Far removed from the toxicity and poison being injected into our sporting world is an arena that worships talent and hard work, where attaining perfection makes one a legend. It is a place of excellence where we often wonder: are successful sportspersons immune to pressure? Epic wins, phenomenal performances, record-shattering efforts create a magical aura around athletes that makes the achievers symbols of invincibility.When time is kind, ambition is young, the present has been conquered and the future seems at your command, where is the space to pause and worry? When immortality is kissing your feet and failure is unthinkable, the sporting world must look like a playfield customised to parade your inexhaustible skills.In this wondrous world of sports, where beauty and perfection go together, talking of a life less ordinary, of debilitating pressure and fear of failure, may seem an outlandish thought. Yet modern sport is as much about breaking barriers of skill and records as it is about failures that shatter the poise and calm of even the best.Who could have imagined that one of the most resilient figures in the history of sport, someone who possesses the heart of a gladiator and the mind of an unshakeable monk, would get drenched in tears live on court while facing defeat in the first round of a Grand Slam tournament?Novak Djokovic is the epitome of skill and strength, brawn and brain, stamina and energy. In short, a tennis player endowed with an endless reservoir of motivation that fuels his desire to be the supreme athlete no one dare challenge, even if he is at an age when both body and mind are no longer as sharp and agile. And yet he collapsed before the eyes of millions at the recent US Open who could scarcely believe what they were watching. No, not the defeat that is part of a sportsperson’s life, but the stream of tears from a man who had been as impenetrable as a rock in whatever he has done on a tennis court throughout his incredible career.Oh, in this world of unimaginable victories and superman status, perfection is transitory and even the best are vulnerable and human. The realisation of this inevitable truth that greatness is fleeting, like a dream that can’t last forever, can be a life-shattering experience. The wreckage of the impregnable castle built in the belief that it would last forever is a sight no one wishes to see.Let me introduce you to an eyewitness account that shook my foundational belief in a sportsperson’s divine powers that transcend even greatness.The year is 1994. Brian Charles Lara, the little pocket dynamo, has mesmerised the cricket world with his silken wrists, elegance and timing. There is a stunning rhythm to his bat swing — a back-lift that stretches the horizon and a follow-through that touches the skies — that has awed spectators. He is being hailed as a wizard who is redefining the strong West Indian batting tradition where timing and strength combine to create strokes of grace and poise. His craft has more of an Asian touch than the West Indian power in the execution of his staggering skills.Lara now has a halo around him after overtaking the legendary Garry Sobers’ world record score of 365 and a few weeks later, scoring 501 runs in an English county game, a record that still has to be broken. Lara is within touching distance of becoming a mythical figure and stories abound of his insatiable quest for runs and immortality, though many, surprisingly, find him a bit arrogant off the field.There is palpable excitement among fans as Lara is scheduled to visit India in the second half of 1994 with the West Indies team. For reasons not disclosed, Lara decides not to travel with the team and arrives in Delhi a few days later. While the cricket fraternity speculates about the reason for his aloofness and perceived differences with his teammates, India awaits his arrival.I am among the scores of reporters at the Delhi airport, eager to get a few quotes. Lara arrives dandyishly dressed with large, gold-rimmed sunglasses covering most of his face. His eyes are invisible and his lips literally sealed; no one can breach his resolve to not respond to any question.While realising the pointless pursuit of this futile chase, a familiar face greets me and given the circumstances, I would say a messenger from the gods.He is the local agent responsible for Lara’s travel arrangements. Noticing my desperation, he hands me the car keys in which Lara is to travel and whispers in my ear: “Interview him while the car takes him to the hotel.”I sit in the front seat and await my golden moment. A few minutes later, Lara is escorted to the car and sits in the back seat. I am slumped in the front seat when suddenly I hear sounds of long sighs that alarm me. I immediately look back only to see Lara’s face buried in his arms and the great man breathing deep and loud.Panicking, I ask, “What happened?”Lara, without looking up, utters in a helpless, resigned tone: “Pressure maan… pressure.”That impenetrable Lara, who appeared impassive and even rude while refusing to answer questions a few minutes earlier, had collapsed in a heap when he presumed no one was watching.Lara had, in that moment, revealed the unenviable face of sporting legends, created by their own expectations to succeed and haunted by the shadow of failure lurking in the corner.— The writer is the author of ‘Not Quite Cricket’ and ‘Not Just Cricket’