‘Football is the most important of the less important things in the world.‘
Carlo Ancelotti

I think the South Indies football team mattered more to me than it really should have.

Through the week I washed the kit, recruited players and popped out to Soccer Scene to buy random bits of equipment. I woke up in the middle of the night pondering league tables. I plotted innovative formations on the back of envelopes, but ended up concluding that, erm, 4-4-2 probably best suited our resources.

We were in many ways a typical amateur side. Our fixtures tended to be on Saturday mornings when many of our personnel were nursing hangovers. Our home ground was the astroturf at Market Road - where Australians sold their VW Camper Vans and local kids hung round to nick our balls.

Like most such squads, we were a mismatched assortment of characters and talents. John did warm-up exercises that the rest of us scorned for being too ‘continental.’ Dylan was a philosopher off the pitch and an enforcer on it. Tim played with the enthusiasm of a 20 year old, though his body had moved on a decade or so. Andy was quiet, but lethal. Matty kept goal, but not his temper. Striker Kweku had the disarming habit of chatting amicably to opposition Defenders. Vinny played like a troubadour social worker and Tony like a novelist with a fine appreciation of history. Thommo was stylish. Caz was obdurate. Dave was rustic. Doug was contrary. Steve was tidy. And Shamik was late.

‘If I have to make a tackle then I have already made a mistake.’
Paolo Maldini

My own skills as a Centre Back were rudimentary. Slow, lumbering, physical. More comfortable with the ball in the air than on the ground. Whenever a Striker approached me in possession, I could hear over my shoulder Thommo shouting:

‘Stand up. Stand up, Jim!’

I hesitated and held my ground. I stared the Striker in the face as he contemplated his next move.

‘Don’t dive in!’ Thommo cried.

For a brief moment the Striker and I were frozen to the spot, each ready to spring into action. Time stood still.

I felt the same way about this bloke as I did about all Forwards. I resented his speed and agility, his refined skills and youthful good looks. He needed to be taught a lesson. Perhaps, re-enacting Bobby Moore’s tackle on Jairzinho in the 1970 World Cup, I could slide in to dispossess him, with balletic grace, with pinpoint precision.

And then, suddenly, he feinted as if to go one way and went the other. I sensed him accelerate past me as I struggled to build up momentum.

It was now or never.

And so, with a rush of blood to the head, I made my move.

Thud, clatter, crash.

I’d taken him down.

Penalty.

I looked up from the astroturf to see Thommo frowning at me with accustomed disappointment.

'Football is a game you play with your mind.’
Johan Cruyff

A little while ago I read an article about the science of spot kicks (‘Want That Penalty?’ The Times, 7 May).

It transpires that, if you’re taking a penalty to win a match, you can expect a 90% success rate, compared with only 60% if you’re trying to avoid defeat. In a shoot-out, striking the first penalty elevates your chances of winning to 60:40. Keepers should waste between 1.7 and 4.5 seconds before the kick is taken.

There’s clearly a good deal of psychology involved.

A recent study published in the journal ‘Frontiers in Computer Science’ monitored the brains of footballers when they took spot kicks.

22 players were fitted with a cap with sensors that measured oxygen levels in different parts of the brain. Those who missed their penalty tended to have activated cerebral areas associated with long-term planning. By contrast, those who scored had employed unconscious neural pathways. They had performed the task automatically, with well-rehearsed movements.

The research concluded that players miss penalties when they over-analyse the outcomes. Over thinkers under perform. They would do better to employ ‘neural efficiency theory,’ responding to pressure by switching some parts of the brain on and others off.

’The best decisions aren’t made with your mind, but with your instinct. The more familiar with a situation you become, the quicker, the better your decision will be.’
Lionel Messi

It’s easy to imagine such findings having application in business.

Inevitably we spend a good deal of the working week plotting and planning, calculating and co-ordinating. We repeatedly rehearse our arguments, review the pros and cons of various strategic routes, in order to equip ourselves to make the critical calls. But as we approach the key meeting, we should not be too preoccupied with the consequences of our actions. We should be confident, focused on winning, set to seize the initiative. At the decisive juncture in the negotiation; at the point of making the crucial creative recommendation; at the climax of the presentation, we should switch from a mindset of preparation and projection to one of instinct and intuition. We should concentrate on the situation and not the stakes.

After the game we’d adjourn to the Hemingford Arms. Caz, in his genial way would talk to the opposition at the bar and smooth over grievances and misperceptions. The rest of us would sit in a huddle in the corner, re-enacting the highlights, exaggerating our heroics, appointing the scapegoat - usually me.

'My heart was broken.
Sorrow, sorrow.
My heart was broken.
You saw it, you claimed it,
You touched it, you saved it.
My tears are drying.
Thank you, thank you.
My tears are drying.
Your beauty and kindness
Made tears clear my blindness.
While I'm worth
My room on this Earth,
I will be with you,
While the Chief
Puts sunshine on Leith.’

The Proclaimers, 'Sunshine on Leith’ (C & C Reid)

No. 325

I don’t really have the body for sport. I’m not agile, fast or flexible. My vision is weak, my reactions are poor and I have only moderate coordination. I’m not tall enough for basketball, tough enough for boxing, or tolerant enough for golf.

So I was fortunate to find rugby. Here was a sport that seemed happy to accommodate my limited abilities. Playing as a Flanker I could push and shove, grip and grapple, ruck and maul. I could lean in and bind on; leap up and scrum down. Above all I could tackle. When the ball left the breakdown I would aim like an Exocet missile at the opposition Centre, timing my flight to hit him just as he received the pass. Crash! It was in its own way rather poetic.

There was of course a good deal of sprinting and passing to be done as well, which in my case translated into trundling and fumbling. But I managed to get by. And I’d say rugby was the only sport at which I ever really excelled.

One year the school decided that it would organise a tour of New Zealand, the home of the finest rugby playing institutions in the world. It was a mouth-watering prospect. And so we embarked on an extensive round of fundraising. There were raffles, tombolas and quizzes. There were sponsored runs, jumble sales and chicken-in-a-basket suppers.

It all got too much to tell the truth: too much rallying and tub-thumping; too much chivvying and chasing. One day a number of the disgruntled players called a team meeting and told the authorities that we’d had enough.

I was naturally a conformist child, generally happy to toe the line. I didn’t want to disappoint the sports teachers who had given me so much. But, equally, something about this obsessive, unremitting focus on a singular goal rubbed me up the wrong way. I was also conscious that Dad was in and out of work, and my family was short of money. I found myself on the horns of a dilemma.

I lost quite a lot of sleep over it. Waking up in the middle of the night, tossing and turning. Weighing up the pros and cons, thinking through the fors and againsts. Should I stay or should I go?

Over the weeks that followed the crisis meeting, most of my fellow refuseniks were talked round. But I surprised myself and held the line. And the tour went ahead without me.

When they returned I realised that I had missed a phenomenal experience. The team had seen the world and played against the best. But I had profited in my own way from the New Zealand Rugby Tour. I had learned that I didn’t have to run with the pack; that I could make my own decisions and could be resolute. I had learned that I could change. And I was happy with this outcome.

'Our dilemma is that we hate change and love it at the same time; what we really want is for things to remain the same but get better.'
Sydney J. Harris, Journalist

I read in The Times recently (18 May 2020) about an experiment conducted by Steven Levitt, professor of economics at the University of Chicago. 22,000 people who found themselves in a life quandary submitted themselves to a virtual coin toss to determine which path they should take. Questions ranged from the major to the minor: Should I quit my job? Should I propose? Should I get a tattoo? Should I try online dating? Whatever the dilemma, Levitt’s virtual coin toss gave the respondent a simple ‘yes’ or ‘no’ answer.

According to the research, published in the Review of Economic Studies, nearly two thirds of participants followed the recommendation of the coin toss.

Two themes emerged.

Firstly, people tend to resist change: only about 50 % of those told to make a change did so, while 75 % of those told to maintain the status quo followed the coin’s recommendation.

Secondly, people that make a change tend to end up more content: after six months those who had opted to change course saw a significant increase in their personal happiness.

Levitt concluded:

'The data from my experiment suggests we would all be better off if we did more quitting… A good rule of thumb in decision-making is, whenever you cannot decide what you should do, choose the action that represents a change, rather than continuing the status quo.'

A compelling provocation and one that rings true.

When I left school and went to College, I chose football as my sport. In time I became proud captain of the Pembroke 3rd XI and subsequently manager of the legendary South Indies. Over the years the game gave me a great deal of pleasure.

But it’s fair to say I was never very good at football. I was a slow, ponderous Central Defender, partial to muscular shoulder charges and late tackles. I always played football like a rugby player.

'Darling, you got to let me know,
Should I stay or should I go?
If you say that you are mine
I'll be here 'til the end of time.
So you got to let me know,
Should I stay or should I go?

Should I stay or should I go now?
Should I stay or should I go now?
If I go, there will be trouble.
And if I stay it will be double.’

The Clash, ‘Should I Stay or Should I Go?’ (J Strummer / M Jones)

No. 288

The South Indies: When Over Thinkers Under Perform

My Rugby Tour of New Zealand: What To Do When You’re On the Horns of a Dilemma