Zaid Khan : A billion Dreams

Zaid sat on the bus, staring out the window as the city lights blurred past. His bat rested against his leg, the weight of his performance still lingering in his mind.

This was just the start.

His phone buzzed. A message from Zoha.

Zoha: "Saw the scorecard. You were amazing! :)"

A small smile tugged at his lips.

Zaid: "Thanks. But there's still a long way to go."

Zoha: "I know. And I'll be there, every step of the way."

Zaid exhaled, warmth spreading in his chest.

But just as he was about to reply, another notification popped up.

A message from Coach Arif.

"Come to practice tomorrow at 6 AM sharp. No excuses."

Zaid's grip tightened around his phone.

There was no time to celebrate.

The real challenge was just beginning.

The alarm blared at 5:00 AM.

Zaid groaned, forcing himself to sit up. His body ached from yesterday's match, but he had no choice.

6 AM sharp. No excuses.

He splashed cold water on his face, the chill jolting him awake. The house was silent—his mother still asleep, his father already gone for work.

He grabbed his old, worn-out cricket shoes and stepped outside. The morning air was crisp, the city still waking up.

As he jogged toward the academy, his thoughts raced.

This was his life now.

No distractions. No laziness.

Only cricket.

When he reached the ground, Coach Arif was already there, arms crossed.

"You're late," he said.

Zaid checked his phone. 5:59 AM.

He opened his mouth to argue but stopped. No excuses.

"Sorry, Coach," he said instead.

Arif nodded. "Good. Now start running. Twenty laps."

Zaid took a deep breath and started.

This was the grind. The price of greatness.

And he was willing to pay it.

Zaid's legs burned, his breath came in sharp gasps, but he kept running.

The sun had barely risen, the sky painted in hues of orange and pink. The ground was mostly empty, except for a few early risers.

Coach Arif watched him closely.

"Faster, Zaid. You want to be an all-rounder? You need endurance."

Zaid gritted his teeth and picked up the pace.

One lap. Two laps. Ten laps.

By the fifteenth, his shirt was drenched in sweat, his body screaming for rest.

But he pushed through.

Because this pain was temporary.

Failure? That lasted forever.

After the final lap, he collapsed onto the grass, chest heaving.

Coach Arif walked over and dropped a cricket ball beside him.

"Break's over. Let's work on your bowling."

Zaid smiled through the exhaustion.

This was exactly what he wanted.

Zaid wiped the sweat off his forehead, his breath still uneven.

Coach Arif pointed at the stumps. "Hit the top of off. Six balls. No excuses."

Zaid took the ball, feeling its rough seam under his fingers. He had always focused more on his batting, but if he wanted to be an all-rounder, his bowling had to be lethal too.

He took a deep breath, ran in, and bowled.

The first delivery swung too much—wide.

Coach Arif didn't say anything, just folded his arms.

Zaid adjusted his grip, focused on his wrist position, and bowled again.

The second ball was better—closer to the off-stump, but not perfect.

By the fourth ball, he found his rhythm. A beautiful in-swinger that kissed the top of off.

Coach Arif finally spoke. "Good. Now do it a hundred more times."

Zaid exhaled and nodded.

This was the grind. This was the price of mastery.

And he was ready to pay it.

Zaid's arm ached, but he didn't stop.

Ball after ball.

His fingers gripped the seam tighter, his wrist snapped harder.

The sun climbed higher, sweat dripping down his face, but his focus never wavered.

This was what separated the weak from the strong.

Coach Arif finally spoke. "You're improving. But cricket isn't just about skill. It's about mentality. Can you handle pressure?"

Zaid met his gaze. "I can."

Arif smirked. "Let's see."

He pointed toward the nets.

A senior batsman stood there, waiting, his eyes filled with confidence.

"Bowl to him. Get him out in six deliveries."

Zaid took a deep breath and stepped forward.

This was his test.

And he would not fail.