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“For the last two years, this man comes to play every weekend,” Jigneshbhai remarked pointing to someone in the group having coffee on a table some distance away. We had come to the café straight from our weekend game of badminton that day. In the café was another group that frequented the badminton courts.
“That’s good. Two years is a lot. But I know a lot of regulars to the badminton courts. It has caught on and courts are springing up everywhere,” Swami said, not impressed a lot with what, nevertheless, looked like amazing discipline from that man.
“He even takes part in the competitions that happen in the courts every couple of months,” Jigneshbhai continued updating us about the man. It seemed like he had a special awe for him.
“Oh, I didn’t know that. So he plays in competitions? Never saw his game. Is he good?” Swami remarked, this time with his lips curled and brows raised slightly.
“Well, you can decide that after seeing him play,” Jigneshbhai remarked. “I am sure you don’t know something else,” Jigneshbhai added.
“What is that? Is he the reigning champion or what?” Swami enquired in all eagerness.
“No. Quite the opposite, actually,” Jigneshbhai said. He then set his coffee cup aside and moved closer and spoke in a whisper, so that only we could hear him.
“He never wins anything. In fact, he has never won a single game ever. Not just in competitions, but also in practice any weekend. He loses every time he plays,” Jigneshbhai told us.
Swami and I broke into a small chuckle. We couldn’t figure out what kind of player was this who played for two years but never wins anything. We turned our necks to have another look at that man. “Quite a sample,” Swami remarked with a sardonic smile.
“Well, there’s another way of looking at it,” Jigneshbhai said. “That he must be really loving playing the game. For what reason, only he knows. But it’s not easy to keep playing if you keep losing all the time,” he added. Jigneshbhai seemed to have an unusual tone of appreciation for the man in his voice.
“Play for the love of the game, sportsmen say. It would be interesting to ask them if they would play the game even if they lost every single time. Easier said than done,” he said, silencing our chuckles for the loser.
Most of the time when we play a game, we play for the win, for the trophies, not the love of the game, I reckoned. I seemed to agree with Jigneshbhai when he said that ‘play for the love of the game’ was easier said than done.
But Swami wasn’t fully convinced yet.
“But what’s the problem with playing the game to win? All champions play to win, isn’t it? What kind of loser plays not wanting to win?” he asked.
Jigneshbhai munched on a muffin in silence.
“Nothing wrong,” he replied in a serene voice.
“Then why are you singing praises for this loser?” Swami probed, albeit with some bitterness.
Jigneshbhai sipped on his bitter coffee for a few seconds to gulp down the muffin. We knew something was cooking. We waited.
“Because he doesn’t win but still keeps playing. Maybe he wants to win but isn’t winning. But he is still playing. Maybe he is not good at it, but he still keeps playing. That must take something,” Jigneshbhai concluded. “So I think that he loves the game, so he just wants to play more than he wants the wins. He enjoys playing more than the trophies,” he said. “That’s not something you see every day. Even champions find it hard.”
Swami and I pondered over it a bit. Jigneshbhai had said a lot in a breath. I thought most champs loved the game. But it seemed like many loved the trophies more than the game.
Swami wasn’t willing to take it lying down.
“But what’s the point of playing if you aren’t pursuing the trophies? Or if you are not winning them?” he asked.
“You can pursue but you may not win. The question is will you still keep playing? Ask that man. He is still playing,” Jigneshbhai said. “It’s clear he loves to play the game more than he loves the trophies.”
It is the love for trophies over love for the game that is the problem, I reckoned.
Swami looked at that man and saw him laughing loudly.
“He seems to be having fun,” he remarked pointing at that man. “Despite having no trophies or wins,” he smirked with an expression I didn’t understand.
“You should see him on the court. That’s where he has even more fun,” Jigneshbhai remarked.
Swami and I kept staring at the man, this time in a mix of some awe and appreciation that had replaced the earlier amusement.
While we were staring at him musing over the question of whether we can play just for the love of the game without thinking about winning any trophies, a feeling of curious awe for the man filled our hearts.
But Swami still felt that unless he has some chance of a win, he can’t play. “Not easy. Tough. I can’t do it,” Swami said. Jigneshbhai smiled and left him at that.
It was then that the wealthy old man walked towards Swami and put a hand on Swami’s shoulder. “You might end up with a collection of trophies. But then, when will you enjoy the game?” he said and left with more food for thought.
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