Shane Watson: On Winning the Inner Battle

 

Do nasty guys finish first?

Michael Jeh in Cricinfo

 

Surliness wouldn't change the scoreline for Clarke, would it?  © Getty Images

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I wonder which Michael Clarke we'll see at The Oval. If he's been reading any of the press from both sides of the world, he might be confused as to which persona to adopt as Australia try hard to avoid a 4-0 scoreline that won't really do justice to their fighting spirit and to his excellent leadership under duress.

Wayne Smith, writing in the Australian, was eloquent and informed in his analysis of Clarke's captaincy. Most good judges of cricket have applauded his attacking instincts in the field, clever bowling changes and innovative field placements. At the end of the day, though, two relatively evenly matched teams have contrived to produce a scoreline that reads 3-0, despite Clarke's captaincy, not because of it. The difference has been that when Australia have played poorly, they have done so badly enough to virtually surrender a game in a session. England's poor patches have been limited by some effective damage control to the extent where they haven't allowed the slide to become terminal. They have shown a bit more resolve in not allowing a mini-collapse or wayward bowling to spiral to the point where the game is irretrievable from that point on. 

The Times' Alan Lee took a different tack in his post-match analysis after the fourth Test. His view was that Clarke (and by association, Australia) needed to cultivate more mongrel and stop being such a "nice guy". The basic tenet of his piece was that Clarke was smiling too much and was not putting on enough of the Mr Nasty act. Clarke's apparent cheerfulness, perceived by many as a sign of dignity and good grace, was now being written up as possibly a reason why those Tests were compromised. Lee cited Ian Chappell's truculence and Allan Border's grumpiness as prime examples of Australian captains who were successful because they were curmudgeonly.

In my opinion this sort of simplistic analysis misses a few obvious truths that have everything to do with cricketing ability and very little to do with boorishness. The winning and losing of Test matches (any sporting contest for that matter) is primarily down to the superior ability of one team/individual in comparison to their opponents. Occasionally luck, weather, key injuries and umpiring decisions can change that destiny, but in the main it's usually down to who has the better cattle on the day. In this Ashes series, England started as deserved favourites and despite Australia's admirable tenacity (at times), the results have echoed that slight edge in the quality of the cricketers. No amount of cussing and frowning would necessarily have changed that.

Even the Chappell brothers, Rod Marsh and Dennis Lillee, renowned for being gristly opponents, couldn't do much when their teams were regularly overwhelmed by the West Indies of the late 1970s and early 1980s, including in World Series Cricket. That period was described by many as the emergence of the Ugly Australian (in a cricketing sense) as the history books portrayed them (although I was too young myself to tell if that tag was warranted or not), but that counted for very little when those fearsome West Indian fast bowlers were at their throats or when Viv Richards, Clive Lloyd, Gordon Greenidge et al were collaring formidable bowling attacks spearheaded by the Lillee Thomson and Pascoe. I can't see how being any nastier could have won them any more games. More runs and wickets might have helped, and that's what it boils down to.

Likewise Border. His prolific run-scoring feats, much of them accomplished with his back to the wall, was a function of his immense mental strength and no little amount of pure skill. Some of those brave innings against the likes of Michael Holding, Joel Garner and Malcolm Marshall were because he was supremely talented as a batsman, not because of the so-called Captain Grumpy tablets. Being grumpy didn't do much to change Australia's success in the early years of his captaincy. It was only in 1989, when Mark Taylor, Geoff Marsh, Steve Waugh and Terry Alderman all clicked together that he won back the Ashes. He was probably just as cantankerous in 1986-87 and fat lot of good that did him when Fat Gatt's tourists took Australia to the cleaners on the back of Chris Broad's purple patch.

I've been watching bits of the Caribbean Premier League recently and Kieron Pollard's ridiculous on-field antics are a prime case in point. In two recent matches, he has deliberately instigated aggro with two of his West Indian team-mates (Lendl Simmons and Marlon Samuels) to the point where it is clear that his infractions with other players over the years cannot be written off as temporary moments of poor manners. Yet, in both those CPL games, he was comprehensively clean-bowled for nought. So much for the theory that aggressive behaviour drives superior performance. All the trash-talking and sledging that he initiated could not change the fact that on those two occasions, despite being Captain Obnoxious, his team lost both games, and his sum contribution was zero from three balls. His team did not benefit from that style of captaincy but they might have appreciated some runs and wickets instead.

If you look back to the deliveries that Clarke received in the first innings at Trent Bridge and the second innings in Durham, it wouldn't have mattered if he was the grumpiest bloke on the planet or not - those balls were almost unplayable. Well, actually, they were unplayable. Stuart Broad's mojo moments in Durhamwere out of Clarke's control. An impersonation of Chappelli or AB at their curmudgeonly best could not have altered that. Great bowling, some indifferent shots, and one team playing better than the other - that's what decides Test matches, not some rubbish theories about standing at first slip and smiling too much. It's an insult to these guys, hardened professional cricketers who are giving 100% at all times, to suggest that it's as easy as turning on the "nasty tap" and winning becomes a whole lot easier.

Cricketers are made different. Andre Nel looked like he might have been born snarling at the midwife, and that's the way he played his cricket too. His behaviour rarely changed, even when Ricky Ponting was giving him a touch-upat the SCG in 2006. He went for 6.5 runs per over in the second innings but never changed his abrasive manner. If it was as easy as just getting angrier or nastier to get wickets, why wasn't he a world-beater?

I'm mates with Gladstone Small and you couldn't meet a nicer bloke if you walked to the ends of the earth. Both Small and Nel averaged about 33 with the ball in Test cricket (Small's batting average was six runs higher) and you couldn't think of two blokes with similar records who could be any more different in terms of bile and invective hurled at batsmen. So what does that prove about the connection between success and savage intent?

The funny thing about even those players who swear (literally) by their tactic of being deliberately obnoxious as a strategy is that if you ask them if they have ever been put off by someone acting aggressively towards them, they laugh it off disdainfully. It's as if they truly believe that only their sledging, only their body language and only their dark moods, have the power to put others off their game. They don't admit to being affected by such things themselves. Talk about living in fool's paradise. Try sledging Jacques Kallis and see if that works - the guy bats as if he is hypnotised.

You can't manufacture nastiness where it doesn't exist. Clarke's just not one of those personality types. Simply getting him to stop smiling ruefully and keeping life in perspective ain't gonna change a thing. When this team gets a bit more experience and has a bit of luck, he might win a game or two. I sincerely doubt if, as Mr Lee puts it, "he stopped smiling and developed some nastiness" whether that would make the slightest difference. Until he has a winning team at his disposal, his options are limited, so he may as well show some grace under fire without fear of being labelled soft by any of his more hard-bitten predecessors. As Lee concedes, "He has led his vanquished men with dignity and inventiveness." That's not something to be ashamed of.

Winning is everything? Sorry, no

In cricket, as in other sports, it's not about the statistics and the bottomline. It's about how much joy you give, how well you are loved and remembered

Ed Smith

December 7, 2011

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	Mark Waugh: never mind the average © Getty Images Enlarge
Related Links Players/Officials: Greg Chappell | Sir Viv Richards | Mark Waugh

Hundreds of thousands of men and women have played professional football. None, surely, could have so fully lived up to the name Socrates. He played as though football was a creative puzzle, to be teased out like a philosophical enquiry. He played with grace but also with lightness.

Not all of you may have encountered a mischievous theory called nominative determinism. The idea is that people are predetermined to pursue certain professions by their names: your name is your fate. Britain's leading jurist is called Igor Judge (his professional billing is "Judge Judge"); the world's fastest man is called Usain Bolt; and "Dudus" Coke awaits trial in the US for allegedly running the Jamaican drugs mafia.

Socrates certainly lived up to his nominative destiny. He was a qualified doctor, a political activist and an independent thinker. His attitude to life was appropriately philosophical. He knew that smoking and drinking were damaging his health, but retorted, "It's a problem, but we all have to die of something, don't we?"

The same joie de vivre informed Socrates' attitude to sport. He was unflinchingly committed to the joga bonito - the beautiful game. "Beauty comes first. Victory is secondary. What matters is joy." Even people who don't like football remember being uplifted by Socrates' grace and audacity. They remember his mistakes as well as his triumphs. They remember his movement and imagination as well as his goals. And they remember that he was unique - perhaps the highest accolade any sportsman can achieve. I almost forgot the most important thing of all: he is remembered, full stop.

A great deal is written about greatness in sport. There is a natural human urge to seek objectivity and proof about who is the greatest. Averages are measured, metrics invented, comparisons fed through the meat grinder of statistical analysis.

But statistics, I'm afraid, can never tell us the whole truth about greatness. Because sporting achievement is not quite the same thing as greatness. Look at cricket. Viv Richards was an exceptional performer in Test cricket, but he wasn't off the map in terms of pure stats. Greg Chappell and other contemporaries pushed him hard. But in terms of greatness, Viv stood alone. The numbers don't quite capture the complete Viv effect - not just on opponents but also on fans. Whenever I remember watching him on television, a smile comes over my face - even now, 25 years later.

Mark Waugh's Test match average was "only" 41 (that still sounds pretty good to me, but it's undeniable that lots of players average 41 these days). But the numbers don't reflect the pleasure he gave. A sublime Waugh flick through midwicket was only worth four runs - the same as an ugly thick edge from a lesser batsman - but it was worth much more to those who paid money to watch.

Some of the most astonishing things Waugh did on a cricket field weren't recorded at all. Greg Chappell tells a lovely story in his book The Making of Champions about watching Waugh field on the footholds at extra cover and midwicket in ODIs. The ball would be bouncing unpredictably on the footholds and Waugh would swoop effortlessly and pick it up without fumbling or diving, like a cat pouncing on a ball of string. Chappell writes that he wanted to stand up and cheer every time. Statistically it was an non-event. For the discerning fan, it was pure magic.

According to the averages, the racist cheat Ty Cobb was a better batter than Babe Ruth. But Cobb was nowhere near as great a sportsman. Not if we use the correct measurement: the extent to which he was loved and remembered.

If you still think that winning in sport is all about the final score, I recommend reading Rafa: My Story, the unflinchingly honest autobiography by Rafael Nadal. When he writes about Roger Federer, his great rival, something strange happens to Nadal. Rationally he knows that he has beaten Federer more often than Federer has beaten him, but he insists that Federer is the greater player. Partly, that is because Federer still possesses more grand slams. But the deeper reason is that Nadal deeply respects - perhaps even envies - the way Federer plays. "You get these blessed freaks of nature in other sports, too."

	If you produce grim, boring and joyless sport, it is reassuring to fall back on the delusion that it is all in a worthy cause. Socrates knew better. He knew that sportsmen are entertainers

Here is the interesting thing. Nadal does not congratulate himself for being the more worthy champion. He congratulates Federer for the more sublime talent. And Nadal may be right. In an era of wonderful tennis players, Federer has been the most elegant, refined and instinctive.

Socrates' death has been described as a terrible day for sporting romantics. In fact, it is a much sadder day for sporting ultra-rationalists. Because the win-at-all-costs brigade has once again been shown to be completely wrong. Socrates never won the World Cup, and lost the biggest match of his career playing on his own terms. And how is he remembered? As a loser? No. He is remembered with respect, with adoration, with love. Over the long term, it is very simple: he won.

Remember Socrates' career and legacy the next time you hear "Winning isn't everything; it's the only thing." That was American football coach Vince Lombardi's dictum about sporting priorities. And in the 50 years since Lombardi's quip, the reductionism of winning at all costs has hardened into conventional wisdom.

Of course, it is a consoling thought - if you're a production-line automaton incapable of playing sport creatively, or if you're a coach determined to stamp out individuality and risk. Yes, if you produce grim, boring and joyless sport, it is reassuring to fall back on the delusion that it is all in a worthy cause.

Socrates knew better. He knew that sportsmen are entertainers. They must try to win, too (no one is entertained by skill without will). But entertainment is not bolted onto sport as an afterthought. It is at the core of the whole project.

Professional athletes are only the temporary custodians of their sports. Their highest calling is to pass it on to the next generation enhanced rather than diminished. By that measure Socrates won - and he won big.

Is there room for intellectuals in cricket?

Ed Smith in Cricinfo 24/11/2011

WG Grace thought reading books was bad for your batting. "You'll never catch me that way," he scoffed. The story serves as a metaphor for sport's suspicion of intellectual life. Thinkers, readers, curious minds: do we really want them clogging up the supposedly optimistic, forward-looking atmosphere of a cricket team?

Cricket is still grappling with the terrible news that Peter Roebuck - one of sport's genuine intellectuals - jumped to his death from his hotel balcony as he was being questioned by South African police about a sexual assault charge. The circumstances of Roebuck's death were clearly atypical. Nonetheless, his life - especially those parts of his life that belonged to cricket - fit the pattern of an intellectual who never quite settled into an easy relationship with the sport he loved.

Other sports are arguably even more anti-intellectual than cricket. Football never entirely understood Pat Nevin. Graeme Le Saux was subjected to homophobic chants and abuse. He wasn't gay, of course - his "sin" was to read serious newspapers such as the Guardian.

In Ball Four, the New York Yankees pitcher Jim Bouton's wrote the first great exposé of major league sport. He described how the management encouraged, almost forced, their players to drink beer after matches. That Bouton preferred milk was thought to be proof that he wasn't a real bloke. He was made to feel guilty for being intellectually curious. Bouton wrote admiringly about one soulmate who liked to lie down in open fields and read poetry. But his intellectual team-mate subsequently denied it.

Let's not pretend that there aren't tensions between thinking and competing. I turned professional at probably my most openly intellectual phase, when I had just graduated from Cambridge University. Perhaps too many things had all happened too soon for me - I was only 20 when I graduated. And we were young and callow and could be a pretentious bunch, with the intellectual bar set ludicrously high. We thought nothing of being habitually dismissive - forgive us, but being dismissive was the style.

From that rarefied academic environment, dominated by abstract thinking and academic competitiveness, I stepped straight into a first-class cricket dressing room. It was a massive change and gave me a huge jolt. And I'm sure I didn't always handle it well. On one away trip, my room-mate picked up the book on my bedside table. It was Experience and Its Modes, a densely argued book by the philosopher Michael Oakeshott. I'll never forget the expression on his face.

Mike Atherton and I once discussed whether intellectuals had any place in modern sport. The best defence is that good sports teams embrace diversity. They are open to all different types, including players who do not naturally fit the stereotype of a team player. The best teams are liberal in the deepest sense. They do not stifle independent thinkers or left-field ideas. They do not enforce conventional, middle-brow behaviour.

For that reason, the worst combination for a sporting intellectual is a losing team and a weak, insecure captain. A losing team searches for scapegoats. During times of insecurity and pressure, as history shows, human groups often turn on unconventional individuals. Insecure leaders want to be surrounded by players of limited intelligence. It is easier that way.

Surprisingly, however, the team's "intellectual" usually has little to fear from the anti-intellectual jocks. No, the real threat comes from the jealousy of the nearly man, the player who fancies himself as a thinker and resents the competition. Team splits often begin with the manipulations of jealous, thwarted players who think they are cleverer than they are.

	The best teams are liberal in the deepest sense. They do not stifle independent thinkers or left-field ideas

Winning, of course, always helps. A winning team is more inclined to look for the good in unusual players. Looking back on my career, the happiest times were when I played under secure captains and coaches. My father, a lifelong teacher, often told me that weak headmasters appoint unthreatening deputies, but strong headmasters back themselves to handle more restless and independent people. I suspect that was one of Adam Hollioake's great strengths as a captain: he encouraged people to be themselves. He could do that because he was happy in his own skin. "I enjoy my life, I want my team-mates to enjoy theirs" - that was always the impression I got from Adam.

Roebuck, I sense, craved that kind of acceptance - in cricket and in life. He once emailed me a long, uncorrected series of acute perceptions and observations. It was classic Roebuck - staccato, direct and unsparing, especially of himself. He wrote: "I realised that I had not actually enjoyed cricket at all. Englishmen love to suffer! I played one creative innings at Somerset and that's the only press cutting I kept. I never really dared again."

He was determined to avoid those errors in his career as a writer. "Always tell the truth in your own way. As a journalist I never go into the office, as I say nothing happens in offices! One has to work hard not to get sucked into 'the operation'. But dare one tread that path? Do you? Professionalism is not an enemy but it has become a mantra. I concentrate entirely in staying fresh - or else work becomes tired, cynical, useless. Cleverness is an easy substitute for thought. Begin afresh afresh as Larkin wrote."

That "Do you?" was one of the most direct challenges I have had put to me.

He had so much more thinking to do, so many more insights to develop. Instead, his innings did not run its full and proper course. "A player goes through three stages - natural, complicated, simple - not many reach that last stage but the journey cannot be avoided. Failure is the problem," he wrote to me.

Roebuck's three-stage journey applies to life as well as to batting. It is deeply sad that Roebuck's life ended while it was still very much at the complicated stage. One day, I hope, the intellectual will find it easier to find a natural role in professional sport.

Former England, Kent and Middlesex batsman Ed Smith is a writer with the Times.