Prateek Sur (he/him/his), Low Entropy Volunteer Writer
Rahul had always loved the smell of freshly cut grass, the thwack of leather on willow, the rhythmic murmur of a cricket match unfolding. In India, it was more than a game; it was a religion, a shared heartbeat. When his family moved to Canada, he’d clung to cricket as a lifeline, a familiar comfort in a world that felt alien and cold. But the Canadian cricket pitches, manicured and pristine, felt different from the dusty, vibrant gully he’d left behind. And the ghost, well, the ghost certainly didn’t help.
It started subtly, a chill down his spine when he stepped onto the field, a whisper of a voice in his ear, always just out of reach. Then came the phantom calls. “No ball, lad! Over the line!” he’d hear, even when his foot was clearly behind the crease. “Howzat! Plumb LBW!” a disembodied voice would declare, making him second-guess his perfectly executed cover drive. Rahul, a naturally gifted batsman and an aggressive off-spinner, found his confidence eroding with every spectral intervention.
The ghost, he soon learned, was one Reginald Finch, a former British colonial umpire who, by his own spectral admission, had died mid-match in 1947, convinced of a grave injustice. He was a man of rigid rules, of the Queen’s English, and of a particular, unyielding vision of how cricket ought to be played. And Rahul, with his wristy flicks, his unconventional spin and joyful, almost improvisational approach to the game, was everything Reginald found objectionable.
“That’s not cricket, boy!” Reginald’s translucent form would hover near the boundary, his spectral finger wagging. “Where’s the straight bat? The classical technique? You’re playing some . . . some bazaar game!”
Rahul tried to ignore him, but Reginald was persistent. During practice, he’d trip Rahul with an invisible leg, or whisper doubts into his ear just as he was about to release a crucial delivery. His teammates, mostly second-generation Canadians who had learned cricket from textbooks and YouTube tutorials, noticed Rahul’s increasingly erratic performance. They’d already been wary of his unorthodox style, which they considered “too flashy” or “not proper.” Now, with his confidence shaken, they began to openly question his place on the team.
“Maybe he’s just not cut out for Canadian cricket,” he overheard one teammate say, a comment that stung more than any of Reginald’s spectral taunts. It wasn’t just about the game; it was about belonging. Rahul had hoped cricket would be his bridge to this new culture, but it felt like it was pushing him further away.
One afternoon, after a particularly humiliating practice where Reginald had caused him to misfield a simple catch, Rahul snapped. “What do you want from me, old man?” he yelled into the empty air, much to the confusion of his teammates.
Reginald materialized, looking rather pleased with himself. “I want you to play the game properly, boy! With decorum! With respect for its traditions!”
“Traditions?” Rahul scoffed. “Your traditions are stuck in the past! Cricket has evolved! It’s not just for gentlemen in white flannels anymore. It’s for everyone, from the gully to the grand stadiums!”
Reginald bristled. “Nonsense! The purity of the game is paramount!”
“Purity?” Rahul challenged, his voice rising. “Is it pure to judge someone’s skill by their accent? Or their skin color? Is it pure to dismiss a shot because it’s not in your coaching manual? Cricket is about heart, skill, and passion. And if you can’t see that, then you’re not just a ghost of an umpire, you’re a ghost of the game itself!”
The words hung in the air. Reginald’s translucent form flickered. For the first time, the spectral umpire looked less indignant and more . . . thoughtful. “A ghost of the game itself,” he murmured, his voice losing some of its usual pomp. “Perhaps . . . perhaps you have a point, lad.”
Rahul, surprised by the ghost’s reaction, pressed on. “Look, Mr. Finch, I respect the history of cricket. But the game grows. It takes in new styles, new players, new ways of thinking. My spin might be ‘unorthodox’ to you, but it gets wickets. My batting might be ‘flashy,’ but it scores runs. Isn’t the goal to win, and to play with joy?”
Reginald was silent for a long moment, his spectral eyes seeming to gaze beyond Rahul, into some distant memory. “Joy,” he repeated softly. “Yes, there was joy. Once.” He sighed, a sound like dry leaves rustling. “The game . . . it was simpler then. Or perhaps, I was simpler.”
Rahul saw an opening. “Help me, Mr. Finch. Help me show them that my cricket, our cricket, is just as valid. Teach me the traditions you value, and I’ll show you how they can blend with the new. We can learn from each other.”
Reginald looked at him, a flicker of something akin to curiosity in his spectral gaze. “Teach a ghost?” he chuckled, a dry, hollow sound. “An interesting proposition. Very well, lad. Let us see if an old dog can learn new tricks, and if a young pup can appreciate the wisdom of the ages.”
From that day, the dynamic shifted. Reginald still haunted the pitch, but his criticisms became less about rigid rules and more about genuine advice. He’d point out subtle shifts in the wind, the nuances of the pitch, the psychological weaknesses of opponents—things that only decades of observing the game could teach. He even started to appreciate Rahul’s unconventional shots, occasionally letting out a spectral “Well played, lad!” when a particularly audacious flick found the boundary.
Rahul, in turn, started to understand the beauty of the classical game, the discipline, the subtle art of setting a field, the patience required for a long innings. He learned to temper his aggression with strategy, to understand why certain traditions existed, even if he chose to adapt them.
His teammates, initially bewildered by Rahul’s conversations with thin air, slowly began to notice the change in his game. His confidence returned, stronger than ever, infused with a newfound understanding. He wasn’t just playing his own game; he was playing a richer, more nuanced version of it. He started taking more wickets and scoring more runs, and his presence on the field became undeniable.
During a crucial match, with the team needing a few runs off the last over, Rahul was at the crease. The pressure was immense. He felt Reginald’s presence beside him, not as a tormentor, but as a silent, encouraging mentor. “Remember the wind, lad,” Reginald whispered. “And trust your instincts.”
Rahul hit a glorious six, a perfect blend of power and precision, a shot that would have made any gully cricketer proud, and perhaps, even a colonial umpire. As the ball sailed over the boundary, Reginald’s form shimmered, a faint smile on his spectral face. “Jolly good show, Rahul,” he said, his voice filled with a warmth Rahul had never heard before. And then, with a final, contented sigh, he faded away, leaving behind only the lingering scent of old leather and freshly cut grass.
Rahul had not only found his place on the team, but he had also helped a lost soul find peace. He realized that discrimination, whether from the living or the dead, could only hold you back if you let it. And sometimes, all it took was a little understanding, a little shared passion to bridge the widest of divides, even between worlds. The game, after all, was bigger than any one rule, any one tradition or any one ghost. It was a living, breathing entity, constantly evolving, always welcoming to those who loved it truly.
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My name is Prateek Sur and I am a daydreamer by birth, a mechanical engineer by chance, and an idiot by choice. A hardcore movie buff, working as a film critic and enjoying life as a Bollywood reporter. Helping people get through career troubles and giving advice from personal experiences. A voracious reader and a passionate singer at heart. An extrovert at heart, and an introvert in the mind. Well, that chaos is pretty much me!
