The score was 47 to 3, and Kabir's team was losing badly.

Kabir was captain of the under-12 Jodhpur district kabaddi team. They had trained for three months, waking at five every morning to practice raids in the freezing sand. His mother packed extra parathas for the bus ride to every tournament. But the team from Jaipur was faster, stronger, and their coach had once played for India.

During the break, Kabir's teammates sat on the dusty ground with their heads down. Rahul was picking at the tape on his knee. Sania stared at nothing, her hands limp in her lap. Nobody spoke. The only sound was the Jaipur team laughing on the other side of the court.

Kabir's stomach was churning. He wanted to sit down too. He wanted to disappear. But he was the captain, and captains don't get to disappear.

He stood up. His legs felt heavy, but he stood.

"Okay, listen," he said, surprised by the steadiness of his own voice. "Rahul — remember that spin raid you did last week in practice? The one where even Coach couldn't catch you? Nobody on that team has seen it. Sania — you haven't missed a single ankle hold all morning. Not one."

He went around the circle, naming each player, naming something real they had done. Not flattery. Facts.

He didn't feel as confident as he sounded. But something strange happened — as he named his teammates' strengths out loud, he started to believe his own words. And one by one, heads came up.

That is exactly what Duryodhana does in verse 7. After five straight verses of nervously listing every dangerous warrior on the Pandava side, he catches himself. He turns to Drona and says: "Enough about them. Let me name our champions."

But listen to how he addresses Drona — "dvijottama," best of the twice-born. It sounds respectful. Underneath, Duryodhana is really saying: "You are on OUR side. Right? Right?"

Sometimes the huddle isn't just for the team. Sometimes it's for the captain who needs to hear himself say it will be okay.