Genius?

I’ve often been fascinated by the way economists work—how their theories are formed; how, in the complicated world that we live in, with nothing certain and true, they manage to still come out with theories that substantiate empirical data. Even more fascinating is how, when confronted by conflicting data, economists with completely contradicting theories can win Nobel prizes. At some level, I think it has a lot to do with assumptions they make: some realistic, some based on popular consensus, some iffy, some downright hilarious; but mostly contrived, to justify some ends and backed by, they all claim, “sound logic”. So, I thought, I’d try my luck at an analysis, pick up a question, a puzzle, a debate and see if I could make sense of it.
Most questions in my life stem from the world of cricket. Even the most existential ones: Who am I? (A dispassionate cricket-lover or an India fan?); what am I doing here? (And not someplace where there's a TV so I can watch my Test Match in peace?), Where do my roots lie? (Why do I support Hyderabad? Would I choose Hyderabad over even Bangalore?) But, I am beating about the bush. In essence, this is a piece on genius. Who qualifies as one? Most importantly, is Laxman one?
In order to justify that inexcusably long first paragraph, I begin by paying obeisance to my economic roots and making a few assumption/statements (none too far-fetched in my opinion): a genius is someone who is special; who, if in an academic field, thinks and acts and theorises at a level that the normal man can only dream of; who, if an artist/sportsman, is someone blessed with infinite amounts of “creative power or natural ability” (OD); who, therefore, is a pioneer of sorts; who is far ahead of his times—innovative, inventive and different.
Laxman’s a man who’s hard to catch or just isn’t flashy enough to be under constant media glare. Interviews come at a trickle. And in the precious few, he’s never verbose, not even close. But, he’s not as soft or as silent as the media portrays him to be: he does say what he wants to say, perhaps more politely than most of the younger lot. What interests and appeals to the cricket-lover in me is his take on any cricket-issue—his comments on the state of the game, the pitch, batting, slip-catching—they are mature, intelligent and incisive, indicative of a man who is a sound cricketing brain. Cricket-wise he is an extremely good strategist—Azharuddin, one of India’s best captains ever, still believes he should be made captain and it really is a pity that we haven’t seen enough of Laxman the Captain. But, based on what little we have seen and know, it would far-fetched to term Laxman a genius, purely on academic terms—as someone who has the ‘vision’, who sees the game from a level above the modern-day thinking cricketer.
“Creative power or natural ability”: both interesting terms. Laxman has wrists of God—his flicks and clips of, not merely his pads but deliveries a good two stumps away from his off-stump are special and unparalleled (no, even Azhar couldn’t produce the shots he does). Blessed with tremendous amounts of natural ability, he’s managed to “create” his own range of strokes: different, silky and very, very special. Every batsman has his own style and in a way, it may be argued that every batsman “creates” his own style based on what comes naturally to him. But, what makes VVS stand apart is how different his predominantly wristy style is: the scale of the deviation from the batting manual is immense, far too much to be in the “permissible” range; and yet, unorthodox as it is, it is still extremely effective. It is a manner that is new comprising of shots that are outrageously distinctive—testimony to his creative powers that can only be derived from his phenomenal natural ability. He definitely will not be a pioneer, simply because his batting is impossible to replicate. And he is different, though not a man ahead of his times (in fact, some may argue that he is slightly behind given the difference in his test and one-day records).
If being innovative is bringing to the game something that it has never seen before, then Laxman, perhaps, just fits the bill. His stroke-play is unique, “ground-breaking” even( a cruel adjective for such a soft batsman). But, in a broader sense, innovation might also imply a continuous tendency to adapt, to learn, to change. And though, even after so many years of watching him bat, some strokes still leave me awe-struck, I can safely say that it is pretty rare that they’ll shock me. The fact that he continues to retain his place in a line-up so star-studded shows that he’s made adjustments—some technical, some mental—to the way he approaches his batting; the fact that he will always remain, in many eyes, someone of unfulfilled potential probably indicates that he hasn’t done enough (or couldn’t do enough) to continuously adapt to bowlers who began to see more of him. He’s still managed to stay a couple of steps ahead, but it probably isn’t quite enough to catapult him into Genius Inc.
Purely on natural ability, Laxman would make the cut. But, otherwise, taking all other grounds of qualifying into account, he’d probably classify as a “limited genius”: who probably requires a whole set of pre-requisites to actually come into his own. Most important, amongst those, is an opposition who is unashamedly attacking, a fielding captain who is not too familiar with his game and Laxman in a mood to be instinctive, to bat with abandon. There are few occasions where this happens: the most recent being that brilliant 109 at Australia, but otherwise, by and large, bowlers have learnt not to feed his strengths. Laxman’s response has been to mellow down, to solidify his defence, to let his instincts be guarded—in a strange way, in a quest to maintain his place in the side, he has limited his genius: it has proved productive, his innings are still punctuated by those magic flicks, but whole innings of magic are few and far in between. He’s realised that the costs of continuing to try and live by the sword greatly outweigh the benefits of curbing his natural instincts. You won’t see those beautiful but frustrating twenty-eights anymore— it’s the gritty seventy-two that’s become his trademark, valuable contributions, running around with the tail.
There’s a lot to VVS’ batting that’s brilliant: his timing, his much-praised hand-eye co-ordination and when in full flow, his invincibility against even the greatest of spin-bowling. It’s not just his wrists that have got him to where he is. But, those very wrists have made him special--that have separated him from other greater mortals; that have flummoxed, with their snapping bite or their yummy roll, the best of bowlers; that have taken him to the brink of genius. He’s there. Almost. And that’s how it should be.