#1 ·
I was thinking about this the other day while watching some old competition footage, and it got me wondering about the psychology of the "off-season" in high-stakes environments. We are all obsessed with the pinnacle moments—the championship finals, the gold medal ceremonies, the massive stadium crowds where everyone is screaming in unison. It’s the peak of the mountain. But what about the climb? What about the months, or even years, where the stakes feel almost non-existent to the general public?
There is this strange phenomenon where we, as spectators, tend to treat certain periods of time as mere "filler." We treat them like a loading screen for the actual content. If a major event isn't happening, the interest just... evaporates. We stop checking the stats, we stop following the narratives, and we stop caring about the incremental progress being made. But for the people actually doing the work—the ones grinding away in empty stadiums or training in near-silence—that "filler" period is actually the most critical part of their existence.
I remember back in my college years, I used to play in these local tournaments where maybe fifty people would show up. It wasn't glamorous. There were no cameras, no big sponsors, and certainly no national recognition. Sometimes it felt like we were just playing for the sake of playing. But looking back, those quiet, unobserved moments were where I actually learned how to compete. You learn more about your own discipline when nobody is watching than you ever do when you're standing on a podium with a trophy in your hand. When the crowd is cheering, it's easy to feel successful. When you're performing in a half-empty facility on a Tuesday afternoon, that's when you find out who you actually are.
It makes me wonder if we are losing something as a society by being so hyper-focused on the "big show." We’ve become a culture of highlight reels. We want the 15-second clip of the incredible feat, but we have zero patience for the four-year buildup of sweat, failure, and repetition that made that clip possible. We want the climax without the rising action. This creates this weird disconnect where the people who are actually pushing the boundaries of human potential are often invisible to us for 95% of the time.
There’s a certain beauty in the "dress rehearsal" phase of life, isn't there? The period where you can test your limits, fail miserably, adjust your technique, and try again without the crushing weight of global expectation. It’s a laboratory for excellence. If every single performance had to be a world-class spectacle, no one would ever have the freedom to experiment or grow. You need the low-stakes environments to build the high-stakes legends.
I also think about how this applies to everything else—business, art, even personal hobbies. If you only practice when you have an audience, you're never actually practicing; you're just performing. Real growth happens in the shadows. The "off-years" aren't gaps in the timeline; they are the foundation of the timeline.
Do you think we place too much emphasis on the "big moments" in our culture, or is the spectacle necessary to drive the pursuit of excellence in the first place?
There is this strange phenomenon where we, as spectators, tend to treat certain periods of time as mere "filler." We treat them like a loading screen for the actual content. If a major event isn't happening, the interest just... evaporates. We stop checking the stats, we stop following the narratives, and we stop caring about the incremental progress being made. But for the people actually doing the work—the ones grinding away in empty stadiums or training in near-silence—that "filler" period is actually the most critical part of their existence.
I remember back in my college years, I used to play in these local tournaments where maybe fifty people would show up. It wasn't glamorous. There were no cameras, no big sponsors, and certainly no national recognition. Sometimes it felt like we were just playing for the sake of playing. But looking back, those quiet, unobserved moments were where I actually learned how to compete. You learn more about your own discipline when nobody is watching than you ever do when you're standing on a podium with a trophy in your hand. When the crowd is cheering, it's easy to feel successful. When you're performing in a half-empty facility on a Tuesday afternoon, that's when you find out who you actually are.
It makes me wonder if we are losing something as a society by being so hyper-focused on the "big show." We’ve become a culture of highlight reels. We want the 15-second clip of the incredible feat, but we have zero patience for the four-year buildup of sweat, failure, and repetition that made that clip possible. We want the climax without the rising action. This creates this weird disconnect where the people who are actually pushing the boundaries of human potential are often invisible to us for 95% of the time.
There’s a certain beauty in the "dress rehearsal" phase of life, isn't there? The period where you can test your limits, fail miserably, adjust your technique, and try again without the crushing weight of global expectation. It’s a laboratory for excellence. If every single performance had to be a world-class spectacle, no one would ever have the freedom to experiment or grow. You need the low-stakes environments to build the high-stakes legends.
I also think about how this applies to everything else—business, art, even personal hobbies. If you only practice when you have an audience, you're never actually practicing; you're just performing. Real growth happens in the shadows. The "off-years" aren't gaps in the timeline; they are the foundation of the timeline.
Do you think we place too much emphasis on the "big moments" in our culture, or is the spectacle necessary to drive the pursuit of excellence in the first place?