Before Marillier
A hostel cricket match, a collapsing ego, and one scoop shot I still refuse to let go of.
🕣 3 min read
As a kid, I wasn’t obsessed with academics. Cricket was my thing.
My dad loved accompanying me to matches and would light up whenever his friends complimented my batting. Every compliment felt like proof that I was destined for something bigger.
(My Ego Meter: 20%)
Like many Indian boys growing up in India during those years, I was convinced that playing state-level cricket was simply a matter of time. And after that? Well, who knows.
When I joined GIM for my MBA and started playing cricket in the Quad, it was clear from day one—at least in my mind—that there weren’t many who could match the batting skills of this small-town boy.
(My Ego Meter: 40%)
Every year, GIM hosted the Basanti Cup, a much-anticipated cricket tournament between seniors and juniors. It came with all the drama one could hope for—crowds, cheerleaders, slogans, and bragging rights that lasted an entire year.
The Quad had unusual rules. There weren’t many scoring opportunities behind the wicket. Unless, of course, you could scoop the ball over the wicketkeeper’s head. I figured out how. Soon, the scoop became my signature shot.
(My Ego Meter: 50%)
A few months later, Douglas Marillier introduced a similar shot on the international stage. One day, a senior came to me and said - “Marillier played your shot against India today.”
(My Ego Meter: 75%)
Never mind that he had probably never heard of me.
The seniors had never lost the Basanti Cup. At least, that’s what we were told. We lost to our seniors. A year later, we found ourselves defending the title against our juniors.
Among them was one particular batsman. He arrived with the confidence of a young Yuvraj Singh. Powerful. Aggressive. Fearless. I had watched him play a few times and knew he was good. But I was also convinced that my ability to score behind the wicket gave us an edge that nobody else had.
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Maybe he was dealing with the same thing I would have dealt with had the result gone the other way. Disappointment. The collapse of a story. The sudden realization that life refuses to follow the script we write for it.
We all live inside stories about ourselves. Sometimes hero stories. Sometimes victim stories. Sometimes stories that convince us the whole world is watching. Most of the time, the world is busy living its own story.
Whenever I think about that final now, I tell myself: “It was just a game, dude.” And then my mind quietly replies: “Yes. But you did play the scoop before Marillier.”
Just before the tournament, I kept hearing one thing: “If you get Anuj out, you have a fair chance.” At least that’s what I chose to hear.
(My Ego Meter: 100%)
Hostel life has a strange way of convincing you that everyone is talking about you. Most of the time, nobody is. We batted first. I didn’t score much. Funny enough, I barely remember our innings today.
What I remember is the finish. The match came down to the final over. They needed 17 runs. One wicket remained. Their best batsman was still there. And I had the ball.
Our captain, whom we’ll call Bumrah, had bowled the previous over. We hoped he would dismiss their star player. He didn’t. The batsman played him smartly and survived.
Now the responsibility was mine. The first ball got him on strike. The second told him everything he needed to know. He had seen me bowl before. He knew my stock ball was the leg-spinner.
A couple of deliveries later, he launched me for two massive sixes. Now they needed 4 runs from 2 balls. We were about to become the first senior batch in GIM history to lose the Basanti Cup to our juniors. And I was the one holding the ball.
Everything went quiet. This man was stronger than me. Probably smarter than me on the field. Certainly batting better than me that day. I walked over to a friend and asked him what I should bowl. Trying to encourage me, he said:
“We’ve got this, Anuj. We are seniors. We are better than them.”
That sounded like consulting BS at the time. Probably because I knew we had messed it up. I walked back to my mark wondering where I would hide after the match. Then I abandoned every clever idea I had.
No spin. No tricks. No mystery.
I bowled the fastest ball I could. A wide yorker outside off stump.
Hard to reach. Harder to hit.
He stretched. Swung. Connected. The ball flew high into the air. Straight towards the girls’ hostel. In Quad cricket, that was out.
The entire campus exploded. At least that’s what it sounded like from where I was standing. Seniors were hugging each other. People were screaming. Slogans erupted. Nobody could believe what had happened. Least of all me.
The celebrations eventually ended. The noise faded. And with time, so did the importance of the match.
Looking back, we won because of many small contributions from the team. And a little bit of luck. The truth was also obvious. He was probably the better player in that format.
Stronger than me. More powerful than me. Perhaps even a better reader of the game than I was.
I went looking for him afterward. I wanted to check on him as he left the arena very angry. But he wasn’t around. Maybe he needed some time alone.
