NOTE: This article is about a personal anecdote which, vaguely, serves to also dissect Sachin Tendulkar's post-match speech at the Wankhede Stadium on November 16, 2013. DNA has published the full text, but I recommend you watch the video. For people who do not have access to television like myself, it made for a hearty 20-minute watch - one that perhaps was as delightful as Mr Tendulkar's desert storm innings in Sharjah in 1998.
In all my sporting experience, I have but one anecdote that has
stuck. If it has, it has stuck for a reason. And even though it has been
ten years and I was merely a child of eleven when it happened, it
played a significant part in the development my rationale, if not turning out to be the driving force behind my every deed.
I do not remember
the exact occasion, so pardon me for leaving out minor details. It was
mid-season and Ashok sir (our coach) had us ‘state ranking’ folk
gathered around him. I was eleven, and I played Table Tennis in the
cadet category (under-12) then. I was ranked seven in a system where
you’re not worth much unless you’re ranked within the top four, but I
can tell you I was not bad. I did get the occasional clip on the ear for
losing my nerve in matches because I was told I was talented but I
didn’t have the temperament. I also lacked discipline. I could be
meticulous, hard-working and persistent to the point of being nervous
with all my efforts, but discipline was essentially all these things in a
magic proportion which I never quite discovered. There was this other
guy, though, who had it working like none of us could even dream of –
boys, girls, seniors, juniors alike. And this discussion, as was the
case with anything Ashok sir told us back then because he was quite
taken by this guy, eventually became all about him.
The
discussion was about goals and what each one of us aspired to do, in and
out of the sport. The list rolled out. Some said they wanted to play in
the Olympics. Some said they wanted to win the National Championships.
Lesser mortals like us said we wanted to play in the state team. I
remember saying that, at least. Incidentally, I never got around to do
that. It has been fourteen years since I started playing Table Tennis,
it has been nearly five since I stopped playing it competitively. I have
never played for the state. Coming to think about it, with that having
not happened and me never getting to ever be a Scientist, I think I’ve
kissed all my childhood dreams goodbye. There still is the amorphous,
fanciful notion of getting to be famous. I think I’d write that off as a
delusion when I have lived to be forty and have repeatedly let ‘career’
get in the way of my fancies.
Anyway, it was Raja’s (the
other guy I was talking about) turn to share his goals with us. Raja is
this thin, wiry, bespectacled kid of thirteen who was the spearhead of
the boys’ contingent. Our Academy is well-known for all the fantastic
women players it has produced, and Raja was like a first-generation city
dweller. The rest of us who were at least a couple of years younger
went on to be the next. Sadly, none of us from either of these
generations play the sport the way we thought we’d be playing it, right
now. We are all, instead, engineering graduates, management graduates,
employees in everyday jobs. I did my four years, a year of liberal arts
after and, now, work, looking forward to a place where music, writing,
films, love and happiness can go together. This ambition is
uncharacteristic of a sportsman: a far cry from the dialectic of victory
and defeat, where ‘acceptance’ is the golden mean. It, needless to say,
is also uncharacteristic of a child. It hurts to think I might have
gone and outgrown both phases.
Ashok sir asks Raja, so
Raja, what do you want to do? There is no tension building – Raja has
been ‘Captain Cool’ before the world knew MS Dhoni. He says, and quite
determinedly, that he wants to win the next match. He does not say he
wants to win the Nationals. He does not even say he wants to make the
state team. He says he wants to win the next match. Now, anyone who has
heard anything about NLP would know what this means, in terms of
short-term and long-term goals. Short-term goals define your immediate
actions. Long-term goals, like wanting to play in the Olympics, hosting
the Oscars and the whole nine yards, put some romance in something
that’s otherwise just a list of tasks.
We never got to
know what Raja’s romantic vision for his own life was. In all
likelihood, he didn’t have one. I never did. To us, it was about getting
that stroke right, contacting the ball at the right point for best
effect, keeping our head clear to be able to adopt the best strategy to
take that point in that pressure-situation. Success, for all practical
purposes, rested upon our ability to not let pressure get in the way of
our development as smart, effective, clear-headed sportsmen. Raja was
clear about that. Ashok sir was mighty impressed to see a pubescent kid
get this aspect of sporting life right.
If there is one detail I saw being relived in Sachin Tendulkar’s farewell speech, it is this. Peel off the layers of ‘legend’, ‘icon’ and ‘superstar’ and you will find a simple guy who played the game the way it ought to be played. He never lost touch with that thirteen-year old sporting nerd inside him whose only ambition in life was to make sure he doesn’t lose his wicket like that last time. He might not have fully corrected that bat-pad gap, he never worked on that bottom-handed grip. But he got better, and that’s all that matters.
The most satisfying experience for any performer, be it an artist or a sportsperson, is to cast aside the irrelevant detail that you are in the spotlight and to be able to single-mindedly pursue two things. One, the expectations you have for yourself. Two, the aspirations you have with respect to the game and the way you ought to play it.
And it is for having successfully managed that in the limited span of their respective careers, and for setting the precedent that both Sachin Tendulkar and R.S. Raja deserve a mention, my words, your time.