By Dung Huynh 
Woke up stupid early today buzzing about the Brabourne pitch report. Gotta crack this code, right? Winning ain’t accidental. Grabbed my coffee – extra strong, like my opinions – and headed out. Sun barely up, sticky Mumbai air already clinging like a needy kid.
First Stare Down
Got to the stadium grounds around 7 AM. Security guy looked at me like I was casing the joint. Just flashed my old press pass (slightly dog-eared) and mumbled “pitch inspection.” Worked somehow. Walked right up to the sacred strip.
Right. Let’s see what we got. First impressions hit me like last night’s bad curry.
- Cracks: Oh boy. Yeah. Big ones. Not just hairline. Proper trenches ya could lose a marble in down the good length areas. Looked mean under the low sun.
- Grass: Practically balder than my uncle Vikram. Groundsmen clearly been shaving it nightly. Hardly a green blade to save its life. Surface looked naked.
- Colour: Patchy. Parts looked pale and thirsty, other bits darker, almost damp feeling. Real inconsistent vibes.
Kicked the dirt near the crease lightly. Dust puffed up like cheap talcum powder. Dry. Real dry. Felt like concrete baking already. Kneeled down, ran my palm over a patch. Rough. Grating almost. Noticed little dusty granules scraping my skin. Pitch ain’t gonna be anyone’s friend today.
The Squeeze Test (My Super Scientific Method)
Pulled out my trusty – if slightly rusty – coin. Good ol’ reliable. Pressed it hard into the surface near a big crack.
- Threw my weight behind it. Barely made a dent. Solid. Like trying to poke steel.
- Checked the impression afterwards? Minuscule. Surface barely gave way.
Knew right then. This pitch ain’t about runs. It’s gonna be a nightmare parade. Imagine facing up after lunch? Spinners rubbing their hands together somewhere.
Team Chat & Captaincy Chaos
Met the lads later. Sun beating down proper now. Pitch looked even angrier. Shared my findings. Got the usual mix of sceptical stares and knowing nods.
“Looks flat early?” our opener says, squinting. Mate,” I shot back, “this ain’t flat. It’s sleeping. And it’s gonna wake up grumpy.” Tried explaining the cracks opening like hungry mouths later on. The dryness. The dust.
Then came the big talk. Skip calls us together. “Okay gents, call it. Bat or bowl?”
- Bat First Crowd: “Score big early! Run away with it! Pitch gets worse, right?” Fingers pointed at the pale patches.
- Bowl First Gang (Me included): “Look at it! Look! Tomorrow is Armageddon territory! Get ’em in NOW while it’s still halfway playable! Get them sweating in the heat. Crack ’em open!” Waved towards those ominous dark patches near the bowlers’ run-up.
Back and forth like a ping pong match. Voices rising with the temperature. Skip looked back and forth like he was watching tennis. Pressure was cooking everyone.
Coin Toss Terror & Relief
Heads flicked up. Time froze. Opposition skip called it. Lost. They won the toss. My stomach did a flip. Here we go…
“We’ll have a bat.” Sweet, glorious relief. They wanna bat first! Trying to bank on that mythical “early morning flatness.” Almost laughed. Practically skipped back to the huddle.
“Right then, lads,” skip grinned, clapping. “Looks like we’re bowling.” Huge smiles all round from us Bowl First advocates. Grabbed the ball feeling like we’d already taken a wicket. Get ’em under this hammer.
How It Played Out (And Why I’m Smug)
Morning session? Yeah, ball came on okay-ish. Bit slow. They got through without too many worries, made 50-odd. Some nervous glances our way. Maybe the pitch was playing nice?
Then lunchtime happened. Sun went nuclear. Pitch cracked wider. Dust started flying. Post-lunch was carnage. Pure carnage. Our spinners came on. Ball biting, turning square off those widening cracks. Bouncing unpredictable.
- Caught bat-pad! Fizzed off the surface.
- Stumped! Keeper sharp as ever.
- Play and MISS! Ball scooting through ankle high.
Wickets tumbled like skittles. Middle order collapsed faster than a house of cards in a hurricane. All out for a measly 132 by tea. Pitch report vindicated? Oh yeah.
Got it done. Didn’t just read the pitch, lived its nasty little life cycle right there on the field. Best feeling? Knowing you called it right.
yadanarbon 