second Innings

The selection announcement came earlier than expected â€" just another small deviation from my remembered timeline. I was sitting in class when my phone buzzed with a message from Dad: "You made it. First team. Call me."

My hands trembled as I excused myself from the classroom. This was the moment that had changed everything in my original timeline â€" or rather, hadn't changed everything, because I'd been named to the second team back then. Already, the currents of time were shifting around me.

"They want you at practice tomorrow morning," Dad said when I called. His voice carried a pride I remembered from much later in my original life. "6 AM sharp."

That evening, our living room filled with relatives bearing sweets and congratulations. Uncle Vijay, who in my timeline had always said I should focus more on studies, now spoke about cricket scholarships and professional opportunities. The future was rewriting itself conversation by conversation.

At practice the next morning, I found myself sharing a net with players who would become legends in my timeline. Ajit Kumar, who would revolutionize spin bowling technique in 2023, was now just a talented teenager working on conventional off-breaks. Should I mention the grip variation he would discover seven years from now? The ethical implications made my head spin faster than any cricket ball.

Coach Kulkarni pulled me aside during warm-ups. "Your selection has created quite a buzz," he said. "The video of your batting is circulating in cricket circles."

My heart skipped a beat. "Video?"

"Someone recorded the trials on their phone. That reverse sweep especially... some people are calling it ahead of its time."

If only they knew how literally true that was.

During net practice, I deliberately played straight, traditional shots, trying to dial back the future influences in my game. But muscle memory is a stubborn thing â€" my footwork, my bat speed, even my stance between deliveries carried the refinements of twenty years of cricket evolution.

"Your technique is... interesting," observed our team's senior batsman, Vikram Singh. "Not textbook, but effective. Where did you learn to hold the bat like that at the end of your stroke?"

"Just feels natural," I replied, my standard answer for anything too futuristic to explain.

But the questions kept coming. How did I know to adjust my stance before the bowler even shifted their line? Why did I instinctively move to positions that optimized bat speed in ways coaching manuals hadn't yet documented? Each question was a reminder that knowledge, once introduced to the past, couldn't be contained.

That evening, I added a new section to my diary:

"Changes observed so far:

- Selection timeline altered

- Training methods being questioned and adapted

- Players experimenting with 'my' techniques

- Coaching philosophy showing signs of evolution

- Equipment grip modifications gaining attention

- Fitness standards being reevaluated

Every change spawns a dozen others. The butterfly effect isn't just about big moments â€" it's in every small detail, every tiny adjustment, every questioned assumption.

But here's what I'm beginning to understand: maybe I'm not here to preserve the exact future I left. Maybe I'm here to help cricket evolve in a new way, taking the best of what I know while allowing space for organic innovation.

The real question isn't whether to change the future â€" that's already happening. The question is how to be a responsible steward of that change."

As I wrote those words, my phone buzzed again. A message from an unknown number: "Impressive batting at trials. Would like to discuss some ideas. - RD"

Rahul Dravid. The Wall himself wanted to talk about cricket innovation.

The butterfly's wings were flapping harder than ever.