Via Matt Webb, from his broader (and fascinating) post about the
nature of work and what the roboticisation of domestic labour might take
from us, comes this topical and counter-intuitive nugget about
Olympians. How is it that they bring themselves to do the presumably mad
levels of hard work and training that are required to get to the tops of
their games? Well, because they enjoy it:
“The very features of the sport that the ‘C’ swimmer finds unpleasant,
the top level swimmer enjoys. What others see as boring – swimming
back and forth over a black line for two hours, say – they find
peaceful, even meditative, often challenging, or therapeutic. … It is
incorrect to believe that top athletes suffer great sacrifices to
achieve their goals. Often, they don’t see what they do as sacrificial
at all. They like it.”
It’s from a 1989 ethnographic study on Olympic swimmers by Daniel
Chambliss. The central premise is that levels of sports are
discontinuous, and that, while putting in more and more effort can make
you better within a particular level of performance, it isn’t what
progresses you to the highest heights:
“Having seen that ‘more is better’ within local situations, we tend to
extrapolate: if I work this hard to get to my level, how hard must
Olympic swimmers work? If I sacrifice this much to qualify for the
State Championships, how much must they sacrifice? We believe,
extrapolating from what we learn about success at our own level, that
they must work unbelievably hard, must feel incredible pressure, must
sacrifice more and more to become successful. Assuming implicitly
that stratification in sports is continuous rather than discrete (that
the differences are quantitative) we believe that top athletes do
unbelievable things. In short, we believe that they must be
superhuman.”
Neither talent nor hard work are good explanations for their success.
Instead, Chambliss argues, the cause is more qualitative than
quantitative; the extremely successful do different things rather than
more things, and keep doing them to a habitual and mundane degree.
“After three years of field work with world-class swimmers… I wrote
a draft of some book chapters, full of stories about swimmers, and
I showed it to a friend. ‘You need to jazz it up,’ he said. ‘You need
to make these people more interesting. The analysis is nice, but
except for the fact that these are good swimmers, there isn’t much
else exciting to say about them as individuals.’ He was right, of
course. What these athletes do was rather interesting, but the people
themselves were only fast swimmers, who did the particular things one
does to swim fast. It is all very mundane. When my friend said that
they weren’t exciting, my best answer could only be, simply put:
that’s the point.”
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