Ninety-seven runs in fifty balls!

That is not a cricket score. That is a public announcement that the bowlers may kindly reconsider their career choices.

The West Indies had piled up a total so enormous that even optimistic Indian uncles travelling in Mumbai locals, who know more about cricket than Sachin Tendulkar, had begun saying, “Let us at least lose respectably.” The required run rate was climbing faster than Bangalore real estate prices. Commentators had already prepared their sentences about brave efforts and learning experiences.

And then Sanju Samson decided that learning experiences are highly overrated.

He began dispatching the ball with alarming politeness. No visible anger. No dramatic snarling. Just clean, muscular timing. Boundaries flowed. Sixes soared. Fielders ran in elegant circles chasing leather that had already made up its mind to say hi to the boundary.

Ninety-seven in fifty balls.

Three runs short of a century. The kind of near miss that normally produces theatrical disappointment. The helmet raised halfway. The faint grimace. The what might have been expression.

Instead, what did he do?

He went down on his knees. Looked up. And thanked Almighty God for blessing him that day.

Now that is a sight rarer than a sensible debate on Indian prime-time television.

Here was a man who had just dismantled a formidable West Indian attack, who had carried a nation’s hopes on his bat, and instead of flexing for the cameras, he bowed.

A few months ago, Jemima Rodrigues too, after one of her sparkling knocks, pointed upwards in gratitude.

Two young cricketers. Two remarkable performances. Two public acknowledgements that talent is not self-manufactured.

There is something deeply reassuring about that.

In an age where many of our leaders behave as though they personally designed the monsoon, invented democracy and occasionally supervise the sunrise, watching a sportsman admit dependence on a higher power feels almost revolutionary.

When you thank God, you admit you are not God.

And that single admission may be the difference between greatness and a spectacular fall.

History is cluttered with men who believed they were invincible. They strutted. They smirked. They hugged, and they mistook applause for immortality. Pride quietly sharpened its knife.

Humility, on the other hand, builds foundations.

Samson’s innings was powerful. But the image that will remain longer than the sixes is that of a young man on his knees in the middle of a cricket field.

Strength kneeling.

Success bowing.

Triumph acknowledging grace.

Perhaps that is the lesson beyond the scoreboard.

Whether we are cricketers, politicians, business magnates or citizens who shout advice at the television, we would do well to remember that ability is a gift. Opportunity is a gift. Even timing, in cricket and in life, is a gift.

And when we recognise that, we do not become smaller.

We become steadier.

And steady people, like steady batsmen, are very hard to defeat…!

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