Prompt-O-Rama

Wrong-un (Prompt: Replace)

In a post-apocalyptic dystopian world, the game of cricket is a gladiator sport where there are no bails on the wickets, no no-balls for bouncers/chest high full-tossed deliveries and run outs are effected by hurling the ball at the batsmen or by breaking the batsman's chin while holding the ball. And, tampering the ball is perfectly legal.

---- 

"...make it two," when Misth cried out, I had no option but to oblige. It was the last ball of our innings and we hadn't scored enough to defend. The last thing we wanted was to lose, finish at the bottom of the table and end up getting promoted to the savage league. We simply weren't up for the agony promotion would bring. I ran as quickly as I could, swinging my bat savagely to avoid the oncoming ball, jumping over the screaming cherry just in time. We even managed an extra run for the overthrow. 

My blood boiled even as a chill went up my spine when I watched the enthusiastic fielder who attempted a direct hit being punched in the face, his teeth flying twenty-two yards. "What was your effing problem? You should've thrown it to me and I would've run his skull out of his head," the wicket-keeper yelled at the fielder while pointing in my direction. I heaved a sigh of relief. I had to nurse a few bruises on the stomach and the chest, and a cut lip but that was it. 

"Alright boys! the coach clenched his teeth and his fists as we walked into the dressing room after the game. We have an effing low score of two hundred runs in fifty overs and this team will steamroll us. Never seen a bunch of wusses like you guys." The coach was a gargantuan man, who could single-handedly inflict more pain on an entire team than any opponent could. He was brought in specifically to help our team win and stay in the safe haven that this league was. Our earlier coach failed, despite having spent a fortune worth the GDP of a small nation on marquee signings and we needed a man of his fearsome stature to help instill the pride of losing. "Bloody Tse-Tses," the coach growled, "not one of you is man enough to open your mouth on how to turn things around. If you can't use your freaking brawn, use the effing brain." 

That's when I rose up to speak. "Yes peanut," he smiled wryly, "What have you got?" He loved calling me peanut as much as he loved to throw the "eff" word around. I was the diminutive, cat-on-the-wall team member that could neither be kept nor be cast off, who always kept his place with an odd performance that unfortunately counted. Despite the lingering animosity, I stood - chin up - and said, "for a day, sir, we play the gentleman's game." 

The dressing room broke into a laughter and I had many a shoe to evade before the coach had the rowdy team settle down. "And by that, what are you implying, peanut?" 

"Simple sir," I said with uncharacteristic confidence, "we play like they did in the nineteen-hundreds. And drive them crazy." 

"We flummox them and they throw the game away?" 

"Yes, sir. By the time they realise what we are up to, we would've seized the game. We could have some regular bloodshed to make it even more confounding." 

"But you will face the committee for not playing in the spirit of the game, son. Fairness is passe."

"Anything for the team, sir. And a year in the safe league makes it worth it."

We won, I was fined and saw it overturned and the rumour-mill has it that the coach will make me the captain. 

And, I am no longer peanut.