The Art of Choke

Nothing is quite as humbling as Sundays on the PGA Tour.  My heart breaks for Adam Scott, whose seemingly insurmountable lead was chipped away—not so much by the skill of the other competitors, as by his own inability to maintain perfection in the final four holes.  His decline was tragic enough to overshadow that of Tiger Woods’, whose own self-destruction took place in treacherous bunkers and high grass. 

Individual sports, like golf and figure skating, are fascinating to watch.  They are rarely about who is the best technically so much as who can deliver in the moment.   Competitors battle the field conditions, the other opponents, and more than anything else, their own demons.  How difficult it must be to walk in Tiger Woods’ shoes.  Certainly his woes are of his own making, but he also has the character to return to the game, withstanding ten times the scrutiny of the other players.  I have always taken exception to detractors who decried Michelle Kwan for failing to capture an Olympic gold medal, when any other athlete who captured medals (silver and bronze) at two Olympic Games would have been celebrated for such a feat.  Fortunately, her legacy was built on far more than two days’ performances.

It is easy to be a critic from the sidelines.   Climbing the competitive ladder is so much harder than it looks.  I began competing internationally as a piano amateur just before turning forty.  Having not touched a piano in almost twenty years, the emergence of competitions for “outstanding amateurs” piqued my interest.  It gave me the motivation to return to a routine of practicing for hours each day.

The part of competition that people overlook is the physiologic change that occurs as your position changes relative to the field.  My first year at the Van Cliburn Amateur Competition I was completely unknown.  There is an underdog chemistry that helps to lift your performance as you endeavor to prove to yourself and to the field that you are worthy.  I moved invisibly among the other competitors as I went from practice room to practice room.  There were no expectations.  I was competing for myself in the truest sense.  

As I took the stage for the first round I got goosebumps.  I had forgotten how thrilling it is to walk out on stage to a full and expectant audience.  The Van Cliburn Amateur, held in Ft. Worth, TX, attracts an audience of music lovers and piano teachers to its concerts.  It is a generous crowd, pulling for every competitor in a way that is palpable onstage.  At the completion of my first round Chopin Scherzo they erupted into cheers and honored me with a standing ovation.  I felt as if I had returned from the dead.  Although my career had long before taken a dramatic turn away from music, the latent musician was reawakened.  I was hooked.  

I was thrilled to discover that I had advanced to the next round.  By previous arrangement, this triggered the arrival of my husband and children in Texas.  Their presence brought an added layer of excitement to my next performance, as it was the first time my family had ever seen me perform publicly onstage.  Unfortunately, due to my children’s youth, the officials at the competition forced them to sit in the balcony, making it impossible to see their loving faces from the stage.  But I felt their presence and it ignited my determination.  The nearly impossible Scarlatti Sonata with the blind crossover hand positions was as perfect as I have ever achieved.  The performance was awarded Best Performance of a Baroque Work.

Two years later, I returned to the Cliburn.  In the intervening years I had surgery on my wrist, removing a large cyst from the joint that made playing painful.  After spending months in rehab, it was a victory just to return to performance.   At the venue, however, I was as a known quantity and former prizewinner, which altered everything.  Other competitors sought me out in practice rooms, wanting to know what I was playing.  Audience members welcomed me back, reminiscing about past performances.  I could feel the pressure of public expectations.

I once had a piano teacher who told me, “you never give your best performance onstage, so you have to push your level of practice beyond what you want to deliver.”  But there is so much more that occurs in the moment for which you cannot prepare ahead of time.  This is why you not only practice your pieces, you also practice performing.  I try to get myself to the point that I am numb to who is in the audience or what piano I am playing.  For someone like Tiger Woods, for example, he has no choice but to exorcise his demons publicly.  

In the crucible of competition, the victor is the one who can minimize the impact of external factors in order to reproduce that which has been practiced day after day.  Nerves change everything, especially your concentration and your heart rate.  The most debilitating aspect is that nerves will get you thinking about the competition rather than the game or the performance.  That’s when the wheels come off the train.

At my second Cliburn, I advanced to the final round.  I was beyond prepared with a program that I could play in my sleep.  But the surprise of being one of the six to advance shook me deeply.  I began to think about the importance of the final performance, the expectations of my piano teacher, and even what it would mean to be the last pianist standing.  Without realizing it, my attention shifted away from the music I was there to play.  I became obsessed with preventing failure rather than assuring success.  My practices and warm-ups became crazy.  As soon as I finished a run through, I had to do another immediately just to convince myself that I could.

When it was finally time to go onstage I was terrified.  I sat down at the piano and I could feel my heart pounding in my chest.  My hands did not feel like the ones I had worked into shape over the past two years.  I could not remember where to put them on the keyboard.  Somewhere in the slow second movement of my Schumann Sonata, I had a memory lapse.  I could not recall what came next.  I closed my eyes and told my hands to keep playing, hoping that muscle memory would help to reengage my brain.  I made it through the 4 movements of the lengthy and difficult Sonata, but to this day I can hardly remember how I managed.  Upon its conclusion, I still had the most difficult piece to play.  I had been playing the Liszt Spanish Rhapsody since high school, choosing it for its power as a “closer” piece. It was my “triple axel.”   I played it clean in the dress rehearsal on the same stage that morning, but in this performance—when it counted—I lost my way.  My fear of failure had replaced my determination to succeed.

There are lots of people who can do incredible feats—practiced skills that leave us in awe.  It is natural to want to be good at something, and I admire those who refine their craft until they are among the best.  But champions and stars are made of different stuff.  They have something between their ears that maintains their focus and helps them overcome fear and doubt.  They are impervious to judgment and public opinion, or they are so good that they obviate comparison.  That secret sauce gets those guys the big endorsement deals.  Without it, we are mere mortals.  

At least I am in good company.

Tomorrow's blog:  By Any Other Name