The Space of a Player

Seen from one end, the rectangular table becomes a trapezium, broader near the player's waist and tapering as it moves away. The challenge is clear to the players as soon as they take their positions: they each play from an area of strength and against a weaker opponent. They each know that the opponent, though he may be weaker, has a larger space into which he must hit the projectile, and therefore has just as much a chance to win as does the stronger player.

An even playground—an even battle.

He holds the paddle harder around its pommel, the grip tightening toward the hilt, and a sole finger outstretched to enhance the torque he would provide whenever a swivel was necessary. There being no particular stance, he moves into one. Bending his knees, he looms over the table, as if ready to quell his opponent at the earliest opportunity, beads of sweat already glistening at the ends of his brows. The infinite space before him—a space within which he can move his arms, within which he can choreograph his legs—confuses him. He is no longer a soldier governed by rules; he is a psychotic killer on the loose, and the simple power of his weapon frightens him, beats into his skull his need for responsibility.

But what can only responsibility do? Nothing. Responsibility requires discipline to be meaningful. Within that infinite space, the player must find discipline somewhere, and tame it to his will. That the weapon is an extension of his hand is worthless information. More than anything, he knows he needs a hand that is not connected to him at all, physically or telekinetically, but a hand which he can and will abuse. That is how the player sees the weapon—the fear of the weapon he has turned quickly into the weapon's fear of him. Responsibility can and will only reside in the presence of that fear.

As the first volley is fired, he flails his arms, his feet shuffling along the concrete floor, the beams of light from the halogen lamps shredded into shadows. He misfires once, twice, and then he misses altogether. The quick injection of failure into the psyche is the greatest reward of sporting participation, and the injection animates the player. The ignominy of failure is compounded by his enemy having witnessed his efforts—the more skill the player has armoured his body with, the more naked he becomes. And the enemy is always watching.

The game must continue.

There is more aimless dancing, more misdirected attempts at connecting with the speeding bullet, and all is in vain. At the same time, the infinite space is shrinking, slowly and steadily, because the enemy has borne down upon the belligerent. If there were guns and bombs, and if there were human lives at stake, and if bodies were lying strewn on thousands of battlefields across the world right now, the player would have had the option of disarming himself and have his people spared by the forces that be.

The game, on the other hand, must continue.

And now, the player plays from between walls immediately to his right and his left—and at that moment, his arms and feet are arrested, and the player's dance becomes a luxury. He must accept what his enemy, now the overlord, tosses out to him, and he must feed upon to it to sustain himself, and when he is done with it, he must toss it back. Quickly, he will receive more and more tosses, more and more opportunities for him to be humiliated, more and more reasons for his enemy to encourage the disdain he wishes to harbour.

The only way the player can emerge successful out of his labyrinthine proposition is to secure a small victory—even so, he mustn't worry about the smallness of it at all because it will be large as soon as he secures it. The overlord, playing from quite an advantageous position, will be shocked into facing his reality once more, a reality that cannot afford the substitution of humility with disdain, although both are equipotentially subversive.

At that moment, the player will have one opportunity to sink the injection deep into his enemy's veins—only one opportunity, not millions, not infinite, and that one opportunity will discipline him. That one opportunity will bring him within kissing distance of the two walls, and he will be addicted to their touch, a reminder of his enslavement to their promise of salvation. Soon, there is a new overlord, one who will have the opportunity to reign as emperor for all eternity, but will soon himself succumb to the rewards of success.

The game, after all, must continue.

I defaulted on my blog pact (with myself), got into a some trouble with a friend, singed a toe severely and pulled a muscle in the pelvic area, but the difference between doing what you have to do and doing what you like to do is the lack of any hesitation to do all of this every evening, wake up exhausted in the morning, and be excited about going to class.

I defaulted on my blog pact (with myself), got into a some trouble with a friend, singed a toe severely and pulled a muscle in the pelvic area, but the difference between doing what you have to do and doing what you like to do is the lack of any hesitation to do all of this every evening, wake up exhausted in the morning, and be excited about going to class.

A reluctant prince of the eighth ring of Hell

Some of the best pieces of writing have involved a narrator looking at the play of fate from an unconventional vantage point, and in recent times, anyone becomes such a narrator simply by becoming a coach of the Indian men's cricket team. In my opinion, the task alone is not exceptionally hard. In fact, just as Feynman once remarked that the best teacher is one who would explain concepts in physics to the first man he meets on the streets, the best coach - and therefore one who has surmounted the hardest times - is one who can make world-class players out of the first eleven men spotted on the roads.

Neither Duncan Fletcher nor Gary Kirsten find immediate qualification on that regard. They may have been good coaches, but neither of them joined the team when it was struggling with anything. Sure, Tendulkar may have been in poor form; sure, Harbhajan may not have been bowling on the right areas; sure, Nehra might be suffering too many injuries - in all these times, the team as a whole was never in danger.



So what is being expected of Fletcher? A maintenance of form is surely first on the list: no team would want to slip all that dramatically from occupying one of the top two spots of most ranking lists. More importantly, as is now evident with the team's tour of West Indies underway, the coach will also be expected to take charge of the fifteen young guns: crudely speaking, it doesn't look so much like a transition as a gladiatorial program, a survival-of-the-fittest arena that carbs out the best fit to a retiring veteran.

Fletcher will have to assuage the worries of the hard-workers, Fletcher will have to moderate the stupefactions of the smarter ones with his wisdom, Fletcher will have to suffer the novice stressed under both expectations and aspirations, and Fletcher will have to secure the cricketing future of a blood-lusting nation. The only manner in which he qualifies to differ from his predecessors is not because the expectations of him are monstrous - that is a familiar story - but because he now stands squarely between a group that has played good cricket and is now playing under almost no pressure and a group that has played for a much smaller duration and is now playing under quite a bit of pressure. Fletcher is the person the first frustrated finger will point at whensoever there is a failure to please.

Furthermore, it doesn't help that Fletcher has made a name for himself in the international arena as a man who specializes in revitalizing teams on the decline to teams that are decidedly formidable: England's reputation as a puny Test opponent was reversed almost as soon as he took charge in 1999, and despite a poor ODI showing in the eight years that followed, a inspectorial review of Fletcher's performance became necessary only in late 2007. In light of his latest appointment, all of those credentials become rarefied because his achievements to date have been accrued in less-charged and less-politically-embroiled environments, where his manoeuvrability has been unimpeded, where his long-term credentials found the sort of public understanding to overwhelm a temporary defect.

In India, all those things are beyond luxuries: they are impossibilities. Imagine being the head of an organization whose success finds you in good standing with the weakest section of the population - the audience - while failures find you in poor standing with the strongest section of the population - the infamous Board of Control for Cricket in India (BCCI) - and now imagine the amount of political cushioning one might require to sustain such torture.

Essentially, there remains nothing to be said on any note that stands to be constructive: conflicts are essential in the gauging of compatibility, and even though the stated bigger picture will not deviate much from its truism in the games to come, a timid disciplinarian such as Fletcher has to find that uncommon clearing where the BCCI, the National XI and the Indian fans find common ground, where he can retreat to to effectively separate himself from the hoi polloi of criticism continuously flecking the team he will be fighting to build.

A reluctant prince of the eighth ring of Hell

Some of the best pieces of writing have involved a narrator looking at the play of fate from an unconventional vantage point, and in recent times, anyone becomes such a narrator simply by becoming a coach of the Indian men's cricket team. In my opinion, the task alone is not exceptionally hard. In fact, just as Feynman once remarked that the best teacher is one who would explain concepts in physics to the first man he meets on the streets, the best coach - and therefore one who has surmounted the hardest times - is one who can make world-class players out of the first eleven men spotted on the roads.

Neither Duncan Fletcher nor Gary Kirsten find immediate qualification on that regard. They may have been good coaches, but neither of them joined the team when it was struggling with anything. Sure, Tendulkar may have been in poor form; sure, Harbhajan may not have been bowling on the right areas; sure, Nehra might be suffering too many injuries - in all these times, the team as a whole was never in danger.



So what is being expected of Fletcher? A maintenance of form is surely first on the list: no team would want to slip all that dramatically from occupying one of the top two spots of most ranking lists. More importantly, as is now evident with the team's tour of West Indies underway, the coach will also be expected to take charge of the fifteen young guns: crudely speaking, it doesn't look so much like a transition as a gladiatorial program, a survival-of-the-fittest arena that carbs out the best fit to a retiring veteran.

Fletcher will have to assuage the worries of the hard-workers, Fletcher will have to moderate the stupefactions of the smarter ones with his wisdom, Fletcher will have to suffer the novice stressed under both expectations and aspirations, and Fletcher will have to secure the cricketing future of a blood-lusting nation. The only manner in which he qualifies to differ from his predecessors is not because the expectations of him are monstrous - that is a familiar story - but because he now stands squarely between a group that has played good cricket and is now playing under almost no pressure and a group that has played for a much smaller duration and is now playing under quite a bit of pressure. Fletcher is the person the first frustrated finger will point at whensoever there is a failure to please.

Furthermore, it doesn't help that Fletcher has made a name for himself in the international arena as a man who specializes in revitalizing teams on the decline to teams that are decidedly formidable: England's reputation as a puny Test opponent was reversed almost as soon as he took charge in 1999, and despite a poor ODI showing in the eight years that followed, a inspectorial review of Fletcher's performance became necessary only in late 2007. In light of his latest appointment, all of those credentials become rarefied because his achievements to date have been accrued in less-charged and less-politically-embroiled environments, where his manoeuvrability has been unimpeded, where his long-term credentials found the sort of public understanding to overwhelm a temporary defect.

In India, all those things are beyond luxuries: they are impossibilities. Imagine being the head of an organization whose success finds you in good standing with the weakest section of the population - the audience - while failures find you in poor standing with the strongest section of the population - the infamous Board of Control for Cricket in India (BCCI) - and now imagine the amount of political cushioning one might require to sustain such torture.

Essentially, there remains nothing to be said on any note that stands to be constructive: conflicts are essential in the gauging of compatibility, and even though the stated bigger picture will not deviate much from its truism in the games to come, a timid disciplinarian such as Fletcher has to find that uncommon clearing where the BCCI, the National XI and the Indian fans find common ground, where he can retreat to to effectively separate himself from the hoi polloi of criticism continuously flecking the team he will be fighting to build.