Monday, 16 July 2018

A good tournament capped by a good final

At the start of the FIFA 2018 World Cup, I posted on Facebook that for a month various peoples of at least 32 nations in the world will be united for their country. What ensued in the tournament truly made a case for national unity. Just about every player in every team played their heart out in their country's jersey. How else would you have Russia (the lowest ranked team) in the quarter finals? That South Korea beat defending champs Germany and knocked them out in the first round. 
 
A tournament like this deserve a final to match. And we got it: as the Telegraph succinctly puts it,  "truly, madly, deeply". We will miss this World Cup like no other. The day after Bastille Day France are champions and deservedly so. But only after the most remarkable, crazy and controversial encounter against a courageous Croatia in which there was a VAR storm, and an actual storm in the skies above Moscow, a first-ever own goal in a World Cup Final, a cool strike from a new global superstar, an horrific goalkeeping blunder by the man who lifted the trophy - and a Pussy Riot pitch invasion.
 
To secure its status as the best ever World Cup the tournament needed a memorable final. It got it. What a finale it was to this 31-day festival of football, as Gareth Southgate called it, and it was the highest-scoring final since England beat West Germany 4-2 in 1966. Well, they sang football’s coming home. At least the score was the same and while England and their fans will never stop dreaming of what might have been - just 22 minutes from the final, if anyone needed reminding - France have the 18-carat gold, 14-inch, 11lb trophy for the second time ever and the second time in 20 years.
 

What struck me most was how equal the game has become globally. Yes, all the semi-finalists were Europeans but many players including the winning French team had more than half their players who are immigrants or sons of immigrants. I spoke to a French colleague today and wish her and her country all the best in national integration and healing. Well, one can dream!
 
It also occurred to me that the way to win it has evolved. Possession and passing especially that practiced by Spain won it for them. France was happy to let the opponent keep possession and attempt shots from distance. They defended stoutly and were clinical when they had to strike. Efficient, fast and most of all productive. They make it look easy.
 
Third, it is such a mental game. Many of the upsets were caused not by a lack of skill but because players gave up playing. From the antics of Neymar to the defeatist body language of Messi, teams lost it in their minds before they lost it on the pitch. The most egregious example is Kieran Trippier. He was so devastated by Croatia's late strike, he couldn't play on in the semi-finals when his country was trailing and left them with 10 men with 10 minutes to play. Talk about losing it!
 
Croatia deserves more. They were the tournament's heart. But as M put it, and i parphrase her, the head won

Saturday, 14 July 2018

Luka Modric (& Zvonimir Boban) by Boris Starling

The old man took his cattle up the hill that morning in December 1991, because that’s what he did every day, rain or shine, winter or summer. He took his cattle up the hill that morning, and he never came back. A handful of men in police uniforms arrested him. Whether or not they were legally police officers was moot, and it was also irrelevant: round these parts, power came from the barrel of a gun, not from a piece of paper.
 
The man’s crime was the same crime it always is in places riven by sectarianism: not being one of them. Being the other. Being the enemy. His crime was nothing he’d done: it was who he was. He was Croatian, they were Serbian. That was all there was to it. The men took him and a few others to the nearby village of Jesenice, and there they were executed. The old man left behind a family whom he loved and who loved him: none more so than his six-year-old grandson with whom he shared a name and from whom he had been practically inseparable, the old man doting on the boy, the boy hero-worshipping his grandfather.
 
The name they shared was Luka Modric, and this Sunday that small boy, now 32, will lead his country out in the World Cup Final.
 
Football uses the language of war: strikes, shots, volleys, attacks, defence, bombardment. Modric, like all his countrymen, knows the difference between the real thing and the game: knows too that in Croatia one is always bound up with the other, because between them they are the history of that small, proud nation writ large.
 
After his grandfather was murdered, Luka’s family’s house was burned down, and they had to live in a hotel for years: not an expensive comfortable one, but a basic, crumbling one in their hometown of Zadar. When the mortars fell, as they often did, young Luka would sit inside and wait them out: but when the all clear was given, he’d be off playing football in the hotel car park, sometimes with other kids, sometimes on his own. Anything to escape the grim, numbing reality of living in a perpetual state of conflict.
 
He was a small kid: too small, as it turned out, to be taken on by the local bigwigs Hadjuk Split. He ended up playing aged 18 in the Bosnian-Hercegovinan league for Zrinjski Mostar, which was where both team-mates and opponents discovered two things about this kid: that he had all the skills you could want, and that he could look after himself too.
 
Fast forward 15 years, through a journey that has taken him from Dinamo Zagreb via Tottenham Hotspur to Real Madrid. Even though he still looks like, in the unimprovable words of the Guardian’s Barney Ronay, ‘a little boy dressed as a witch’, he is now one of the best players in the world: a midfielder of fabulous talents, one of the very few who can bend time and space to his will.
And of all those talents, perhaps the greatest is this: that he makes others play better. When the simple pass is the best option, that’s what he plays. When he needs to hold the ball for a few moments so his team-mates can get into better positions, that’s what he does. When he has to cover back after someone else’s mistake, that’s what he does.
 
He’s not one of those superstars whose megawattage draws the eye and the play too, whose own presence inhibits the other ten men wearing the same shirt as him. He’s the ultimate leader precisely because he doesn’t make it all about himself. You won’t find him rolling around as though he’s just stepped on a landmine, or ripping his shirt off when he scores, or standing there looking haunted when things aren’t going his way. He leaves that kind of stuff to Neymar, to Ronaldo, to Messi. They’re all home already. He’s still there, and so are his team. And his team love him. When he missed a penalty late in the match against Denmark, his team-mate Ivan Rakitic gathered the others round. 'Listen,' he said. 'Lukita's got us out of more messes than we can count. It's our turn to repay him.' The Croatians put the miss behind them and won the subsequent shoot-out, with Rakitic slotting the winning kick.
 
But if you want to know what Modric is made of, here it is: only a few minutes after missing that penalty, he'd taken another one in the shoot-out, with the Danish keeper Kaspar Schmiechel in his face trying to put him off. Did he score second time round? Of course he did.
 
It’s hard to understand – no, it’s easy to understand, but hard to properly FEEL – what this Croatian side mean to their country. The most famous image in English football history is that of Bobby Moore lifting the World Cup. The most famous image in Croatian football history, by contrast, is that of Zvonimir Boban taking a flying kick at a riot policeman.
 
It was during a match between Dinamo Zagreb and Red Star Belgrade in 1990, not long after Croatia had effectively voted for secession from Yugoslavia by electing a majority of pro-independence parties to their parliament. Boban saw the policeman mistreating Dinamo supporters during a riot and launched himself head high at the man. ‘Here I was,’ Boban said later, ‘a public face prepared to risk his life, career, and everything that fame could have brought, all because of one ideal, one cause; the Croatian cause.’ Boban was sacked from the Yugoslavia team who went to the World Cup that year. He didn’t care. In his own mind he was Croatian, not Yugoslavian, and eight years later he captained Croatia to third place in their very first World Cup. He was leader of a generation of fabulous players - Slaven Bilic, Robert Prosinecki, Davor Suker - who to this day are revered in their country.
 


 
 
In reaching the final, Modric’s men have already gone one better than their predecessors. It’s fitting that they’re playing France: both sides have played three group matches and three knockouts, with Croatia the stars of the group stage and France the best team in the knockouts. The smart money has to be on France. They are a better team overall, and they have won all their knockout matches in normal time where Croatia have been taken to three consecutive extra times: an additional 90 minutes of football, the equivalent of an entire match more.
 
My head says a French victory, perhaps even an easy one. But my heart says a Croatian win, for the fairytale of the underdogs, for a proud people forged in war, and most of all for their remarkable captain and the old man after whom he was named.
 
 
 
As it turned out, the French won. Modric didn't play all that well in that final match but still well enough to be the best player of the tournament (winning the golden ball trophy) and received a warm hug from his president and many others.

Thursday, 12 July 2018

World Cup 2018: The Tragicomic Opera of Croatia’s Mario Mandzukic bySam Knight


The month long football fever that afflicts Planet Earth once every 4 years is nearly over. This 2018 edition is said to be one of the best, from number of goals scored to the nice surprise of upsets (South Korea vs Germany, Croatia vs Argentina, Belgium vs Brazil are three clear victories that jump to mind). Along with upsets, it is not just favourite teams (Ronaldo's first match impact notwithstanding) but also big players who didn't perform. One big name (Neymar) had more minutes (14) of feigned injuries than moments of brilliance. It is this that leaves a bad taste in the mouth for some sports spectators and also this that makes football the highest in melodrama. The New Yorker article that follows caught my eye.

As surely as the leaves come off the trees in fall, toward the end of any football match that goes to extra time, a player will crumple to the turf with cramp. It normally happens off camera, away from the ball—suddenly he’s sitting there, rooted and unmoveable. It’s cramp! He shrugs, like it’s never happened before, and there’s nothing he can do. Someone runs over to help him up. No dice. Cramp, I’m afraid! And he stays where he is. Everyone knows that cramp is painful as hell, but no one knows whether extra-time cramp is real. The players who seize up are usually on the side that is winning, or at least running the clock down. In the olden days, you used to see players from opposing teams stretching each other out, like gym buddies, and then rising to stagger on, socks rolled down. But that’s gone. Now it’s a shake of the head. Staying down. Cramp, you see.
 
In the second half of extra time in Croatia’s tough, resourceful World Cup semifinal victory over England, the player going down with cramp was Mario Mandžukić, the thirty-two-year-old forward, who plays his club football for Juventus. Mandžukić, like the rest of Croatia’s team, had been crassly overlooked—by the British media, anyway—in the buildup to the match. He has won more club trophies than all the members of the England team combined. But don’t let that get you down. The whole deal with England in this World Cup was that the nation wasn’t getting carried away. The team was young and played without pressure; Gareth Southgate was our normcore manager. But, after the team beat Sweden in a surprisingly competent manner last Saturday, all that went out the window. People started singing spontaneously on trains. Fans rampaged through an ikea. Car horns honked all night. The old blood-thickening hope, the old “Football’s Coming Home” entitlement, came swamping back, and everyone started making plans for the final. Croatia, who?
Mandžukić, in fairness, is the kind of forward who is easy to miss. The game naturally celebrates players who like the ball at their feet, who set rhythms, weave passes, and waltz past opponents. But there are other footballers, who are masters of space—with what is not there—and who are more than equally effective. Mandžukić is one of those. You don’t tend to hear his name much in commentary, until it’s “Mandžukić!” And he’s there, six yards out, hammering the ball toward the goal, normally with a single touch. In April, I watched Mandžukić snaffle two first-half goals, both instinctive headers, in a 3–1 victory for Juventus over Real Madrid in the Champions League. He was the man of the match, and you weren’t even sure he was there.
I watched the semifinal—curled on the floor and wracked with hope—and I swear that Mandžukić didn’t touch the ball until the eighty-third minute. England had led for a little more than an hour, after Kieran Trippier slippered a free kick into the top corner. But, in the second half, Croatia took a grip on the game. Luka Modrić, of Real Madrid, and Ivan Rakitić, of Barcelona—pros to England’s ams—started snapping the ball around. Ivan Perišić, the Internazionale winger, scored a deft equalizer, and then, with no warning, Mandžukić was taking the ball on his chest and thumping it toward Jordan Pickford’s near post.
Mandžukić’s nine-minute, operatic breakdown—a syncopated series of stops, starts, and seizures, which defined the match, and took it away from England—began in the final moments of the first period of extra time. Perišić, who was a menace all night, whipped in a fast low cross from the left and “Mandžukić!” materialized four yards out and made contact. But he and the ball collided with Pickford, who lept out and made a brilliant save. After the collision, the Croatian lay on the ground for some time. When Mandžukić limped off to prepare for the final fifteen minutes of the game, he pulled his shorts halfway down his thighs, as if he might be done for the night.
And then he was down on the grass. Cramp. Sorry! Mandžukić sat on the edge of England’s penalty area. He made the international gesture for “Not my fault.” John Stones, Kyle Walker, and Harry Maguire, England’s back three, stood over him, alternately offering a hand. No good. Cramp, guys. Eventually, Mandžukić got to his feet, somehow. He trotted around for a few minutes. He definitely seemed hurt. He went down again. The same rigmarole. Maybe Mandžukić was in real trouble. Maybe the England defenders, against their better judgment, thought that he was no longer a threat. Because, in the eighteenth minute of extra time, Walker took an ungainly, tired swing at a Croatian cross. The ball popped up. Perišić nodded it vaguely back toward the England goal and, for an instant, Mandžukić had the space that he needed, and had searched for, all night. It wasn’t much. A yard of grass all around. With his left foot, he lashed the ball across Pickford and into the net, and then ran all the way to the Croatia fans and the TV cameras, where everyone got in a tangle and started kissing one another. Time ran out on England after that. Mandžukić went down one final time. With six minutes to go, Zlatko Dalić, the Croatia manager, called him off. The man was done. He limped all the way to the sideline.

Tuesday, 26 June 2018

The Last of the Tiger Parents. By Ryan Park


Friday, 22 June 2018

At the heart of Argentine crisis, Messi. By Jonathan Wilson

The FIFA World Cup throws up drama that only football can. From a corrupt governing body to nobodies who rise to the ocassion and of course stars who don't. This is an insightful piece of writing from The Guardian.
 
He did not cause the defensive collapse against Croatia but the team’s dependence on Lionel Messi makes them predictable and when his country looked to him, he wasn’t there
It was in 1913 that Racing became the first non-Anglo side to win the Argentinian league title. For much of the century that has followed, Argentinian football has defined itself in opposition to the English, distancing itself from its British heritage. And yet, under pressure, in their frenzied desperation on Thursday, Argentina resembled nobody so much as England.

This was shambolic. Too many players tried to do too much themselves. There was altogether too much running, too much frenzy, too many fouls conceded as they desperately tried to regain possession, too little thought. By the end, as Ivan Rakitic casually rolled in a sarcastic third for Croatia, Argentina were gone, any semblance of defensive structure blown to the winds.
Had this been the final group game, the loss of discipline might have been explicable. But it was not. A 1-0 defeat Argentina could, plausibly, have got away with. Even 2-0 was just about rescuable. But now they are looking at probably having to put at least three past Nigeria in their final game, while hoping the other result goes their way. Perhaps Lionel Messi has one last miracle in him, but this would be his greatest yet.
Messi himself was barely involved. He touched the ball only 49 times, and only six times in the final quarter hour. When his country looked to him, he simply wasn’t there. It’s ludicrous, of course, that one player should be under such pressure, that everything should be about him, particularly when it was his display in Ecuador that got Argentina to Russia, particularly in a nation with such a proud football history as Argentina, with so many other great talents in their squad, but it’s increasingly coming to seem that the Messi dependence that has benighted Argentina for so long can be solved in only one way.

Paulo Dybala hit upon the truth in an interview earlier in the year: Messi is simply too good. Dybala said he found him almost impossible to play with because the temptation is always simply to give him the ball. At club levels players adapt; at national level, where there is less time and a greater range of talent in the squad, it is far more difficult. Everything goes through him and that makes Argentina predictable and susceptible to being frustrated by sides that pack the centre.
Jorge Sampaoli had spoken before the tournament of the 2‑3‑3-2 he intended to use, playing Messi behind a centre-forward but with another playmaker in midfield. That – essentially a 4-4-1-1 with a midfield diamond but very attacking full‑backs – was seen only briefly in the Iceland game, after Éver Banega had replaced Lucas Biglia. In the four days since, it disappeared altogether.
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Messi had told Sampaoli at an asado (barbecue) in March that he felt a 3-4-3, such as he played in for Luis Enrique at Barcelona at the end of 2016-17, didn’t work for him because it naturally drew defenders into the inside-right zone he likes to attack. Sampaoli had agreed but against Croatia he returned to that original plan. In the first half, Messi was proved right.
But at least then there was a structure. By the end, there was nothing: just players, a pitch that had become a theatre of torment, and an opposition who, also rather less than the sum of their parts, couldn’t believe their luck.
Hindsight offers hints of the devastation to come. At the anthems, Messi, staring at the ground, kept rubbing his face with his hand. He had not attended a Father’s Day asado at the team camp, staying in his room, fretting. He may still be around in Qatar in four years but he will turn 35 in June 2022. He will not be the same player. If he does, implausibly, achieve success there, it will not be as the greatest player in the world putting the final seal on his legacy but as some gnarled veteran completing one last job and achieving at the very end some redemption for an international career that has been an enormous disappointment. It’s an appealing narrative but not the one he or Argentina wanted.
Just before the second half began, Sampaoli took his place on the bench and looked almost ill, his face grey and sheened with sweat. The sense then was that he knew his side were on the brink. By the end, his jacket was off and he was reduced to waving his heavily tattooed arms in a vague lifting gesture, helpless to check the anarchy unfolding in front of him. For the defensive collapse, Messi is not at fault.
Sampaoli will be held responsible and, assuming the Argentinian Football Association can find the money to pay his compensation, he will almost certainly be dismissed. But the blame goes far deeper and begins far earlier. Sampaoli was the third coach Argentina had used in qualifying. His football, predicated on a high line and a ferocious press, was not a natural fit for Argentina’s fleet of lumbering defenders and he never had the time to find a solution. But ripping up the blueprint he had unveiled only a couple of weeks ago after one game smacked of panic. He is not the first Argentina coach to be chewed up by the chaos that surrounds the job, and he will not be the last.


But he may be the last to lead Messi at a World Cup, and that is the great sadness of their defeat. Messi remains at the absolute summit of the pantheon but he deserved a better farewell from the World Cup than this strange homage to Argentinian football’s English roots.

Tuesday, 19 June 2018

A right mindset


Serendipity. I find that the universe reaches out to me whenever I need it. A kind of cosmic helping hand. Flying off to KL this week, one though occupied my mind. Your well-being. I know you are preparing for your upcoming test and having to cope in person with high achieving relatives. 

That’s how the world flows. I shared with you how I cope. I figured if things happening around me is relevant or not. I only took heed of what is pertinent. That way, the ambient “noise”, even if it is in my face, didn’t faze me. I just concentrated on what’s relevant for me. However, having said that, I felt my perspective was somehow inadequate for you. You are made differently and you care about stuff differently too.

Then serendipity. At the airport bookshop, an old management classic caught my eye. It’s about mindset.

Since the dawn of time, people have thought differently, acted differently, and fared differently from each other. It was guaranteed that someone would ask the question of why people differed, why some people are smarter or more moral – and whether there was something that made them permanently different. Experts lined up on both sides. Some claimed that there was a strong physical basis for these differences, making them unavoidable and unalterable. Through the ages these alleged physical differences have included bumps on the skull (phrenology), the size and shape of the skull (craniology), and, today, genes.

Others pointed to the strong differences in people’s backgrounds, experiences, training, or ways of learning. It may surprise you to know that a big champion of this view was Alfred Binet, the inventor of the IQ test. Wasn’t the IQ test meant to summarize children’s unchangeable intelligence? In fact, no. Binet, a Frenchman working in Paris in the early 20th century, designed this test to identify children who were not profiting from the Paris public schools, so that new educational programs could be designed to get them back on track. Without denying individual differences in children’s intellects, he believed that education and practice could bring about fundamental changes in intelligence. Here is a quote from one of his major books, Modern Ideas About Children, in which he summarizes his work with hundreds of children with learning difficulties: “A few modern philosopher’s assert that an individual's intelligence is a fixed quantity, a quantity which cannot be increased. We must protest and react against this brutal pessimism.... With practice, training, and above all, method, we manage to increase our attention, our memory, our judgment and literally to become more intelligent than we were before.”

Who’s right? Today most experts agree that it’s not either/or. It’s not nature or nurture, genes or environment. From conception on, there’s a constant give and take between the two. In fact, as Gilbert Gottlieb, an eminent neuroscientist put it, not only do genes and environment cooperate as we develop, but genes require input from the environment to work properly.

At the same time, scientists are learning that people have more capacity for life-long learning and brain development than they ever thought. Of course, each person has a unique genetic endowment. People may start with different temperaments and different aptitudes, but it is clear that experience, training, and personal effort take them the rest of the way. Robert Sternberg, the present-day guru of intelligence writes that the major factor in whether people achieve expertise “is not some fixed prior ability, but purposeful engagement.” Or, as his forerunner, Binet, recognized, it’s not always the people who start out the smartest who end up the smartest. 

Believing that your qualities are carved in stone—the fixed mindset—creates an urgency to prove yourself over and over. If you have only a certain amount of intelligence, a certain personality, and a certain moral character, well then you’d better prove that you have a healthy dose of them. It simply wouldn’t do to look or feel deficient in these most basic characteristics…I’ve seen so many people with this one consuming goal of proving themselves—in the classroom, in their careers, and in their relationships. Every situation calls for a confirmation of their intelligence, personality, or character. Every situation is evaluated: Will I succeed or fail? Will I look smart or dumb? Will I be accepted or rejected? Will I feel like a winner or a loser? But doesn’t our society value intelligence, personality and character? Isn’t it normal to want these traits? Yes, but...

There’s another mindset in which these traits are not simply a hand you’re dealt and have to live with, always trying to convince yourself and others that you have a royal flush when you’re secretly worried it’s a pair of tens. In this mindset, the hand you’re dealt is just the starting point for development. This growth mindset is based on the belief that your basic qualities are things you can cultivate through your efforts. Although people may differ in every which way—in their initial talents and aptitudes, interests, or temperaments – everyone can change and grow through application and experience.

Do people with this mindset believe that anyone can be anything, that anyone with proper motivation or education can become Einstein or Beethoven? No, but they believe that a person’s true potential is unknown (and unknowable), that it’s impossible to foresee what can be accomplished with years of passion, toil, and training. Did you know that Darwin and Tolstoy were considered ordinary children? That Ben Hogan, one of the greatest golfers of all time, was completely uncoordinated and graceless as a child? That the photographer Cindy Sherman, who has been on virtually every list of the most important artists of the 20th century, failed her first photography course? That Geraldine Page, one of our greatest actresses, was advised to give it up for lack of talent?

You can see how the belief that cherished qualities can be developed creates a passion for learning. Why waste time proving over and over how great you are, when you could be getting better? Why hide deficiencies instead of overcoming them? Why look for friends or partners who will just shore up your self-esteem instead of ones who will also challenge you to grow? And why seek out the tried and true, instead of experiences that will stretch you? The passion for stretching yourself and sticking to it, even (or especially) when it’s not going well, is the hallmark of the growth mindset. This is the mindset that allows people to thrive during some of the most challenging times in their lives.

I see how hard you are working now. I know that this even stresses you somewhat. I really applaud the effort you are putting in to prepare for the test. As you do so, my wish for you is not so much to keep up your grades, or to prove to your family and friends that you are a good student. Rather, I wish for you to do so because you know and want to develop your knowledge in maths, in chemistry, in economics. A mindset to grow.

Saturday, 16 June 2018

Spain and Portugal Play a Draw for the Ages, Starring a Player for All Time By Rory Smith


All Spain’s fans could do, after it was over, was applaud. There was no sense wallowing in disappointment, worrying about what it all might mean. Spain had victory snatched away at the last moment, denied a cathartic moment by its nearest neighbor, and yet there was no bitterness, no sorrow: only admiration, and awe. Sometimes, it is not the winning, but the taking part.

There surely must have been a better World Cup group game in the past than the compelling draw between Spain and Portugal on Friday. There has to have been one played at a higher standard, one richer in drama and more absorbing. And wherever, and whenever, that game was played, it must have been truly remarkable.

Because topping what occurred on Friday is no simple task. Twice, Portugal led. Twice, Spain recovered, before Nacho Fernández scored the sort of goal that is supposed to be beyond the skill of a stand-in right back. The goal gave Spain the lead for the first time in the match and put Fernando Hierro, the Spanish coach, on course for an immense victory only one game, and two days, into his job. And then Cristiano Ronaldo, yet again, intervened.

If Spain’s preparations for this game have been troubled — firing its previous coach, Julen Lopetegui, on the eve of the tournament for failing to disclose that he was about to take charge at Real Madrid — then Portugal’s have scarcely been better.

Several members of the team, which won the European championship in 2016, are on the verge of rescinding their club contracts, at Lisbon’s Sporting C.P., because of intimidation by fans and a breakdown in their relationship with the club’s president.

On Friday morning, meanwhile, only a few hours before the game, it emerged in Spanish news media reports that Ronaldo himself had agreed to pay the Spanish authorities $21.8 million in unpaid taxes. He has also been given a two-year suspended jail sentence, the papers said. It would be hard to believe that these developments did not faze him as the game approached.

Still, it was Ronaldo who gave Portugal the lead, winning and converting a penalty after just four minutes of play. And it was Ronaldo who restored the lead, his shot squirming under David De Gea, the Spanish goalkeeper, as the first half drew to a close. And it was Ronaldo who, with just a few minutes remaining in the second half, lined up a free kick a little outside the Spanish penalty area with Portugal now trailing, 3-2.

He had taken 44 free kicks in previous World Cups. He had scored on none of them. Still, you know what they say: the 45th time’s a charm.

It is true that Ronaldo, at 33, is not the player he was. He is still perfectly sculpted, of course, a Men’s Health magazine cover made flesh, but the electric pace has fizzled a little; he does not cover quite as much ground (only one player, the Portuguese defender José Fonte, ran less than Ronaldo in a first half in which one of them scored twice).

But it is equally true to say that Ronaldo, even in his twilight, shines brighter than almost any player with whom he comes into contact. He has not so much faded as a player as evolved into something different. It is misleading to suggest that he has transformed into a striker, a penalty- area predator, because he is not really restricted by such mortal concepts as geography.

Instead, he has attained a level of such devastating efficiency that he now does not really require something so mundane as the ball. He does not need to be involved. He looks, often, like he is doing nothing, or something quite close to it — as if he is a mere passenger. It is an illusion. He is always in the cockpit.

Isco, his Real Madrid teammate, was the dominant player on the field here, the one who was most involved, who prompted and probed and prodded, and he was wearing a Spain jersey. Ronaldo has moved beyond needing to dictate games. He concerns himself only with defining them.

His free kick, needless to say, curled artfully, effortlessly, past De Gea and into the corner of Spain’s goal, as Ronaldo — despite all historical evidence to the contrary — must have known it would.

Portugal, which is now best thought of as a nation established in 1128 so that it might one day produce Cristiano Ronaldo, would have its draw. More important, the 2018 World Cup had its spark. The afterglow of a game like this can last for a couple of weeks, at least; on this stage, it can resonate around the world.

Spain would have been forgiven for feeling like a victim. It had been the better team in this game, had more of the ball, created more opportunities, played the slicker, smoother soccer.

It had looked every inch a contender for a World Cup title and nothing like a side still reeling from Lopetegui’s departure, shaken to its core by a dispute between its players and their ultimate bosses at the country’s federation, having to adjust to life under a new coach who, until now, had only managed one second-division team.

That Spain’s players did not let all this deter them on Friday only served to emphasize the scale of Ronaldo’s performance and the overall quality of the match.

And when the final whistle blew, the stadium stood: not just the clusters of Portuguese fans, not just the neutrals and the Russians, but the Spanish fans, too, in those blood-red jerseys. They applauded their own team, of course; there was enough encouragement there to see the bigger picture, to believe that the tumult of the last few days may not be fatal to their hopes.

But when Spain’s players had left the field, and Portugal’s stood in the center circle, the Spanish fans remained standing, and they kept clapping, as every single Portuguese player sought out Ronaldo, to clasp his hand, to ruffle his hair, as though just to touch him was to brush against something holy.

They do not mind that he attracts — demands, really — all of the attention. They do not mind being in the supporting cast, just as those Spanish fans did not mind providing the audience for the three acts of his one-man show. Sometimes, it is a pleasure simply to be there; sometimes, it is a pleasure just to sit back and watch. And at the end, sometimes there is nothing to do but applaud.

■ Here’s how it happened:

Full Time: Spain 3, Ronaldo 3

Ronaldo has produced one of the most remarkable individual performances you could possibly hope to see, and illuminated what will take some beating as the best game of the tournament. Portugal hasn’t been discussed much as a contender for the World Cup, despite being European champion. This may have been an oversight.

Saturday, 24 March 2018

The larger perspective

We are alike, you and I. We have a shared love for music, so much so we have this perpetual soundtrack of our lives in our heads. I shared with you why when artists pass, I mourn them; not because I know them but rather how their songs made me feel. Indeed, when I am happy, their beat drive me higher and when I’m sad, the lyrics soothe me.

Typically, when there is a soundtrack, there is also a screenplay, ie a plot, with a beginning, and then an ending. Sometimes, the ending even has a new beginning: a sequel. The point is there is always something more to play for, to reach a larger goal.

The best movies, the best books, in fact all the best stories are so because there are highs and lows. The lower the lows, the higher the highs, and the better the plot.

You’ve recently had a number of lows. You can let the lows consume you or you can get out of it, learn from it and go seek and achieve a higher high.

Getting out of it requires an ability to step back. Understand what you did wrong. If it was a stupid mistake, own up. If it’s not, comfort yourself that you could not have avoided it in any case. In either case, move on.

Moving on means learning from the episode(s). Some are lessons in judgment, some to do with trying harder, and most are about being more careful.

Seeking the higher high is the sweetest revenge you can inflict on the lows and the forces that cause them.
 


There is so much more to enjoy in your life, M, and I know you are so well set up to make the most of these: your knowledge in particular your understanding of what the problems are, your intuition on who is good and not, your care and support for your team, be it when losing and winning together.

Most of all, there is so much more music to discover, enjoy and even to play. We all write our own screenplay to this soundtrack.

So, darling, every time you are feeling low, go listen to the blues, hear the words, then step back, see the larger perspective and know that your movie is far from over and the lessons will get you higher

Saturday, 10 March 2018

Some things are worth collecting

Montblanc is to pens what Patek Philippe is to watches.
 
Both are masters in making a good product. But what they really know how to manufacture is desire; and then to sell it for a premium. This is the true art of brand management.
 
Make it well. Let everyone want one. But then make it scarce. As it becomes valuable, manage its value. Control all parts of the value chain: from the raw materials to the production to the distribution and even to the after sales service. Never commoditise.

In my case, I like things well made. I want them to last. Beyond me in any case, so others can enjoy things made by people of my time. No doubt, the objects of the future would be different; in fact, it's quite likely that there would be no need for pens and watches then. Indeed as I write this on my keyboard at a computer, both are already obsolete.

Mine may be the last generation to use the pen and the watch because we had to. Now, I do do because I want to. In a way, that's the real statement. To live a life we want to, not the one we had to.

I sometimes feel (and you would have read somewhere in the entries in this blog) that I am a demanding parent/boss/brother. In a way, I made others do what they had to. Then there comes are time when they muster up enough knowledge, and also enough guile to chart their own course. The course they want.

I hope they break free at the right time. I know I did probably around the age of 16-17. J and M are also asserting themselves similarly.

So, one day, my collection shall be theirs. Right now, I am just procuring works that D and I like. May it remind them of what it means to live a life we want.
 
 
(photo credit: a collector from the fountain pen network, so above are not mine but this picture perfect shot is too good to pass up)
 

Thursday, 1 March 2018

Present

J, sometimes stuff happens to remind us of what is important.


Take this gift of a camera: it is more than just a replacement for the one lost in linville gorge. In fact, it's more than just a birthday present; though a 21st birthday ought to be celebrated with a commensurately meaningful gift 😀. It's a testimony of love for a wonderful son from his parents. A visceral reminder that though he is now legally an adult and can do many things independently, there will always be people who will love  him and do what they can to see to his wellbeing and happiness. That is what this gift is. And made all the more poignant because it is meant to help overcome the loss of another gift.


As an adult, J, inevitably you will lose a number of things. But these are mere objects and can be replaced. Often the act of replacement is a joyous one (or can be certainly made into a happy occasion). In this case, the new camera represents the very latest in visual technology and the Sony Alpha cameras are widely regarded to be the benchmark today, not unlike what Leica was in the last century. But what really makes a replacement truly joyful is the people who help make it happen.

Credit: bhphotovideo.com

https://m.dpreview.com/reviews/sony-alpha-7-ii


It is therefore so fitting that this new camera will accompany you on your 21st birthday, on your first spring break. May it capture happy moments to remind you of the love you have created and deserve.


Thursday, 1 February 2018

Making Our Own Histories


“Mother does know where love has gone!”, I paraphrase Tony Hadley as he croons to Gary Kemp’s guitar work on their beautiful ballad Through The Barricades.

 

Spandau Ballet’s Collection is my background music as I fly to London, my third intercontinental flight in as many weeks (having been to New York then Davos the weeks before). Life of an executive with a global responsibility. It’s a role I take seriously as I can make a difference to the success of my team and by extension their clients and by extension the lives of millions of citizens their clients govern over.

 

There is another role that I take seriously. That of being a father.

 

Both J and M are going through perhaps one of the most game-changing periods of their lives. Round about their ages, D & I fell in love and the rest, as the saying goes, is history. One of these days, I will post the messages I left anonymously on her mailbox to get her to like me, without her ever seeing or knowing me.

 

In the matter of love, both of them are figuring out in their own ways the right formula to this BGR thing. Their mom knows best but this is one thing they have to do on their own.

 

On this mid-day flight, the best I can do is to watch movies on board. I picked another Julianne Moore movie. She must be my acting muse for after watching her movies, I feel inspired to write. This time it was not even a serious movie but a bit of a rom-com. Maggie’s Plan is about Maggie who decided not to let Destiny govern her destiny. The plot is about women (young and old) having mastery over their fates.

 
Photo Credit: IMP Awards


M is right now trying to sense what her relationship destiny is. She knows what she wants. Nothing less than a funny guy, a confident one, a sensitive one, a clever one, a successful one, a rich one and one who loves her and one she loves. Reminds me of the joke about the husband supermarket: no woman has ever checked out anything.

 

During a short car ride, I tried to engage her in conversation. I’ve been hoping to do this for a while now. But with her and especially with these things, the moment has to be right. And the right moment is few and far between. So, unless one spends quantity time, it’s hard to get the quality time. In my case, I snatch every second I get. So, in the short ride, I ventured an opinion. One I borrowed from another song. Not Through The Barricades but from The Rose. It’s all about taking chances. A heart that never takes the chance will never learn to dance. Sure, the first dances will not be right. In fact, both D and I didn’t get our first dances to last.

 

J, being a guy, naturally has a different perspective. I haven’t got a chance to talk to him. With him in the US, car rides (short or long) are impossible. He has to figure this on his own. I am not worried because he has taken chances before and hopefully has improved on his dance and know which dance partner matches his rhythm.

 

In my case, my dance partner of a lifetime is truly the woman behind the man. She is more than a loving wife. She is a mother extra ordinaire. She manages their talents. Turns them into assets. She also manages our assets. And grows it, from astute investments especially in real estate. She is real. She is grounded, so grounded she changes light bulbs without getting shocked! While I fly around J

 

No man needs a trophy wife. Though D could be one (she is certainly pretty enough), she is too much of a real human success to be something on a shelf. J will find himself a real partner.

 

And so will M. It may take a few tries but it will happen. It is more than Maggie’s Plan. It will be M’s Plan!

 

Every time I step into her room, I hear music. She sings in the shower. And recently, initiated by Daniel Purnomo and Alexandra Hsieh at the Courtyard @ National Gallery, she even sings in public with that unique (Cai Qin-esque voice of hers). Music is the soundtrack to her life as it has been mine.

 

So as I write this flying at 800kmh, right above Kabul, Afghanistan, halfway on my way to London, at 34000 feet, I too am listening to music. The song playing right now is Pink Floyd’s Another Brick In The Wall. This anthem of post hippie angst raged against big Government. It was kind of my theme until I realized that like it or not government institutions remain key stakeholders in shaping the future. In fact, that’s why I work so hard ensuring they do the right things.

 

Beyond that, the other really important stakeholder are the citizens themselves. I am fortunate to be living in an era of Asia Rising and even more honoured to be able to play a not inconsequential role in its rise. The real story though is about Asians Rising.

 

M wrote a top graded essay about her grandfather who, from a street urchin got saved by a Christian missionary, became an educator (first as a teacher, then and education entrepreneur) and raised a family of kids who all advanced in their stations of life beyond him. It’s about Asians rising. That’s how society progress. Societies progress because we plant trees whose shades we will not sit under. We need to figure out how to really lift (not molly coddle) the human spirit and get them to soar.

 

Back to song that I heard as I started this entry “Father made my history”, Spandau Ballet sang. My father and especially my mother shaped me and consequentially my history. D & I are too shaping our kids in deed and in words so that their histories will be even better than ours.

 

Much still depends on them. The choices are up to them. Their destinies their own.

Wednesday, 24 January 2018

"Can't believe you are at that big shot event"

Verbatim quote from M, as I sent her a picture of me in Davos attending the World Economic Forum. Guess she knows a thing or two about this global gathering of elites. Yes, it's a talkfest. Yes, it can be a bonfire of vanities. But there is no doubt important ideas are being shared... and the delegates I hope are doing as much listening as they are talking and therefore formulating even more holistic solutions to the problems of the world today.


The theme this year is "shaping a common future of our fractured world". Indeed from income inequality, gender disparities, racism, nationalism, there are many fault lines and these have to be addressed.


This entry, though, is not about improving the state of the world. I have written about that elsewhere. This is more about what M so startlingly observed.


Though she knows what job I do, overhears the conference calls I have with my staff, and accompany me on privileged access to institutions like the Rhodes Trust in Oxford, she has yet to calibrate me to this level of world elite a-la Davos.


It gave me pause to reflect on how I got here. For a start, I was here 22 years ago, courtesy of an EDB officer who had to leave early and loaned D and I his apartment and his pass. Security was less tight then and with his pass, I was able to wander into the congress centre and bumped into the Palestinian Yasser Arafat (and was duly frisked by his security guard). In fact in that meeting, Arafat shared the stage with his Israel counterpart Shimon Peres in a session that truly inspired the world. But I was merely a spectator then. I had no part in understanding what happened, let alone making it happen. So, not one of them.

This year I am one of them. In fact there is still no peace between Palestine and Israel. The two leaders are now gone, Peres being tragically assassinated. The world is still fractured. The most exciting person I have met so far is Will.I.Am from Black Eyed Peas! 


But I am hoping to add my voice to those here on finding a solution. How did I get my voice heard so?


When I first moved to Singapore, for my studies back in 1985, the Singapore dream was a materialistic one. Goh Chok Tong called it the 5 C's: cash, card, condo, car and club. Attaining all of these meant one has arrived. The good life, Singapore style.


How did I get here?


Yes, I got the 5 C's. But more importantly, it's what I used to get here. Another 5 C's: competence, communication, confidence, commitment and carpe diem. In fact, if one possesses these 5 C's, any outcome is attainable, including being a big shot.


Competence... result of both god's grace and made real with effort

Communication... one's competence however will not be known if it is not properly communicated, verbally, in writing and in action; and in all it's guises (ranging from persuasion to inspiration to compulsion)

Commitment... what really adds power to the above combination of competence and communication is the ability to deeply commit to seeing something to fruition. It completes the loop and let's everyone know you live up to your word and your potential.

Confidence... the complete loop above produces this magical elixir of success. Nothing is as heady as knowing one can dream it and do it. When infused with this, one can take on anything.

Carpe diem... finally, one can always be helped with a bit of Lady Luck. Sometimes events transpire to place us in a position to show our competence, our communication, our commitment, our confidence. Seize it. Fully. Put all previous C's on display.


That's how I got here. And now you know. My wish is for M who uttered this profound statement to similarly imbibe these 5 C's and fulfill her own dreams.