, playing only for singles while continuously talking to the other batsman (the young fast bowler, who I had shouted to be sent after the second wicket, assuming he could hit a few blows and keep the run rate in check while I continued rotating the strike).

Call it fortune, or the efforts we put in practice; both of us did what we had to do!

He smashed 3 boundaries right at the moment the run rate seemed to be rising, and I kept rotating the strike and continuously talking to him (dunno if that helped, but it felt right). We had a good partnership going, now needing 11 runs off the last 2 overs, completely achievable.

1st ball of the 7th over, while everyone expected me to again take a single, I took a risk and swung for it. The ball connected and went soaring over the boundary for a six. The match was firmly in our hands now: 5 needed off 11. Two singles and one dot ball later, 2 needed off 8.

This was the point where it was sinking in! We are going to win. All that planning, practice and luck had led to this. The trophy was ours! I thought of finishing the match and swung again and connected cleanly.

The ball, however, veered to the left and went out of the park on the leg side- the cons of playing in a society. Anything outside the park, apart from straight, is given out.

I stood there, cursing myself for losing focus and not finishing the match again (a repeat of the semi-final).

As I walked back to the dugout, my team cheered and was smiling. After all, 2 in 7 is simple; we had one hand on the trophy. 

I did not voice it as much, but I was afraid.

More so on the next ball, when the next batsman got out immediately as well. However, with 2 needed off 6, and with the young lad on strike, the trophy was still very much in the bag for us.

The next 5 balls went for dots!

The bowler, a seasoned veteran and a smart thinker, got under the skin of our young hero with a dead-on line and length. Every ball was a swing and a miss, and suddenly, the park, which was quietly preparing for our coronation, stood still. I was standing away from the team, literally beating myself up for getting out, for not having finished the job!

All those lost competitions flashed before me (I had played many, won none to date! Reached many knock-outs, in cricket and badminton at various levels but never won anything), and I was assuming that a trophy was not meant for me. In that moment, as I stood there, hands on my head, all that time spent practising and planning seemed useless.

I vowed to stop playing altogether, tired of another year of near miss.

5 dot balls. What started as a piece of cake (2 runs in 8 balls) had suddenly become a mountain to climb, and we were on the cusp of a spectacular loss, quite literally snatching defeat from the jaws of victory.

But life had other plans. Our young hero smashed the last ball for a four! My team shouted with joy, running onto the field to hug our hero! And what a moment. The kid held his nerve when all of us had almost lost ours.

Then came the presentation ceremony, with folks getting their Man of the Match/Series and other awards. As has been a trend for me throughout life, I did not get an individual trophy, but the joy of receiving the winners' trophy more than made up for that bittersweet moment!

Post the ceremonies, as I was limping back home (told you, veering towards paunch, had developed cramps in both thighs!), an elderly uncle came to me and said: “Well played, beta. I am the father of the losing franchise owner, but I wanted to come and congratulate you on the way you anchored not just this match, but the entire tournament for your team.”

I didn't know what to say.

Because, somewhere along the way, I had forgotten that anchoring wasn't about being the person who finishes the match. It was about staying there. Keeping things moving. Keeping someone else going and, most importantly, keeping the team going!

And perhaps that is why his words meant more to me than any individual trophy could have. I got my trophy, after all. Not the one I thought I was playing for, probably the one I needed the most.