The Most Dangerous Player At Open Play Isn't The Best One
The 4.0 with the clean backhand is not the problem. The problem is the man who told you, before anyone asked, that he's just here to get some exercise.
Everybody walks into open play worried about the wrong person.
They see the guy with the carbon paddle, the matching shoes, and the backhand that actually goes where he wants it to, and they think: that’s the one to avoid.
He isn’t.
The best player in the gym is usually the safest person there. He already knows he’s good. He has nothing to prove to a 3.2 on a Tuesday night. He’ll give you points, he’ll split up the teams to keep it close, he’ll call his own ball out before you can. Winning stopped meaning anything to him a long time ago, and that is exactly what makes him pleasant to be around.
The dangerous one is the man who told you, before anyone asked, that he’s “just here to get some exercise.”
That man knows the score. He knows your score. He knows the score on the next court over, the one he is pretending not to watch while he reties a shoe that was not untied.
I wrote a few weeks back about Steve Marlow, who announced he was just there to have fun and then kept a color-coded record of his results in a small notebook labeled NOTES. People thought that piece was about Steve. It was about a type. There is one in every gym, and he is never the best player. The best player doesn’t need the notebook. He already knows how it went.
The tell is the speed. Ask the strong player if he’s competitive and he’ll think about it, shrug, and say not really, anymore. Ask the dangerous one and the “no” arrives before you’ve finished the question. He’s answered it before.
He’s not lying, exactly. He believes it. That’s the part that makes him dangerous — not to you, particularly. To himself.
The best player wants to have fun. The dangerous one wants to win and needs you to believe he doesn’t.
You’ll know him by how fast he says he isn’t.