When Silence Took Over , Cricket Was My Only Voice

.They say silence is peaceful.

But sometimes, silence is a scream. A heavy, echoing void where purpose used to live.

That’s what it felt like when I injured my elbow.

One bad fall. One crack of pain. And just like that, everything changed.

I wasn’t just hurt—I was muted.

The sound of the ball hitting the bat. The rhythm of my footsteps running up to bowl. The cheers from teammates. The language I had spoken my whole life—gone.

Cricket Wasn’t Just a Sport. It Was My Identity.

Before the injury, cricket was more than just a game to me.

It was where I felt the most alive. The pitch was my second home, the place where my thoughts slowed down and my heart sped up.

Every delivery, every swing, every run—it all meant something.

So when my elbow gave out and doctors said, “You need to rest. Maybe a long while,”

I didn’t just lose the ability to play—I lost the part of me that knew how to feel.

The Injury That Took More Than Just Pain

Physically, it hurt. Sure.

But what no one told me was how much more it would take.

The sleepless nights. The endless physio sessions. The questions:

“What if I never play again?”

“What if I’m never the same?”

The silence in my room felt louder than any stadium roar.

The bat in the corner of the room became a reminder—of something that once was mine.

Cricket Spoke Even When I Couldn’t

But healing is strange. It’s slow. It doesn’t come all at once.

And sometimes, it starts not with the big wins, but with tiny moments.

One day, I walked past the local ground.

The sun was hitting the stumps just right. The kids were playing barefoot.

One of them bowled a wild, reckless spin—and laughed like the world was his.

I couldn’t resist. I stayed to watch.

And for the first time in months, I felt something stir in me.

Not jealousy. Not sadness.

But love.

Finding My Voice Again—One Ball at a Time

I couldn’t play yet.

But I could stand at the edge of the boundary and offer tips.

I could teach a kid how to grip the bat tighter.

I could clap when someone made a good shot.

And slowly, I began to remember:

Cricket was never just about me.

It was about connection.

And though I wasn’t back on the pitch yet—my voice was.

The Comeback Wasn’t Just Physical. It Was Emotional.

Rehab was tough.

There were days I wanted to quit all over again.

But every time I picked up the ball—just to feel its weight—something inside me steadied.

It reminded me:

I’ve known loss. But I’ve also known passion.

And passion doesn’t vanish. It waits.

The first time I bowled again, even just a soft throw, I cried.

Not because it was perfect.

But because it was mine again.

More Than a Player Now

I used to think my value was in how well I played.

Now, I know it’s deeper.

I’m a better teammate. A better mentor. A better human.

I’ve learned what it means to be patient with yourself. To love something even when it doesn’t love you back for a while.

Cricket taught me how to win.

But losing it for a while?

That taught me how to live.

Final Thoughts

Injury may have silenced my game for a time.

But it didn’t silence me.

Because when the world felt quiet, the pitch gave me a reason to speak again.

Even now, whenever I walk onto the field, I don’t just feel like an athlete—I feel like someone who found their voice again, right where they lost it.