By Paddy Upton
There’s a story behind almost every moment of sporting magic that rarely gets told.
We see the outcome — the celebration, the history being made. And we forget what came before it.
Gukesh D became the youngest World Chess Champion in history at just 18. In the final game, the computer analysis had it as a draw. Most spectators had already given up on anything shifting. Even Ding Liren, his opponent, looked resigned to the idea that nothing more was going to happen.
But Gukesh just kept playing. Move after move. Long after it stopped looking hopeful. Long after the payoff seemed unlikely.
That small act — continuing when others stop — is what I find most striking. Because it’s easy to show up when there’s energy and momentum. It’s much harder to keep going when all the signs say the result is already decided.
In the end, it was Ding who made the decisive error that changed the balance. But Gukesh’s readiness and discipline meant he was fully present to recognise the opportunity and step into it.
Most people will look at that moment and think: that’s what greatness looks like. But to me, the real story isn’t in that single blunder or the resignation that followed. It’s in the thousands of quiet moves that came before. The years of repetition, the discipline of sitting down again and again to do the work that isn’t glamorous and doesn’t get applause.
And then there’s the other side of mastery — the side Dale Steyn described on my podcast recently.
He spoke about walking onto the field and becoming someone else. That version of himself where time collapsed. Where he didn’t think about technique or outcome or what anyone else expected. He was so present in what he was doing that he couldn’t remember the details later.
He couldn’t recall the six balls he bowled to New Zealand. Couldn’t reconstruct his spell against Sachin Tendulkar. Because he wasn’t in his thinking mind.
That’s what most people call the zone.
It sounds almost mystical — this state where everything flows without effort. But it’s not random, and it’s not luck.
It’s what happens when you’ve put in enough preparation that your conscious mind can finally step aside.
When you’ve built such a solid foundation that you no longer need to control every detail.
The paradox is this: you have to work relentlessly to earn the freedom to let go.
And when you look at it like that, you start to see how preparation and presence are not opposites. They’re partners.
Preparation is what quiets the noise in your head. It’s what allows you to trust yourself when it matters.
Presence is what turns all that preparation into performance.
But here’s the part I keep coming back to: neither guarantees anything.
You can prepare perfectly and still lose. You can be present and still make mistakes. That doesn’t make the process a waste.
If anything, it’s the process that sustains you when the result doesn’t go your way.
Because the measure of success isn’t only in the outcome. It’s also in whether you showed up. Whether you stayed engaged when it looked futile. Whether you trusted yourself enough to let go.
When I look at Gukesh in that final game, I see someone who kept moving forward until the very end — so when the opportunity appeared, he was ready.
When I hear Dale talk about losing track of time, I see someone who had earned the right to trust himself completely.
Two different sports. Two different stories. The same underlying principle:
Preparation creates the space for the zone.
Not always. Not perfectly. But often enough to make all those unseen hours worth it.
