Ayyayo, you think preparing a pitch is just rolling mud? It's twenty-two yards of art—we shave the grass, bake it under the sun, and pray to the weather gods for a good bounce! Reading it? I feel the crack with my palm and smell the clay; the toss captain only sees the colour. I've seen flat tracks from textbooks crumble in an hour, while my dusty backyard strip in Dharavi taught me true turn. The fancy machines don't know the soil's heart like my hands do.
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