Steven Smith's new approach to batting is revolutionary and a lesson in how to live life

Cricket coaching manuals are replete with diagrams of the perfect cover drive, blueprints for the ideal bowling action, and meticulous plans for fitness regimens. Hours upon hours are dedicated to honing the physical mechanics of the game - the footwork, the grip, the follow-through. This focus on the tangible, the repeatable, the physical, forms the bedrock of traditional cricketing wisdom. Yet, what if this singular emphasis, while necessary, inadvertently delays the realisation of a player's true potential?

What if, like in life itself, the secret to unlocking peak performance lies not just in the sweat and toil, but in aligning with a deeper rhythm, a universal energy that governs success and ease?

The prevailing narrative in sport, and often in life, is one of relentless effort. Work harder, train longer, push through the pain.

Steven Smith, for much of his illustrious career, seemed to embody this ethos. His legendary net sessions, his almost obsessive dedication to practice, spoke of a man who believed that mastery was solely forged in the fires of personal exertion.

The mantra was clear: work hard and improvement must follow. And undeniably, it worked for him, yielding vast success built on a seemingly inexhaustible work ethic.

But perhaps, even in those years of tireless physical application, there was an unseen force at play. Perhaps, without consciously articulating it, Smith was subconsciously attuned to a different frequency, connected to the universe in ways that transcended the physical grind. His admission of being awake at night during Test matches, mentally rehearsing his innings, wasn't just strategising; it was a form of deep internal alignment. These sessions, almost exclusively mental, were his way of getting in tune with the universal energy, visualising not just the shots but the flow state, the ease, the rhythm.

There has been a subtly shifting approach in Smith that is potentially revolutionary. It hints at a maturity that understands the limitations of purely physical effort as one ages, and the growing importance of the mental landscape.

His conscious decision to relax more, to spend less time in the nets, to allow his mind to wander free is not a sign of diminished ambition but a recognition that preserving mental energy and finding a state of ease is paramount for sustained performance at the highest level. He feels he needs to be in the "best space you can be in the middle to bat for long periods" and hitting less in the nets before a series helps keep his mental side as focused as possible when he's batting in a match. This isn't laziness; it's wisdom.

This shift challenges the very foundations of traditional coaching. It suggests that while technical proficiency is non-negotiable up to a point, there comes a time in a cricketer's journey when further physical repetition yields diminishing returns. At this juncture, the focus must pivot.

The most significant gains are to be made not in adding more hours in the nets but in cultivating the inner game, in learning to work with the universe, not against it.

I recall a telling moment late in Ricky Ponting's career, during an optional training day before an Ashes Test. He hadn't been in form and came to the ground seeking a breakthrough. The longer he batted, the more frustrated he became, his rhythm eluding him. He was trying hard to force it back. When I asked him what he was trying to achieve, he spoke of being "all out of sorts" and needing to "find some rhythm". I suggested that his lack of flow stemmed more from his mental state than his physical, and that perhaps a round of golf, clearing his mind, might be more beneficial than continuing to mentally beat himself up in the nets. He politely disagreed, which spoke of the ingrained belief that more physical effort is always the answer.

Yet it's fascinating to remember that when Ricky was in the absolute prime of his career, he was known for not spending excessive time in the nets. He would often walk out once he felt he was hitting the ball as he liked, a quiet confidence in his preparation, a trust in his ability to find that rhythm when it mattered. He wasn't trying to force it; he was allowing it to be.

This brings us to a crucial, yet often overlooked, aspect of both batting and life: trust. Trust in your preparation, trust in your instincts, and trust in the unfolding of events. When you try too hard, you introduce tension, doubt and resistance.

You are, in effect, swimming against the current of the universe. But when you approach the crease, or any challenge in life, with ease, with a sense of quiet joy, you are more likely to be in flow, working in harmony with that universal energy. It feels simpler, more natural, less of a struggle. This isn't just the simpler way to live; it might also be the simplest way to bat.

Smith's recent revelations could serve as a powerful lesson. His conscious effort to manage his mental energy, to step back from the relentless physical grind, underscores the growing importance of the inner game as a player matures. It's a message that should resonate with cricketers and coaches at all levels. While the physical fundamentals remain essential, true mastery, sustained success, and the ability to perform under pressure may ultimately hinge on the capacity to align with the universe, to find that state of flow, and to trust in the process.

I sincerely wish Smith huge success in the upcoming challenges - the World Test Championship final, the tour of the West Indies, and the Ashes. His performance will, of course, be a result of his immense skill and preparation. But perhaps, just perhaps, the greatest legacy he leaves behind won't be a particular technique or a batting record but the subtle yet profound message embedded in his current approach: that in the relentless pursuit of excellence, cultivating a mind that is fit, healthy, uncluttered, and attuned to the rhythm of the universe may be the most revolutionary stroke of all.