second Innings

The selection results wouldn't be announced for another week, but the ripples of the trial were already spreading through my carefully reconstructed past. That evening, as Coach Kulkarni drove us home, his usual stoic demeanor gave way to barely contained excitement.

"That reverse sweep," he said, shaking his head with a mixture of admiration and confusion. "Where did that come from?"

I adjusted my kitbag, buying time to construct a plausible explanation. "Been practicing in the backyard, sir. Saw it in an international match."

Not technically a lie â€" I had seen it in international matches, just ones that hadn't happened yet.

"Innovative thinking," he nodded. "Cricket is evolving. But remember, tradition has its place."

If only he knew how much the sport would evolve. Twenty20 leagues, pink-ball tests, Decision Review System â€" the game would become almost unrecognizable. And here I was, a time traveler trying to navigate between tradition and future innovation, without disrupting the natural progression of cricket history.

At home, Dad was waiting at the door. "How did it go?"

"Good, I think. Rahul Dravid was there."

His eyes lit up. "The Wall himself? What did he say?"

"He liked my batting." I remembered not to mention specific comments about technique that Dravid would become famous for teaching years later at the National Cricket Academy.

That night, I couldn't sleep. My diary lay open beside me:

"Questions to resolve:

- If I make the state team now, how many careers am I changing?

- Should I use knowledge of future techniques to get ahead?

- What if my actions prevent T20 cricket from evolving the way it should?

- Am I being fair to other players by using future knowledge?

- How much can I change before the butterfly effect becomes uncontrollable?"

A text message buzzed â€" we had just gotten our first mobile phone, a Nokia 3310. It was from Rohit, my teammate from club cricket: "Bhai, everyone talking about your batting at trials. Next Yuvraj Singh they're saying."

I smiled wryly. If they only knew that some of those shots wouldn't be mainstream for another decade.

The next morning at practice, I noticed subtle changes. Younger players were trying to copy the sweep shot I'd played. Coach Kulkarni was discussing innovative batting tactics with his assistant coaches. Had I already set something in motion?

During our morning running session, I deliberately kept pace with others instead of showing my full stamina built over years of future fitness regimes. But even holding back, I was changing things. My running form, my breathing technique â€" products of future training methods â€" were being observed and imitated.

"Your son has good fitness basics," I overheard Coach telling Dad. "Modern cricket demands this level of fitness."

Modern cricket. The phrase hit differently when you knew what "modern" would actually look like in twenty years.

After practice, I visited the local cricket equipment shop â€" the same one that would become a sprawling sports superstore in 2025. Old Mr. Sharma was still behind the counter, before arthritis would force him to sell the business.

"Beta, show me that grip you used," he said. News traveled fast in cricket circles. "Some boys came asking about it."

I demonstrated a simplified version of the grip I'd learned in corporate cricket. "Just feels natural, Uncle."

"Unorthodox but effective," he mused, unknowingly echoing Dravid's words. "Cricket is changing."

Walking home, I passed the empty lot where a cricket academy would eventually be built. In my timeline, it had state-of-the-art bowling machines and video analysis tools. Now it was just a patch of grass where kids played tennis ball cricket.

A group of boys was trying to recreate the scoop shot I'd played at trials. They hadn't quite figured it out, but their attempts showed promise. Was this how cricket evolved? Through bits and pieces of future knowledge accidentally seeping into the past?

That evening, Dad sat me down for a serious talk.

"Son, people are saying good things about your performance. But with recognition comes responsibility."

I nodded, feeling the weight of responsibilities he couldn't imagine. I wasn't just responsible for my own cricket career anymore â€" every choice I made could alter the trajectory of the sport itself.

Later, updating my diary, I wrote:

"Maybe this is why I'm here. Not just to change my own future, but to be part of cricket's evolution. The question isn't whether to use my knowledge, but how to use it responsibly. Guide rather than force, suggest rather than impose.

The future of cricket will be different now â€" it has to be. But maybe that's not a bad thing. Every player, every innovation, every tactical revolution in cricket history came from someone daring to think differently.

I just happen to know what 'differently' looks like twenty years from now.

Tomorrow, I'll start training again. This time, I'll focus on blending future knowledge with present limitations. Build bridges between what cricket is and what it could be.

After all, isn't that what every young player dreams of? To be part of the game's evolution?

I just have the advantage of knowing where that evolution leads."

As I closed my diary, a notification popped up on our home computer â€" state team selections would be announced three days earlier than in my original timeline.

The butterly effect was gaining momentum.

And I was its willing catalyst.