Why I’m glad Saurav Ganguly has come out of retirement

Ganguly, when he was the God of the off-side

“I don’t plan to retire. I will play for India as long as I am selected. If I’m dropped from the Indian team, I’ll play for Bombay. If I’m dropped from the Bombay team, I’ll play for Dadar Union. If I’m dropped from the Dadar Union team I’ll play galli cricket near my house. I’ll play for as long as I can. I’ll never retire.”

This was Sunil Gavaskar’s reply to a journalist who once asked him when he planned to retire. This may have been in a cricket magazine called Sportsweek I used to subscribe to as a child. This was long before the internet, I wasn’t able to Google up the reference. This was also from a time before sportmen had handlers, or image consultants, telling them what to tell journalists to maximize their brand endorsement income. These words probably were a good reflection of what Sunil Gavaskar thought at the time.

Gavaskar drives through the covers

Those words stayed in my mind for so long because that comment, that attitude, epitomizes why Sunil Gavaskar was my first ever hero. By believing that the game was worth playing no matter how humble the setting, Gavaskar was sticking up for every amatuer cricketer, everywhere. Gavaskar was raising a fist for every kid who has stepped up to the crease in a schoolyard, risking humiliation in front of an army of snarky fourteen year olds, for the pleasure of feeling the thonck of bat on ball. The greatest batsman in the world was effectively punching gloves with every Mumbaikar who has ever burnt up a weekend playing Kanga league cricket in the monsoon rain on Shivaji Park maidan, or every Yorkshireman who has braved the bitter cold and howling winds of an English May to play for his village.

There have, of course, been many avatars of Sunil Gavaskar, avatars who don’t always see eye to eye. The sulky blocker who made 36 not out off 174 balls against England in the 1975 World Cup probably wouldn’t shake hands with the furious belligerent of 1983 who scored 100 off 94 balls, in a test match, facing Malcolm Marshall and Michael Holding, to equal Sir Donald Bradman’s record of 29 test centuries.

Ultimately, the avatar who refused to retire didn’t win the battle for Gavaskar’s soul. Gavaskar did retire on a high. He stepped down as the Indian captain after winning the 1985 World Championships in Australia, with Ravi Shastri driving the team around the MCG in his Audi. He retired from playing active cricket in 1987, after scoring a century at Lord’s in a five day game to celebrate the MCC’s bicentenary. Gavaskar doesn’t live in Dadar any more, I don’t think he plays galli cricket nowadays outside his swank apartment on the Worli sea face.

Ganguly b Malinga 16

The Indian player who inherited the best of Gavaskar's spirit is Saurav Ganguly. More than any other player since Sunny, Ganguly is the one who is obviously animated by a fierce pride and an entirely irrational passion for the game.

Saurav's stubbornness, his irrationality, that refusal to just accept reality, is what made it possible for him to take charge of the Indian team after the horrors of Azharuddin, and turn it into a team we were proud to support. That same stubbornness, the same refusal to accept reality was on display yesterday. Saurav's IPL team, the Pune Warriors,were up against the Mumbai Indians. Saurav was awful. He made a laboured 16 off 24 balls before Lasith Malinga cleaned him up. What made it even harder to watch was that he clearly was trying hard, and his crawl probably cost his team the game.

Yet, despite that predictable awfulness, I loved him for having the burning desire to come and play. Saurav will play for as long as they let him. He doesn't need to. His image consultants will tell him not to. He doesn't need the glory or the money. He could settle for a safe job, as a coach, or commentator, or "mentor". But for India's captain Saurav the lion heart, yeh dil maange more.

Whether Pune Warriors did the smart thing by inviting Saurav to come out of retirement and captain their team is an entirely different question. That is a topic for another day.

Showing up: the ingredient that makes the game worth playing, and watching

“80% of success is just showing up” - Woody Allen.

Rafael Nadal steam-rolled Novak Djokovic 6-3 6-1 in the Monte Carlo Masters finals last weekend. Previously, Nadal had lost 7 tournament finals in row to Djokovic, including in some epic matches like the Aussie Open finals. Nadal didn’t play to a new game plan to win so easily in Monte Carlo. Apparently Djokovic was missing some emotional energy, his grandfather died the previous week, and that made all the difference. “I definitely don’t want to take anything away from Rafa’s win” said Djokovic, in his post-match interview. “He was a better player. But it’s a fact that I just didn’t have any emotional energy left in me.” Novak not showing up was totally understandable, my condolences to the Djokovic family.

Yet, despite his personal loss, Djokovic did make the finals of a Masters 1000 event. He beat world #7 Tomasz Berdych, #19 Alexander Dolgopolov and #55 Robin Haase to get there. He was good enough to win these matches without emotional energy, without showing up. But Nole he couldn’t beat Rafa without showing up.

I didn’t watch the game last weekend. I don’t regret missing it.

Tennis, or generally any sport, is not about skill, it is about spirit. It is worth watching when the players on court have showed up, when they have their mojo going, are engaged, fully checked-in, stretched, and are playing like it really matters. When players are clinically dismembering weaker opposition, or when they are passively resigned to their fate, no sport is worth watching, regardless of how skilled the players are. It’s why, during the first week at Wimbledon, qualifiers and lowly non-seeds battling it out on the side courts makes for far more compelling tennis than the stars going through the motions on Centre Court. That spirit, that mojo, is exactly what Nole seems to have been missing.

Surprisingly, the IPL is turning out to be quite watchable because the players are showing up, because the guys on the field are fully present in the contest. This season, I’ve watched stars like Lasith Malinga and Dale Steyn, journeyman pros like Owais Shah and James Franklin, golden oldies like Saurav Ganguly and rookies like Ajinkya Rahane, all show up and give it everything they’ve got. That commitment is what makes the game worth playing, and watching. Format doesn’t really matter as long as the players show up. Sure, the drama on offer in the IPL isn’t ever going to develop into something unforgettable, like, say, the 2005 Ashes. But it isn’t insipid either, like India in England circa 2011.

The IPL is more than a novelty now. It’s a regular part of the cricket scene. And it seems to be working - despite the kitsch, the lurid costumes, the cheerleaders, the “DLF maximums” and the “Citi moments of success” – because the players really are showing up.

Follow your dream, not. By Garry Trudeau

"Let us take what the terrain gives" is kinder...

"Let us take what the terrain gives"

"Follow your dream" is advice I have frequently received. This is also advice I have given multiple times. However, in most circumstances, this advice is worse than useless. I need to make choices about my career as a business executive in the here and now. Reminding myself of my childhood dream, to open the batting for the Indian cricket team, doesn't in any way help me make better life choices.

I discussed this in an earlier blog post, titled "Follow your dream, not". More recently, I came across the words "let us take what the terrain gives", which make the same point more elegantly, more positively.

These words were spoken by Daniel Kahneman back in 1996, at a graveside eulogy for his lifelong research partner Amos Tversky. Apparently, "let us take what the terrain gives" was the maxim Amos Tversky lived by. Kahneman went on to win the Nobel prize in 2002, his partner Tversky tragically missed out because he died so young. "Let us take what the terrain gives" is clearly not a case for embracing mediocrity, but it does recognize that "the other side of freedom is the ability to find joy in what one does".

BTW...I loved these pictures of Tversky on holiday in Switzerland in 1972...

Socrates. On beauty and victory

“Beauty comes first. Victory is secondary. What matters is joy.”

 These are the last words in Football Philosophy, a book by the Brazilian legend Socrates. I was doubly bereft as I read these words. First, because I read them in this obituary for Socrates, who died prematurely aged just 57. Second, because the great Brazilian disagrees with me.

Socrates seems to be saying that to abandon beauty for the sake of mere victory would be sacrilege. Yet, I posted earlier this year about the joy of "winning ugly". Where did I go wrong? At the time, I was writing about India winning at cricket during the World Cup. Was I sliding ingloriously into patriotism, that last refuge of scoundrels?

I could try to rebut the argument. I could wade into how players are characters in a larger drama, whose role is to do what it takes to win, not to step out of character seeking elusive beauty. But it somehow feels wrong, un-beautiful, to debate with someone who scored a goal like this in a World Cup:

 

 Adieu Socrates. Long may your tribe of thoughtful sportsmen thrive.

Haka for World Peace

The Rugby World Cup is on. I am cheering for the All Blacks.

India is not playing, so I can swear allegiance to any team in the tournament. I would, ideally, choose my team based on their skills, tactics, character and creativity. However, sadly, I don’t know rugby well enough to exercise that kind of nuanced judgement. I’ve worked out the scoring system and sort of know the main rules – like you can’t pass the ball forward – but I still find penalties baffling, and I can’t tell a fly-half from a hooker. No, I didn’t become an All Blacks fan because of their game.

Some people think I’m supporting the All Blacks just because they are going to win the World Cup. That is not the case. Yes, the Kiwis are the bookie’s favourite, but I’ve been a sports fan for too long to read much meaning into the bookie’s reading of the tea leaves. My natural instinct is the opposite: to support the spunky underdog rather than the favourite. The truth is, I am cheering for the All Blacks because I love the Haka.

There is a lot to love about the Haka. The lilting melody, uplifting lyrics and the balletic grace of the performers never fails to stir the spirit. But, on reflection, I think the main reason the Haka resonates with me is its political symbolism.

The Haka is obviously a Maori war ritual, yet, both Polynesian and Caucasian Kiwis embrace it as their own. It doesn’t seem to be an in-your-face assertion of Maori pride, like say the Tommie Smith’s Black Salute at the 1968 Olympic Games. It doesn’t seem to be an ironic or mocking adoption of Maori imagery by a dominant Caucasian culture either. Daniel Carter and Malili Muliaina both seem to perform the Haka in the same spirit, with the same pride and conviction.

I sometimes hear about being "tolerant" of other identities in multi-cultural societies. Personally, I don't actually like being tolerant. When I'm being tolerant, I'm just keeping the lid on irritation, resentment or even anger that are simmering beneath the surface. A zestful, whole-hearted embrace of another identity, like the Haka, feels so much better than mere tolerance. Maybe that is the path to genuine, successful multi-cultural societies.

The way John Lennon might have put it:

"You may say I'm a dreamer
But I'm not the only one
I hope one day you'll join us
And the world will do the Haka as one...."

C'mon All Blacks!

Dhrishtadyumna and Serena Williams

Once upon a time, King Drupada ruled over the land of Panchala. Drupada was wise and just, his subjects were happy and loyal.

However, King Drupada was not as strong as he was wise. He was drawn into war against the Kauravas of Hastinapura, and was comprehensively defeated. He was captured on the battlefield, bound in chains, and presented as a prisoner to Dronacharya, the victorious Kaurava commander. Drona showed mercy on Drupada and spared his life, but annexed half of Panchala.

Humiliated, Drupada swore revenge. He prayed to the gods for a valorous son who would defeat the Kauravas and kill Dronacharya, and performed the putra kameshti yagna. Lo and behold, from the sacred flames rose a perfect warrior, fully armed and ready for battle: Dhrishtadyumna. This fire-born warrior fulfilled his destiny. Dhrishtadyumna was commander-in-chief of the victorious Pandava army through the great eighteen-day war at Kurukshetra; he slew Dronacharya on the fifteenth day of battle.

Yet, as the eons passed, Dhrishtadyumna remained an uncelebrated character. Children are traditionally named after other Pandava heroes like Arjuna, Bheemasena, Krishna, Abhimanyu and Satyaki, even Yudhishtra, but not after Dhrishtadyumna. The defeated Kaurava commanders Bheeshma, Drona and Radheya are all arguably more revered than Dhrishtadyumna, the victorious Pandava commander.

I think this is because Dhrishtadyumna was never more than a warrior, he never became a hero. He was born complete. He therefore never went through the hero's journey. His character was not forged in the crucible of events, like, say, Bheeshma's vow of celibacy, Duryodhana's embrace of Radheya as a true kshatriya, Bheemasena's fury after that fateful game of dice, or Arjuna's reluctance to wage war on his grandfather. It was never obvious that Dhrishtadyumna fully felt the shame of his father's defeat, or of his sister Draupadi's humiliation. His character and destiny were a given, preordained by his progenitors. Therefore he remained a bit of a cynical automaton, more a Terminator-like android than a real hero worthy of adulation.

Dhrishtadyumna's spiritual descendants are modern sports "professionals", who are brought up from birth to fulfil a single, narrow aim. These modern-day Dhrishtadyumnas include a vast number of Soviet era athletes, mass manufactured by the communist machine to win Olympic medals. Tennis once had a surfeit of these bloodless, colourless, insufferably boring androids, especially between the Borg-McEnroe era and the Federer-Nadal era. Anyone want to watch Thomas Muster vs. Michael Stich?

When Serena Williams first came on the scene, I didn't warm to her, I didn't especially want to see her play. She seemed to be just another android, another avatar of Dhrishtadyumna. Serena was conceived by her parents, literally, to win the sweet prize money now on offer in tennis. The only self, the only personality, young Serena seemed to have was her parent’s warped ambition.

Over the years, however, Serena changed. She distanced herself from her pushy dad (he no longer attends Venus vs. Serena matches holding a placard that reads "Welcome to the Williams' Show”). She became a shopping-addict, and went through therapy. She threatened to shove a tennis ball down a match official's throat. She learnt to look sweet and starry-eyed at press interviews. She kept improving her game. She glammed it up at the Oscars. Serena went through a freak injury - she stepped on broken glass in a German night club, and that developed into a life threatening pulmonary embolism, which stole a stole an entire year of Serena's prime. She went through a string of failed relationships with rap artists and sportsmen. She dished out boyfriend advice to Caroline Wozniacki: “I told her never look through the guy’s phone,” Serena said. “That is the worst thing you can do. I told her most relationships end.”

Basically, real life happened to Serena. Real life changed Serena, and in those changes authentic self was created. Serena’s humanity is apparent now in a way that Dhrishtadyumna’s never was, which is why watching Serena play today is so much more compelling than it ever was.

From Wankhede to Trent Bridge. How? Why? What Next?

How could India lose like that? India are the world number 1, the world champions. And yet, we lost to England. Twice, By big margins. How could the team which won the World Cup just three months ago, playing with so much spunk and conviction, suddenly turn so spineless?

This question feels especially important because I was in the stands at Trent Bridge for three days. I took in the spectacle, the packed stands, the ever-changing conditions, the many pints of lager. I enjoyed the camaraderie, the corporate hospitality and the banter with knowledgeable English fans. I cheered a Rahul Dravid century. Yet, despite all that, I came away from the game feeling miserable, physically beaten up. How could India lose so abjectly? After being so far ahead of England?

The most common explanation flying around is that India play too much cricket, are therefore under-prepared for English conditions, and are carrying too many injuries. This is true. A less greedy cricket board would have scrapped that West Indies tour to give the team a chance to get acclimatized. I'm just not able to see that as an explanation. India have always played too much cricket. India have always been underprepared.

Looking back, India have never been a dominant world #1, obviously better than the rest of the pack. India, Australia, England and South Africa have been pretty evenly matched, player for player, ever since Glenn McGrath and Shane Warne retired. What made this Indian team special was that, despite their brutal workload, despite their limited bowling, they would reach deep within and conjure up exceptional performances when it mattered. This team's great moments have all been about fighting back from adversity... Eden Gardens 01, Headingly 02, Lord's 02, Multan 03, Adelaide 03, Bombay 04, Johannesburg 06, Jamaica 06, Trent Bridge 07, Kanpur 08, Madras 08, Perth 08, Napier 09, Durban 10...our success tasted that much sweeter because it never came easily. India's ascent over the past decade was the result of not just skill, but also exceptional spirit.

Yet, the World Cup, the ultimate prize, remained elusive. In 2003, India played like champions, until the heartbreak in the finals. In 2007, another heartbreak. In 2011, Indian team believed they were destined to win. Belief - vivid internal images which are (literally) the stuff of dreams - is a much stronger force than the will. That belief, that sense of destiny, lifted India during the 2011 World Cup whenever they needed to raise their game.

Now, India have won the World Cup. The dream has come true. This team's destiny has been fulfilled, their most soaring ambition has been realized. The movie is over, the credits have rolled. Now, they are emotionally flat-lining. They no longer have the emotional energy to lift their game, the way they have done over the past decade.

Ironically, the other team I've watched emotionally flat-lining after reaching a cherished goal is England. An entire generation of English players grew up dreaming about winning the Ashes. Nasser Hussain, Duncan Fletcher and Michael Vaughan gradually turned England into a tough team with a winning habit. In 2005, England played out of their skins to beat an exceptional Australian team and win the greatest Ashes ever.

Having scaled this summit, England wandered into years of mindless, meandering, mediocrity... meltdown in Pakistan, a 5-0 whitewash in Australia, Freddy Flintoff's adventures with a pedalo, losing in New Zealand, Pietersen's spat with Peter Moores. England finally recovered their sense of purpose only after Freddy Flintoff retired, after Andrew Strauss and Andy Flower were firmly established as the captain and coach, after they had a clear and motivating goal to focus their minds - beating Australia in Australia.

I don't think the return of Sehwag and Zaheer is going to fix the Indian team. The team, collectively, needs a renewed sense of purpose. The tough cricket in England this summer might help shape this purpose. In the meanwhile, we India fans may need to spend a season or two remembering everything our team has achieved over the past decade while this new purpose takes hold.

Roger Federer: The Middle Class Champion

The dust has now settled on Wimbledon 2011. We have two exciting young champions to celebrate in Petra Kvitova and Novak Djokovic. Rafael Nadal is taking time off to let his fractured foot heal. Maggie May, Andy Murray's dog, is also recovering, from all the stress and media scrutiny that comes with being a celebrity. Yet, after the fun and the excitement have died down, after the Pimm's No. 1 and the strawberries and cream have been put away, the taste that lingers on from Wimbledon 2011 is the taste of a golden age coming to an end: the Age of Roger Federer.

Just how golden the Age of Roger Federer has been became clear to me, thanks, unexpectedly, to the British press.

As is traditional during the Wimbledon fortnight, the British moaned on about the absence of a British champion. The explanation they most commonly trotted out is that British tennis is a middle class game. For instance, here is Peter Preston, the former editor of the Guardian, writing about the Middle Class Malaise: "Why don't the British win Wimbledon anymore? Because we aren't hungry for success".

The term "middle class" merits some translation. In Britain, it does not describe people in the middle of the income distribution, a class now described as the "squeezed middle". It includes, and usually describes, affluent, well-educated, well-connected professionals: corporate executives, civil servants, lawyers, doctors, university professors. This haute bourgeois constitutes a middle class, rather than a privileged elite, because its members are notionally of lower rank than the hereditary landed aristocracy. These are the comfortably-off families who generally play and watch tennis for fun, and who generally fail to turn their children into Wimbledon champions. The claim that this class does not produce champions feels close to the bone, because this is the class I come from, and happily live within.

Prima facie, this reasoning looks like pure rubbish, nothing more than typical Pommy whingeing. But looking around at tennis, maybe the whingers have a point.

Consider, for instance, the Williams sisters' story. Their father, Richard Williams, son of a single mom from Shreveport, Louisiana, who now lives in the inner-city war zone of South Central Los Angeles, was idly watching tennis on TV when he was powerfully impressed by the prize money tennis players won. So he coaxed and cajoled his wife into having two more children, children #4 and #5, who would be raised from birth to play tennis and win that sweet prize money. Miraculously, this scheme worked, but it would never have occurred to even the most pushy tennis club members from suburban Long Island or Surrey.

Novak Djokovic, whose parents run a pizza restaurant in Belgrade, talks about growing up in a different kind of war-zone:

Djokovic reflected on how he had to negotiate some serious “ups and downs in life to become a champion”. The downs included a spell in spring 1999 when Djokovic, his parents and two brothers, Marko and Djordje, were living in a small apartment in Belgrade as Nato jets were targeting the Serbian capital.

He and Ana Ivanovic...along with Jelena Jankovic...would sometimes have to disappear into a bomb shelter when their practice in an empty swimming pool, which had been turned into a makeshift tennis court, was alarmingly interrupted.

Djokovic can remember the menacing drone of the low-flying bombers drowning out the renditions of “Happy Birthday to You” when he turned 12. Episodes like that build character. “All of us who went through that came out with their spirit stronger,” he once said. “Now we appreciate the value of life. We know how it feels to be living in 60 square metres being bombed.”

Andy Murray, the great British hope, comes from Dunblane, Scotland. Dunblane is about as far away from the manicured courts of SW19 as South Central LA is from the courts of the West Side Tennis Club in Forest Hills, New York, or Bhagalpur, Bihar, is from the Bombay Gymkhana. Dunblane is best remembered in Britain for a horrific massacre of schoolchildren by a crazy gunman in 1996. Andy's brother Jamie was in school when this massacre happened.

While Andy Murray does come from a tough place, he may be an even better example of another clear pattern: champions created by pushy tennis-parents. Andy's story is less about escaping Dunblane, and more about being Judy Murray's son.

Judy Murray, then Judy Erskine from Glasgow, once tried to make it as a tennis pro. She took buses to European tournaments because she couldn't afford the airfare, slept in tents, and shared cigarettes in the locker room with Mariana Simonescu, then Bjorn Borg's girlfriend. Her tennis career failed. She became a secretary. She got married. Her marriage broke up, bitterly. Andy is her redemption.

Martina Hingis was brought up by an ambitious single mom who named her daughter after the great Martina Navratilova. Jelena Dokic has a famously pushy tennis-dad. The American Bryan twins' parents are tennis coaches, who made sure their boys spent every waking hour on either tennis or music. Bernard Tomic's dad used to coach Goran Ivanisevic. Andre Agassi's dad, who boxed for Iran in the Olympics, fits the pattern well enough.

This pattern isn't entirely new, but it is strengthening. Jimmy Connor's mother Gloria was a tennis teacher, who once attracted a fair bit of comment for being so present in her adult son's life. Gloria Connors was once a remarkable exception. Today she would be routine. In general, players coming through into top tier tennis either come from tough backgrounds, or have laser-focused tennis parents, or both.

An excellent book called Why England Lose looked at this pattern in football. More than 50% of the English population describe themselves as middle-class. They love football more than any other sport, and routinely send their sons to football coaching. Yet England's national team typically doesn't include a single middle-class player. The team consists entirely of men whose fathers were manual labourers, or on benefits, or former football professionals. These guys don't spend their precious teenage years swotting for math and physics A levels, or practicing classical music, or attending family reunions. They just play football. Therefore, they clock in the 10,000 hours of practice needed to be really good at something. The middle-class kids never do.

In this context, the LTA's strategy to develop British tennis is to spend surpluses from Wimbledon on courts in blighted inner-cities, and hope for a British version of Serena Williams, or Gael Monfils, to come through. Commentators talk about how Amir Khan, a boxer from Bolton with Pakistani roots, has breathed new life into British boxing. As a strategy, this makes sense. But at some deeper level, it sticks in my throat.

I'm all for social mobility. But surely, that is a serious question for schools, policing and public policy. Tennis is a game. Tennis is not meant to create pathways for social mobility, or win the Battle of Waterloo, or prove the superiority of the Aryan race, or of the Communist system, or serve any other political agenda. It shouldn't be about fulfilling a parent's frustrated dream either; that is just bad parenting. Tennis shouldn't really be about anything more than the pleasure of playing with a bat and ball.

The amateur ideal of previous generations was an attempt, however flawed, at letting the game just be a game. That ideal is now gone. As recently as the 1970s, the future of American tennis was the Stanford University tennis team. Now, kids who are serious about tennis wouldn't waste their time at Stanford University. Tennis, and sport in general, suffers from what Arnold Toynbee called a schism in the soul. The spirit in which amateurs play tennis is now completely disconnected from the spirit in which top professionals play.

Until Roger Federer.

Federer's greatness isn't fully captured by his sixteen grand slam titles. His reign is a golden age because of the spirit with which he played to win those sixteen titles, a spirit which is primarily about his love for playing the game. Here is a an extract from a story about Federer in the New Yorker:

... beneath that unflappable exterior I could sense that he was enjoying himself enormously—a deep, visceral joy that vibrated like an electric current in certain shots. Some of the top tennis players have given the opposite impression: Pete Sampras’s hangdog look on the court always made you want to cheer him up, and Andre Agassi, in his 2009 memoir, tells us again and again how he secretly hated the game. Federer clearly loves to play, and this is no small part of the pleasure in watching him.

Roger Federer didn't need to escape from a ghetto or a war zone. Federer's parents both work for Ciba-Geigy, the pharmaceuticals company, near Basel, Switzerland. This is the sort of upbringing I, and most readers of this blog, can totally relate to. My father was a tennis-playing executive at a multinational corporation. So am I.

Federer didn't need to fulfil the ambitions of a tennis-parent. His parents played recreational tennis at the firm's club. "We’d spend weekends on the tennis court," Lynette (his mother) recalled, "and the kids"—Roger and his sister, Diana, who was two years older—"would join us... It was Roger’s decision, at twelve, to quit playing soccer and to enter the program at the Swiss National Tennis Center, in Ecublens, two and a half hours by train from home.

Roger Federer's balanced perspective, his view of tennis as just a part of life, is why it now feels like a golden age is ending. Novak Djokovic has taken tennis to an entirely new level. Andy Murray has sworn to catch up by "working two per cent three per cent harder". These guys already work very hard. The marginal cost of that extra "two per cent three per cent" is high.

With his sixteen titles already in the bag, with his two young daughters at home, I doubt that Federer will put in that extra two per cent three per cent. He could spend that time at home, attending, say, a teddy bear's tea party. I know I would. Despite that, I think Roger Federer will will himself on to one more grand slam title before he rides off into the sunset. His best chance is at Wimbledon next year. One final chance then for Wimbledon, and the tennis world, to enjoy its great middle-class champion.

Sachin's Century, Zizou Zidane and Slumdog Millionaire

India won the World Cup. Wow!

How did we do it? (A) we cheated (B) we were lucky (C) we have a team of geniuses (D) it is written. And yes! Ladies and gentlemen, you are right. The correct answer is (D). We won the World Cup for the same reason that a chai wallah called Jamal Malik won Rs 2,00,00,000 in a quiz show. We won the World Cup because - it is written.

I didn't just make that up when I was celebrating our win. I have it on good authority that we won because it is written. The authority in question is India's coach Gary Kirsten. Here is what he had to say to Cricinfo:

As the tournament progressed in those knockout stages, I just felt a sense of destiny there. I felt we were going to do this thing. To the point that, the day before the final we knew were going to win. We actually even spoke into it. That we were going to win this thing. It's how we prepare to deal with the success, because we are going to win. Mike spoke about it: we are going to win this thing tomorrow. There was never any doubt at that stage.

I don't think Gary Kirsten is seeing ghosts here. He is talking about something real, a very tangible spirit that was present in this Indian team, that helped them raise their game when it mattered. This spirit is most apparent when it is absent, like when a team or player can't summon up the self-belief to win, and therefore crumbles or chokes, like Jana Novotna at Wimbledon 93 or South Africa in the cricket World Cup 99. But the converse is also true. The presence of this spirit, this deeply experienced sense of destiny, gives a team or player resiliency, an extra edge.

India didn't have this spirit in 83. After that win, Kapil Dev told the media that he had brought champagne into the dressing room before the final, because even if India lost, we'd done quite well to reach the finals, and that was something to celebrate. That quiet sense of destiny was a lot more apparent in Gavaskar's team in 85. Of course, a sense of destiny doesn't guarantee success. Saurav Ganguly's team had a potent sense of destiny in 04, pushing for an epoch-making win at the SCG. But it was not to be, as Steve Waugh denied fate in his final test match.

Destiny's intent for this World Cup was for Sachin Tendulkar to score his hundredth hundred in a World Cup final in Bombay, to lead India to victory. Over thirty thousand India fans at Wankhede had read this destiny in the stars, and in the palms of their hands, and were fervently willing it to happen. It didn't. Malinga punctured that dream.

The aspect of India's performance in the finals I was most impressed with was the calm, purposeful confidence with which we played even after that dream had been punctured. That tells me that the team's dream, the sense of destiny Kirsten talks about, was not about individual performances but about winning the World Cup. Because if the team had believed deeply that Sachin was destined to score his hundredth hundred that day, they would have been shattered by Sachin's dismissal. They would have been shattered like Zizou Zidane was when he head-butted the Italian Materazzi during a football World Cup final.

Here is former England batsman and Kent and Middlesex captain Ed Smith's take on Zidane's World Cup final:

"Scratch a brilliant sportsman deeply enough and you reach a layer of self-certainty in his own destiny. The greater the sportsman, usually the more convinced he is of his own predestined greatness. The big stage means it must be his stage, victory has been prearranged on his terms, it is his destiny to win the World Cup or the Olympics or the Ashes. It might be perfectly rational for a great player to believe he has a good chance of decisively influencing the big occasion. But that isn't what he thinks. He thinks it is inevitable. After all, well-balanced self-awareness and genius seem so rarely to co-exist.

If you could bottle that self-certainty you would have the most potent winning drug. That is why champion teams so often have a talismanic force at their centre - someone who believes the match, the day and the championship have been set up in accordance with his own destiny. His self-belief radiates to the rest of the team. Zidane had exactly that quality. When France really needed something special, he believed he would do it. That belief can be so strong that not only your own team but even the opposition can fall under its spell.

In extra time of the World Cup final, with Thierry Henri off substituted, France again looked to Zidane, almost exclusively to Zidane. We can be sure that Zidane, despite being unusually exhausted and having played longer than he would in normal circumstances, shared that view...the script had gone according to plan. Zidane had taken France to the final... one last moment of pre-destined brilliance was all he required.

And he almost did it. In the 104th minute, summoning up one last effort, Zidane made a decisive run into the penalty box, a cross was delivered just in time, and Zidane's soaring header sailed inevitably towards the top of the goal...Just as it was meant to be.

Having complied with Zidane's will so far, the gods finally made a mistake. The Italian goalkeeper Buffon made an inspired save in response to an inspired header. What followed was the most revealing and desperate image of the World Cup. Aimed at no one in particular, not at the keeper, not at himself, perhaps at the heavens, Zidane's face contorted into an agonized scream. This should not have happened, cannot have happened, must not be allowed to stand. Zidane's face resembled Edvard Munch's famous painting.

Having come this far with him, how could the gods now abandon him? But they finally went their own way, and left Zidane in solitary despair... Which would weigh more heavily on a champion's mood - a verbal insult to his family (the kind of insult that sportsmen hear all too often and nearly always manage to ignore) or being denied, in a state of physical and mental exhaustion, what he considered to be rightfully his: the winning goal, the perfect narrative, his destiny...

Zidane wasn't thinking logically when he headbutted Materazzi. He wasn't thinking at all. He was acting at a level, as he often did, which was beyond the bounds of normality."

It was written, yet it was not. Zidane was not grieving a game, or even a trophy. He was grieving an entire world. The world in which he had lived had broken apart, the fabric of fate had been shredded. Buffon's unbelievable save threw Zidane squarely within the twisted reach of crazy sorrow. Headbutting Materazzi was only a part, and not an especially important part, of Zidane's experience of crazy sorrow. In Ed Smith's words, "it's not a long journey from extreme self-belief to madness".

Fortunately, the Indian team believed in their destiny to win a World Cup, but they didn't really believe in Sachin's hundredth hundred in the World Cup final. Sure, that would have be nice, but that was icing on the cake. That lack of belief let them keep their heads when Sachin fell. That lack of belief allowed them to give Sachin a glorious World Cup winner's send-off. Zizou Zidane also deserved a send off like that. It was written, even if it didn't come to be.

Sachin Tendulkar Winning Ugly @ the World Cup Semis

Sachin's 85 in the semi-finals against Pakistan yesterday has to be one of his worst knocks ever. He had four, maybe six lives. He couldn't pick Saeed Ajmal, he couldn't time the ball, he was not batting like Sachin. Yet, he stuck it out, ground out more runs than any other batsman in either team, and took India through to the finals in Bombay.

Sachin was winning ugly, in Brad Gilbert's immortal phrase. Sachin's companion in winning ugly was his captain MS Dhoni, who must be right up there, along with Simon Katich, as the least elegant batsman in world cricket. I love them both for being willing to win ugly.

Sure, I love watching Sachin blaze away majestically, like he did against South Africa in Nagpur. But I love watching India winning ugly even more.

Brad Gilbert's point is that most top sportsmen win when they are on song. Real champions are the ones who learn to win even when they are not, who can carry a mis-firing serve or forehand, and still scrap through to a win. Winning ugly does not mean sledging or behaving badly. Neither SRT or MSD does Aussie-style sledging. They just do whatever it takes to raise the likelihood of winning. They don't care if it doesn't look pretty.

My admiration for winning ugly has something to do with the world I grew up with.

I grew up when India's heroes were players like Gundappa Vishwanath, Erapalli Prasanna and Bishen Singh Bedi, who wowed the cricketing world with their magical silken artistry, but didn't win matches. I grew up believing, at some pre-cognitive level, that being Indian meant being gifted, graceful, gracious, and losing. Noble and honourable, but still losing. Like Vijay Amritraj and Ramesh Krishnan in tennis. It fitted in perfectly with Nehruvian socialism, the Hindu rate of GDP growth, our non-aligned policy, and Bollywood heroes who never got their girls.

Fortunately, that loser-India is now gone. A whole generation has now come of age - after Kapil Dev lifted the Prudential Cup at Lord's in 1983, after Ravi Shastri drove his Audi around the MCG in 1985 - to whom it is perfectly natural to be Indian and to win.

MS Dhoni was almost two years old in June 1983. Yuvraj Singh is six months younger than Dhoni. They wouldn't get why India winning ugly matters to me. But to me, and to many Indians of my generation, and my father's generation, the most precious Indian wins are the ones which are won ugly. Because winning ugly is the opposite of losing gracefully.

Tennis and the Emigrant Experience

I was down at the club last night. Tennis social. Dusted off my old racket - the same Prince Spectrum composite that I had back when I was in college - and gave my game a spin.

My game was filthy. I still play squash regularly, so I had no problem hitting the ball, but I had no control. I was spraying the ball all over the place. I resorted to tapping the ball back over the net to keep it in play, until I finally lost patience and started giving it a whack and hoping for the best. And, heck, whaddaya know? A few of those whacks actually landed in the court :). All in all, I had fun.

None of the other players at the social knew me. None of them were colleagues, or parents at my daughters' school. I wouldn't blame any of my doubles partners if they didn't remember my name today; I'd struggle to remember their names now. I was just a brown-skinned guy in a blue t-shirt, hitting yellow spheres across the net. I felt no shame, despite the filthy game. That is probably why I had fun.

The nice thing about being away from home is the anonymity, the absence of context, the freedom it brings. That sense of freedom shows in many ways, including the way I hit a tennis ball.

In Suzanne Vega's words, "I was in a timeless, placeless place, out of context, and beyond all consequences".

Yet, the worst thing about being away from home is also the anonymity. Hitting a tennis ball isn't intrinsically fun or not-fun. Tennis is worth my while because of context, because of the references to tennis running through the rest of my life.

I first played tennis at the Madras Cricket Club, my father's spiritual home. My father had been a very good player in his college days, and was still on the MCC tennis team. Marker Venkatesan - the tennis pro in western terms - would toss me a balls as a favour to my dad. Members who walked by easily recognized me as Chandru's son, as Raju's nephew, as Nari's nephew. They would stop to watch me play, throw in a word of encouragement, a well-intentioned tip...they wished me well. One of them, Ayya-mama, bought me a Tintin comic for every Merit Card I won at school. It was all very warm, and intensely personal.

One of my earliest memories is being woken up in the middle of the night by my excited dad, being bundled into a car and driven to my uncle Chander-mama's house. They were showing a recording of the Roscoe Tanner vs. Bjorn Borg Wimbledon final on TV. In my mind's eye, I can still see a blurry black and white image of this game in a crowded, darkened room. Otherwise, my entire clan gathered on our terrace to follow Wimbledon on BBC shortwave radio. By the time the great age of McEnroe, Borg, Chris Evert and Martina Navratilova rolled around, tennis already was in my blood-stream.

When I was a teen-ager, I was sometimes invited to play doubles with my dad's friends. These were very good players, they played seriously, they played to win. My dad's friends still wished me well. But now, with my young legs and sharp eyes, they also expected me to perform on court. I was eager to impress. But I also understood that the MCC ethos did not smile kindly upon double faults or foozled volleys. I especially didn't want to let myself down and be an embarrassment to my family, so wound up playing a cramped, self-conscious game. But there was never any doubt in my mind that the game was worth playing, and worth playing well.

My dad's friends aren't playing tennis at MCC more. But I still couldn't show up at those courts and play the filthy tennis I played yesterday. At a minimum, I'd need to put myself on a regimen that would get me back to being a good player. No anonymity there, and no freedom.

Yet, Janis Joplin's words, "freedom's just another word for nothing left to lose, nothing ain't worth nothing, but its free".

Of course, the ultimate zen state is not perfect freedom, but to be in a context full of meaning and still play with freedom; to be Sachin Tendulkar playing for India in a World Cup final, in Bombay, and still play with freedom to lead India to victory. That dream is still possible as this post goes to press. C'mon India.

Dangerous Safety Signs

Bikers on twisty mountain roads should carry mental images of stability and control. They should not carry mental images of spectacular crashes. These images make the rider more likely to crash the bike, yet these are exactly the images that the road sign above is trying to evoke.

This is a simple truth that sports coaches know. A good cricket coach does not tell a batter to not fish outside the off stump. He tells the batter to hit through the line. The subconscious does not work with logical operators like not. It simply brings the mental images it holds into reality.

But the people who design signage for roads don't seem to know this. With tragic consequences...



Seriously, this is a completely testable proposition.

Show amateur pilots video footage of gruesome crashes of planes similar to what they fly. Put them in a flight simulator. Ask them to do complex manouveres. Measure their crash rate. Compare with a control group which was shown footage of smooth, successful flights.

And presto...we now have scientific evidence with which to prosecute the road sign chaps for manslaughter. Or at least save a few lives.

Pyaasa

Since 26/11, it hasn’t felt appropriate to change the topic to something other than the Mumbai attacks. Sachin’s century at Chepauk has given me permission to do just that.

This test match was always about more the cricket. For England to have shown the gumption to come out and play, for Strauss and Collingwood to play gritty career defining knocks, for Sachin Tendulkar to lead India on a record breaking run-chase, bringing up his century and the winning runs with the same shot, and for Sachin to have the grace and presence of mind to dedicate his century to the victims of the Mumbai attacks...

I'm just grateful that my favourite game can produce such a moment. The best piece I came across on this test match being about more than cricket was by Peter Roebuck in Cricinfo.

Yet, as a long-suffering India cricket fan, this win is special to me in just simple cricketing terms. This tickles the same spot as watching Ishant Sharma dominate Ricky Ponting at the WACA; it slakes a thirst that has been building up for decades.

Great teams chase down big targets. Bradman’s Invincibles chased down 403 at Headingley in 1948, to secure the Ashes and their status as the Invincibles. Steve Waugh’s Aussies chased down 369 in Sydney, 1999, after being 5 for 126, against a Pakistan attack that included Wasim Akram, Waqar Younis, Shoaib Akthar and Saqlain Mushtaq. Clive Lloyd’s Windies had their own great chase when Gordon Greenidge made mockery of David Gower’s declaration at Lord's in 1984 by chasing down 342 at a rate of over 5 an over while losing just one wicket. These wins matter more than others; they take on a talismanic quality, keeping the possibility of victory alive in a team’s imagination even in the worst situation.

India, Saurav’s India, had a talismanic win in Kolkata, 2001. But this win felt different from a triumphal march through a fourth innings chase. It was built around Rahul and VVS gritting out for survival in the third innings, with Harbhajan coming in to deliver the kill. Strangely, despite being a team built around a wealth of batting talent, India’s fourth innings performances have been appalling.

Think back to the inexplicable collapse to Shahid Afridi in Bangalore, 2005, needing to bat out a day to win the series. All out for 100 to the mesmerizing spin of Shaun Udal in Mumbai, 2006, again needing to bat out a day to win the series. Or losing three wickets in five balls to Michael Clarke in Sydney, 2008.

Going back a bit, remember the collapse in Barbados, 1997, when faced with the opportunity to be the first team in two generations to dethrone the Windies at home? Or falling achingly short of the mark against Akram’s Pakis in Chennai, 1999, in an ill-tempered and tightly fought series. Even the famous tied test against the Aussies in Chennai, 1987, was a game India should have won in a canter.

India have also generally made heavy weather of small fourth innings targets, even if we did go on to win. It came down to Sameer Dighe and Harbhajan Singh to hold their nerve and chase down 155 in Chennai, 2001. Chasing 233 to win in Adelaide, 2004, was a nervy affair that could have gone either way.

Those ghosts have now been exorcised.

What else would I have wished for in this game? For Rohit Sharma, S Badrinath, Virat Kohli, Robin Uthappa, Suresh Raina, M Vijay and Shikar Dhawan to have been sitting in the dressing room, absorbing the atmosphere, drinking in the subliminal belief that this is how India bats when it really counts.

Marathon Training

What's the score?

Week 2

Tue, Nov 6: 5 games of squash
Thu, Nov 8: 30 min. 5 km. Intervals at 7.5 and 12.5 kmph
Fri, Nov 9: 45 min. 7.5 km @ 10 kmph
Sat, Nov 10: 30 min. 5.0 km. At 10 kmph

Total: 17.5 km + 5 games squash

Week 3

Tue, Nov 13: 4 games of squash
Wed, Nov 14: 30 min. 5.2 km. Just slightly over 10kmph
Thu, Nov 15: 36 min. 6 km. Intervals at 7.5 and 12.5 kmph
Sun Nov 18: 36 min. 6 km. Cruise @ 10kmph + 10 min on rowing m/c

Total: 19.2 km + 4 games squash

Observations:

1. My attitude to training has changed since in signed up for the Marathon.

Working out used to be me-time that I looked forward to. Now that I have to do the miles, working out has become a chore to be completed rather than a treat I'm giving myself. I'm feeling apologetic about tearing myself away from work and the children to go clock in the miles. That saps energy. If I slope into a training session feeling apologetic, half-embarrassed and unconsciously thinking I really ought to be elsewhere, I'm not going to find gas in the tank when I want to push myself for another couple of miles or pump up the pace on the last lap.

I'm going to set this right. I'm going to slot in training carefully into my calendar, so I know I'm not stealing time from another part of my life. I'll spend a couple of minutes warming up and visualizing the run before I set off. And approach each run with focus, enthusiasm and pride.

2. I need an afternoon snack. I'm out of fuel around 4:30 pm. That's prime time for unhealthy and energy sapping snacks. That also takes energy away from my run in the evening.

3. I need to watch my diet more closely because I'm in training. I've let myself indulge a bit. I'm in training has become a bit of an excuse to over-eat and snack on potato chips. This is absurd

4. Squash is actually a nice change from running. I'm going to continue playing through the marathon training period. I'll basically be playing only league matches. That's OK.

Starting Training

Training for the London marathon started last week. The score:

Nov 1. 40 min @ 10 kmph = 6.66 km
Nov 3: 45 min @ 10 kmph = 7.5 km
Nov 4: 45 min @ 10 kmph = 7.5 km

Total for the week = 21.6 km

Nov 6: 5 games of squash.

Some other random observations.

- Mindless TV while on the treadmill. Star Wars beats MTV

- It's hard to concentrate running alone along the river bank. Most people are there to relax. People walking dogs, couples desperately making out, kids playing frizbee, a couple of fishermen, a couple of homeless boozers...its really hard to stay focused on my breathing and just clock in the distance. A training partner will really help.

Duncan Fletcher. How could he?

Duncan Fletcher is violating one of the sacred codes in cricket. He has published a mean spirited kiss-and-tell memoir about his time as the England coach. With nasty digs about Flintoff's drinking. And about how the England dressing room hates Ian Botham.

He can't do this. What goes in the dressing room must stay the dressing room. For the coach to do this is appalling. That too, the same coach who made a huge deal of the team sticking up for each other in public.

The tragedy is that this sort of thing can be done nicely and constructively. My best insight into the England dressing room is from Ed Smith's On and Off the Field. Ed wrote respectfully and with rare insight about his colleagues. I doubt if any of his team mates minded the way they were shown in Ed's book. And he brought a hard-core fan like me even closer to the game.

Fletcher is spoiling the game for everybody by not exercising enough judgment on what not to say. Ever team meeting now has to be held in the shadow of a potential media sell-out. And the game will be poorer for it.

The mental game: squash

Played a competitive game of squash last week. After a pretty long break.

Was playing a 14 year old. I'd played him before about a year and a half ago, when I'd just got back into the game. He was about a foot shorter then. We were playing in league 5A. He's fought his way up to league 3A since.

I won the first game easily. The 14 year old was just not concentrating. I started thinking about how I would write a post on my blog about how mental strength is a huge advantage for older, more experienced players. I promptly found myself down 0-6 in the second game. Delicious irony. I was feeling positive enough to smile to myself even as I tried to focus.

Three techniques I try while on court. I focus energy on my center between points. That helps me feel balanced and breathe deeper. I visualize fire to get the energy and competitive spirit going. When the point starts concentrate on just watching the ball, trusting my body and instincts to know where to move to and where to place the ball. Over-thinking each point is potentially fatal. Too much imagination can be an obstacle on-court. Visualization keeps the imagination out of the way.

Focusing the mind worked. I won a close game 3-1.

Let's see which league this kid in playing in next year.

The spirit of cricket

Extract from the cricinfo story about today's ODI between India and Australia: "With Kartik bowling and the ball spinning away from the right-handers, it was pretty hard to score boundaries," Ponting said. "I spoke to Hodge later and he said he thought Kartik bowled very well. You have to give credit where credit's due."

Ricky Ponting found it in his heart to praise the opposition? And he picked Murali Kartik - one of my favourite India players - to praise? There still is hope in this world.

As captain of the world's best team, Ponting has to set the bar for on-field behaviour. He has been doing a terrible job so far, and the game as a whole is poorer for it. Hopefully Ponting can find the middle ground of being graceful and playing hard.