The Kid at the Crease

It’s not often you see it,
the raw, the pure,
like lightning cracking open
the sky just to say,
“I’m here, goddammit,
and I’m not sorry.”

Konstas, the kid,
nineteen, sharp as a razor
with the kind of grin
that tells you he knows
this isn’t just a game,
it’s a fight,
a carnival,
a love letter scrawled
in sweat and leather.

He stands there,
legs splayed,
bat wide like he’s daring
the world to bowl him over.
And Bumrah—
the big dog, the executioner,
the man paid to send kids
like this back to the void—
throws fire.

But the kid doesn’t flinch.
No.
He flips it—
scoops it like a thief
pulling silver from a king’s plate.
A four.
A six.
Another four.

The crowd goes mad,
a thousand hands
ripping through the summer air,
but the kid?
He’s just there,
calm, alive in a way
you wish you could bottle.

He’s not a batsman;
he’s a goddamn artist,
painting strokes of rebellion
on a canvas of green.
He’s a kid in the backyard
with the sun in his eyes,
playing for nothing
but the joy of it all.

Sixty runs later,
he’s still smiling,
and you know—
you know—
this world isn’t about numbers,
or records,
or the grind of men
marching toward nothing.

It’s about this:
a flash of brilliance,
a kid standing tall
against the best in the world,
saying,
“I belong here.
I’m alive.
And isn’t that enough?”

Hell, maybe for once,
it is.

FSF