I still remember the exact day it started. A picturesque sun-kissed rolled strip of turf, tucked away in a little corner of school, surrounded by a white picket fence.
Standing at the top of my run-up, a cricket ball in my hand, I started in the same way that I always had. A gentle stroll, slowly accelerating into a fierce sprint. I released the ball.
A wicket.
The new batsmen took his guard, the non-striker called out to him:
“Be careful, he’s actually good.”
I ran in. Something was different.
As I released the ball, the ball flew out of my hand, landing on the unprepared pitch adjacent.
Seven more times this happened. Trudging back to my fielding position, face burning, I stood in silence.
***
Cricket is a big part of my life. Saturday mornings, I’d be woken by my father, who’d drive me to my games. Late nights were commonplace, watching the Ashes or the Border-Gavaskar Trophy. New Years would be marked by a quiet excitement, as I sat on a plastic seat at the Sydney Cricket Ground, dressed in green and gold.
I grew up looking at cricketers, particularly fast bowlers in awe. Mitchell Starc, Pat Cummins, Josh Hazlewood. Something about their aggressive contortion of their body to hurl a cricket ball at the batsman fascinated me. I wanted to be just like them.
As such, this inability to bowl devastated me. Throwing myself into research, trying to find the solution, I learnt the name of this affliction.
The yips.
The yips are a psycho-neuromuscular impediment, preventing a sportsperson from executing the fine motor skills that once came easily to them. The term is a funny one originating from golf, where golfers were suddenly unable to putt with no reasonable explanation.
While I giggled at its name and my mates’ comparisons of it to ‘performance issues’ in another context, a fear crept into my mind. My readings and research had told me that there was no solution. Everytime, I held a ball, the fear of it happening again would come into my mind.
Simone Biles, a Olympic Gymnast had been forced out of her sport for two years, after she lost control of her body position midway in the air. Famous first-class cricketers such as Matt Nicholson and Scott Boswell had been forced out of their sports and careers. I knew it wasn’t a problem with my technique, and I knew I could bowl, but something was stopping me. Psychologists say that the yips begin randomly, but the fear and anxiety of their occurrence worsen their symptoms, and that trying to hide it only worsens its symptoms.
My father and my friends were confused at my sudden refusal to bowl, but I knew it was typical of others who had experienced the same. It slowly became a confidence issue, the same kind that leaves you staring at a blank exam page or stops you from speaking in class. The fear slowly crept into other parts of my life. When I stood at the podium in a debate or raised my hand in a tutorial, my mind would flash to the helplessness I felt with a cricket ball in my hand.
Seeing my frustration, took me to the nets and said something to me.
‘When you bowl, I don’t care what happens. Just close your eyes and enjoy it.’
I set up to bowl, closing my eyes, thinking of the game I had watched last night. The ball landed on the pitch, thudding into the back of the net. A clean delivery. Nothing special. Slower than ever. Just a ball on a length.
***
The final game of the season. Once again, the sun beat down on a white picket fence. Gingerly, gripping the ball, I stood at my crease. Slowly accelerating into my action, I released the ball. My heart sank. It flew onto the adjacent pitch. My face once again began to burn.
Walking back to my crease, I ran in again. A microsecond later, it was in the air as I stepped to the side, settling under it and catching it.
“Out.”
I still occasionally bowl more wide than legal deliveries, but I’ve learned something: sometimes, you need to let go of the outcome and simply enjoy the process.
