Not being clutch

All he needed was one more point. To win the game, to finish the match. Considering he had come from behind in that game, the momentum was with him entirely. All his serves up till that point were not easily returnable, if not, nicely accurate. His feet felt light. The sweat beads on his forehead were oblivious. And mostly, his mind seemed calm. He was finally about to win.

On next serve the shuttle promptly hit the net. Service went to his opponent who not only served exceptionally well but placed the birdie so well that he was left stranded at the corner of the court watching him lose a point immediately. Yet, he had the cushion of three more points. So he played defensive. This was rewarded in a smashed return landing the badminton bird near his feet in some kind of poetic significance. His mind swallowed itself. Sweat bothered him now. His legs seemed heavy. And he fidgeted with the grip on his racquet. Undoubtedly, he thereafter lost the game and the match.

On another occasion, on a tennis court, his forehand faltered first. Then his serves went awry. His second serves became the laughing stock of inferior tennis balls. And soon he lost his two-game advantage to lose the set comfortably. Again his mind went into overdrive convincing him how he just could not win and perhaps how, external forces were stacked against him.

The story continued on a lush green field on a perfect fall day. He was a part of a team. Here he could his justify losing on account of his teammates inconsistency. Until, he found himself after a turnover with a flat disc in his right hand. He had planted his feet correctly. The moderate wind posed no hindrance. And his receiver was wide open in the end zone. Their eyes met but before he could throw the disc, his mind vomited thoughts of not making it. Understandably, his always accurate forehand Frisbee flick faltered. The disc spun, but limped to halt, a fair bit short of the receiver. Again, his world had sunk.

He would pout at night. Try varying degrees of thought to convince himself how he wasn’t cut out to be an athlete. Physically he was slow, breathless and his reflexes aged. And mentally, he was a goner. Un-finisher. One who cannot win because somewhere deep down he want to feel sorry for his losses. An average Joe at best, at anything and almost at everything.

Tossing and turning on his bed, he would think when was the last time he was first at anything?

But the next evening, invariably fresh white socks would clamber back on to his feet. Wonderfully snug shoes would wrap him in delight. He would stand in front of a mirror with a thin carbon fibre framed racquet in his right hand, looking back at himself as the winner; the executioner of difficult drop volleys and unassailable smashes. And he would step on to court again, for better or for worse.

For he knew, that while he could not win them all, he certainly wouldn’t lose them all. And in that pursuit of those rare victories, he would tire his adult body endlessly.

And it certainly wouldn’t be the last time.