On Effortlessness

Effortlessness is surely one of the most admired concepts in sport. The word itself does the idea absolutely no justice at all, being clumsy and not knowing where to end. But when we put it next to effort, perhaps our perceptions change.

Do we not want to see the effort? Is effort not titillating? And is this a particularly British trait? We do, after-all, love an underdog, an outsider.

The outside-centre may have glided through a defence three times in the first half and go in at half-time with a clean shirt but it’s the muddy, dog-eared flanker that we are drawn to. At least, those of us who are more prone to cynicism are more drawn to him. The young, those who still have dreams of emulating the outside-centre, will be more drawn to a clean shirt and all it represents.

This dichotomy is one of the very essences of rugby: the forwards and the backs, the grinders and grafters up front and the gliders behind – ‘the piano shifters’ and the ‘piano players’, as one French three-quarter once put it.

But there is more to the idea of effortlessness than this. Hemingway defined courage as ‘grace under pressure’ – this is when we really enjoy effortlessness, when it becomes really superhuman to be so aesthetically athletic in the face of so much pressure (tangible nutters running at you, as well as the metaphorical weight of your nation on your literally narrow shoulders).

There is also effortlessness which somehow seems natural and that which becomes natural. When Jonny Wilkinson drops a goal on his right foot to guide his team into the World Cup Final in 2003 against France all the praise centres on how many hours he has worked to pull that off. It is graceful, it appears to be effortless, but hard work looms large. When Juan Martin Hernandez drops on his left against France in the following World Cup, there was little suggestion of hard work. It was effortless, he was exotic and the two came together to create this glorious nonchalance. He was like a South American freedom fighter. The thing is, he may have practised just as hard as Jonny, but we don’t know that, and we aren’t interested either.

Clearly, we adapt our perceptions of effortlessness in relation to what we know. Can English sportsmen really exhibit true effortless grace? Very rarely. But Hernandez, the Maradona of rugby, he sure can. Did Maradona practice? Of course not, he was sent from God and has been too busy dancing the tango with beautiful women and taking dodgy pills to practice... if we asked Hernandez if he practiced, we expect to be shrugged off.

It is incredibly hard to pin down, this idea of effortlessness. Perhaps it’s because it’s such a personal idea. How does Dan Carter look like he isn’t trying? It’s a question we seek to answer ourselves, open-mouthed, as he saunters to the line and fires out a pass with his floppy arms. Jonny and Juan, in their wrong-footed drop goals, both look so effortless, but as is human nature when it comes to sport, we create our own stories that surround these courageous, graceful figures.