AFG vs WI, Between Overs and Silence

The first ball hadn’t been bowled yet, and already my chest felt tight.

AFG vs WI flickered on the screen, bright jerseys against a washed-out sky. The stadium buzzed softly, like it didn’t want to scare away whatever fragile promise hovered above the pitch. I leaned forward without realizing it. I always do when something still matters.

Cricket has this way of pretending it’s just a game. It isn’t. Not really.

The Afghan openers walked out with measured steps, shoulders squared, eyes forward. I noticed the way one of them adjusted his gloves twice. A habit, maybe. Or a small prayer. I’d learned long ago how much people hide inside routine.

The West Indies fielders spread out, relaxed but alert. Confidence sat on them easily, like a familiar jacket. I envied that ease. I’d worn it once, years ago, before life taught me how quickly certainty can unravel.

The first over passed quietly. Dot balls. Polite applause. I exhaled.

I told myself I was here for the cricket. That was the lie I came with.

What I was really doing was measuring time. Seeing how far I’d come from the person who used to shout at the screen, who believed effort always bent the universe eventually. These days, I watched in silence, as if noise might jinx whatever fragile hope remained.

A boundary came unexpectedly. Clean contact. The sound of bat on ball snapped through the air, sharp and final. I felt it in my teeth. The Afghan dugout stirred. Somewhere, someone believed again.

So did I. Against my better judgment.

As the overs ticked by, the pitch revealed its temperament. Not hostile, but not generous either. It reminded me of people I’ve loved. Fair, until they weren’t. Demanding attention, then punishing complacency.

West Indies answered with discipline. Tight lines. Patient fielding. They didn’t rush. They didn’t need to. Experience does that. It slows your heartbeat even when things start slipping.

A dropped catch changed the temperature of the match. Just a moment. Hands met ball. Ball met grass. The crowd groaned, unified in disappointment. I flinched like I’d been caught stealing something fragile.

I thought about all the times I’d been forgiven for less.

The Afghan batter glanced skyward, expression unreadable, then reset his stance. No celebration. No relief. Just continuation. That restraint hit harder than joy would’ve. Survival often looks like composure.

The commentators filled the silence with statistics and historical footnotes. I muted them. Numbers never tell the whole story anyway. They don’t explain why some teams carry the weight of nations, or why some victories feel heavier than defeats.

At drinks, I stood up and stretched. My knees complained. Time leaves receipts in the body. I remembered watching cricket as a child, legs crossed on the floor, believing heroes were permanent. That belief aged badly.

When play resumed, the tempo shifted. Afghanistan pushed. West Indies absorbed. It became less about flair and more about nerve. Singles stolen. Boundaries denied. The game narrowed its gaze.

I caught myself rooting for resilience instead of dominance. That surprised me.

Mid-innings, an Afghan spinner turned the ball just enough to beat the bat. The near-miss drew gasps. He smiled briefly, a flash of teeth, then masked it. Joy, restrained. Hope, managed.

That was the moment something loosened in me.

I realized how tired I was of needing outcomes to justify effort. How often I’d waited for clear wins before allowing myself to feel proud. This match didn’t offer certainty. It offered persistence.

West Indies began to wobble later, not dramatically, but perceptibly. A mistimed shot. A hurried run. Pressure doesn’t announce itself. It seeps.

The crowd sensed it. So did I.

I leaned back, finally. Let the game breathe without my expectations clinging to it. The players weren’t thinking about narratives or symbolism. They were thinking about the next ball. That focus felt luxurious.

As the final overs approached, the result hovered just out of reach, like a word on the tip of the tongue. I didn’t refresh the scorecard. I didn’t need to.

When the match ended, it did so without ceremony. Handshakes. Scattered applause. A winner, technically. A loser, officially.

But something else lingered.

I sat there longer than necessary, screen dimming, room quiet. The game had passed, but the feeling stayed. Not triumph. Not regret. Something gentler. Acceptance, maybe.

AFG vs WI didn’t change my life. It didn’t need to.

It reminded me that showing up matters. That patience is its own form of courage. That some battles are about staying upright, not standing tallest.

I turned off the screen.

The silence felt earned.