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Victory, for everyone else, was a shout; for Josh, it was a whisper that sounded very much like failure. He forced a smile, waved off his teammates, and told them he’d meet them at the hotel. Let them enjoy their simple celebration. He was genuinely happy for them, but the feeling was like a distant star, its light faint and cold. His own performance felt like a stone in his shoe: how could the most economical Australian bowler in over a decade feel so utterly… useless? The wicket column today stubbornly remained a zero, mocking him.
“Just need some air,” he’d muttered to Starcy, who read the truth in the tight line of his shoulders and gave a single, understanding nod. The door to the dressing room clicked shut, a sound that felt strangely final. Outside, the Adelaide Oval was a cathedral of stillness. The frantic energy of the game had evaporated; the camera flashes and shouted appeals now just ghosts in the air. The floodlights stood as silent sentinels over the vacant pitch, their brilliance illuminating an emptiness that echoed the one in his own chest.
He was mistaken, however, about the emptiness. A flicker of movement at the edge of his vision – a silhouette against the ghostly pallor of the floodlights – drew his gaze. A second shadow, haunting the boundary line. It seemed Hoff wasn’t the only soul trying to escape the cacophony within his own mind.
He turned, and his eyes first fell on the kit bag discarded on the grass, the bright red MRF logo stark against the dark green. His breath hitched, a faint, knowing sigh. Of course. It was Virat. And if he were to strip away the thin veneer of his own frustration and be truly honest, the sight of the man there sparked no surprise, only a dull, familiar ache of concern.
He had done the same thing back in May, during the IPL season. Josh remembered it vividly: the way Kohli had become a spectre at his own celebration, shrouded in a silence so profound it seemed to swallow the lively dressing room whole. He had watched from a distance as the team bus pulled away, its red taillights fading into the night, leaving behind a single, solitary figure on the pavilion steps, pleading for space with his entire posture.
Josh hadn’t stayed behind then; he hadn’t felt he knew the man well enough to intrude or cross that unspoken line. But now... now it was different. The memory of that night now intertwined with the ugly whispers of BCCI politics – news that spread through the player grapevine like slow poison. A cold knot of dread tightened in his stomach. Looking at his friend, humiliated by two consecutive ducks and surrounded by forces beyond the pitch, Josh was seized by a visceral fear – the fear that a champion, pushed to the edge, might be tempted to make another foolish, irreversible mistake.
“Fancy seeing you here,” Josh called out, his voice cutting through the quiet, just loud enough to bridge the distance between them.
Virat turned. For a moment, their eyes met – a flicker of recognition between RCB teammates in the vast, impersonal arena. Then, Virat’s gaze slowly shifted, inevitably, back to the glowing numbers on the scoreboard. When he didn’t speak or move away, Josh took the silence as an invitation and closed the space between them. They stood side-by-side, not quite touching, the silence a shared, heavy weight between them.
It was Virat who finally broke it, his voice rasping, as if rusted from disuse. “Just… taking in my second home for one last time.”
No, Josh thought, a protective instinct flaring within him. It’s too soon to speak of that. Too raw. After all, it was objectively true: this was his last international match on this ground. The very stadium that had helped forge his legacy was now giving him a final farewell etched in a pair of zeros.
Hoff wondered whether this was poetic justice or if Virat was simply one of those tragic, classical heroes from myths – the sort who reach the highest peaks only for the Gods to carefully tear everything down as the final act.
He watched Virat from the side, his eyes glistening with unshed tears. In the stark, unforgiving floodlights, he suddenly seemed older – truly older – the years weighing upon him all at once. Josh’s heart ached with the realisation of how fragile and fleeting their careers are. They could maintain peak fitness, train with world-class coaches, and yet time, that relentless bowler, would eventually deliver one they couldn’t face.
It started with subtle clues: a microsecond of hesitation, a slight narrowing of the eyes against a once-manageable pace. He knew Virat had tried to hide them, but harsh time revealed itself anyway. To Josh, it was painfully obvious – the footwork was now a fraction less fluid, the stance subtly altered to compensate. Soon, Virat’s time would come to an end, too.
“Loads of memories in ‘Straya, eh?” Josh said softly. “Can’t believe it’s your final series here, mate.”
A scoff escaped Virat’s lips, then — a dry, brittle sound. He sank onto the grass and patted the space to his left, a silent request for Josh to join him. “You know, Hoff… Last year, when I was here, I had no idea it would be my last Test series.” Josh winced at the mention, a ghost of that dismissal — the execution of Australia’s only plan, knowing he would be tricked again and again — flashing between them. “No, no. It’s alright. I’ve made peace with it,” Virat continued, his gaze fixed on some distant point in the past. “Maybe 10,000 runs… Maybe they just weren’t meant to be.”
Josh placed his hand over Virat’s, his own calloused grip a shield against the void. “Doesn’t mean you weren’t a legend in your own right, Vi. Do you even know how many sleepless nights you’ve caused me during our BGTs?”
Virat finally looked at his friend, a single tear tracing a path down his cheek as a sad smile formed on his lips. “I’ll call you when you reach those 300 test wickets during the Ashes. Then we’ll see whether those numbers mean anything to you or not.”
Josh squeezed Virat’s hand, a laugh escaping him – a genuine one this time, warm and unforced. “Alright, fair point. Milestones are great, but numbers aren’t everything. What matters is the contribution. To your game, to your team. And you, Vi? You were the most intimidating Indian captain I’ve ever faced. Hands down.”
Virat shook his head, a gesture of affectionate frustration. “If numbers don’t mean everything, why are you out here tonight, beating yourself up for going wicketless?” A soft, sharp inhale was Josh’s only reply. “Yeah, Hoff, I can read you like an open book… But you need to know you were phenomenal today. I have never seen anybody in white-ball cricket practice such discipline and consistency –“
“– You did,” Josh interjected, his voice firm with conviction. “You redefined white-ball cricket, Virat. Your dedication… it didn’t just influence the batters; we bowlers learned a thing or two from you as well.”
Virat then lay down on the grass, just as one of the floodlights was switched off. “Learnt how to get me out by making me play the off-stump line?” But there was no malice in his voice. Just acceptance – which Josh recalled was the final stage of grief.
A second floodlight soon turned off, shadows deepening around them. Josh, with Virat beside him, also rested, uncertain whether to gaze up at the emerging stars or look at his friend. He took a deep breath, steadying himself, before finally voicing the dreaded question. “Hey… Vi?”
“Hmm?”
“The match in Sydney… Will it… Will it be your –” Josh didn’t need to finish. He knew Virat understood. Will it be your last?
Virat didn’t reply with words. Instead, he simply rested his head on Josh’s shoulder, and Josh was happy to bear his weight. They lay there in the growing darkness until, after a few minutes of stargazing, Virat spoke again, his voice suddenly small and stripped bare. “If… if it is, how will people remember me? As the man who signed off with two zeros in his comeback series? The one whose long-awaited IPL win was forever marred by a stampede? Or just a 36-year-old who picked a fight with a 19-year-old kid? Or am I the man whose final International T20 tournament was marked by a string of failures, too? Am I just a failed captain to the people of my country, a man who couldn’t bring home a single ICC Trophy?”
Josh couldn’t bring himself to look at his friend, his own eyes burning with the threat of tears for the man behind the lion mask. He blinked them away, reaching to find Virat’s hand and intertwining their fingers — a gesture as much for his own strength as for Virat’s comfort. “If… If Sydney is the last time I bowl to you,” he began, his voice thick, “it will be my honour, Vi. Playing against you has been a highlight of my career, getting you out was the cherry on top of the cake… Aussies will remember you as the man who made them finally respect an opponent. People in India will remember you as the man who revived Test cricket. The man who made us think that becoming a God like Sachin Tendulkar was not only possible but realistic. Your teammates will remember you as their backbone… I will remember you as someone who always found a way. For anything. You never gave up… I hope you won’t give up now, too, Vi. I know you have it in you to fight back and make sure we play each other in the World Cup Final in 2027 again.”
“2027 feels too distant. I don’t even think my team wants me there now...”
“Then they’re stupid. Us Aussies would love to have you, y’know?”
Virat chuckled, a genuine laugh, “What I wouldn’t give, Hoff, what I wouldn’t give… But I’m too tired to even think about Sydney right now.”
Hoff sat up and extended a hand, “Then let me bring you back to the hotel?”
To his surprise, Virat didn’t take it, instead pulling Josh back down to the grass. “A few more minutes,” he murmured. “I’m at home here.”