The space between two balls is where cricket is really played

Minding the gap

by MARTIN CROWE in Cricinfo

Shane Warne could clear his mind of an unsuccessful previous ball to attack afresh with the next © Getty Images



The gap. This is the space between thoughts, between breaths, between fielders, between balls. They say to experience the gap wholly brings ultimate joy in what we do. In the gap there is nothing, and it's that nothing space in which lies the secret to our purpose.

As I contemplate the meaning of much my life, a life I now truly treasure, with dangers lurking, it is in this moment of nothing that I feel at peace. Awareness has taught me that previously I was always too quick to fill the gap with judgemental, premeditated masking and conditioning.

Batting is essentially about scoring runs, by hitting the ball instinctively and late, finding a gap in the field, whether it be over or through the field. Barry Richards, the great South African player, came to Auckland when I was 12 and remarked to a small group that it was vital to look at the gaps in the field, not the fielders in the field. That never left me and remains one of the greatest pieces of advice I ever received.

However, I often dismissed myself with predetermination to hit the ball into those vacant areas. I was constantly filling the gap in my mind with a busy traffic of thoughts; of this, that and anything else that randomly joined the gridlock building in my mind.

The mind needs constant clearing out of past and future concerns in order to function effectively, so by positively affirming that gaps must be found instinctively, the mind invariably seeks that wisdom automatically, subconsciously. This is when cricket is played best.

The gap between balls, that 30-second time span between when the last ball became dead and the next ball becomes live, is arguably the most important period in a batsman's innings.

I learnt in my third year playing for New Zealand that if I properly appreciated the gap between balls it would aid my desire to compile a long innings, especially under pressure in Tests or under duress in a limited-overs chase. Up until then I was a classic example of playing sublime innings of 30 or 40 before succumbing to an easily worn-down mind-body battery.

On my first tour of Australia in 1985, I began listening to some senior players and coaches talk about mind power. They spoke to me about my concentration routine, in particular. They emphasised that my innings were running out of energy too quickly, and suggested I switch off after the ball was dead and remain non-judgemental in the time before the next ball. That by doing so I would conserve a certain amount of energy, which could be used later.

The first time I tried it, in a tour match, I returned fresh to the dressing room after more than six hours in the hot sun, unbeaten on 242 at Adelaide Oval. The next innings brought 188, at the Gabba in the first Test of the series.

Now the wisdom was automatically written into my intellectual software. Awareness of the gap between balls didn't guarantee anything, but it gave me a better chance, once in, to make a big score, to convert starts and fifties into three-figure scores.

Cricket is such a complicated game that when the mind quickens, the mistakes invariably flood in. Great captains have the poise, the ability, to create a gap between thoughts so that the information they seek can come to them at the right moment.

There is no panic or indecision. There is none of this chasing-the-ball mentality. Instead there is a space they fall into that gives them the accurate assessment they need, and the decision comes accordingly. Michael Clarke has this in abundance, Mike Brearley and Ian Chappell had it, as did Mark Taylor in his prime.

Great batsmen have it too. Garry Sobers, Don Bradman and Brian Lara, to name a few, had the ability to clear the mind easily, enjoying the gaps between balls, and ever more so were focused on the gaps they found in the field.

The spin bowler who can access this gap mentality despite a swiftly completed over when he is being slogged all over is the treasured one.

Shane Warne had this ability to be in the present. At the top of his mark he could slow down the game if he chose. Even if the odds were stacked against him, he would clear the negative, letting go of the previous ball, and visualising the outcome of the next one, providing another piece to the puzzle, building his attack up, mounting more pressure again. By not letting anything before or after affect the creativity he needed to access for each ball, he was able to instinctively find the insights he needed.

So when we consider how important it is to have a clear-minded approach in cricket, to utilise the space between balls bowled or faced, between fielders' positions, we can appreciate that it is the gap we truly seek, mentally and strategically, to find the answers to the many questions we are confronted with.

If we are to widen that out to life itself, we can again begin to find that our peace and our creativity lie in the moments between thoughts and actions. When we can sit or stand still, even for 20 seconds, when we can hold off the urges to judge, or the old habit to overthink, then we really begin to open ourselves up to the truth, for the truth is in the present, not the past or future.

Look at any player between balls and study how he spends that time from when the ball is dead and before the next - whether it be batting, bowling or fielding - and try to sense the poise he has. Is the pressure building, is it neutral, or is it low-key?

Unless the play is boringly slow with the potential to kill the spectacle, it is a fascinating exercise to watch players on centre stage while the ball is dead. What is everybody contemplating? Cricket, to me, offers a glimpse of the way we live our lives, and this gap in play, before the next ball is bowled, holds the most intrigue of all.

That's why I adore Test cricket. There are so many more interesting gaps in play to appreciate. Tests are won and lost in these 30-second pockets.

The space between two balls is where cricket is really played

Minding the gap

Martin Crowe in Cricinfo

October 4, 2014

Shane Warne could clear his mind of an unsuccessful previous ball to attack afresh with the next © Getty Images

The gap. This is the space between thoughts, between breaths, between fielders, between balls. They say to experience the gap wholly brings ultimate joy in what we do. In the gap there is nothing, and it's that nothing space in which lies the secret to our purpose.

As I contemplate the meaning of much my life, a life I now truly treasure, with dangers lurking, it is in this moment of nothing that I feel at peace. Awareness has taught me that previously I was always too quick to fill the gap with judgemental, premeditated masking and conditioning.

Batting is essentially about scoring runs, by hitting the ball instinctively and late, finding a gap in the field, whether it be over or through the field. Barry Richards, the great South African player, came to Auckland when I was 12 and remarked to a small group that it was vital to look at the gaps in the field, not the fielders in the field. That never left me and remains one of the greatest pieces of advice I ever received.

However, I often dismissed myself with predetermination to hit the ball into those vacant areas. I was constantly filling the gap in my mind with a busy traffic of thoughts; of this, that and anything else that randomly joined the gridlock building in my mind.

The mind needs constant clearing out of past and future concerns in order to function effectively, so by positively affirming that gaps must be found instinctively, the mind invariably seeks that wisdom automatically, subconsciously. This is when cricket is played best.

The gap between balls, that 30-second time span between when the last ball became dead and the next ball becomes live, is arguably the most important period in a batsman's innings.

I learnt in my third year playing for New Zealand that if I properly appreciated the gap between balls it would aid my desire to compile a long innings, especially under pressure in Tests or under duress in a limited-overs chase. Up until then I was a classic example of playing sublime innings of 30 or 40 before succumbing to an easily worn-down mind-body battery.

	Awareness of the gap between balls didn't guarantee anything, but it gave me a better chance, once in, to make a big score, to convert starts and fifties into three-figure scores

On my first tour of Australia in 1985, I began listening to some senior players and coaches talk about mind power. They spoke to me about my concentration routine, in particular. They emphasised that my innings were running out of energy too quickly, and suggested I switch off after the ball was dead and remain non-judgemental in the time before the next ball. That by doing so I would conserve a certain amount of energy, which could be used later.

The first time I tried it, in a tour match, I returned fresh to the dressing room after more than six hours in the hot sun, unbeaten on 242 at Adelaide Oval. The next innings brought 188, at the Gabba in the first Test of the series.

Now the wisdom was automatically written into my intellectual software. Awareness of the gap between balls didn't guarantee anything, but it gave me a better chance, once in, to make a big score, to convert starts and fifties into three-figure scores.

Cricket is such a complicated game that when the mind quickens, the mistakes invariably flood in. Great captains have the poise, the ability, to create a gap between thoughts so that the information they seek can come to them at the right moment.

There is no panic or indecision. There is none of this chasing-the-ball mentality. Instead there is a space they fall into that gives them the accurate assessment they need, and the decision comes accordingly. Michael Clarke has this in abundance, Mike Brearley and Ian Chappell had it, as did Mark Taylor in his prime.

Great batsmen have it too. Garry Sobers, Don Bradman and Brian Lara, to name a few, had the ability to clear the mind easily, enjoying the gaps between balls, and ever more so were focused on the gaps they found in the field.

The spin bowler who can access this gap mentality despite a swiftly completed over when he is being slogged all over is the treasured one.

Shane Warne had this ability to be in the present. At the top of his mark he could slow down the game if he chose. Even if the odds were stacked against him, he would clear the negative, letting go of the previous ball, and visualising the outcome of the next one, providing another piece to the puzzle, building his attack up, mounting more pressure again. By not letting anything before or after affect the creativity he needed to access for each ball, he was able to instinctively find the insights he needed.

So when we consider how important it is to have a clear-minded approach in cricket, to utilise the space between balls bowled or faced, between fielders' positions, we can appreciate that it is the gap we truly seek, mentally and strategically, to find the answers to the many questions we are confronted with.

If we are to widen that out to life itself, we can again begin to find that our peace and our creativity lie in the moments between thoughts and actions. When we can sit or stand still, even for 20 seconds, when we can hold off the urges to judge, or the old habit to overthink, then we really begin to open ourselves up to the truth, for the truth is in the present, not the past or future.

Look at any player between balls and study how he spends that time from when the ball is dead and before the next - whether it be batting, bowling or fielding - and try to sense the poise he has. Is the pressure building, is it neutral, or is it low-key?

Unless the play is boringly slow with the potential to kill the spectacle, it is a fascinating exercise to watch players on centre stage while the ball is dead. What is everybody contemplating? Cricket, to me, offers a glimpse of the way we live our lives, and this gap in play, before the next ball is bowled, holds the most intrigue of all.

That's why I adore Test cricket. There are so many more interesting gaps in play to appreciate. Tests are won and lost in these 30-second pockets
.

Huaxi: The socialist village where everyone is wealthy

Imagine a place where everyone is entitled to a free home, a free car and free healthcare. Clifford Coonan travelled to Huaxi to find out the secret of its success.

Clifford Coonan

Tuesday, 17 January 2012

The sort of oxen you expect to see in Chinese villages tend to be pulling carts or tilling fields, not a beasts made of a ton of gold. This precious cow is located on the 60th floor of a 328m-tall skyscraper in Huaxi, China's richest village, and building that juts out of the eastern landscape like a giant tripod topped by a golden ball.

Huaxi is a "model socialist village", according to local officials, and was founded by local Communist Party secretary Wu Renbao in 1961. His foresight was to transform a poor farming community into a super wealthy community, built on its clever adaptations of modern agribusiness methods, then its diversification into steel mills, its logistics firms, and its textile businesses.

The commune listed on the stock exchange in 1998 and is now a major corporation in its own right. Its subsidiary companies, built into something that resembles a modern-day conglomerate, exports to more than 40 countries around the world. Huaxi is where Chinese people come to learn how to get rich. At a time when the rest of the world, and indeed much of China, is trying to absorb an economic slowdown, Huaxi is like a parallel universe.

"This cow cost 300 million yuan (£31m), but now it's worth 500 million yuan," says our guide, Tina Yao, as she steers us from floor to floor in the Zengdi Kongzhong New Village Tower, which is taller than anything in London. "Zengdi" translates as "increase the land" and the skyscraper cost three billion yuan (£310m).

Other floors have giant animals of solid silver. Fearsomely bejewelled chandeliers hang over your head in banquet halls that hold thousands of people. You approach these glittering sites walking on gold-leaf marble, passing aquariums with sharks and stingrays.

Far below, you see the villas and theluxury cars. Every villager gets a share of the corporation's profits and is entitled to a car, a house, free healthcare and free cooking oil.

The village feels a little like Dubai. It is not big on charm – the replicas of the Arc de Triomphe and the Sydney Opera House – are of questionable taste, but where it is widely different is in how well it is able to meet its people's needs. Mr Wu is keen that Huaxi should showcase China's achievements and now some two million visitors come to Huaxi every year to gaze upon its splendour.

The original founding families, who are known as "stakeholders", number around 1,600 and the average household income is around £100,000 a year, once all the bonuses, pensions and wages are factored in. White BMWs are ubiquitous and the murals, instead of depicting socialist realist muscled workers in overalls, have pictures of happy families living in wealthy villas.

This is where Huaxi stands apart from so many other villages in China. While the rest of the country suffers from a yawning wealth gap between the rich cities of the eastern seaboard and southern coasts and the rural hamlets, Huaxi took the initiative, driven by Mr Wu's pragmatism, and headed its own way. It behaved like a city, even importing migrant labour.

"We only ever wanted what was good for our people," is a dictum of Mr Wu, who is now 86 years old and retired. His son has taken over as party secretary, but the father still gives lectures on socialism every day. He avoids allying himself too closely with either capitalism or communism, though his pragmatism has strong elements of the Chinese Communist Party about it.

No one doubts the wisdom of Mr Wu, and looking at the village's wealth, why would they? He broke up the collective system of farming and encouraged people to grow their own crops.

Below the stakeholders in the hierarchy come the residents from neighbouring villages that have been absorbed into Huaxi, and then tens of thousands of migrant workers who perform most of the rest of the work.

Work and wealth are the crowning ideologies. No one takes weekend breaks, and the streets tend to be deserted of residents because they are all off working. The hard work has clearly paid off and the money raised has helped the villagers diversify into other industry.

One of those areas is tourism – wealth tourism – and some of the locals help to meet and greet the two million tourists that come every year to see the village.

A new reason to come is to see the skyscraper, which is impressive, although as there is nothing even remotely as tall in the surrounding countryside, it looks strangely incongruous.

The reason it is so tall is a useful insight into the mindset of the people here. It is, as Mr Wu said in a recent interview, because the people Huaxi can compete with anyone in the country. "Beijing's tallest building is the 328m-tall World Trade Centre. Huaxi wants to maintain the same height with the Central Committee of the Communist Party," he said.

The village's total square area is a little less than one square kilometre, and there are barrack-style dormitories, factories, and pagoda style-buildings for local residents. The skyscraper houses the Longxi International Hotel, which has 2,000 beds and will employ 3,000 people eager to learn how to become wealthy, Huaxi-style.

Intriguingly, in the central village park, there are the statutes of five of the true icons of Communism in China, some more controversial than others. The panoply includes the former mayor of Beijing, Liu Shaoqi, who was purged in the period of ideological frenzy that was the Cultural Revolution and whom many believed Mao had murdered. He has never really been rehabilitated and remains outside the pantheon of true revolutionary heroes.

But then Mr Wu himself suffered during the Cultural Revolution. He set up factories but the Red Guards paraded him in the village as a "capitalist roader" and locked him up, much in the same way as Liu Shaoqi. Like Deng Xiaoping, who also suffered during the Cultural Revolution, Mr Wu bided his time and soon was back on his capitalist track after Mao died in 1976, except that these ideas became formulated as socialism with Chinese characteristics.

All over the village are megaphones blasting out the village anthem, which tells of how communist skies shine down Huaxi, a village of everyday miracles. "I have heard about Huaxi for many years. I have wanted to see it for many years," said one octogenarian visitor from Chengzhou.

Two men, both of them employed in security and not stakeholders in the village, say they love what is going on in Huaxi, but they admit they are a bit jealous of the shareholders who get a stake in the village's profits every year.

Certainly, there is a lot of bluster in the way Huaxi markets itself. The divisions between the stakeholders and the migrants on the streets are large. But no one in China doubts its importance as a model for the success of the nation. And deny at your peril the wisdom of Mr Wu and of the wider Chinese psyche: The song from the public address system says it proud: "Socialism is best."