second Innings

The morning air was crisp as I walked onto the state team practice facility, my "new" old-style bat feeling foreign in my hands. Around me, players I'd only ever seen in grainy YouTube highlights were going through their warm-ups. Some would go on to play for India, others would fade into cricket's vast footnotes. All were unknowingly standing at the cusp of the sport's greatest transformation.

"New kid!" called out the state team captain. "Show us what made the selectors break protocol."

I took my stance in the nets, consciously adjusting my grip. The modern high-elbow, open stance I'd developed over years needed to be tempered. Too much innovation too quickly would raise eyebrows. Cricket evolution needed to feel organic, not revolutionary.

The first few deliveries, I played traditionally â€" forward defense, careful leaves. Then muscle memory kicked in. A good-length ball was met with a paddle sweep, a shot that wouldn't become common in long-format cricket for another decade. The bowler blinked in surprise. The captain leaned forward.

"Interesting choice," he said, walking over. "Risky for red-ball cricket, though."

I nodded, mentally kicking myself. "Sometimes the best defense is disrupting the bowler's rhythm," I offered. It was a principle that would become cricket gospel in the T20 era, but here in 2004, it sounded almost heretical.

During the lunch break, I sat alone, scribbling in my diary:

"Every cricket stroke carries the weight of history. Today, I had to unlearn fifteen years of evolution to fit in. But maybe that's not the right approach. The game didn't change overnight in my timeline â€" it was gradual, organic. Perhaps instead of hiding what I know, I need to be that catalyst for gradual change.

The captain noticed my sweep shot. In 2004, it's seen as a last resort against spin. By 2024, it'll be a staple attacking option against pace. Should I be the one to bridge that gap? To show that innovation doesn't mean abandoning technique, but expanding it?"

My contemplation was interrupted by the team analyst, a position that was still relatively new in Indian cricket. He had been filming the net session.

"Your batting â€" it's like you're playing a different game," he said, showing me the footage. "The traditional elements are there, but your movements... it's almost like you're batting in the future."

I froze at his choice of words, but he was already continuing. "The game's changing. These young players coming up in England, Australia â€" they're bringing new dynamics. Cricket can't stay static."

That evening, as I practiced alone, I made a decision. I couldn't hide everything I knew about cricket's evolution. The game was already changing. Perhaps I wasn't here to preserve a timeline or create a new one, but to help the sport find its natural progression.

I took out my phone â€" a basic 2004 model that felt like a brick compared to what I was used to â€" and called Rahul Dravid.

"Sir, remember when you said to trust what I know? I think I've been approaching this wrong. Instead of choosing between past and future, maybe it's about finding the bridge between them."

There was a thoughtful pause on the line. "Cricket," he finally said, "is like a river. It's always flowing, always changing course. Our job isn't to direct it, but to understand its flow."

I looked at my two bats â€" the modern one hidden in my room, the contemporary one in my hands. Each represented a different era of cricket, but the fundamental truths remained constant. Technique. Temperament. Timing. The details might evolve, but the essence endured.

Tomorrow, I would bat again. This time, I wouldn't try to play like it was 2004 or 2024. I would play cricket as it was meant to be played â€" with respect for its past and an eye on its future. After all, isn't that what every generation of cricketers does, whether they're time travelers or not?