Genius, said Arthur Schopenhauer, the great philosopher, is the ‘completest’ objectivity; a decided predominance of knowledge over will. It holds up to us the magic glass of all that is essential in the clearest light. So much so, what is accidental, or foreign, is automatically left out.
Genius, added Schopenhauer, is not merely individual character and feature. It’s some universal quality, a permanent reality. It unveils the individual as a symbol: a means. The expression of genius is significant: of a faculty that is considerably developed. This is not all. As another great philosopher, G W Friedrich Hegel, expounded, a genius merely places another stone on the pile, as others have done: somehow his has the good fortune to come last, and when he places his stone the arch stands supported, self-supported.
Think of a simile, in cricket: Brian Lara. Who else? The elfin genius with the Merlin wrists, Lara was, in essence, the human barometer of West Indies cricket — the indicator of the calypso graph. When in full flow, he’s just magic, and you’d get the feeling that Caribbean batting was in safe hands. When he failed, you’d also know what to expect, a Calypso slide. The Windies batting totally revolved around Lara, yes — cricket’s pint-sized monarch. He was, as a result, the most precious gemstone of his country’s cricket, one that was totally self-supportive — a Gothic swordsman with the classy touch.
When he gave up captaincy amid commotion and returned to the helm, again, Lara emphasised he had matured; and, in control of himself. Well, the point is: he had, all along the road, every quality of a good leader — a mind so well-balanced and mature. The equation was simple. Yet, as destiny would have it, when Lara’s prodigious chemistry was found wanting, the calypso song was almost without a voice, despite the fact that the Windies had had some wonderful batsmen in its ranks: the dependable Shivnarine Chanderpaul, Ramnaresh ‘the-Rohan-Kanhai photostat’ Sarwan, Chris Gayle et al.
The more Windies dunked, the more venom in print and film. What a fall for a country with a fierce cricketing pride, even if die-hard fans reckon that it’s just a ‘passing phase’ for Caribbean cricket: of a nation, once called ‘world beaters.’ To go back. Why — at one stage, the writing on the wall was more imminent. Lara was only a shade of the Lara of 1994, even if he had had his purple patches. Or, were they only few and far between, when he was at his wondrous best against the likes of a magician called Muttiah Muralitharan, for instance, before injury got the better of him; or, against Australia and South Africa?
It’s a commonplace tale. Every time Lara got into his cocoon, anybody who’s somebody in cricket circles had a field day: questioning his genius. Was Lara overrated? Was he really the best in the business? The more the arguments got hot, the better Lara was wont to respond with his willow.
Ask the Proteas. World Cup 1996. Witness, the most crucial match Hansie Cronje’s radiant gladiators lost. Just before the encounter, it seemed South Africa’s wondrous run was unstoppable. And, before Cronje and company, not to speak of coach Bob Woolmer’s laptop, could get to know what had hit them hard and square, in the form of a one-man pocket-battleship, a virtual juggernaut, South Africa’s cause was hopelessly lost — relegated to the dustbin of a fairy-tale gone sour. It was action replay, for Lara, in World Cup 2003, just as well. His brilliant century cantered the Windies to yet another memorable win.
In the Antipodes, Lara was in the dumps, unable to fathom a worrying dimension: Glenn McGrath, the Aussie paceman par excellence. McGrath had him measured, even taped. There was nothing the little man could do. Worse still, Lara’s mental apparatus had run out of steam. For some unknown reason, Lara was not able to mentally rehearse what had gone wrong vis-à-vis McGrath. Somehow that intensity, strength, and condition of the muscle ‘firings’ and neuromuscular phone lines, in his psyche, would snap — and, that was that. Dudd.
When Lara suddenly saw an Aussie attack, devoid of McGrath, he also found his touch — even when the latter returned. In one crucial triangular series match, the Windies, cajoled by the Aussie media, steam-rolled to a marvellous victory [It’s something the team could not achieve later]. Lara’s innings was all class — a great one-day innings. In the next two matches against Pakistan, followed by another against Australia, Lara went from strength to strength. Speed, or spin, swing, or turn, made no difference. He whacked them all peerlessly. He scored his second century and missed one narrowly. But, sadly, when much was expected from him, he got out for a ‘duck’ against Pakistan.
Law of averages? Perhaps. But, his return to form was stupendous. It showed that cricket is 90 per cent mental: maybe, something more than that. There hangs a tale. Once a batsman, or bowler, loses his touch, it is quite difficult to regain that control, balance, and rhythm. Composure is another element. It is so fundamental. And, if any batsman/bowler gets the wrong chemicals cooking throughout his blood stream, he could find himself in trouble.
What is the best way out of such a crisis? There are no simple measures. What works for one may not be the best recipe, mental training strategy, or appropriate for another cricketer. The trick is to change the scenery, the understanding of the situation, and the perception of scoring runs, taking wickets, and winning: to realise that the sport is only a sport. That it is also something greater than individuals.
Cricket is a delicate, fine-motor activity. Ask Lara, and he’ll tell you why. So, he often did the best thing possible. He regained his form out there in the middle; not by way of his anxieties. What made him so special was his brilliant methodology: batting, which was attuned psychically to the richest tradition of his great predecessors, from Sir Learie Constantine, George Headley, the Three Ws, Garfield Sobers, Rohan Kanhai, Clive Lloyd, Alvin Kallicharan, Viv Richards to Gordon Greenidge and Desmond Haynes. Yes, Lara had something of Kallicharan’s finesse in his batting. When on song, Lara had a gigantic appetite to destroy any attack to pieces — with surgical precision.
Lara was, indeed, the game’s most bejewelled talent. He won matches — in either form of the game, more so, in crunch Test match situations — on his own, and against all odds. Ask Steve Waugh, and his great side. They would tell you why — because, Lara was something extraordinary.
An enigma too, Lara was one of a kind. He executed his drives, cuts, pulls, hooks and every shot in the book with feline grace and felicity. His attacking strokes often reached their acme with eager and instinctive skill. When he pulled, or even hit a cross-batted shot, there was nothing ugly in its execution. His cover drives scorched through, evading fielders with embarrassing ease. Not for Lara the ‘waiting’ game. Mastery of bowling was everything to him.
Lara batted in the manner of a cricketing angel. Not with his pads, but with his resounding willow. More so, when he was in the mood.
If this isn’t genius, what is?
— First published in Observer
