Saqlain Mushtaq explains the doosra

Shirin Sadikot for BCCI

The Pakistani legend presents a deep and insightful technical analysis of the delivery

The biggest inventions and discoveries are a direct result of man’s curiosity. Add persistence and skill to the mix and voila! A Eureka moment is born.

Often talking to inventors about their invention is like talking to a mother about her new-born baby. They are possessive, proud and overly protective.

We, at BCCI.TV, spoke to one an inventor. We got Saqlain Mushtaq to talk about the doosra. And to our delight, he spoke about his patent delivery in a manner that was more erudite than motherly.

The legendary Pakistani off-spinner explained the tricks of his most famous trade with a deep insight and dwelt into the technicalities of the delivery that brought him and Pakistan many a jubilant moments on the cricket field.

How and when did you develop the doosra?

Sport was in my family – my grandfather played kabaddi, my father played hockey and my brother was into cricket. The place where I was born didn’t have any parks or grounds to play on and the streets were too narrow. So, as a kid I played cricket with my brother on the terrace of our house. The surface was extremely flat and I used to play with table tennis ball. I watched the likes of Imran Khan, Sarfaraz Nawaz and Abdul Qadir and listened to the radio commentary intently. The names of great batsmen, fast bowlers and spinners went into my ears and when I heard of their exploits I told myself, ‘even I want to do something special’. My family was very spiritual and religious. They asked me to pray to god, and I did, whenever I could. I knew how to bowl leg-spin, off-spin, flipper, arm-ball, etc. But I was in search for something new. I was determined to have something that nobody had. I kept trying different things and that’s how the doosra was developed. It began with the table tennis ball, then tennis ball and cricket ball.

What is the key to bowling the doosra without any change in the action?
My grip was so good that all I had to do was change the pressure I put with a particular finger. When I pressed the index and middle fingers on the ball, it was off-spin and for doosra the pressure was applied by the index and ring fingers. There were other things like locking the wrist and the use of shoulder. The use of glute and calf muscles and the foot position had to be right too. For an off-spinner there are various methods – first is to roll the finger over the ball, second is to roll and then hit the wrist and then to roll the finger, hit the wrist as well as the shoulder. For doosra, you don’t roll the fingers on the ball; just press against it, lock the wrist and apply your shoulder. All these subtle conscious changes in using different parts of the body in different ways is the key in ensuring there is no visible change in the action.

How difficult is it? Not many have been able to do it.
It needs a lot of practice and the right kind of practice. You need to train your mind in such a way that you are aware of the smallest movement of every muscle in your body. They key is to concentrate on exactly the muscle you want to move. In the gym the trainer always says that when you’re working on your biceps, look at them so you know you are concentrating on those muscles. I tell the same to the kids who come to my academy – be conscious of all the parts of your body you are using and how you are using them.

Spinners have to have a very good understanding with the wicketkeeper. How big a role did Moin Khan play in your success as a spinner?
If a bowler doesn’t have good understanding with the keeper and captain, he will miss out on a lot. When their minds are synced with yours, they will know exactly when you are thinking and planning to do next, and will help you with subtle changes in the field that are key for you to trap the batsman. However, I am of a strong belief that if the keeper and batsman watch the ball perfectly from the hand of the bowler, they can easily make out what ball is about to be bowled. Sometimes the batsman takes his eyes off the ball for a moment or blinks at the crucial time. As bowlers, we play on the mind of the batsman; we try to create doubt and fear in his mind because they act as the dark clouds that keep us from seeing the moon. When the batsman is in doubt about something or is scared of the bowler, he will not watch the ball properly. That’s when we strike. It’s all about how you watch the ball. All the great batsmen watch the ball in a completely different way. When I bowled at one of them, I knew he knows exactly what I was going to bowl. But then I told myself, ‘he is a batsman and he will make a mistake at some point’. With that belief I continued to back myself.

Did you both use any sign or code word to let him know the next ball is the doosra?
We used to divide responsibilities. I would tell Moin bhai, ‘keep an eye on his (the batsman’s) feet and tell me whether he is moving away sideways, taking a long stride forward or goes deep into the crease’. Depending on that I would change my line and length. There is a story behind how the doosra became so famous. Sometimes, I used to bowl the delivery at the wrong time and wrong place. So, Moin bhai used to tell me, ‘sometimes, when I signal you to not bowl it, don’t, and when bowl when I ask you to, because with my experience I can tell what the batsman is thinking and that might help you’. There are so many wickets that I got because of him. So, he often screamed, ‘doosra abhi karna hai (bowl the other one now)’ or ‘doosra abhi nahi karna hai (don’t bowl the other one)’. The commentators picked it up from the stump mic and that’s how it got its name.

Did you use the doosra more as a wicket taking ball or to set the batsman up for the following ball?
It depended on the situation, pitch and the batsman. Sometimes I used it as a wicket-taking ball and at others I would bowl one doosra and then bowl a series of off-spinners, making the batsman wait for the other one. In the nets I ensured that I practiced the doosra like a stock ball, an attacking option and as a surprise weapon. The same went for the off-spinner and the arm-ball. At times, you go in with the plan of bowling off-spin but the batsman is playing in a different way and you have to change your strategy at the last moment. You never know in what way you have to use which delivery and so I was prepared to use every ball in every situation.

Can you name three batsman who picked it the best?
It won’t be fair to pick only three batsmen and leave the others out who played it equally well. So, I’ll mention 2-3 names from each country.

From India, Sachin, Dravid, Ganguly, Laxman and Azharuddin played it the best. I always felt that they knew everything that I was trying to do and bowl at them. From Sri Lanka it was Aravinda de Silva and Ranatunga. I didn’t play much against Sangakkara and Mahela but I got the impression that they too played it well. From West Indies, Brian Lara and Carl Hooper were good. Steve Waugh, Mark Waugh, Gilchrist and Darren Lehmann were the Aussies who picked it well. Jacques Kallis was really good and so was England’s Graeme Ford. During the domestic matches in Pakistan, Inzamam, Salim Malik, Mohammad Yusuf and Younis Khan were good.

Is there any wicket in particular you took with the doosra that you cherish or remember vividly?
The doosra has brought me many wickets but the importance of the wicket in the context of the game is what makes it special. In that regards, I will never forget Sachin’s wicket in the 1999 Chennai Test. There were a lot of emotions attached to that scalp and it practically changed the game in our favour. I will cherish that wicket till my last breath. Then there is Damien Martin’s wicket in a Natwest ODI at Trent Bridge in 2001-02. The ball spun like a leg-spinner and he was caught at first slip. I got Gilchrist in the same match when he was in a murderous mood.
  
What is your opinion on the 15 degree rule?
If the ICC has deemed someone’s action clean, there should not be any further questions raised about him. There was under-arm bowling, eight-ball over and various other rules that have now been changed. The game keeps evolving and rules are changed accordingly. So, if someone is playing within the boundaries of the current rules, he is fine. 

After you, have you seen any bowler who has perfect the art of bowling doosra without a change in action?
Muralitharan was very good at it and so was Harbhajan Singh. Shoaib Malik bowled it too in the beginning. Currently I think Saeed Ajmal is the best at bowling the doosra.

What is your take on R Ashwin?
I first watched him really closely during this year’s World Twenty20 when I was a coach with West Indies. Before that, there was this Asia Cup match between India and Pakistan where Shahid Afridi hit him for two sixes in the last over and won the game. People crucified Ashwin for that over but it was pure luck. Afridi was lucky and he won a lottery in that he didn’t even time one of them properly and still got six runs for it. Also, all the pressure was on Ashwin. Afridi had nothing to lose; he had come in with a do or die mindset. Ashwin copped the negativities despite no fault of his. And after that, the way he came back and bowled in the World Twenty20, showed the strength of his character. Yes, to be able to spin the ball is an important skill. But according to me it is only 10-15 percent of the bowler’s worth. The real game comes from within the person, his mind and heart. And the way he bowled right through that tournament, Ashwin showed he is the real deal. I think he is a wonderful bowler.

Can 10,000 hours of practice make you an expert?

By Ben Carter BBC News

A much-touted theory suggests that practising any skill for 10,000 hours is sufficient to make you an expert. No innate talent? Not a problem. You just practice. But is it true?

One man who decided to test it is Dan McLaughlin, 34, a former commercial photographer from Portland, Oregon.

"The idea came in 2009. I was visiting my brother and we decided to play a par three, nine-hole course," he says. "I had never really been on a golf course and went out and shot a 57, which is horrible. It's 30 over par on an easy nine-hole course."

Far from being discouraged by his apparent lack of any natural talent for golf, Dan and his brother started talking about what it would take to become a professional golfer. Dan soon decided he wanted to try.

"When I announced I was going to quit my job, my co-workers started bringing books in and I read Malcolm Gladwell's Outliers, Geoff Colvin's Talent is Overrated and The Talent Code by Daniel Coyle," he says. "These books all had this idea of 10,000 hours in them."

The 10,000-hours concept can be traced back to a 1993 paper written by Anders Ericsson, a Professor at the University of Colorado, called The Role of Deliberate Practice in the Acquisition of Expert Performance.

It highlighted the work of a group of psychologists in Berlin, who had studied the practice habits of violin students in childhood, adolescence and adulthood.

All had begun playing at roughly five years of age with similar practice times. However, at age eight, practice times began to diverge. By age 20, the elite performers had averaged more than 10,000 hours of practice each, while the less able performers had only done 4,000 hours of practice.

The psychologists didn't see any naturally gifted performers emerge and this surprised them. If natural talent had played a role it wouldn't have been unreasonable to expect gifted performers to emerge after, say, 5,000 hours.

Anders Ericsson concluded that "many characteristics once believed to reflect innate talent are actually the result of intense practice extended for a minimum of 10 years".

It is Malcolm Gladwell's hugely popular book, Outliers, that is largely responsible for introducing "the 10,000-hour rule" to a mass audience - it's the name of one of the chapters.

But Ericsson was not pleased. He wrote a rebuttal paper in 2012, called The Danger of Delegating Education to Journalists.

"The 10,000-hour rule was invented by Malcolm Gladwell who stated that, 'Researchers have settled on what they believe is the magic number for true expertise: 10,000 hours.' Gladwell cited our research on expert musicians as a stimulus for his provocative generalisation to a magical number," Ericsson writes.

Ericsson then pointed out that 10,000 was an average, and that many of the best musicians in his study had accumulated "substantially fewer" hours of practice. He underlined, also, that the quality of the practice was important.

"In contrast, Gladwell does not even mention the concept of deliberate practice," Ericsson writes.

Gladwell counters that Ericsson doesn't really think that talent exists.

"When he disagrees with the way I interpreted his work, it's because I disagree with him," he says.

"I think that being very, very good at something requires a big healthy dose of natural talent. And when I talk about the Beatles - they had masses of natural talent. They were born geniuses. Ericsson wouldn't say that.

"Ericsson, if you read some of his writings, is... saying the right kind of practice is sufficient."

Gladwell places himself roughly in the middle of a sliding scale with Ericsson at one end, placing little emphasis on the role of natural talent, and at the other end a writer such as David Epstein, author of the The Sports Gene. Epstein is "a bit more of a talent person than me" Gladwell suggests.

One of the difficulties with assessing whether expert-level performance can be obtained just through practice is that most studies are done after the subjects have reached that level.

It would be better to follow the progress of someone with no innate talent in a particular discipline who chooses to complete 10,000 hours of deliberate practice in it.

And we can, thanks to our wannabe professional golfer, Dan McLaughlin.

"I began the plan in April 2010 and I basically putted from one foot and slowly worked away from the hole," he says.

"Eighteen months into it I hit my first driver and now it's approaching four years and I'm about half way. So I'm 5,000 hours into the project. My current handicap is right at a 4.1 and the goal is to get down to a plus handicap [below zero] where I have the skill set to compete in a legitimate PGA tour event."

David Epstein hopes that McLaughlin can reach his goal, but he has some doubts. In the sporting world innate ability is mandatory, he believes.

A recent study of baseball players, Epstein points out, found that the average player had 20/13 vision as opposed to normal 20/20 vision. What this means is that they can see at 20 feet what a normal person would need to be at 13 feet to see clearly. That gives a hitter an enormous advantage when it comes to striking a ball being thrown towards them at 95mph from 60 feet (or 153km/h from 18m).

Using an analogy from computing, Epstein says the hardware is someone's visual acuity - or the physiology of their eye that they cannot change - while the software is the set of skills they learn by many, many hours of practice.

"No matter how good their vision is, it's like a laptop with only the hardware - with no programmes on it, it's useless. But once they've downloaded that software, once they have learned those sports-specific skills, the better the hardware is the better the total machine is going to be."

But is there a simpler way to think about all this? Maybe talented people just practise more and try harder at the thing they're already good at - because they enjoy it?

"Imagine being in calculus class on your first day and the teacher being at the board writing an equation, and you look at it and think 'Wow, that's the most beautiful thing I've ever seen,' which some people do," says Gladwell.

"For those people to go home and do two hours of calculus homework is thrilling, whereas for the rest of us it's beyond a chore and more like a nightmare.

"Those that have done the two hours' practice come in the following day and everything is easier than it is for those who didn't enjoy it in the first place and didn't do the two hours' homework."

What Dan McLaughlin is hoping is that what he lacks in innate talent he more than makes up for with his 10,000 hours of deliberate practice.

If Dan's plan goes well he could be mixing it with the likes of Tiger Woods and Rory McIlroy in 2018. If not, he will just be a very good golfer.

The red badge of courage

There are several reasons for sporting success but it's possible that bravery exerts the foremost influence

Rob Steen in Cricinfo

September 11, 2013

 

	Kevin Pietersen: an inventor who outwits and confounds © Getty Images  Enlarge

Half a century ago, Willie Mays was baseball's Garry Sobers. He ran like the wind, possessed a bone-chilling throw, maintained a sturdy batting average, and biffed home runs by the truckload. A superb centre-fielder, he also claimed the game's most celebrated catch, an over-the-shoulder number in the 1954 World Series that still inspires awe for its athleticism, spatial awareness and geometric precision.

Almost without exception, white New York sportswriters said he was gifted: the inference many drew was that this man, this black man, had succeeded not through hard work but because he had been granted a God-given head start. Even if you somehow manage not to classify this as racism, it remains deeply insulting.

"Gifted" is still shorthand for unfeasibly and unreasonably talented. We use it all the time in all sorts of contexts, mostly enviously. Wittingly or not, the implication is that the giftee has no right to fail. Hence the ludicrous situation wherein David Gower aroused far more scorn than Graham Gooch yet wound up with more Ashes centuries and a higher Test average.

Nature v nurture: has there ever been a more contentious or damaging sociological debate? Its eternal capacity to polarise was borne out last week when the Times devoted a hefty chunk of space to the views of two sporting achievers turned searching sportswriters, Matthew Syed and Ed Smith. Here was a fascinating clash of perspectives, not least since both have recently written books whose titles attest to the not inconsiderable role played by chance: Syed's Bounce and Smith's Luck.

In the red corner sits Syed, a two-time Olympian at table tennis. Referencing the original findings of the cognitive scientist Herbert Simon, winner of the 1978 Nobel Prize, he supported the theory espoused by Malcolm Gladwell, who argued in his recent book Outliers that success in any field only comes about through expertise, which means being willing to put in a minimum of 10,000 hours' practice.

Smith, the former England batsman and Middlesex captain who writes so thoughtfully and eloquently for this site, takes his cue from The Sports Gene: What Makes the Perfect Athlete, a new book by the American journalist and former athlete David Epstein, who takes issue with Gladwell.

Genetic make-up, Epstein concludes, is crucial. Usain Bolt, as he stresses, is freakishly tall for a sprinter. He also cites the example of Donald Thomas, who won the high jump title at the 2007 World Athletics Championships just eight months after taking his first serious leap. The key was an uncommonly long Achilles tendon, which doubled as a giant springboard. Subsequent practice, however, failed to generate any improvement. But if we insist, simplistically, that athletic talent is a gift of nature, counters Syed, echoing academic research, this can wreck resilience. "After all, if you are struggling with an activity, doesn't that mean you lack talent? Shouldn't you give up and try something else?"

The debate is rendered all the more complex, of course, by its prickliest subtext. Having conducted a globetrotting survey of attitudes, one "eye-opener" for Epstein was the reluctance of scientists to publish research on racial differences. Fear of the backlash continues to trump the need for understanding.

	Sport is uniquely taxing because it asks young bodies to do the work of seasoned minds

These delicate issues and stark divergences of opinion, though, mask a deeper, more pertinent and resonant truth. To give nature all the credit is to deny the capacity for change; to plump for nurture is to ignore the inherent unfairness of genetics. Isn't it a matter of nurturing nature? Besides, surely success is more about application. Possessing gallons of ability is no guarantee if, like Chris Lewis, who promised so much for England in the 1990s and delivered conspicuously less, you lack the wherewithal to take full advantage. And if skill was the sole prerequisite, how did Steve Waugh become the game's most indomitable force?

Where would Waugh have been without determination? The same could be asked of the game's two most powerful current captains, MS Dhoni and Michael Clarke. Without that inner drive, would Dhoni have emerged from his Ranchi backwater? Would Clarke have risen from working-class boy to metrosexual man? Ah, but is determination innate or learnt? Cue a cascade of further questions. How telling is environment - social, economic and geographic? Does it have more impact during childhood or adulthood? Is temperament natural or nurtured? Can will be developed? Is confidence instinctive or acquired? I haven't the foggiest. All I can say with any vestige of certainty is that, when preparing a recipe for success, limiting ourselves to a single ingredient seems extraordinarily daft and utterly self-defeating.

So here's another thought. Given that, for the vast majority, achieving sporting success invariably involves battling against at least a couple of odds, surely courage has something to do with it: the courage to overcome prejudice, disadvantage or fear of failure. The courage to perform when thousands are urging you to fail - or, worse, succeed. The courage to take on the bigger man, the better-trained man, to stand your ground, put bones at risk, resist defeatism. The courage not just to be different but act different. The courage not to play the percentages. The courage not to be cautious. The courage to try the unorthodox, the outrageous. The courage to risk humiliation. And the courage, after suffering it, to risk it again.

	Shane Warne: one of those rare cricketers who aspired to something loftier than mere excellence © Getty Images  Enlarge

The older we get, theoretically at least, the safer we feel and the less courage we need. The less courage I need, the more I admire it in others, hence the growing conviction that bravery exerts the foremost influence on a sportsman's fate, as critical on the field as in the ring or on chicane. In team sports, it is even more imperative: sure, the load can be shared, but it still takes a special type of courage, of nerve, to satisfy the selfish gene - i.e. express yourself - while serving the collective good.

What makes this even more complicated is that when sportsfolk most need courage - between the ages of, say, 14 and 40 - few have fully matured as human beings. How many of the most powerful business leaders or successful lawyers or respected doctors are under 50? How many of the most eminent actors, musicians, authors or chat-show hosts? Sport is uniquely taxing because it asks young bodies to do the work of seasoned minds.

In cricket, the first test of courage comes early. Of all the factors that dissuade wide-eyed schoolboys from pursuing the game professionally, none quite matches the fear of leather and cork. Even for those at the summit, it remains a fear to be acknowledged, tolerated and respected. As Ian Bell recently highlighted when discussing the delights of fielding at short leg, conquest is impossible.

Where the air is rarest and the stakes highest, spiritual courage is even more vital. "I was an outsider. I still am. I didn't do what they wanted." Lou Reed's words they may be, but they could just as easily be the reflections of another couple of performers happy to walk on the wild side, Kevin Pietersen and Shane Warne. That these brothers-in-fitful-charms happen to be 21st-century cricket's foremost salesmen seems far from accidental.

Both are victories for nurture. Both practise(d) with ardour and diligence, mastering their craft, continually honing and refining, then building on it, then honing and refining some more. Both studied opponents assiduously, the better to parry, outwit and confound. Both became inventors, devising daring drives and dastardly deliveries. Yet nature, too, has played a significant role. Both are enthusiasts and positive thinkers. Both radiate self-belief and superiority. Both boast heavenly hand-eye co-ordination. Above all, nonetheless, both aspire(d) to something loftier than mere excellence. Both craved not just to be the best, nor even to dominate, but to astound. To do that takes another very special brand of courage.

For Warne, this meant having the courage to give up one sport and pursue one for which he seemed, physically and temperamentally, far less suited. For Pietersen, it meant having the courage to leave his homeland and to be reviled as both intruder and traitor. Neither, moreover, could completely suppress nature, so they remained true to their gambling instincts and innate showmanship. Without the mental strength to achieve the right balance, such an intricate juggling act would have been beyond them. Perhaps that's what courage really is: the strength to stick to your own path.

Don't take it from me; listen to Bolt: "I'd seen so many people mess up their careers because people had told them what to do and what not to do, almost from the moment their lives had become successful, if not before. The joy had been taken from them. To compensate, they felt the need to take drugs, get drunk every night, or go wild. I realised I had to enjoy myself to stay sane."

Nature versus nurture. Mind versus matter. Means versus ends. Turn those antagonists into protagonists and we might get somewhere. First, though, there must be acceptance: compiling an idiot-proof guide to success is akin to tackling a vat of soup with miniature chopsticks. Besides, if it were easy, there would be more winners than losers. In sport, where success means nothing if nobody fails, that might present a particularly prickly problem.

The best advice? Try Laura Nyro's rallying-cry:
Oh-h, but I'm still mixed up like a teenager
Goin' like the 4th of July
For the sweet sky

There are no shortcuts

Pritish Nandy in The Times of India

When people run short of ideas, they reach out for other things.

There’s money, the first crutch of all fools. For all those who lack self esteem, the first argument is: If I had enough money, I could have done it. This is untrue. Money can make nothing happen unless you will it. And you can will nothing without a precise premise, a strategy or game plan that you have clearly thought through. In short, an idea. Without the idea, without the intellectual or emotional muscle that goes with that idea, any idle dream based only on the availability of money is always doomed. That’s why angel investors do due diligence. Not only of the idea to invest in but also of the person who will deliver it. Does he or she have the grit, gumption, dedication and leadership? Or the persistence to see the idea through its initial days when all that can go wrong always does, following Murphy’s Law?

The other crutch, very popular in India, is connections. Most people think they can achieve anything if only they had a godfather to see them through. The truth is, much as we may like to believe the opposite, few success stories of modern India have anything to do with godfathers. Except in politics and business, where it has been a tradition to mentor heirs from within the family. So it’s tough to break in. It’s far simpler to go out and make your own road. To do that, the first important step is to stop looking for godfathers. Mentor yourself. The rich uncle will always come to you once you have demonstrated your ability to deliver on your own promise. But if you hang around him hoping he will give you the first break, be sure that he will soon start avoiding you.

The third crutch is fate. We believe so much in it that we spend the best years of our life chasing those who pretend they can predict it. Fortune telling is big business out here and there’s a large contingent of charlatans who make their money telling us how we must live our life, what coloured stones to wear, which God to pray to, and on what days we ought to fast. The same person who is vegetarian five days a week to appease a certain God is also ready to slaughter a hapless animal to please another God on another occasion. We would rather go with what others tell us to do than follow our own heart. We are not ready to think through our own solutions. We need intermediaries to advise us on how to live, how to invest, how to seduce luck. Curiously, the richer people become, the more they depend on fake gurus and fraudulent fortune tellers.

The fourth crutch is new: Technology. We have suddenly found technology as a placebo for everything. Doctors have forgotten how to diagnose. So everyone goes for every stupid test. Robotic surgery is replacing human skill and ingenuity. You can’t make good movies. Go for 3D. Dazzle everyone with SFX and sheer wizardry. Demand a 250 million dollar budget when the greatest films in the world have been made for a pittance. (Pather Panchali was made for Rs 150,000 and Bicycle Thief, $133,000!) We have become so stupid that we can’t even make imaginative porn. So Hugh Hefner now uses 3D to make his centrespread girls look sexy whereas a fully clad Garbo once had the whole world salivating every time she turned around and Mae West, at 83, could get any young man into her pad with a single come hither line.

The purpose of technology, we often forget, is not to replace human ingenuity but to support it. We don’t need a computer to write like Shakespeare. We need to create new Shakespeares. The future lies in technology that can support our skills, not supplant them. Avatar is not the future of movies. Marge Simpson is not the future of sexuality even though she was on the Playboy centrespread. Ever seen Madhubala wet in the rain? Now try it. Rediscover the unforgettable power of sexuality.

It takes more than a stroke of genius to become a true champion

Dominic Lawson in The Independent

When does talent become genius? We all have a view; but when asked to be precise, it's hard not to sink into the hopelessly circular argument that we know what genius is when we see it. Yet anyone who watched Roger Federer's forensic dismantling of Andy Murray in the men's final at Wimbledon would have no problem in identifying the Swiss as a genius, and that simple fact as Murray's nemesis.

Thus a familiar-sounding headline on one report of the match was: "Only one winner when talent meets genius." Familiar sounding, because it repeats what was written the last time the two met in a grand slam final, the 2010 Australian Open: "Federer's genius alone beats Andrew Murray". Murray cried after that one, too. Well, it must be frustrating when you push yourself to the limits and beyond, and the opponent wins with apparently effortless ease.

Except it isn't like that at all. Although we tend to think of genius as something akin to magic, a kind of short-cut to mastery of the elements, it is nothing of the sort. A proper investigation of the careers of the supreme achievers, whether in sport or other fields, reveals that they are based above all on monomaniacal diligence and concentration. Constant struggle, in other words. Seen in this light, we might define genius as talent multiplied by effort. In cricket, this would be true of Sachin Tendulkar; in chess, Bobby Fischer.

I was at a dinner with that supreme raconteur among philosophers, Isaiah Berlin, when he was asked how he would sum up genius. He immediately recalled the ballet dancer Vaslav Nijinsky, who was questioned about how he managed to leap in the way he did. The Russian replied that most people, when they leapt in the air, would come down at once, but: "Why should you come down immediately? Stay in the air a little before you return, why not?" That effortless ease defined genius, said Berlin. To watch Federer at his greatest is to see something similar to Nijinsky's description: the movement of his body appears to defy the laws of gravity, as if hovering above the surface of the planet, free of all weight or friction. Yet in logic we know that this cannot be. He is constructed of the same matter as the rest of humanity, with nothing remotely abnormal or other-worldly in his skeleton or musculature.

In a wonderful 2006 essay entitled "Federer as Religious Experience", David Foster Wallace wrote that "Roger Federer appears to be exempt from certain physical laws... a type that one could call genius or mutant or avatar, a creature whose body is both flesh and, somehow, light." Yet this is nothing more than an illusion – one which the performer will be keen to encourage, both to thrill the public and to intimidate his opponents. Nijinsky, for example, must have known very well that his astounding entrechats and grands jetes were the product of thousands upon thousands of hours of excruciating practice, without which his talent could never have evolved beyond dilettantism.

By the same token, the greatest talents of our age appreciate that in a brutally competitive world, to skip a day of such rigorous training is to risk decline and even mediocrity. If you saw the film [Itzhak] Perlman in Russia – about the supreme violinist's 1990 tour of that country – you will probably have been struck by his great discomfiture when asked to perform a piece spontaneously on a visit to the Moscow Conservatory. "But I haven't practiced today," Perlman says; and yet when you watch the Israeli play in concert, he can make even the most appallingly difficult pieces seem like a bit of fun, or as easy as drawing breath. It is, as the saying goes, the art that disguises art.

Perhaps the idea of the effortless genius is partly born of the need to reassure ourselves in our relative laziness: if genius is simply something innate, God-given and unimprovable, then perhaps we can also do as well as we are able without making extraordinary efforts. Unfortunately, this is not so: and we must recognise that what the greatest musicians and sportsmen have which the rest of us lack is not just an aptitude, but a fierceness of desire and a commitment to self-improvement which we can scarcely begin to comprehend. Nowadays, Federer seems a serene spirit, but as a young, up-and-coming player, he was a noted racquet hurler, with no less of an inner rage to succeed than, for example, John McEnroe.

In the purely cerebral sport of chess, the one living player most often described as a genius is the Norwegian Magnus Carlsen – who at 19 became the world's highest-ranked grandmaster. Yet his father Henrik told me that what had first alerted him to Magnus's possibilities was the fact that as a toddler he would spend hours doing 50-piece jigsaw puzzles; the very young Magnus had an astonishing capacity for hard work and concentration– which is, after all, the very essence of learning.

Francis Galton, the slightly creepy founder of eugenics, sought to define genius by reference to an inherited form of intelligence, which he thought could be measured via the analysing of a person's reaction time and sensory acuity: this Galton referred to as "neurophysiological efficiency". You might think that, within sport, the activity most requiring preternaturally quick reactions would be Grand Prix motor-racing. Yet viewers of the BBC1 series Top Gear might recall Jeremy Clarkson engaging in a competitive test of reaction times with Michael Schumacher,: the lumbering Clarkson demonstrated that his reactions in a hand slapping contest were the equal of the then Formula One champion's.

This is actually what one should expect: we all have the same basic reaction times, which are determined by the nervous system rather than the brain – as evidenced by the fact that we all pull our hand away from a flame with identical suddenness. The difference between us and the champions is that they have trained their minds to process information with astonishing speed in situations requiring complex assessment. Watch how Federer reacts in the less than half a second it takes for a first serve from Murray to reach the opposing baseline and you see just what a special talent honed by obsessive determination and hundreds of thousands of hours of practice can achieve.

Conducting the on-court interview after his victory, Sue Barker began: "Genius tennis?" "Yes," Federer replied, deadpan. If only it were so simple; and the fact that it looks so simple is the strangest thing of all.

Shouldering the pain of throwing

Andrew Leipus in Cricinfo

Able to bowl but not throw because of shoulder pain? Or maybe you have lost power in your throw? Have to throw side-arm? Does your whole arm go "dead" for a few seconds after you release the ball? Or you are now experiencing a click, crunch or clunk when you lift the arm? These are just some of the many symptoms and behaviours that can be present in the cricketer's shoulder and which can help clinicians diagnose what your underlying problem might be. 

There can't be a shoulder discussion without a brief anatomy lesson. In terms of understanding the basics, the glenohumeral joint is a shallow ball-and-socket design, allowing a huge amount of mobility yet remaining as stable as possible. It also has to tolerate massive torques or rotational forces generated. Some people equate the head of the humerus (HOH) and its relation to the scapula with a golf ball sitting on a tee, i.e. easy to topple over. But it is actually more like trying to balance a soccer ball on your forehead, with both the ball and the head/body constantly moving to maintain "balance" and stop the ball from dropping off. It is this balance between the socket joint and the scapula position which we need to consider in the cricketer's shoulder as it is where a lot of problems begin and where a lot of rehab programmes fail.

As is the case with all injuries, the anatomy often lets us down by not being able to cope with the functional demands. Some injuries develop acutely, such as occurs with one hard throw when off balance, and some develop over a period of time through lots of high repetition - degenerative type injuries. The two most commonly injured structures in cricket are the infamous rotator cuff and the glenoid labrum.

The cuff is a group of small muscles acting primarily to pull and hold the HOH into its glenoid socket. The long head of biceps tendon assists the rotator cuff in this role. The labrum is a circular cartilage structure designed to "cup" or deepen this socket and provide attachment for the biceps tendon.

An injury to the labrum results in the HOH having excess translatory motion and not staying centred in the glenoid. The cuff then has to work harder to compensate for this structural instability. This translation often results in a "clunky" shoulder or one which goes "dead" when called upon to throw at pace. Anil Kumble's shoulder had a damaged labrum due to his high-arm legspin action. Years of repetitive stress had detached his labrum from the glenoid, resulting in the need for surgery. He's not alone. Muttiah Muralitharan and Shane Warne also had shoulder surgeries in their careers. And it's not just spin bowling, as many labral compression injuries occur during fielding when diving onto an outstretched arm.

Injury to the cuff, however, also results in a dynamic instability, whereby the HOH is again not held centred, and subsequently over time stresses both the labrum and cuff. Impingement is a common term used to describe a narrowing of the space in the shoulder that can result from this loss of centering. The cuff doesn't actually need to be injured for this to occur - repetitive throwing can tighten the posterior cuff muscles and effectively "squeeze" the HOH out of its normal centre of rotation in the glenoid. It really is a vicious circle and cricketers compound any underlying dysfunction by the repetitive nature of the game. They might not throw much in a match but when they do it is usually with great speed. The bulk of the throwing volume occurs during their practice sessions.

And when talking about shoulder mechanics we need to also understand critical role of the scapula. In order to ensure that the HOH remains remain centred in the glenoid, the scapula must slide and rotate appropriately around the chest wall (that soccer ball example). Any dysfunction in scapula movement is typically evidenced by a "winging" motion when the arm is elevated or by observing the posture of the upper back. Whether the winging comes before the injury or as a consequence is hotly debated. Either way it needs to function properly. And to complicate things even further, the thoracic spine also needs to be able to extend and rotate fully to allow the scapula to move. Kyphotic or slouched upper backs are terrible for allowing the arm to reach full elevation and is a big contributor to shoulder problems.

It should be clear that in order for a cricketer's shoulder to be pain-free, there needs to be a lot of dynamic strength and mobility of the upper trunk and shoulder girdle. But throwing technique is equally critical to both performance and injury prevention. Studies have shown that the shoulder itself contributes only 25% to the release speed of the ball. To impart this 25%, the angular velocity of the joint can reach 7000 degrees per second. However, what is interesting is that a whopping 50% is contributed by the hips and trunk when the player is in a good position for the throw (allowing for a coordinated weight transfer). But when off-balance and shying at the stumps, as often occurs within the 30-yard circle, the shoulder alone can be called upon to produce more than its usual load. Thus it is important to remember that throwing should be considered as a whole body skill.

	Injury to the deep joint capsule ligaments and biceps tendon are difficult to diagnose but can account for that "problem" shoulder © Getty Images Enlarge

Often a player will be able to bowl without experiencing symptoms, but will struggle to throw. In these cases, it is common to find pathology involving the long head of biceps or where it anchors superiorly onto the labrum. The latter is also commonly known as a SLAP lesion. In the transition from the cocking to acceleration phase of throwing, the shoulder is forcefully externally rotated. The biceps is significantly involved in stabilising the HOH at this point and often pulls so hard that it peels the labrum off the glenoid, giving symptoms of pain and instability. The overhead bowling action, however, does not put the shoulder into extremes of external rotation and hence symptoms do not usually occur. If pain is experienced during the release phase of throwing then there is a good chance that technique is again at fault. In order to decelerate the arm after the ball is released, the trunk and arm need to "follow through", using the big trunk muscles and weight shift towards the target. Failure to do this results in a massive eccentric load on the biceps tendon, also potentially tugging on its anchor on the glenoid. Throwing side-arm to avoid extremes of external rotation and pain is a common sign that all is not well internally.

As you can see, an injury to the shoulder is not a simple problem. And there are many other types of pathology found. It requires thorough assessment and management of a host of potential contributing factors which are mostly modifiable when identified. And whilst a lot can go wrong in a cricketer's shoulder, there is a lot that can be done to make sure it stays strong and healthy. Because prevention is always better than surgery in terms of outcomes, next week I'll discuss some shoulder training and injury prevention tips used by elite cricketers.

Telling Isn't Teaching: The Fine Art of Coaching

Richard Curwin

I have the greatest respect for coaches; not every coach of course, but those who care more about their players than about winning. I include those who coach drama, choir, band and all those who spend so much of their time and energy on helping children far beyond the confines of the classroom. Good coaches make great teachers.

Coaches understand that telling a player (or singer, actor, etc.) what to do is not enough. No drama director or soccer coach asks students to sit in the room and explain what to do. They go to the playing environment, demonstrate correct technique and then put the students through multiple repetitions; practice, practice, practice. Repetition ensures that correct technique will become close to automatic when the game is on the line, emotions run high and calm under pressure is required.

Coaches are fully aware that knowing what to do is not the same as knowing how to do it.
The same model needs to be used when changing student behavior if we want to successfully improve the choices students make. Incentives, threats, discussions, contracts, consequences, punishments, removal from class and every other technique we use to change behavior are 100% useless if the student does not know how to do something else.

Practice Makes Perfect?

Most interventions are based on letting the student know why his or her choice was inappropriate, and usually what to do instead. "Issac, fighting is wrong. In this classroom we resolve problems by talking, not hitting. Do you understand?" This is telling, and it is insufficient. Even if the teacher showed Issac one time how to talk when angry, and then had Issac demonstrate the technique, also one time, it would still be insufficient. What is missing are repetitions; practice, practice, practice.

When emotions run high, Issac will hit again; not because the threat of punishment wasn't strong enough or because the incentive wasn't big enough, but because the new behavior wasn't learned in a way that makes it close enough to automatic. Ask any coach how many repetitions are required for a player or actor to use correct technique in the game. You will never hear any number less than ten, and it's usually a lot higher.

Sometimes we ask a student, "Issac, what are you supposed to do when someone calls you a name?" "I should say I don't like it and walk away." This interaction does not mean that Issac will walk away. He knows the words, but that does not mean he knows how to do it. I can tell you how to shoot a foul shot in basketball, but under pressure I can't always do it. Knowing what is not the same as knowing how.

Transferable Skills

This issue gets confusing because we assume that students know how to do the right thing and simply choose not to do it. And in many cases, this is true. Other cases depend on circumstances. Telling a student to sit down seems on the surface to be pretty straightforward. But in some cases, it is not quite as simple as it seems. How does a child sit down when he was just bullied, learned his parents are getting divorced, found out his brother has cancer, or any of the myriad of possibilities that make sitting down hard to do?

My best suggestion is to teach by the coaching method starting from kindergarten: demonstrate with repetition how to make the right choice in different circumstances, and keep teaching it through high school. Starting early is best, but not starting at all is the worst. Individual student consequences should include a teaching component that goes far beyond telling. It can't hurt even if the child knows both what and how to behave correctly.

And to all the wonderful coaches who give so much to children, I offer my thanks.

Courage: a product of practice rather than faith

The question of moral courage – and whether you can get better at it – has stayed with me ever since I was shot at by Israelis

by Giles Fraser in The Guardian


OK, we all get it. Captain Francesco Schettino was a coward. Sinking the Costa Concordia was one thing – a mistake, even. The running away bit, though: that's a different order of moral failure. But how do we know what sort of person we would turn out to be in such circumstances? Hero or villain?



Years ago I was shot at by Israeli soldiers on the Gaza/Egypt border. Bullets kicked up a line of dust a few feet to my right. Despite being in the company of a dozen Palestinian children, I ran and hid. Sick with adrenaline, I cowered behind a block of flats for a good 10 minutes. To be fair on myself, we all did, and that may well have been the only thing to do. Nobody got hurt. But the question of moral courage has remained with me ever since: in particular, the question of how those who do this sort of thing, day in day out, build up the emotional resources to confront danger with bravery. Is courage something you are born with; or can you get better at it?



"Each of us has a bank of courage," explains Peter de la Billière, a former commander of the SAS. "Some have a significant credit balance, others little or nothing; but in war we are all able to make the balance last longer if we have training, discipline, patriotism and faith." This feels so much like the advice of a bygone age. For these are values whose stock has not fared well in the latter half of the 20th century and beyond. Indeed, those of us who at school learned by heart the war poem Dulce et Decorum Est have come to associate a whole cluster of courage-based values – valour, sacrifice, etc – with what Wilfred Owen called "The old Lie". For these were values so soaked in blood, so purloined for the purposes of militaristic propaganda, that their rehabilitation remains problematic, even now.



But the idea that courage requires discipline and training needs a fairer hearing. For at least since Aristotle there has been an important strain of moral thought that has recognised human virtue not as some innate given, but rather as something that one can prepare for, and indeed get better at. The reason the soldier strips and re-strips his weapon a thousand tedious times on the parade ground is so that he can do it, without thought, when he hasn't slept for days and the bullets are pinging about his ears. Over time, it becomes a matter of instinct. And the advice of the modern army is that the same is true of courage. If you rehearse "doing the right thing" enough, you are much more likely to do the right thing when terrified or confused.



This sort of advice is not peculiar to the army. Alcoholics Anonymous has the phrase: "Fake it till you make it." If you want to become a different sort of person, first act like you are, and the acting will eventually transform you. Pretend to be the person you want to be and you will end up becoming more like that person. This cuts right against the grain of familiar assumptions that moral change comes from within, that the most important thing is expressing who you really are – "To thine own self be true", as Polonius puts it in Hamlet. From this perspective, an honest confession of our own weakness – our lack of courage, for instance – becomes the only real expression of virtue. In other words, an emphasis on authenticity can easily become an alibi for a refusal of character development.



While awaiting execution in Flossenburg concentration camp for his part in a plot to assassinate Hitler, Dietrich Bonhoeffer wrote an extraordinary poem entitled Who Am I? that dramatised the gap between his outward display of courage and his inner fear. "I stepped from my cell's confinement … like a squire from his country house"; and yet inwardly he was "faint and ready to say farewell to it all". Which is the real me, he ponders. "Am I both at once?"



Courage isn't about not being afraid. Indeed, not being afraid in life-threatening situations is simply foolishness or foolhardiness. Rather, courage is being afraid and doing the right thing nonetheless. Which is why Bonhoeffer is remembered for his bravery and not for being the "contemptibly woebegone weakling" he so feared himself to be. Faith may have been a part of his moral construction. But, a propos Peter de la Billière's list of what boosts courage, I suspect faith itself is considerably less significant than the sort of moral formation that comes from inculcating certain habits of behaviour.



Yes, church itself can be a school of virtue, encouraging a set of practices that transform character. In the trade it is known as formation. But the faith bit may well be incidental. For we can be schooled in virtue by a whole range of institutional practices, the army and AA being two others. The Jesuits believed that the acting out of virtue as expressed in theatre could function in this way too.



All of which suggests that it's not the fear of our inner Captain Shettino that matters most. He lurks within us all. The real question is how we shape our behaviour. Which is why the issue of being true to oneself offers so little to the task of becoming the person we would want to be. Change requires practice.

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