And yet, somehow, I am a little put off by the thought of competitive sport. My earliest first-hand experience of approaching a sport competitively was swimming in middle school. Overnight, my conversations changed from being about how cold the water was and whether I thought Ash could ever tame Charizard (a Pokémon character- for the unawares) to a talk of timings and techniques. What had once been an afternoon of fun was now approached with some amount of trepidation. I was no longer merely happy with the fact that I was a good swimmer and enjoyed swimming; I now needed to ensure that I would be on the team. Eventually, my interest in the sport tailed off until it was rekindled almost a year later by the scorching heat of Bombay’s summer.

My second brush with competition came barely a year later when I found myself on the fringes of the school cricket team. I had started playing at the school ground (read: parking lot) because friends in my building had stopped coming down to play thanks to our collective obsession with board exams. Once again, it started off as me going to play a sport I enjoyed, and culminated in me struggling for my place in the XI. The stories I’d tell my parents on going home changed from ‘woah, I actually swung a ball’ to ‘I think I’m better suited for this position than him’.  Wanting to hang on to my love for the sport, and buoyed by the fact that a whole set of friends had finished their boards, another sport was quit.

Recently, I had occasion, yet again, to quit a sport in order to hold on to my love for it. This time it was debating. You may laugh at my characterization of debating as a sport, but that was precisely my problem: along with several others, I had begun approaching debating as a sport. It started with a love for debating for the sake of debating itself. I was fascinated by the idea of being forced to think about things I’d never cared for, often in support of positions I abhorred, trying to find that argument that would clinch it. A year in, and I found myself hankering after breaks and wins. Like many other law school debaters, I was reading up as much as I could to be prepared for any motion that could come my way. Arguments were not always things that were arrived upon with great thought in those fifteen minutes leading to a whoop of delight; they would often be ones I had used before and was refining or had read in an editorial. Thinking was on its way out.

The fact that competition changed the way I approached the sport wasn’t all. In each instance, with little in the first and a lot in the last, came along sniping and whispering. There would be talk of who was better and quite often, it wouldn’t be very pleasant. At the start, I would always tell myself not to let others affect my enjoyment of something I loved. But it did.

Competition does push us in ways that we wouldn’t dream of otherwise. I have swum with cuts all over my hands from a fall, stinging with each stroke, merely because that practice session was essential. But if it stopped being fun, what was the point?

It has been over a year that India last won a Test match. The win against England at Lord’s, though negated by the 3-1 series defeat, was, indeed, memorable. Nonetheless, India has come agonisingly close to winning a Test match on two other occasions as well. Each of these wins, had they materialised, would have been historic Test victories. What is interesting to note about the two matches is that it is the ‘aggression’ professed by the team and by their captain that was credited for the team having made it that close to victory. However, it may be prudent to wonder whether it was the so-called ‘aggression’ that in fact accounted for the team not having crossed the line.

Please note that Virat Kohli has not sought to be aggressive only in terms of strategy but also in terms of team selection. Raw pace, wrist-spin and attacking strokeplay has been his mantra. The inclusion of Varun Aaron, Rohit Sharma and Karn Sharma in the team at Adelaide and the inclusion of the first two in the team at Galle make the same pretty evident. Importantly, at Adelaide, Aaron and Karn were selected over Bhuveneshwar Kumar and Ashwin and at Galle, Aaron and Rohit were chosen over Bhuveneshwar and Cheteshwar Pujara. In my opinion, these selections are what contributed to India missing out on two famous Test victories. Ashwin has been India’s most successful bowler since and Pujara is not known to plant his foot outside leg to defend a ball pitching on off on a Day Four subcontinent wicket. Bhuvi, though not at the peak of his form, does surely have the potential and the ability to stem the flow of runs and to chip in with the bat.

At Adelaide, both Aaron and Karn leaked between 4 and 6 runs per over. Moreover, neither of them looked incisive or came close to troubling the Aussie batsmen. Aaron’s performance at Galle was similar. In fact, at Galle, Aaron even came to be smashed all over the park by Chandimal when Sri Lanka was dismissed for 183 in the First Innings. In the Second Innings, it may be harsh to expect him to have taken multiple wickets on a third day track. However, it can be expected of him to check the flow of runs when a batsman is virtually scoring at a run a ball so as to enable the spinners to have a better chance at the other end. Unfortunately, he failed to do that as well.

The reason I stress on the bowling performances in both these matches is because, in my opinion, the matches were not lost entirely in the chase but in the number of runs conceded. One can only wonder how different the target could have been at Adelaide, had Ashwin been in the team and how much lesser we could have lost by at Galle had a seamer bowled economically on Day Three.

Having said so, as is often the case with India the batsmen could have salvaged the situation. But, as we know, this was not to be. Rohit Sharma, in my opinion, failed to deliver at crucial moments in both the matches. At Adelaide, India was 242-4 in the Fourth Innings-just 122 short of a historic win- when Rohit Sharma walked out to bat. At Galle, India was 30-2 in a low-scoring chase with the runs dried up and Herath bowling once again with all his guile when he walked in. Both times, the match was interestingly poised, because at Adelaide we did not have any recognised batsmen left in the pavilion and at Galle we desperately needed to shift the momentum in our favour before the chase got out of hand.  Rohit, though, batted like a fish out of water- without any foot work whatsoever on both occasions. In each match he threw his wicket away with a careless shot. Though at Adelaide we did not have any other batsmen to play in his place, one can only wonder how different the chase could have been at Galle with a steady Pujara in the middle.

Did India, then, not miss out on two famous victories because of an aggressive team selection?

As the action now shifts to Colombo, it will be interesting to see whether Kohli will continue with this ‘aggression’ in team selection or will opt for pragmatism instead. Aaron, Karn and Rohit may well be game changers. Their aggression may well win us moments in the game. But, can they win us a match? Test matches victories are hard-earned. Victories away from home are even more difficult. An aggression in the approach towards the game- an intent to win is desirable. But does that mean that we compromise on prudence in this approach? The team selection at Colombo should be interesting to note.

Luis Aragones, who had been a loyal son of Atletico had died earlier in the week at the age of 75. In memory of his jersey number–8, fans paid him the ultimate tribute due to any footballer, something that he would never get in his playing time— complete silence for eight long minutes. And once the eighth minute struck, the whole stadium chanted his name in perfect unison. There was no sophistication, no complexity in the name chanting, no so-longs, no goodbyes, just a simple and repetitive drone of ‘Luis A-ra-go-nes. Luis A-ra-go-nes.’ Nothing could be as heartfelt, nothing more genuine as an expression of deep respect and love.

I remember Aragones as the unlikeliest of saviours of Spanish football. For the nineties and the noughties when football engulfed me as a passion, Spain were beautiful and frustrating; sublime and bizarre; entirely unpredictable, and not in a manner which evokes excitement as much as it evokes disgust. No one encapsulated this better than Raul, Spain’s evergreen boy wonder— immensely talented though entirely incapable of inspiring his country to national glory. Aragones, as an avuncular sexagenarian, was hardly the natural candidate to my mind to change this mentality. My abiding image of him is of an old man standing beside the team benches during Euro 2008 engulfed in deep thought. He gave me and every armchair footballer credibility, demonstrating that perhaps football was won and lost in the mind, and not on the pitch, reaffirming my peculiar love for a game that I was, and am, wholly ill-equipped to play.

It was Aragones’ deep thought that led to a beautifully simple, straightforward and ever-so-effective tactic that would revolutionise Spanish football— the ‘tiki-taka’. What we take for granted from Spain today, the intuitively attractive and never-ending sets of passes designed to tire the opposition out, was Spain’s ticket to Euro 2008 success. Four decades of under-achievement was wiped out by a brand of football, that was not just effective, but beautiful. I was privileged to watch it in person in Gdansk in 2012 when the same brand of football, and a new generation of Spanish players, defended their European title. While watching Spain’s opponents Croatia haplessly chasing shadows, I wondered where Aragones was and whether the balding, bespectacled thinker was having a quiet moment of immense pride in watching what he had created.

I never had occasion to remember Aragones since then till I stumbled upon the Atletico game today. As the stadium remained silent for eight minutes and broke it powerfully in the ninth, there was scarcely an eye that was dry. And sitting miles away in Delhi, I could feel the combination of sadness and pride celebrating a life fully lived, mourning the passing of a son, a saviour, a man, who lived his life, for Atletico, for Spain. I shed a tear for a man who I never met, who I never felt I knew. There was scarcely a connection between us but yet such was the powerful groundswell of emotions at the Vicente Calderon, that I was deeply moved simply by being witness to the power of a man to move a people by doing something that he loved— playing and teaching others to play football. I had remarked earlier this month to someone that complexity is a beautiful thing. There was neither any complexity about the love that those in the stadium felt for Aragones, nor about the football he played and taught others to play. Both were simple and uncomplicated. And despite it, or more likely because of it, it was one of the most touching and beautiful moments I have seen. Of a simple love expressing itself in a simple chant: ‘Luis A-ra-go-nes,’

Hasta siempre Luis. Hasta siempre fútbol.

]]> http://www.criticaltwenties.in/sport/hasta-siempre-luis-aragones/feed 0 http://www.criticaltwenties.in/lawthejudiciary/using-question-with-the-wolf-or-enforcing-accountability-from-the-bcci-with-the-law http://www.criticaltwenties.in/lawthejudiciary/using-question-with-the-wolf-or-enforcing-accountability-from-the-bcci-with-the-law#comments Sun, 02 Jun 2013 13:42:50 +0000 Alok http://www.criticaltwenties.in/?p=5416 [Based on a twitter conversation which I shamelessly butted in into, on @sidvee's suggestion I'm putting down a few thoughts on the recent BCCI-IPL-SpotFixing fracas.]

Cricket, the Board for Cricket Control in India and cricket fans are in a strange relationship triangle . I suppose love is definitely involved, but I won’t go so far as to call it a love triangle!

The BCCI is the (sole) guardian of cricket’s interests in India. BCCI organizes the cricket, selects the players, creates a fixture list and organizes games across the breadth of the country.

Cricket is many things to many fans. An escape, a drug, a love affair that has its ups and downs but never dies, a comforting presence, a memory of ages past, a thing of nationalistic pride, a source of entertainment and fun, or just a sport to be followed with fellow sports fans and create a community of like minded individuals.

Whatever their respective relationships to cricket, the BCCI and the fans have never enjoyed the best of relationships. To the fans, the BCCI is the bumbling, corrupt and incompetent monolith incapable of thinking about anything but money. To the BCCI, the fans are a fickle and dangerous mob who are like a bunch of petulant children constantly in need of amusement and mollification. Yet, the BCCI needs the fans. Cricket in India survives because of the passion of the fans.

And the fans need the BCCI. Where India is in the cricket world was not foreordained simply because of the opened up economy and the demographic dividend. The BCCI has done the hard work of spreading cricket to the smaller centres, created the wealth and infrastructure,  and stood up for India’s rightful position as the most important country in world cricket.

How should fans therefore relate to the BCCI and vice versa?

It is here that we find the problem of accountability.

Accountability, a word more often used in the context of businesses and the State within a specific framework of laws, poses problems when used in the context of a privately run and managed sports body and the fans of that sport who are not members of the sports body. Unlike with governments, cricket fans can’t vote the BCCI leadership out. Unlike with public companies, cricket fans can’t force the company to act as a a majority of shareholders want it to. Unlike with businesses we can’t just take our custom across the road because cricket is not a fungible commodity (whatever the economists among you may think!).

The only option left to the cricket fan therefore is perhaps the Courts.

That path seemed closed by the judgment of the Supreme Court of India in Zee Telefilms v Union of India, a case that spawned the Indian Cricket League and indirectly, the Indian Premier League as well. The long and short of it is that Zee Telefilms which lost the bid to broadcast cricket in India to ESPN Star Sport challenged BCCI’s decision to cancel Zee Telefilm’s bid in the Supreme Court of India under Article 32 of the Constitution on the basis that BCCI’s decision was unconstitutional. This required a two step argument – 1) to show that BCCI was “state” as defined in Article 12 of the Constitution and 2) since it was “State” it was bound by the equality clause of Article 14 of the Constitution of India which has also been interpreted by the Courts to include a duty not to make arbitrary decisions. In a narrow 3-2 ruling the Supreme Court of India threw out Zee Telefilm’s case on the ground that BCCI was not “State” for the purposes of the Constitution. The majority ruled that since the BCCI was not government run, funded or controlled, or perform any governmental functions, it could not be State whereas the minority judgment analyzed the BCCI’s functions and found that it was in fact “State”.

The majority judgment is of course right. It had no choice but to apply a 7 judge Bench decision of the Supreme Court of India in Pradeep Kumar Biswas v Indian Institute of Chemical Biology which laid down the test to determine whether a given body is “State” or not for the purposes of Article 12. Broadly, the test the Supreme Court laid down in Pradeep Kumar Biswas relates to whether or not the body in question is created by a law (as opposed to created under a law), has law making powers itself and is performing functions that would otherwise be performed by the Government. The majority, on applying this test to the BCCI, found that it did not meet that test and therefore held that it was not “State” under Article 12 and Zee could therefore not approach the Supreme Court directly to seek enforcement of fundamental rights against the BCCI.

Yet, the door was not shut entirely against litigants aggrieved by the BCCI’s actions. A crucial passage in the majority judgment goes on to state,

 Be that as it may, it cannot be denied that the Board does discharge some duties like the selection of an Indian cricket team, controlling the activities of the players and others involved in the game of cricket. These activities can be said to be akin to public duties or State functions and if there is any violation of any constitutional or statutory obligation or rights of other citizens, the aggrieved party may not have a relief by way of a petition under Article 32. But that does not mean that the violator of such right would go scot-free merely because it or he is not a State. Under the Indian jurisprudence there is always a just remedy for violation of a right of a citizen. Though the remedy under Article 32 is not available, an aggrieved party can always seek a remedy under the ordinary course of law or by way of a writ petition under Article 226 of the Constitution which is much wider than Article 32. (emphasis mine)

The implication is that anyone aggrieved with the BCCI can still approach the High Courts seeking relief under Article 226 for the violation of any legal right. It does not even need to be a fundamental right protected by the Constitution. Under Article 226, the powers of the High Court to give relief suitable to the facts of the case are much wider than the Supreme Court of India under Article 32.

As I’ve written before, this little door of opportunity was seized upon by the Kerala High Court to begin criminal proceedings under the Prevention of Corruption Act, 1986 against officials of the Kerala Cricket Association for misuse of funds. The Supreme Court upheld this order relying precisely upon the above passage from Zee Telefilms.

The Supreme Court hasn’t yet categorically held that the BCCI is an “authority” for the purposes of Article 226. Yet, the Supreme Court has acknowledged that some of the functions carried on by the BCCI would mean that it could be treated as an “authority” for the purposes of Article 226 of the Constitution.

Theoretically, therefore, there is no bar preventing an aggrieved fan approaching the Constitutional Courts of India against the BCCI.The problem however is showing what legal right has been violated by the BCCI’s actions.  Obviously for regular civil disputes relating to contract, property, et al the civil courts can always be approached. For tax and competition law cases, the appropriate regulators have all been actively at the heels of the BCCI.  The difficulty is in showing how the average cricket fan of the country has a legal right to demand that the BCCI be run along certain lines.

One possible route to enforcing accountability is the Right to Information Act which can be applied to all “public authorities”. However, “public authorities” defined under Section 2(h) are only those bodies created by the Constitution, Central or State Laws or substantially controlled, funded and financed by the State or Central Government. The BCCI and respective state associations (except the Services Sports Control Board and the Railways Sports Promotion Board) clearly do not fall under these definitions. Only an amendment to the RTI Act, which brings sports associations which select national teams for that sport, irrespective of how such associations are constituted can bring the BCCI under this Act.

Of all the various “stakeholders” that the BCCI repeatedly harps about, the average cricket fan enjoying the game, either at the stadium or elsewhere is the one who has the least power in her dealings with the BCCI. Advertisers  and sponsors have the power to withdraw their sponsorship. The various constituent associations of the BCCI have the all important vote, and indirectly their members as well. Players, at least those on the State teams and the national enjoy the protections of a contract and a professional relationship with the Board. Perhaps more could be done to empower them, but surely they are nowhere near as voiceless as the ordinary fan.

In the darkest moments of despair, I wonder if all the talk about accountability is laughably silly when it comes to cricket and the BCCI. After all, to borrow a popular Marx-phorism, is the pusher “accountable” to the junkie? If the weed is good, if the highs are accessible and available, what does the junkie care beyond that and as long as the money pours in, and as long as the the law stays away, what does the pusher care? So sometimes there are turf wars, new druglords come and old ones fade away, as long as the goods are being delivered, what do the junkies care?

But I know I’m being unfair to the fan. The fan doesn’t need a metaphorical hit to get through the day. Junkies don’t spend hours debating the  relative merits of drugs or the technical excellence in the manufacture or worry about the future of the drug for that matter. To be sure there will always be the casual fan who’ll switch off and shift to something else occupy the time. But the cricket fan, the one on whose back the BCCI struts the world scene, dictates terms to Governments and poses itself as the envy of the cricket world cares, and cares deeply about the cricket.

Is it too much to expect the BCCI to acknowledge that fact once in a while at least?

]]> http://www.criticaltwenties.in/lawthejudiciary/using-question-with-the-wolf-or-enforcing-accountability-from-the-bcci-with-the-law/feed 3 http://www.criticaltwenties.in/sport/alastair-cook-an-appreciation http://www.criticaltwenties.in/sport/alastair-cook-an-appreciation#comments Thu, 06 Dec 2012 20:58:29 +0000 Suhrith http://www.criticaltwenties.in/?p=5150 Watching Alastair Cook bat can be tiresome and fun in equal measure. Tiresome because his modus operandi—usually—is to wear the bowlers down, and pick them off when they err, in a punctilious, efficient manner rather than with any flash or bluster. Fun because his batting is a personification of control and balance, a lesson in tranquility and thoroughness. He hardly ever hits a ball in anger, except perhaps when he’s cutting behind point, yet at the end of the day the score next to his name represents a colossus. There is nothing lumbering about his batting, bar a jerky back-lift, but neither is there a standout stroke—no shot that screams out at you for its elegance or for its bravado. On Thursday, he was steadfast, as he has been for much of the last 18 months, coolly skipping past such giants of the game, Boycott, Cowdrey, his own teammate Pietersen and, most notably, the mythical Wally Hammond in cracking his twenty third test century, and becoming the youngest, at 27, to scale 7000 Test runs.

Gideon Haigh in writing recently about Jacques Kallis made reference to Amarillo Slim’s advice to players of Texas Hold’ Em: “play fast in a slow game, slow in a fast game”. As is the case with Kallis, Cook’s career strikerate has never crossed 50 once, constantly hovering around the 48 mark, at which it presently finds itself. There are sessions of play when Cook’s batting can seem dour and obstinate, but to accuse it of lacking inspiration would be tantamount to questioning the very pursuit of excellence.

Cook’s 136 (not-out at the time of writing) in the ongoing Eden Gardens Test was once more a statement of purpose and industry, an outstanding example of batsmanship. The pitch admittedly looked placid, but when you consider that India had floundered its way to a relatively meager 316, Cook’s innings stands out even more as a pillar of majesty. Coming as it did on the back of hundreds in consecutive test matches (a fighting effort in vain in Ahmadabad and a match-winning display in Mumbai) there was a feeling of inevitability about this innings—as though it had been foreordained almost. But it was none the poorer for that.

When he’s at his best, Cook’s footwork is a real treat to watch. Not from an aesthetic standpoint, as it can be with, say, Michael Clarke, but through a measure of its effectiveness. It’s staggering, for instance, as Sanjay Manjrekar pointed out in commentary, how deep Cook can go into the crease when playing strokes square of the wicket. There is a minimalism about his footwork, but he is rarely found wanting because of it. He doesn’t plunk his front foot forward nor does he remain utterly still. The only quirk is in his hands, when he lifts his bat backwards in a jerk, but for the most part his batting is a perfect riposte to the ball that is bowled. And the tempo of his batting means that you can zone in and out of the Test, as he moves along like a serene stream.

But every now and then Cook will shock you. Sport, as with any other form of art, is at its best when it catches you by surprise. And what I’ll remember most from his century on Thursday was a six that he hit off Ashwin shortly after lunch—a little hop down the pitch was followed by a wonderfully clean and straight hit that cleared the boundary with ease. It struck the eye at the time, and it continues to resonate even now.

But let’s first consider Edward Cowan, shall we? A player, who not too long ago looked destined to miss the boat, and who having finally made it looked ill-suited to the form’s rigours—he certainly showed that he could bat time, but as his average of just under 30 over seven Tests showed, he had struggled to make the runs needed to solidify his place in the team. Cowan even wrote—and spoke—eloquently about the travails of the sport, the aspects that make it both implausibly hard and intensely exhilarating. His book, In the Firing Line, written in the form of a diary, is a similarly excellent read that lays bare the difficulties of a first class cricketer with remarkable honesty. Cowan’s story is both interesting and inspiring largely because he is, as Jarrod Kimber wrote in this piece, like you, me, and the other guy: an ordinary bloke.

Taking strike against Dale Steyn, the world’s best fast bowler, and the rest of his outstanding cohorts, at the Gabba must have surely been a surreal moment even for Cowan, but he came through the examination with a sense of quiet assurance and a Test match century. It wasn’t a pretty innings—Cowan’s ungainly back lift is a particular sore on the eyes—but it was one that was planned to perfection. For much of the early parts of his knock, which began shortly after tea on the third day, Cowan compelled himself to refrain from the front-foot drive, and left balls outside the off stump with wonderful precision. Anything short, however, was smoothly pulled, mostly in front of square. The result: he got a good measure of the pitch even as the scoreboard ticked along at a fair clip. The early part of his innings was even more notable when you consider that his first three partners were removed before the team’s score had crossed 40. David Warner edged a beauty from Steyn to the slips; debutant Rob Quiney hooked one to fine leg off Morkel; and Ponting was once again done in by the vulnerabilities that have increasingly plagued him in the beginning of an innings. Cowan, though, was composed, confident and polished. He began the fourth day on 49 together with a well-set Michael Clarke, and with the South Africans uncharacteristically erring in line, he unveiled a greater array of strokes, particularly a sleek cover drive, which he used to put away any ball verging on the over-pitched. And finally when he reached his first Test century, just after lunch, with a sweet pull off Philander, he celebrated with joy and dignity, a hop and a leap, followed by a little look upwards at the sky, thanking his mentor, Peter Roebuck, who had died on the same day, last year (the moment is captured splendidly by Kimber in a piece for Cricinfo).

Every moment of Cowan’s fledgling international career has been a rigorous examination, a test if you will. It is a tribute to his supreme mental skills that he has come through these initial trials with a century of the highest class against the world’s best bowling attack. But most importantly, it serves as another indicator of the beauty of Test cricket—Cowan’s journey from adequate first class batsman to a Test match centurion has been nothing short of alluring even if one caught up with it only upon his breaking into the Australian team.

I am reminded here of what Simon Barnes of The Times once wrote: “A one-day game is a mere short story, a Test series is a roman-fleuve, a series of novels that unwinds over the course of a season.” Eddie Cowan is only eight Tests into his career, but just his story alone—if one were to consider it complete today—feels like a roman-flueve—the narrative built brick by brick, with ebbs and flows, changes in pace and rhythm, beginning brightly, going through a period of attrition, and ending on a romantic high. No sport can offer a story of this ilk, which is why its distressing to see some of the figures that the brilliant Gideon Haigh offers in this post.

By Haigh’s account (aided by statistician Ric Finlay) there was an average of 44 Tests a year between 1995 and 2011 including 55 in 2001 and 54 in 2002, but so far in 2012, even though we are almost half way into November, there have only been 29. The blame, Haigh says, lies with the burgeoning popularity of T-20 internationals and the various other T-20 leagues including the Indian Premier League and Australia’s Big Bash. Test match cricket, the most beautiful form of sport, is dwindling at a rate of knots. The solutions are sadly not immediately apparent. The ICC’s idea of a Test championship featuring playoffs between the top four ranked teams is a good one even if not flawless (as Haigh points out), but the real problem lies elsewhere—there is no space, I feel, for three forms of the same game. The perniciousness of T-20s notwithstanding, what’s clear is that it’s a form that’s going nowhere in the immediate future. One wouldn’t be ill-advised in saying that the 50-over game should be the one to suffer, but considering the popularity of the form’s World Cup, I suspect it isn’t going anywhere either. All of this leaves Test cricket on a slippery slope—cherish it while you can, as Haigh says, but also hope that someone smart can find the magic potion.

After his victory over Federer in the men’s singles final, Andy Murray evaded John McEnroe’s question on whether he’d trade his gold medal for a grand slam triumph with as much deftness as he showed with the placement on his backhands on Sunday. He said something on these lines: “Now that I have this, I’d like to win the U.S. Open.” I am not suggesting here that Murray doesn’t value his gold medal. He was ecstatic with his performance in the final; the win clearly meant a lot to him—tears of despair from three weeks ago at Wimbledon were transformed into tears of joy. The emotions were real and Murray along with hordes of British fans will treasure this victory in the years to come.

An argument may even be made that though tennis made a return to the Olympics only in 1984 after a 60-year gap, with the top players now taking the event seriously it could become a genuine marquee event at the Games, but come Rio when the sport is back on the clay courts, I doubt it will generate as much interest as this past week at London did. Tennis needs not the occasion of an Olympics to generate interest, but a venue of importance. The Games on the other hand will retain significance regardless of which city is chosen as its host.

Yet, Murray’s victory is seminal not merely because a triumph in the sport’s most famous arena will add sheen to his achievements, but because it could set him on the path to carve out a legacy that he endeavours to create. Just as his victory in the Davis Cup Final in 2010 set Novak Djokovic onto one of tennis’ most remarkable winning streaks, Murray’s performance at the London Games could set the platform for greater success. For Murray it has never been a case of a lack of talent—before his Wimbledon final this year against Federer he held a winning head-to-head record against the Swiss. Yet he came a cropper every time he played Federer in a grand slam contest. At the Wimbledon final a few weeks back, he started the match with a bang, yet faded like a withering flower. Here, however, he was imperious, earning his first victory in a best of five sets match against Federer. The pressure of the occasion was unequivocal, but Murray stood steadfast; he swarmed Federer’s backhand wing with a focus that never wavered. He moved with exquisite precision and pummeled his groundstrokes with remarkable accuracy, angle and pace. When he’s at his best, Murray’s movement is peerless—none of the others in the top four possess the nous that he displays in covering the rectangle. But, apart from serving as a magnificent display of his talents, more importantly Murray, perhaps, proved to himself that he is capable of beating the best players on the big occasions (even though this was merely an illusory big occasion). After his heartbreaking defeat to Djokovic at the Australian Open semifinal earlier this year—a match in which he came close to toppling the Serb—I wondered, “If the rivalry at the top of men’s tennis could become even more implausibly grand.” I think now we may well be heralding a new era, one in which Murray will go into the latter stages of a grand slam as a genuine, unmistakable threat.

Basketball was always a big deal in the Olympics, but in 1992 the landscape of the sport at this mega event changed forever. The sport has come a long way since then. But, it is likely that basketball, as we have known it in the Olympics since Barcelona ‘92, may never be the same after London ‘12. Things exploded in ‘92 because for the first time ever, NBA players were allowed to participate, and since then, they have taken the event by storm. However, the next Olympics will most likely see an age limit of 23 imposed, similar to that in football. This move is aimed at turning the attention of the world from Olympics basketball to a World Cup of basketball instead. The US has always been a favourite regardless of rules, but will likely be a lesser force once the rule change is implemented. More important than that, without the NBA superstars, they will certainly be less of a spectacle. This makes this edition all the more special. One last chance for the American superstars to dazzle the world; One last chance for the rest of the world to take a crack at the inventors of the game.

Fans of the NBA will be treated to a slightly different version of the sport when they tune in to the matches during London ‘12. To begin with, there are several rule differences. NBA quarters are 12 minutes long, but FIBA likes them at 10 minutes. There are far fewer timeouts and breaks, hence matches get by quicker. The three point line is closer to the ring in FIBA rules than in the NBA, hence long NBA two pointers will count for extra here. Goaltending rules are relaxed in FIBA, and although the sizes and shapes of the Ds are the same now, they were not so until recently. There are a few other minor changes as well, but the biggest difference will be seen in the style of play. NBA has a style that is heavily coach and playbook oriented, but FIBA will have a more free flowing fast paced style. Those used to outstanding individual athleticism and excellence are likely to be disappointed, but those who appreciate team work and a clash of distinct styles of basketball from all over the world are going to be in for a treat. Lot lesser dunks, lot more three pointers.

Twelve teams qualified via various routes and will be split into two groups. Group A consists of powerhouse USA, South American giants Argentina, dark horses France, Lithuania, Tunisia and surprising qualifier Nigeria. Group B consists of Beijing runner up and European champion Spain, Brazil, former giant Russia, Asian top dog China, Australia and hosts Great Britain. Each team plays the other in their group, following which the top 4 teams from each group advance to the quarterfinals, after which a straight knockout is used to crown the winner.

The United States of America is the undoubted favourite to retain their gold medal from 2008. With a team stacked with NBA superstars such as Kobe Bryant, LeBron James, Kevin Durant et al, this is the team that will get people to fill up the stadium, this is the team that will beat most teams comfortably and in style, and this is the team that will be talked about most. There has been a lot of talk about comparing this team to the Dream Team of 1992 with a lot of jabs being exchanged between the current players and the former ones. Comparison of teams across history is always a tricky affair, but this US team is capable of destruction. They are a little short on size with far lesser centers than they would like, but the team is filled with guards and forwards, and those of the best available quality. The US typically likes to outpower and outrun opponent teams to maximise their advantage, and teams normally have trouble keeping up with it. Their only seeming weakness is their lack of big guys. If the likes of Spain and Brazil make use of their skilled centres they will have a significant advantage while matching up to the US. Coach Mike Krzyzewiski acknowledges this weakness and intends to create mismatches of using speedy guys who can stretch the floor against slower big guys.

Spain, silver medalists of 2008, are the favourites in the race for teams that can possibly challenge the US. Spain played out an excellent and mostly tightly contested final in Beijing before losing out in the final minutes. In many senses, Spain is the antidote to the US. They play a great team game, and have an excellent selection of individual players who know this is the last chance for their ‘golden generation’ to capture gold. Led by Spain’s flag bearer Pau Gasol, who plays alongside Bryant for the LA Lakers in the NBA, Spain’s squad has a great combination of veterans and youth. Juan Carlos Navarro of Barcelona will be the team’s main weapon along with Rudy Fernandez, who recently moved from Denver Nuggets of the NBA to Real Madrid, will also be an important player in Spain’s plans. Point guard phenom, Ricky Rubio, will miss the games due to an injury and will have his starting spot taken by Jose Calderon. Naturalized citizen, Serge Ibaka, will provide much needed physical presence for blocking shots. Marc Gasol, brother of Pau, who plays for the Memphis Grizzlies in the NBA will be a useful player to form an excellent 3 man rotation for the 2 big man spots. Local based Sergio Llull, Sergio Rodriguez, San Emeterio and Reyes round up a fairly solid bench to form a squad, that on its best day, can defeat the US in a one off game.

Apart from the US and Spain, who are widely tipped to finish 1 and 2; France, Argentina, and Brazil are the other big teams to watch out for. France will be lead by NBA Star Tony Parker of the San Antonio Spurs. Although they are without big man Joakim Noah, who is out with injury, they have a fairly formidable team and are dark horses in this tournament. Nicholas Batum, of the Portland Trail Blazers is likely to be their main scorer, and one to watch out for in this French team. Brazil, is another team stocked with talented big guys. NBA players Nene, Varejao and Splitter form another formidable rotation, similar to that mentioned earlier of Spain. On the guards front, they have veteran Leandro Barbosa who plays for the Indiana Pacers and quick point guard Marcelinho Huertas of Barcelona, who set the stage alight in the 2010 World Championships. Argentina will also look to capitalize on what may be the last chance for their own ‘golden generation’ to achieve something after their brilliant run in 2004 Athens, which ended in a gold medal. Led by NBA Star Manu Ginobili of the San Antonio Spurs, the team has veterans stamped all over it. Luis Scola is an NBA journeyman and a really skilled big guy, who will be accompanied by other regulars like Pablo Prigioni, who is moving to the NY Knicks of the NBA after a good lengthy career in Spain. Andres Nocioni, who made the opposite move from the NBA to Spain, is also a handy swingman to have along with impressive substitute Carlos Delfino of the Milwaukee Bucks.

Australia are without star big man Andrew Bogut, but are led by Patrick Mills. The word from down under is that this is one of their best teams they have sent to official competitions. Lithuania is another unknown from Eastern Europe, with occasional popular names such as Linas Kleiza and Martynas Pocius. Russia, with veteran swingman Andrei Kirelenko, will be another unpredictable team. As good as China, Tunisia, Nigeria and hosts Great Britian are, they have not much going for them in terms of potential or repute, and as much as they would like to prove critics wrong, they can be looked at as nations that are there to make up the numbers.

The tournament starts on 29th of July and goes on till 12th of August. If you are new to the sport, there is no better introduction than the Olympics. If you are a seasoned fan of the game, this is the event you look forward to, to see the clash of styles that are so desperately missing in the well televised and popular NBA. Will the USA walk away with the gold medal again? Will it be the last time that we see superstars per se, gracing the courts during the games? All these questions will be answered in the next couple of weeks, and basketball fans across the world can’t wait for it.

[The cover image was originally posted to Flickr.com, was uploaded to Commons using Flickr upload bot on 22:57, 1 September 2008 (UTC) by Ytoyoda (talk) and licensed under the Creative Commons Attribution-Share Alike 2.0 Generic license]

It was tennis at its most beautiful. It was also tennis that ultimately proved beyond Murray’s reach. As hard as he tried—and he did give it the old college try—he came short; but he didn’t as much as fail as Federer prevailed. “I think I played some of my best tennis the past couple of matches,” said Federer,” after the final. Now, if that’s the best tennis that Federer has ever played, then it’s likely the best that anyone has ever played—a sort of tennis nirvana.

For over two years we wondered if Federer can regain his old aura, his old magic—in truth, he had never lost it; he was merely sharpening his game, altering his tactics, and searching for a way to overcome the new challenges. At the French Open in 2010, playing as defending champion, Federer was overpowered by Robin Soderling in 4 sets; and weeks later, against another powerful striker of the ball, Tomas Berdych, another quarterfinal exit ensued, this time on the hallowed grass at Wimbledon. This, we felt, was the beginning of the end. Having made 23 consecutive grand slam semifinals, Federer had now lost in the quarterfinals two grand slams in a row. How could he?

When I watched him through this period, I often wondered what he was doing wrong; maybe Federer himself wondered as much. There was nothing palpably amiss with his game, if his movement had gotten a little less precise, or if he wasn’t as quick as he once was, it certainly wasn’t apparent to the naked eye. But Federer knew he had to reinvent his game—maybe tactically he wasn’t doing what was necessary to overcome the era’s trials. To understand the magnitude of his achievement this past Sunday, we must consider all that has transpired between his defeat to Berdych at Wimbledon till now. The evolution was subtle but definite.

The first thing Federer did to set himself back on the road towards the top was to hire Pete Sampras’ former coach, Paul Annacone. This, considering that he had played for years without a coach, was a clear indication that he recognized the need for reinvention. The speculation was that Annacone—a serve and volleyer during his playing career—would urge Federer to play an even more attacking game, a game that would see him charge forward, and maybe borrow a trick or two from the Sampras manual. But this was conjecture emanating from a romantic—and mistaken—notion. In this power-baseline era, coming up to the net, even behind a heavy serve, could be tantamount to committing suicide. Instead, Federer worked on other aspects of the game, particularly his single-handed backhand, perhaps, the weakest stroke in his gloriously rich repertoire. It’s quite possible that his movement had suffered in recent years, that he wasn’t able to glide across the court as efficiently as he once could, and as a result that he couldn’t run outside the ball to convert enough backhands into forehands, with his usual transcendent elegance.

Victories at the Stockholm Open and the Swiss Indoors followed soon after Annacone was hired, and Federer, it seemed, was returning to his best. At the U.S. Open in 2010, right up until his semifinal meeting against Djokovic, Federer had looked sublime—he had thrashed Soderling, for instance, in three easy, straight sets in the quarterfinals. The semi, though, was the making of the new-Djokovic. Federer played beautifully for much of the match, but with his serve letting him down in some crucial moments, and with Novak playing out of his skin, he ultimately came a cropper. Some analysts said his decline was fast turning from gradual to terminal. But just weeks later, Federer was majestic again—he dismissed Djokovic (who may have admittedly had the Davis Cup Final in his mind) 6-1, 6-4 in the semifinal before beating Nadal in 3 sets (6-1 in the decider).

The year turned, but Federer, it seemed, was still in decline. In Melbourne, he again ran into Djokovic, who had hit serious heights, and was in the middle of one of the hottest winning streaks the game has ever seen. He was returning serve, perhaps, better than anyone ever had; and his ability to turn defense into attack was boggling the mind. But in the French Open semifinal, a few months later, it was Federer’s turn to be inspired. Barring a poor third set, the Swiss was supremely clinical—his court coverage on the day against a rampant Djokovic was as close to perfection as you could hope to see. He was able to more than hold his own on the backhand-to-backhand crosscourt rallies, and maybe whatever he was working on was finally coming to fruition; the resurgence we thought had commenced. But regardless of his form, and any perceived resurrection, he wasn’t going to beat Nadal on the Parisian clay. At Wimbledon, Federer found himself a new problem. He had never lost after winning the first two sets of a grand slam match, but that’s exactly what he did against Jo Wilfred Tsonga in the quarterfinal. Maybe the decline was more a product of mental frailties—the Federer of the old would have dismissed Tsonga, we all opined. It almost seemed as though Federer was being too casual—we criticized the same demeanor that we would have hailed as a sign of his effortlessness had he been victorious.

So off he went to New York. Again, there was nothing conceivably wrong with his game: he sailed through the early matches, including a majestic rout of Juan Monaco in the fourth round in which he lost only 3 games. The loss to Tsonga at Wimbledon was avenged in the quarters, with remarkable ease. “We’ve heard about signs of Roger Federer’s descent from the mountaintop,” wrote Steve Tignor of Tennis.com. “Was this win, with all of its old-fashioned easygoing excellence, a sign of ascent?” It certainly seemed so for large parts of his semifinal against Djokovic—in the first two sets, Federer was at his fluid best; he was covering the court with a supreme sense of authority, and the ball was flying off his racket, particularly off the forehand wing. Djokovic, though fought back, winning sets 3 and 4, but found himself down two match points in the fifth set—what happened next has been all too well documented to have to recount here, but again Federer had come up short in spite of playing some exquisite tennis. Maybe his time really was up. Maybe he was no longer capable of summoning his best when it mattered most. Yes he was still winning other tournaments; he was again terrific in the World Tour Finals at London, but what of the grand slams? What of number 17? Will it ever come?

The evidence of early 2012 suggested it wouldn’t. Again, up until the semis in Australia, Federer had looked superb; he played with such silky elegance that I wondered if it mattered at all whether he won another grand slam. This time, he was on Nadal’s side of the draw, and the two produced another memorable match, but Federer had beaten his great rival only twice in nine meetings in grand slams, and he wasn’t going to improve upon it here. Again, I watched closely, to try and identify holes in his game—but there was nothing palpably wrong; he had merely lost to a rival against whom he had a far inferior head-to-head record to begin with. But it was another semifinal defeat, and another sounding of the death knell.

More of the same followed in Paris, but this time, Federer had struggled (relatively) through the early rounds. He had dropped a set each to Ungur, Mahut and Goffin, and came back from two sets to love down against Juan Martin Del Potro in the quarterfinals. So there he was, in another semifinal, against his most recent nemesis, Novak Djokovic. The Serb, though, almost humbled him on this occasion—an easy straight sets victory. This was Federer’s third consecutive loss in the semifinals of a grand slam—for almost no other player would that have been a sign of a crisis. For his part, Federer kept telling us that he was playing well, that he wasn’t far away—and he was right. He was making the latter half of the second week with supreme ease, and there was nothing noticeably wrong in his game; the rub of the green, though, wasn’t going his way. Yet, we felt, it had to be more than just that. He had gone nine grand slams without triumph; his longest streak since he won his first in 2003. He was playing some terrific tennis, but tennis that was ultimately not good enough for him to overcome his greatest challengers.

What was it then that won him the title at Wimbledon? We can point to a lot of factors not least the silken splendor of his forehand, his superb serving and even the brilliance of his volleying, especially in the final (it certainly seemed like he had gone back in time). But more than anything else, it was what was new about Federer that made the difference, viz. the improvements that he had made to his singlehanded backhand. Murray, more than anyone bar Nadal, has exploited Federer’s chief weakness (his backhand wing) to great effect in the past. Before the final, Murray had a winning record against Federer; his ability to pound strokes deep into that corner had often caused Federer much trouble. But on Sunday, Federer was able to outhit Murray from that wing. He not only played a lot of clever slices, but he also powered his backhands crosscourt with remarkable pace and accuracy. All the dazzling brilliance of his former self wouldn’t have been enough to beat Murray on the day. He needed his backhand to click, and it did—it was not merely sufficient, but vital. In combining something eminently new with a transient return to his greatest days, Federer achieved tennis perfection. Wasn’t it beautiful?

‘Sport is human life in microcosm’
—Howard Cosell

Sport and History have a lot in common. What can Lukas Rosol’s upset over Rafael Nadal at Wimbledon reveal about the way history works?

The writing of history and sportswriting might not appear to share too much at first thought. Historians sit in quiet archives, calmly analysing documents revealing past events and dynamics, thoughtfully arranging them into causative and explanatory patterns, trying to answer how things came to be the way they were. History itself moves quickly, but history-writing is a slow process: not only does it take a long time but historians also prefer to wait until events are quite a bit past to analyse them (a guiding element of this project). Sportswriters on the other hand live and work first-hand, either on-site or watching events as they unfold, instantly having to react to the quick-moving, dramatic, competitive world of sports. Explanations and judgements are more proximate, causation more easily revealed by the fact that sport will, unlike history, always produce clear winners and losers. Sport is considered a pretty crude metaphor for historical events, its black-and-white, A vs B, winner and loser simplicity hardly an accurate reflection of history, the infinite shades of grey.

But historians are missing out on sport (and not just because it is thrillingly, exhilaratingly, gloriously, endlessly fascinating, entertaining and exciting: most academics would prefer a nice book). Sport may produce simple contrasts, inherent confrontations, and simple outcomes, but sportswriting and history-writing do mostly the same thing: they try to explain causes (both proximate and long term), examine patterns, build narratives, build up or tear down or analyse iconic heroes and villains, focus on the micro story or pull back to the wider picture, and above all, explain why a certain thing happened instead of all the other possibilities, to tell a story which answers that most human of questions, “why?”.

At Wimbledon last week, Lukas Rosol beat Rafael Nadal in five sets on Centre Court. Rosol is ranked 100, whereas Nadal is ranked 2. Rosol has never won a tournament on the ATP Tour; Nadal has won 50. In nine years as a professional Rosol has never been ranked in the world’s top 60; Nadal has spent nearly seven years ranked either 1 or 2. Before Wimbledon began Rosol had won three matches at Grand Slam tournaments in his whole career; Nadal has won 11 Grand Slam titles. Rosol had never before qualified for the 128-man main draw at Wimbledon before this week; Nadal is a two-time Wimbledon champion, the winner of perhaps the greatest match in The Championships’ history (the 2008 Final).

The two men are from different classes of talent and achievement, different worlds of experience, wealth, and fame. Rosol is not a classy veteran hoping for a last hurrah, not a dangerous dark horse who sometimes springs an upset, not a rising talent who impresses the pundits, not an exciting wunderkind, not even a developing young player (he’s nearly a year older than Nadal). To tennis journalists, the fashioners of the sport’s narratives, he is an invisible extra, without even an entry in the ATP Tour’s media guide of player information, not even worthy of the backhanded compliment ‘journeyman’.  In the cold-hearted terms of professional sports, he is nothing, nobody.

And he was playing Rafael Nadal, sporting legend, at Wimbledon, on Centre Court. When Nadal won the first set, some time-pressed tennis journalist probably switched attention to another court, or headed to the interview room to hunt out a story. The intelligent analysis was that Nobody was not going to trouble Nadal. Rosol seemed blissfully unaware of the script, and hit some great shots, surprisingly going up two sets to one. But Nadal roared back to take the fourth set 6-2. Twilight was giving way to dusk and the players took a break to allow the roof and lights to be turned on for the final set.  All the intelligent analysis predicted Nadal would now win the match, as the intelligent analysis had of course predicted at the start: all the important factors – class, talent, momentum, ability to deal with pressure – favoured Nadal. An entertaining late evening cameo from Nobody, but it was all over. As the players waited for the lights to come on, the sports fan watching on TV might have switched to the Euro 2012 semifinal. The up tight man in Row G might have looked at his watch and said to his wife that maybe now was a good time to beat the rush to the Tube.

Somehow, though, the intelligent analysis was wrong. Rosol didn’t wilt under the Centre Court lights; instead he became utterly possessed. He played the fifth set as if in a trance, thundering 20 winners (5 full games of them) past Nadal. Every time it seemed that he might get nervous, Rosol swiped another winner. By the time Rosol had thundered through the final game with three aces, the word ‘historic’ was filling the mouths and keyboards of tennis journalists. Was this the biggest upset in Wimbledon history? How could something so unusual happen? The shocked analysts agreed that this had no explanation, it defied analysis. Rosol won because…he won. This was a lightning strike, a freak, a black swan.

Black swans are random occurrences, unexplainable and unpredictable.[1] Nassim Taleb has argued that The Black Swan is history’s fatal flaw. Only by looking at history in hindsight, with a Platonic desire for narratives and explanations do historians make events look like they follow patterns with underlying causes. A ‘hotel journalism’ of the  academic archives, a deluded research programme following hindsight bias, retrospective distortion, and group-thinking ‘clusters’ of thinking and source-selection cause historians to ‘reverse engineer’ history into causative narratives when in reality ‘history does not crawl, it jumps’.

This is clear because history hides The Black Swan: the most dramatic, radical, important historical events are those which are totally unpredictable, those which defy historians’ attempts to create explanations. Black Swans are not ‘the exception proving the rule’, or distracting blips in historical progress, or dramatic froth over deeper historical waves, they are central to history, the events shouting out that the Emperor has no clothes. Historians can’t accept that the world is more complicated and random than is explainable: “Nobody knows what’s going on”. Others who believe in history’s explanatory power still see the Black Swan as a flaw in the way historians work: Niall Ferguson has commented that historians too often search for underlying linear explanations of events instead of accepting that their proximate triggers can ‘explain the sudden shift from a good equilibrium to a bad mess’.

There is undoubtedly some truth in this. Far too often hindsight bias does indeed make history look more explainable and predictable than it really is. Historians can reverse engineer an explanation for the French Revolution, or the Holocaust, casting them in a long sweep of narrative and cause, but they were still historically unthinkable events, and Taleb (and Karl Popper) would argue that historicising them denies that unthinkability. Good history, though, is not inherently incapable of dealing with Black Swans: exogenous and endogenous, thinkable and unthinkable, predictable and random, can all be integrated into a match report or a historical argument. But Black Swans will always be a historical problem.

Sport has no problem with Black Swans. Nadal was admirably philosophical in his post-match comments. When asked how he could explain such an incredibly unlikely result. Nadal shrugged: ‘That’s sport. You win, you lose.’ Rosol agreed: ‘It’s sport. Nobody’s unbeaten. Everybody can lose and everybody can win’. Unpredictability helps add to sport’s excitement, its drama. In many ways The Black Swan is the most thrilling of all sporting outcomes, either as an unbelievable upset, or as an outcome which somehow totally defies all narrative. Bill Simmons recently wrote about Larry Bird’s final shot in Game 4 of the 1987 NBA Finals:

‘I would have bet anything that the shot was ripping through the net. I would have bet my baseball card collection. I would have bet my Intellivision. I would have bet my virginity. I would have bet my life. Even the Lakers probably thought it was going in. Watch the tape and you will notice Lakers backup Wes Matthews crouched on the floor and screaming behind Bird in sheer, unadulterated terror like he’s about to watch someone get murdered in a horror movie. You will hear the fans emit some sort of strange, one-of-a-kind shrieking noise, a gasping sound loosely translated as, “Holy shit, we are about to witness the greatest basketball shot ever!” Hell, you can freeze the tape on the frame before the ball strikes the rim. It looks like it’s going in. It should have gone in.

It didn’t go in.

…[After the buzzer] my father looked at me.

“That was supposed to go in,” he groaned. “How did that not go in?”

More than twenty-two years have passed since that night … and I still don’t have an answer for him. For everything else, I have answers.’

For the sports writer such moments are part of the glory of sport, the reason every sportsfan in the world will effectively wear a blindfold and ear plugs to avoid the result of a game if he’s going to watch it later: no one knows what’s going to happen. For a historian looking back on a past event where a historical argument says something should have happened, whatever model or argument upon which that assumption rests is obviously flawed. But that difference between future and past uncertainty is the flaw of The Black Swan: perhaps the randomness of the event means we cannot explain why the ball didn’t go in, but we still want answers. In the historian’s gut, The Black Swan’s most extreme criticism of history – ‘nobody knows what’s going on’ – is as heretical as telling a scientist that an unexplained physical phenomenon is a mystery, or the work of angels: a cop-out which responds to the difficulties of history, the challenges of intellect, by throwing one’s hands up and saying “it is written”, “who knows?”.

People yearn to understand why things happen. “Why?” is the most human of all questions, the question, in many ways, which makes us human: historians are adults following the lead of the child who continues to ask “Why?” to every parental answer, unconvinced by a jaded “because”. While The Black Swan Problem is undoubtedly a challenge for history, the fact that we cannot explain the historically unthinkable in an endogenous model, or explain why Bird missed the shot, or how Rosol beat Nadal, is not evidence of history being a random series of ‘one damn thing after another’. It’s evidence that history, like sports, is cast with people, humans – complex, unpredictable, contradictory. A human history is one which does not see The Black Swan as either the abberation outside the narrative or the randomness which shows that narratives are damaging. A human history delights in the challenge of explaining. When asked to explain his performance, Rosol commented that for all the records and results, “it’s always open. It’s sport. Nobody’s unbeaten. Everybody can lose and everybody can win…We’re just people. We’re just humans.” In sport, in history, just people, just humans.

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[1] Nassim Taleb, The Black Swan: The Impact of the Highly Improbable (New York: 2007).

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[This post originally appeared in "A History of the Present"]

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[The cover picture is licensed under the Creative Commons Attribution-Share Alike 3.0 Unported license and is attributed to  Rl91]