Some stories don’t begin on the field. They begin in silence, in hotel rooms at 2 a.m., in selection announcements that never carried your name or in the quiet devastation of watching others wear the jersey you were born to wear.
Sanju Samson had lived that silence longer than most. For years, he existed in Indian cricket’s most unforgiving space. Probably good enough to be called, never certain enough to stay permanently. Talent so obvious it hurt to watch, yet somehow always the man on the outside. Every time the door opened, it seemed to close just as quickly. A game here, a series there, opportunities scattered. God’s own country’s prodigal son, regularly on the verge of arrival but never there.
So when the T20 World Cup squad was announced and his name appeared, it felt less like selection, as it was like before, with primary options being Ishan Kishan, who had an amazing domestic season, and Abhishek Sharma, the world no.1 ranked batter. It looked as usual, Sanju had to wait on the bench again, he was benched for the initial matches. But soon Abhishek was injured and Sanju got a chance against Namibia, his aggressive but small innings made an impact. But Abhishek was back, and Sanju was benched again for a few matches.
South Africa defeated India in their first Super 8 match, exposing the flaws, especially in the Indian batting order. Management felt the need, and Sanju was called again, like the universe had finally looked up from its paperwork.
The day of the West Indies match had a particular kind of weight to it. The air was thick as if the pitch itself knew something the scorecards didn’t. The crowd that gathered was loud, warm, and steeped in the religion of cricket. And somewhere in that dressing room, Sanju Samson was pulling on his gloves, not with the desperation of a man trying to prove a point, but with the stillness of someone who had nothing to lose.
When he walked out to bat, something shifted. It wasn’t obvious at first. It rarely is with Samson. He doesn’t announce himself. He impresses you slowly, a late cut so elegant it seems almost accidental and a pull shot so clean it replays in the mind. He batted that day the way gifted men do when they finally stop fighting themselves. Loose. Free. Inevitable.
The boundaries came with a kind of poetic rhythm. Each shot felt less like a spontaneous decision and more like a muscle memory, as if his hands had always known where the ball would come. The West Indies bowlers, world-class on any other day, seemed to be operating inside someone else’s script. The field placements kept finding gaps they hadn’t left. The edges kept missing the fielders by inches that felt pre-measured.
The crowd sensed what only crowds can sense, that they were watching something that wouldn’t fit neatly into a scorecard.
He was dismissed for 97. Three short of a century, and here is where others would insert a tragedy, but those who saw the innings know.
This was never about a hundred. Some numbers are too small for what they carry. 97 is the number of a man who gave everything, who lit the sky without needing the applause of a round figure. The plan was never the century. The plan was the innings. The plan was the proof. It was something that had to be done.
God doesn’t always write the ending you expect. Sometimes he writes the one you need. Sanju Samson walked back that day not diminished but defined.
And those who watched understood that some things are too perfectly created to be accidental.
This was never just cricket.
This was always the plan.
