By Dung Huynh 
Man, I was watching that old clip of Shahid Afridi smashing the 173m six yesterday. Got me thinking: can anyone ever break that?
The Crazy Idea
Right after breakfast, I grabbed my own beat-up cricket bat from the shed. Just held it, looking down at my scuffed shoes. “173 meters? Nah, mate, impossible,” I muttered. Feels like it belongs in fairy tales.
But then I thought: Maybe… just maybe? Need to see for myself. Got this cheap measuring wheel from the garden and headed straight to the biggest open space nearby – that dusty old field by the village pond.
The Big Fail Attempts
First Swing: Went full power right off. Felt like tearing my shoulder clean off. Ball barely hit 60 meters. Almost took out Mr. Sharma’s pigeon coop though! Heard him yell from across the lane. Oops.
Changing Things Up: Borrowed a heavier bat from Deepak at the tea stall. Like swinging a log! Windmilled my arms like mad. Ball flew high… lost it in the sun… thumped down maybe 70 meters away. Ugh.
Getting Angry Now: Tried sprinting at the ball like Afridi charging bowlers. Ended up tripping over my own feet like an idiot. Bat went flying. Landed flat on my face. Tasted dirt for five minutes.
Things Started Breaking
That heavy bat? Cracked it straight down the handle on my next wild swing. Useless piece of junk! Went back to my old bat. Few more swings later – SNAP! – broke that one too near the splice. Well, that’s both my bats gone.
And that measuring wheel? Wheel wobbled off halfway through marking my best shot. Flimsy garbage.
Everybody Had a Good Laugh
- Local kids started giggling behind the fence.
- The chaiwala Deepak just shook his head, pouring tea. “Too much YouTube, brother.”
- Even the stray dogs looked bored watching me hack away.
Sweat pouring down my neck, shoulder throbbing like mad.
The Big Realization
Leaned on the broken bat handle, catching my breath. Looked where that “longest” shot had fallen. Might as well be on the moon compared to 173 meters.
Suddenly remembered Afridi’s swing again. It’s not just muscle. It’s raw timing, madness, and maybe pure luck mixed together in one perfect storm.
Some records… they’re just holy. Standing there, staring at my busted gear, it hit me: Not a chance. Ever.
