Stress: Everybody Has a Breaking Point

 (Left: Novak Djokovic tends to a lines judge after hitting her with a ball (photo: Boston Globe); right: Danny Lee spikes his putter into his golf bag after a 6-putt on the 18th green at the US Open at Winged Foot Country Club (photo: Daily Mail).

Two things that I have learned in my work with stress and traumatic stress, is that stress is cumulative and that everybody has a breaking point. So often, stressors accumulate, and unless there is conscious intent to ease their pressure, to de-stress, to let some steam off, you are on a collision course with having some sort of event that will be destructive to your aims, your relationships, your health, your sense of yourself. This summer of our discontent, we watched two elite athletes in two different US Opens have stress-related break downs. While both of these athletes should have known better, and have prevailed multiple times in the cauldron of high-pressure situations, both of them were undone by stress. 

 Take Novak Djokovic in this year’s tennis US Open: in the fourth round, having just had his serve broken by Pablo Carreño Busta to go down 6-5 in the first set, Djokovic, in frustration, hit the ball toward the back of the court, inadvertently hitting a line judge in the neck, for which he was disqualified. This error in judgment is described in the rules as “intentionally hitting a ball with negligent disregard of the consequences.” Such a “rookie mistake” (John McEnroe’s comment) from so seasoned an athlete makes absolutely no sense until you become aware of the context, a context that highlights the particular stresses that Djokovic faced at that time: 

1) He was far and away the tournament favorite, with rivals Nadal and Federer out of the tournament. Former bad boy turned commentator, John McEnroe said, “the only way he could lose the tournament was to beat himself.” It turns out, that’s so easy to do, and it’s actually hard to win a major tournament, especially when it’s supposed to be easy. The stress is amplified. If anything, the proverbial “cakewalk” is a high wire act. 

2) He was in pursuit of history: a 29-match win streak, chasing his 18th grand slam title. 

3) The stress of a global pandemic, with added safety protocols was everywhere augmenting the stress, even his own run-in with covid-19 earlier in the summer. 

4) He is in the midst of trying to create his own men’s tour, directly in opposition to the current one, an inherently awkward position to occupy while playing at one of the ATP’s premier events. If you watch Djokovic’s body posture late in that first set, you can see it all over him: slouching shoulders, frustration, peevishness. Maybe he was wondering why an easy match was suddenly this difficult. Maybe his stress level interfered with preparations for a formidable, albeit lesser, opponent. 

 Take Danny Lee at this year’s golf US Open. Coming to the 18th green on the third round, he was 4 feet away from a par save, a very respectable 73 on the brutalizing Winged Foot, and within the top 40, setting up for an interesting Sunday, more valuable major experience, and a fine result in a major event. He missed the short knee knocker on the low side. Missed the comeback on the high side. And then, he broke down, not taking his time by marking or re-aiming, but playing slap hockey with the ball four more times till it just happened to go in for a six-putt and a 9 on the hole. Shocking. But, it doesn’t end there: heading off the green, he slammed his putter into his golf bag, reinjuring just the wrist that he had been anxiously protecting and forcing him to withdraw. This behavior, more evident of a 10 year-old than an international golf star, has all the makings of a stress break-down: 1) the US Open is a famously grueling test, and that stress is woven into everything that happens that week; 2) Danny Lee was already over 30 putts for the round when he had his six-putt, showing that he was struggling on the greens, and looking for his pain to be over; 3) playing with a physical vulnerability (wrist) is a constant stress; 4) finally, covid precautions and the absence of fans contribute more unfamiliarity that can put added strain on one’s ability to focus, all compiling layers of stress. So, what’s the take-away? Danny Lee’s tantrum, unlike Djokovic’s, didn’t cost him the tournament victory, but it was perhaps more costly: he re-injured his wrist, necessitating some time off, and agreed in his Twitter feed that maybe his stress level had subverted his judgment: “my frustration took over me (sic) and combined with my injury I had to fight for it all week.” But, either way, these events represent the ability of accumulated stress to find a chink in the armor of even the most seasoned veteran. 

 So, what’s to be done? 1) Cope ahead for stress: take inventory of all the stressors you have on board, and any additional ones you might encounter in the event, and make a de-stressing plan that is commensurate with that burden. Add your de-stress plan into everything that you do. 2) Mindfulness to Stress: train yourself to be mindful of the indicators of your stress (i.e. elevated anxiety, irritability, heart rate, angry self-talk, body posture), and when there are many stressors on board, bring greater emphasis to your de-stress plan, and use it more often. And here, the best antidote is the breath. Breathing more deeply will counteract the corrosive effects of stress. 3) Take more time rather than less when you notice your stress manifesting as irritability or frustration. 4) Intervene frequently on harsh, jagged self-talk by making the self-talk cool and compassionate. Be your best friend, and train anyone in your entourage (coach, caddy, parent) to notice how you wear stress and speak calmly and compassionately to you, but firmly. 

 As both of these incidents show, if you don’t get ahead of stress, it will sideline you in some way, shape, or form. And it is usually pretty ugly. On the flip side, with some mindful attention, some increased problem solving, and a good plan, and you can avoid a stress-induced catastrophe and find yourself soaring above your breaking point.

Winners and Winning IV: David Palmer on Confidence, Getting Through on Bad Days & the Power of We

(Above: Characteristic grit from The Marine. Photo: Squashmad.com)

If you're going to talk with David Palmer about what made him such a prolific and successful winner, you're going to want to hear about the comebacks: down 2-0 to Chris Walker in his first British Open win; saving match balls in two World Open wins, once to Gregory Gaultier (6!), and once to John White.  He has been called the "master of digging deep,"* and "if anyone was going to pull out a win in decided moments of pressure, it was David Palmer."*  My recent conversation with him did not disappoint in this regard, as I heard about the integral mental skills behind his legendary skill of getting the job done not only when the chips were down, but when they were stacked very high against him.

Confidence: I have written about confidence often in this blog, but it was particularly nice to hear about it from a player of his stature.  For one, David's confidence wasn't an inborn trait.  You'd think a guy with his  imposing physique and determination came into the world with a large measure of confidence.  But, David told me that his position at that top of the game was by no means a foregone conclusion, that he wasn't a prodigy as a junior, indeed, was told that he had no serious future in squash.  Rather, his confidence is built on the bedrock of an arduous work ethic instilled in him by his coach Joe Shaw and assiduously cultivated through his career.  As he said to me, "there are no shortcuts.  You've got to put in the work."  It is so important for young players, subject to self-doubt and intimidation, to know that confidence isn't an inborn trait, but a byproduct of hard work and commitment.  David Palmer's career is a testament to this reality.  You do not come by a nickname like "The Marine" simply by wanting it.  What's said about the US Marines is true about David: "Marines aren't born, they're made."  Confidence is a verb, not a noun.

Getting Through on Bad Days: David told me, "it doesn't need to be pretty, it just needs to work."  He understood that while we'd love to play our best squash at the important moments, letting go of that desire and that expectation frees us up to play the squash that's needed on the day.  As he said, "finals are not about winning 3-0, but about getting the job done."  When you drop idealistic expectations, you are able to take the focus off disappointment at what you are not doing and see your way clear to doing the next right thing.  For example, though he was down 3-0 to Chris Walker, he and coach Shaun Moxham knew that those two games had been costly for Walker, that they had more gas in their tank and more freshness in their legs than Walker.  People speak of his comebacks or his grit as a preternatural ability, but it seems to have been predicated on his willingness to be effective rather than beautiful, on doing what you can rather than what you wish you could.  What a liberating cognitive shift!  Try that on the next time you are struggling through a big match.

The Power of We: You would think that a guy who has been number 1 in the world would talk a lot about his accomplishments using the first person singular, "I, I, I."  And it would be fitting.  But, David is extremely clear that his entourage made his squash career possible, and in most sentences of my conversation with him, he used the first person plural, "we, we, we."  He mentioned Joe Shaw, the transformation coach who instilled the work ethic that made him The Marine.  He mentioned Shaun Moxham who helped him become more tactically sophisticated.  He mentioned his PT Pat Hermans, who helped keep his body together during his many, largely injury-free years on tour.  But, mainly he mentioned his wife Melinda, "his rock," who supported him 100% through the rigors of life on tour, giving him the platform he needed to perform his best so consistently.  Not that many (incredibly strong) guys credit their wives with their strength so thoughtfully and thoroughly.  I'm reminded of the t-shirt that many women used to wear that said something like, "Behind every strong man is a stronger woman."  It's a true testament to the strength of a man if he can be the one wearing that shirt.

*Alix Williams, "David Palmer: his thoughts on history, and his answer to the biggest question in squash." theshowcourt.com.

Winning and Winners III: Richard Millman on Joining, Irreverence & Iconoclasm

 

(Above: Millman initiates a point with his characteristic flair and focus; photo: Louisville Courier-Journal)

If you’ve ever had the great pleasure of meeting Richard Millman, you may have experienced this contrasting impression:  On the one hand, he is the quintessential British gentleman, burnished at a fine preparatory school, possessed of a rhetorical style that is a lovely blend of understatement, finely crafted periods, apt word choice, all sutured together with immaculate articulation.  It may even scan in a lilting pentameter.  Then, you are struck by an expression and gait that hints at the early, self-described awkward kid.  Have you just met Winston Churchill or Peter Sellars?  Then, of course, you see him play squash, or have just played him, and matters clarify themselves: You’re in the presence of a master, maybe even genius.  Well, I was fortunate to spend some time with Richard as he reflected on some of his memorable victories, and here are some of the valuable gems that emerged.

 

Joining: Picture this: you are 18 years old.  You are playing for a national championship for your school.  It is 2-all in a five-man match, and you are the last person out, and you are 2-0 down.  But there’s more.  You have never had a particularly good relationship with your coach, whose belittling treatment of you has become routine, and he has threatened you with your life after games one and two should you lose.  Now add this: you are the captain of the team, and you are staring down the barrel of disappointing your team.  Finally, you are playing the national powerhouse team, and you are playing a player who is more highly ranked than you and whom you’ve never beaten.  It is a true David and Goliath situation, only Goliath already has a considerable lead.  This was precisely Richard’s situation his senior year of high school.  As it happened, some of his teammates sidle up to him in his corner after their coach’s furious departure, and say a version of: “We believe in you.  We’ve done this together for many years now.  Can you please pull it out?”  Hearing this, and aided by hand-in/hand-out scoring, Richard digs in, doesn’t make an error, and pulls out the match in five, saying 43 years later: “It was their adulation, their appreciation that I’ve never forgotten.  Sure, it was nice to win a national championship, but playing for the team was what really did it for me.”  It is always a powerful combination when performance goals mesh with those of human development.  When this match took place, Richard was developing what Harvard psychologist Robert Kegan calls “the institutional self.”  That is, the self that is more interested in affiliation and membership rather than the inward-facing work of self-formation.*  This story is such a vivid depiction of this developmental hurdle, as we see Richard turning his back on his coach, the punitive and overbearing father figure, and toward the opened arms of his team.

 

Irreverence.  Anyone who played in the US Masters Championships held in conjunction with the S.L. Greene National Championships in the 90s and aughts knows that the main event was never the S.L. Greene final, but rather a Richard Millman-Dominic Hughes final in their age bracket.  Their squash is everything that North American hardball wasn’t: soft, underpowered rails, feathery boasts, wily deception, cathedral-high lobs offset by drops dying into oblivion, all played with balletic movement and impeccable sportsmanship.  It is a splendid thrust and parry, separated only by Dominic’s penchant to take the ball a tad earlier and Richard’s preference for holding and deceiving.  While Richard will be the first to tell you that Dominic has claimed the lion’s share of their encounters, he recalls one of the matches that went his way, in which he used irreverence to motivate himself.  The match took place at the US Nationals in 1999 held at Trinity College in Hartford, CT.  Down 2-1, Richard realized that he was (again) losing to Dominic’s volley, and he remembered that if there’s a flaw there, it’s that Dominic doesn’t like to play longer rallies.  Then and there, Richard said to himself, “I am going to hit backhand rails so slow that my grandmother could get out of her grave and come and get them.(!)”  Point after point, molasses rail after molasses rail, and two games later, Richard is extending that hand and that sly grin.  A lot of coaches and parents use intensity of voice and volume to try to deliver their message during the game breaks.  But, too often, it lands as yelling.  Instead, irreverence, that mixture of hyperbole and the unsayable rings the bell perfectly, and enflames the heart and limbs.  It takes practice, but like all good skills, it’s well worth acquiring to motivate your player or yourself.

 

Iconoclasm.  One of the elements behind Richard’s success is that his teachings go against so many of the game’s conventions.  He speaks of weight transfer out of the shot rather than into it when hitting, of making use of the entire racket face based on what shot you’re hitting, indeed, of where on your finger pads you should feel the airless, moribund drop.  For him, the court is not a box, but a kaleidoscope.  Players and coaches like this do not come around often.  He is a Bjorn Borg, a Pablo Picasso, an Igor Stravinsky.  But, iconoclasts don’t break the rules just to smash idols, which anyone can do.  Rather, they see things differently and stand firm in the truth of their vision.  And when you stand firm in your own truth, good things will happen on and off court.  People have remarked that when you are coached by Richard, it’s not a lesson.  It’s an encounter.  It’s an experience.  And now look at this transformation: we’ve moved from Peter Sellars to Jimi Hendrix.  Have you ever been experienced?

 

*Kegan, R. 1982. The Evolving Self. Harvard University Press.

On Winners and Winning II: Johnny Musto's Triple Crown

(No stranger to glory: John Musto clinches the 1990 Intercollegiate Championship for Yale, beating Mark Baker of Harvard 15-13 in the fifth game.)

This year, before the shut-in, I had the great fortune of taking my son the to the Tournament of Champions in New York City.  It turned out that my actual luck was to run into my old friend John Must0, whose trademark Cheshire Cat grin blazed at me from across Vanderbilt Hall.  I had been eager to see John since I had read about his win at the British Open, giving him something of a Triple Crown, having won the US, Canadian, and British National Championships.  An amazing feat for anyone, it is even more remarkable for those in our generation who started on hardball.  We are used to being beaten by international players who didn’t spend their first twenty years playing with a different court and ball.  So, it was particularly delicious for players of my era to hear of John’s accomplishment.  When I was thinking of this series on winners and winning, I decided to contact him to see if he would be willing to talk to me about his win at the British, the jewel in the crown.  We had two conversations during which I was on the edge of my chair as John described for me in close detail his forced march through the draw, four matches that he described as “brutal,” and which a British journalist call “the hardest week of any player at Hull.”  Although I wasn’t there, I got the pleasure of spending two hours with John as he told me about his wins, about what led to them, what he was thinking, and here’s (only some of) what I got.

1)          The British Open Wasn’t Won in a Day.  The first thing that I heard in my conversation with John was that, though it was a remarkable feat, it wasn’t an accident.  John had played some Masters’ level events internationally in prior years, and stemming from losses in those events, he formulated the goal that he wanted to be competitive with the best Masters players in the world.  From that goal came a series of commitments: find a coach to help him, follow the advice of the coach, and devour and incorporate any bit of wisdom that coach gave him.  But note: he set the goal at age 46 and won his triple crown at 51. 

John cites two skills that helped him in the heat of battle, particularly during his warpath at the British.

2)         Admire Your Opponent: John discussed his transition from viewing any opponent as the enemy, the one who wanted to kill you and therefore the one you need to hate and kill first, to someone who came to respect his opponents, even enjoy the good shots his opponents hit.  Admiration for the opponent helps keep the mind even-keeled, keeps the aggression at the right temperature, where it can fuel good play without interference.**

3)         Accept The Possibility of Losing: Once you come to respect your opponent, you realize that he might beat you if he plays such good squash.  Once you admire him that way, you come to accept that you might lose the match.  John had something of a mantra when his matches at the British got tough: “I accept that I might lose this match.”  Accepting that possibility freed him up to play the kind of squash he needed to play in order to win.  Once the twin imposters of winning and losing are out of the way, you can meet the twins that really matter: playing your best and having fun.

4)        Have Heroes.  John is a die-hard sports fan.  He has a trove of great sports moments that he has watched from his couch that are very much alive in his head and heart.  I encourage you to do the same, so you can dredge the feeling of those moments when you are on the ropes.  John mentioned two such moments to me as having helped him in Hull, and his voice overflowed with excitement when he described them: The first was the 1980 US hockey team’s victory over Russia in the Olympics to take the gold medal.  (This is a fitting memory to feed off because America beating Russia in hockey was as unheard of as an American winning the British Open in squash.)  Also, he mentioned having been inspired by American Pharoah’s amazing run at the Belmont Stakes, where he, also fittingly, clinched his triple crown.  John had the call from booth during the final stretch of the race in his mind as he played his own nail-biting final in the British: “American Pharoah makes his run for glory!!”  When all your energy stores have been used, and it seems as though you have even accepted loss, it is useful to be animated by the glory of others to help you achieve some of your own.

John also spoke to other pivotal aspects of his victory: he told me that he likes to get away from the tournament site during the weekend.  Staying around the tournament with its anxious and stale air makes your legs heavy and dulls your mind.  John took a day trip to York after the quarters, enjoyed a lovely day in a town he would have never known, and came back for the semis with a refreshed mind and renewed spirit.  Finally, if you know John, you know that he levitates when he talks about squash.  He simply can’t contain himself.  When I mentioned maybe making a comeback of my own to competitive squash, he said, “remember, Matt, playing a long, hard squash point is a L-O-T of fun,” grinning in that John way.  Though John has had other jobs in his life, being squash is his life, and when you see John play, you see someone doing what he was meant to do.  It’s the absence of a gap between being and doing that leads to obliterating barriers, to transcending the possible, to glorious accomplishments.

**See my post "On Rivals and Rivalry," in this blog for a similar skill.

Jack Nicklaus & The 1986 Masters: Composure, Muscle Memory, and Pure Joy

(Above: Jack sinks putt for eagle on the 17th during his famous charge in 1986. Photo: golf.monthly.co.uk)

In 1986, it seemed like Jack Nicklaus was finished with winning golf tournaments and especially major tournaments.  Sitting on a king’s ransom of PGA and international victories, holder of the most major victories by any golfer (19), Jack seemed finished with his playing career, and was well into his post-script as a course architect and full-time legend of yore.  But, as we all know, the 1986 Masters proved everyone, except Jack Nicklaus, wrong.  His historic rally on Sunday of that tournament, in which he shot a final nine 30 to surpass some of the best golfers of the day and win his sixth Masters and 20^th major, remains one of the most thrilling stories in golf.  Given that we are all so intensely sports deprived in this age of coronavirus quarantine, I decided to watch the final round of 1986 to see what I could glean for the opening piece of Floating & Stinging’s series on winning and winners.  I encourage you to spend the time watching it, but if you don’t get around to it, let me point out three skills that Jack mentions as having been pivotal for him:

1)            Composure: In the interview after the round in the Butler Cabin, when asked to reflect on his victory, he said that given the difficulty of the course, it is essentially a young man’s golf course, and “it’s a matter not only of playing good golf, but of being able to compose yourself.  And I was able to do both today.”

It's all well and good to talk about composure, but composure is built up of a host of skills, and Jack Nicklaus mentions two of them in post round interview after Masters’ wins:

2)          Muscle Memory: at two points in time, Jack mentions feeding off of victories or moments of the past.  In ’86 he talks about his (successful) eagle putt on 15 this way: “I missed (that same) putt in 1975 and I hit it a little too easy.”  And also in 1975, he talks about thinking to himself on 16 tee: “I’ve been here before.  I’ve been in this position before.”  It is no surprise then, that he birdied that hole, famously, in ‘75 and ‘86.  Feeding off of personal victories of the past, can really help keep you composed during pressure-filled moments.  Keep a running file in your mind and maybe more importantly, in your body, and practice visualizing them, so they are on easy recall when needed.  You know you can do it now because you’ve done it before.

3)           Joy: There is no prolific winner out there who doesn’t love the thrill of competition.  Most successful competitors are successful because of the joy it brings them to be doing their thing in difficult moments.  Doing their sport is synonymous with being them.  In 1975, when asked about his nerves while standing over his winning putt on 18, Jack said, “well, by golly, that’s the fun of it.”  Many people talk about having wobbly knees or a nauseous stomach, but he speaks of the pure joy of that moment, that putt, being Jack Nicklaus sinking that putt.

On Winners and Winning

So much of we do at Altius is to improve performance with an eye toward increasing self-esteem, enjoyment of the pursuit of excellence, and enhanced self-knowledge.  But, at the same time, we’d like one of the by-products of that work to be winning.  Winning is a validation of the hard work logged, and indicator that we’re on the right track, often a vindication on many fronts, and finally, a great deal of fun.  Often, when there is a prodigiously successful athlete, we call that person a “natural,” and we think that s/he wins often because of those innate qualities.  But, it’s also useful to think of winning as almost a separate skill from all the others.  It takes a great deal to get there, but it takes another set of skills to bring it across the line.  I decided to dedicate a number of pieces to the topic of winners in the hopes that we could distill what it is that the seeming naturals have that we could learn too.  Winning is not a magic, innate quality that winners have and losers don’t.  The reason why so many post-victory interviews begin with the question, “So, what was going through your mind when….” is because if we know what a winner thinks in crucial  moments, we could learn to think that way too.  In the next few posts, I will feature insights from winners as they reflect on some of their more momentous victories so that we can distill the set of skills that separates doing the thing from winning the thing.  Before we hear from them, I will say that, without doubt, winning requires at a minimum the kind of skills we’ve been writing about all along in Floating & Stinging: 1) hard work; 2) the ability to regulate the emotions during moments of high pressure; 3) self-belief; and finally 4) joy: the love of being in that moment doing that thing.  But don’t take it from me, let’s hear what the winners have to say.