The score stood at fifty-three for four wickets. Another sixty runs had to be made for victory, and only one good batsman remained. All the rest were bowlers who could not make many runs.

It was Ranji’s turn to bat. He was the youngest member of the team, only eleven but strong and bold. Ranji prepared to face the bowler. The hard, shiny, red ball came speeding towards him.

Ranji was going to leap forward and play the ball back to the bowler, but at the last moment he changed his mind and stepped back, planning to push the ball through the ring of fielders on his right, or off side. The ball swang in the air, shot off the grass, and came through sharply to strike Ranji on his pads.

The umpire raised a finger. “Out,” he said. And it was Ranji’s turn to walk back to the tool-shed. The match was won by the visiting team.

“Never mind,” said Suraj, patting Ranji on the back. “You’ll do better next time.” But their cricket coach was more strict. “You’ll have to make more runs in the next game,” he told Ranji, “or you’ll lose your place in the side!”

Avoiding the other players, Ranji walked slowly homewards. He was very upset. He had been trying so hard and practising so regularly, but when an important game came along, he failed to make a big score.

On his way home, he had to pass Mr. Kumar’s Sports Shop. He liked to chat with the owner or look at all the things on the shelves—footballs, cricket balls, badminton rackets, hockey sticks and balls of various shapes and sizes. Mr. Kumar had been a state player once, and had scored a century in a match against Tanzania.