The Habit of Winning

by Prakash Iyer

  Do you remember the Peanuts comic strips and good ol’ Charlie Brown? My personal favourite in that series is a conversation between Lucy and Charlie. As they look out of a window, Lucy exclaims, ‘Oh, I see birds and trees, and flowers and sunshine.’ And Charlie says, ‘I see fingerprints and bugs and smudges.’ Lucy tells him, ‘Charlie Brown, don’t you know that windows are for looking through, not at!’

  Our lives are like windows. We can look through our challenges and see the glory and feel the joy of winning. Or we can focus on what is wrong and all we see are our weaknesses and the bugs, the smudges, the difficulties. So when you stand by the window of your life’s challenges, choose to look at your strengths. Visualize the joy of winning. Don’t focus on your limitations. Don’t look at the fingerprints and the smudges.

  Learn to be a Robin. Don’t think you’ll miss. And you won’t!

  Windows are for looking through, not at! Our lives are like windows. We can look through our challenges and see the glory and feel the joy of winning. Or we can focus on what is wrong and see all our weaknesses.

  III

  PERSEVERANCE

  ‘Main Khelega!’

  The Making of a Champion Called Sachin Tendulkar

  24 February 2010: An entire nation erupted with joy as Sachin Tendulkar became the first cricketer to score a double century in a One-day International. In 2961 previous games in international cricket, no man had been able to go on to the 200-run mark. And it was only fitting that the man with the highest number of runs in Test and One-day cricket (and the highest number of centuries in both forms of the game) had achieved the feat.

  As newspapers filled column space with stories and vignettes chronicling the life of India’s greatest cricketer, I thought about my favourite Sachin story. It’s a story that Navjot Singh Sidhu, former Indian cricketer-turned-politician, loves to tell. While the world rises to salute a truly outstanding cricketer, this little tale probably explains, in some small measure, the making of a genius. A giant among men. The Little Legend!

  December 1989, Sialkot, Pakistan. It was the fourth Test match of the India–Pakistan series. And, as it happens, just the fourth Test of Sachin’s career.

  Making his debut at sixteen, the cherub-faced, fuzzy-haired Sachin had already won admirers, being widely seen as a precocious talent. However, several young stars had sparkled briefly in India’s cricketing firmament and then, almost as suddenly, faded away—a gross injustice to their enormous talents. Let down on the long highway to success by a faltering mental make-up, that didn’t quite back up their reserves of talent. Would Sachin go the same way? Was he being blooded too early for his own good?

  The series was level 0–0 after three Tests. Despite conceding a first innings lead of 65 in the fourth Test, Pakistan hit back strongly through blistering spells from Waqar Younis and Wasim Akram, reducing India to 38 runs for 4 wickets in their second innings. India was suddenly staring at defeat, with which they would lose the series too.

  In walked Sachin to join Sidhu. Experienced pros like Sanjay Manjrekar and Kris Srikkanth, Mohammed Azharuddin and Ravi Shastri had found the Pak attack too hot to handle and were back in the pavilion. How would the new kid on the block cope?

  Waqar bowled a nasty bouncer that went smack on Sachin’s nose. The poor boy was badly hit and his nose began to bleed profusely. It made for a sad sight on TV, and most women watching were convinced that there ought to be a law to prevent a sixteen-year-old from being subjected to such brutality.

  As the Indian team physiotherapist rushed to offer first-aid and the Pakistanis gathered to check out the bloody sight, Sidhu recalls walking down to a shaken—and still bleeding—Sachin. As the physio tried to stop the bleeding, Sidhu suggested to Sachin that he should retire hurt and come out later. That would give him time to get his nose fixed, regain his composure and hopefully return to a less menacing attack. ‘Go take a break,’ said Sidhu. He feared this might just be the end of another promising career.

  ‘Come in, I’ll attend to you,’ said the helpful physio.

  But Sachin brushed them away, almost annoyed that they should even suggest that he walk away. ‘Main khelega!’ he said. ‘I’ll play.’ And, in that moment, says Sidhu, a star was born. Those two words verbalized the fierce determination of a young man who wasn’t going to quit.

  Sachin could have gone into the relative comfort of the dressing room but he didn’t. People watching would have understood but he knew his heart wouldn’t understand. The heat was on. India was in trouble. The pace attack had its tail up. The blood was staining his gloves, his shirt, his face, his spirit.

  But the kid would have none of it. Main khelega it was. Sachin went on to score 57 runs and shared in the match-saving 101-run partnership with Sidhu. With two words—main khelega—talent transformed into genius, that day in Sialkot.

  It’s always like that. What separates champions from mere mortals is not just talent. It’s attitude. It’s mental strength. It’s the willingness to fight when the chips are down. It’s the main khelega spirit. The spirit that puts the team’s need ahead of one’s own interest. Main khelega says it’s not just about me, it’s about my team.

  There are times in our lives when the pressure mounts and we feel like throwing in the towel and calling it quits. That’s just the time when you need to put your hand up and be counted. Time to say main khelega.

  As a leader, you may often feel that the world is conspiring to knock you down. You may be looking to win but defeat stares you in the face. At times like these, all a leader looks for is a few good men in his team. For people who say main khelega. And this spirit is contagious. As one man puts his hand up, another hand goes up. And another. And a team starts believing in itself. In its ability to fight, and win.

  Over the last two decades, Sachin has entertained us with his performances. We’ve watched with awe as he’s pulled off incredible wins. And we’ve watched with anguish when he’s failed—and with him have crashed an entire nation’s hopes. He has helped us live our dreams, helped us win. In his own way, he’s helped us feel good about ourselves. Made us proud to be Indians.

  But perhaps Sachin’s biggest contribution is teaching an entire nation to stand up and fight. To learn never to give up. To say main khelega.

  Some years down, long after the little master blaster has hung up his boots, when we tell our grandchildren about the exploits of a batting legend, we should remember to tell them—and teach them—those two magic words that defined the spirit of the champion, and translated talent into performance.

  Thanks, Sachin, for the entertainment. Thanks for all those wins. And yes, thanks for showing us the virtues of the main khelega spirit.

  There will be times when the pressure mounts and you feel like throwing in the towel and calling it quits. That’s just the time when you need to put up your hand and be counted. Time to say main khelega. I’ll play. What separates champions from mere mortals is not just talent. It’s attitude. It’s mental strength.

  The Chinese Bamboo

  My favourite spot at home—and my wife’s pride and joy—is a little palm-and-bamboo garden she’s managed to create in the balcony of our apartment. So every morning, that’s where we sit and devour the day’s newspapers, with some freshly brewed south Indian filter coffee making the news seem just a wee bit more interesting!

  And it’s probably this new patch of green that sparked off my interest in the Chinese bamboo. A tree that grows really tall—to a height of over eighty feet. It takes around five years and three months to grow to its full height. But here’s the interesting bit. For the first five years after you plant the seed, you see nothing. Absolutely nothing. Except perhaps a little shoot springing out of the bulb and struggling to make a squiggle.

  And then, in the next ninety days, it shoots up to a towering eighty feet.

  Can you believe it? For the first sixty months, all the growth is invisible, below the surface. The Chinese bamboo’s roots create a complex network,
like a miniature version of the London Underground. It is these strong roots that, when fully developed, help support a tree that will soar above all else.

  And in the next ninety days—yes, merely ninety days—it literally takes off. And becomes as tall as an eight-storeyed building.

  In this era of instant coffee and fast food, of get-rich-quick schemes and lose-weight-quicker regimens, of quarterly earnings and month-on-month growth, perhaps we all need to pause and take a lesson from the Chinese bamboo.

  Patience has its reward. Nothing of substance happens in a jiffy. All too often, we are unwilling to wait for the pay-off, and tend to settle for shorter trees.

  Having sown the seed and having initiated something, when we don’t see results, we get impatient. We keep pulling out the sapling to check if the roots are growing. (Well, when you do that, they don’t!)

  As leaders and bosses, we tend to be impatient for results. And often, too often, we rush to reward the mushrooms that spring up after one spectacular rainy night (and wither away soon after)—only because we can see them! Long-term, sustainable successes take time, and a good question to ask yourself is whether your leadership style encourages—or even allows—the growth of the Chinese bamboo. Or are you creating an organization of stunted, but quickly visible trees?

  Every major achievement is almost always preceded by years of toil, hard work, failure, stress, tests of character, determination, sleepless nights … All of which help form the network of roots that can then support real accomplishments. And eighty-feet-tall trees.

  So the next time you feel frustrated by lack of results and want to give up, don’t. Think of the Chinese bamboo.

  When you feel the world is unjust and is refusing to recognize your hard work and your commitment, don’t panic. Five years of subterranean activity will almost always be followed by three months of meteoric rise.

  And ah, yes, after years of slogging it out in relative obscurity, when you finally achieve success, be prepared for people to say: ‘Oh, he’s so lucky. He’s become an overnight success!’

  If only they knew about the Chinese bamboo!

  Patience has its reward. Nothing of substance happens in a jiffy.

  Perseverance and a Man Called Atapattu

  Persistence pays. In life, in sport, in your career.

  Winston Churchill once visited a school, where the kids asked him what he thought was the secret of success in life. His reply: ‘Just seven words …’ Then, the classic Churchill pause. Then: ‘Never give up. Never, never give up!’

  Often, too often, we do all the hard work and when we are perhaps just a step away from success, we walk away. Trouble is, we seldom know that we are only a step away. Just a step away from realizing our dreams.

  Turning away to choose a new path seems the more attractive option. Without the obvious fear of failure. The grass on the other side looks greener. And we rationalize our failures—bad luck, bad boss, bad karma, bad timing … Or all of the above.

  Which is why I just love this story of Marvan Atapattu, the Sri Lankan cricketer. It’s a story that Harsha Bhogle, India’s most loved cricket commentator, loves to tell, over and over again. Making his debut in Test cricket for Sri Lanka, Marvan scored a duck in his first innings. And again, in his second innings.

  They dropped him. So he went back to the nets for more practice. More first-class cricket. More runs. Waiting for that elusive call. And after twenty-one months, he got a second chance.

  This time, he tried harder. His scores: 0 in the first innings, 1 in the second. Dropped again, he went back to the grind. And scored tonnes of runs in first-class cricket. Runs that seemed inadequate to erase the painful memories of the Test failures. Well, seventeen months later, opportunity knocked yet again. Marvan got to bat in both innings of the Test. His scores: 0 and 0. Phew!

  Back to the grind. Would the selectors ever give him another chance? They said he lacked big-match temperament. His technique wasn’t good enough at the highest level. Undaunted, Marvan kept trying.

  Three years later, he got another chance. This time, he made runs. He came good. And in an illustrious career thereafter, Marvan went on to score over 5000 runs for Sri Lanka. That included sixteen centuries and six double hundreds. And he went on to captain his country. All this, despite taking over six years to score his second run in Test cricket. Wow! What a guy!

  How many of us can handle failure as well as he did? Six years of trying, and failing. He must have been tempted to pursue another career. Change his sport perhaps. Play county cricket. Or, oh well, just give up.

  But he didn’t. And that made the difference.

  We all hear stories of talented people who gave up before their potential was realized. People who changed jobs and careers when success seemed elusive.

  The next time you are staring at possible failure or rejection, think of Marvan. And remember this: If you don’t give up, if you believe in yourself, if you stay the course, the runs will eventually come. What’s more, you could even become captain some day.

  Never give up. Never, never give up!

  The Anil Kumble Spirit

  When Anil Kumble, India’s former cricket captain and all-time highest wicket taker, bid adieu to Test cricket, the entire nation seemed to stand up and salute one of India’s finest soldiers. A man who rolled his arm over tirelessly to bowl India to many famous wins. And more important, a man who put his hand up every time there was a challenge and a fighter was called for.

  Anil Kumble was special. When he made his debut, he looked an unlikely hero. Many wondered what this rather studious-looking, bespectacled mechanical engineer was doing on the cricket field. And in an era of brash, talkative, in-your-face combative cricketers, the stoically quiet Anil could hardly be branded a fighter. But a fighter he was. Fiercely competitive. Learning, all the time. Keeping alive the spirit of the game, always. And oh, desperately, desperately seeking to win.

  TV channels and newspaper columns were full of Anil in the aftermath of his retirement. Which is only fair. After all, there were several highlights in his distinguished eighteen-year career that we could recount, replay and rejoice over. In all that euphoria, guess which was the most cited instance of Anil’s greatness?

  Was it the fact that he became India’s highest ever wicket taker with 619 wickets in Test cricket? Or that he tirelessly bowled over 40,000 balls in Test matches and took 4 wickets or more in an innings sixty-six times? Or was it that magical spell at Kotla against Pakistan, when he took all 10 wickets in an innings? A feat so special, they even named a junction in Bangalore after him! Or were the experts celebrating the two things Kumble did that the other great leg-spinner, Shane Warne, desperately wanted to but couldn’t: Score a Test ton, and lead his country! Or was the high point of Anil’s career his outstanding statesmanship as a leader in Australia during the Sydney Test fiasco? Anil clearly wore his India cap with pride. And the captain’s blazer with quiet dignity.

  Significantly, the single most recalled event from his career was Anil coming out to bowl with a fractured jaw, in the Antigua Test against the West Indies.

  That was special. Truly special.

  To understand its significance, let’s flashback to St John’s, Antigua, back to 12 May 2002. It was the fourth Test of the series. A game in which five batsmen had scored a hundred. And yet the most memorable image of the game was of Anil coming on to bowl with a heavily bandaged, fractured jaw.

  Batting earlier in the game, Anil was hit on the face by a snorter from Merv Dillon. Despite the nasty blow—which had him spitting blood—Anil soldiered on and batted for four more overs. He was later rushed to hospital, where an X-ray confirmed a fractured jaw. Bad news. He was out of the match, out of the rest of the series, and scheduled to fly back to India the next day.

  India made over 500 runs before declaring their first innings. But they were clearly missing their star spinner when the Windies came out to bat. After 45 overs, the Windies were 123 for 2 with Brian Lara at the cr
ease, when—surprise, surprise!—Anil decided to get on to the field and bowl. Fractured jaw, bandage and all. Despite the pain, Anil bowled 14 overs unchanged. And got Brian.

  Viv Richards said it was one of the bravest things he had ever seen on a cricket field. ‘Cricket has a way of producing inspiring tales of valour, and this one ranks right at the top,’ agreed Sunny Gavaskar. And all Anil said was: ‘I can now go home with the thought that I tried my best.’

  That moment, perhaps better than anything else, defined the greatness of Anil Kumble. A man who could be counted on to give a 100 per cent for his team, for his country, at all times. What makes you a hero is not just the number of wickets you take or the runs you score. It’s your willingness to play for your team. To sacrifice personal interest for the larger good. Your willingness to endure personal pain for public good.

  In our lives and our careers, we could all do with a bit of Anil Kumble in ourselves. Play for the team, not for ourselves. Ignore our personal pain, and help the team’s cause. Your jaw may be fractured but keep your chin up. Remember that, in the end, we get remembered for our character, attitude and selflessness. The titles, perks, runs and wickets are secondary, and oh-so-fleeting.

  And sometimes, our biggest chance for showing our true mettle comes not at the peak of our achievements, but at the nadir of despair. Think about it. Anil had been dropped for the first two Tests. Selected for the third, he broke his jaw before bowling a single ball. Booked to fly back home the next day. Game over. And then he did his heroic fractured-jaw bowling act. He could have stayed in the pavilion. Cursed the captain and selectors for not picking him for the two earlier games. Done last-minute shopping before his premature departure. But all he could really think of was giving 100 per cent. ‘At least I tried my best!’