The Dropped Catch

The sun was directly in my eyes, blinding me. It was the semi-final of our local tennis-ball cricket tournament, and the batsman had just skied the ball toward long-on. Toward me

I tracked it. I set my feet in the dust. I could hear my teammates shouting, “Yours! Yours!”

The ball hit my palms—and bounced straight out. We lost the match by two runs.

I sat by the boundary line afterward, staring at the scuffed toes of my shoes, waiting for the yelling to start. I had cost us the plastic trophy and the prize money. I felt completely worthless.

Then, a shadow fell over me. It was our captain. He didn’t look angry. He just tossed me a half-empty, lukewarm water bottle.

“Get up,” he said, wiping sweat from his forehead. “We have to go eat samosas before the shop closes.”

That was it. No screaming. No blame. In that dusty field, I realized that failure isn’t a permanent stain. A mistake is just a mistake, and the people who actually matter care more about you than a cheap plastic cup.

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