“Dance like no one’s watching. Better still, dance like everyone is and don’t care what they think.”
So says Darren Veness, a friend of mine of 20 years.
It was 3pm last Monday at Old Trafford, in Lancashire. Not midnight. Not a wedding. Not a rock concert. Not a party. Simply a Monday afternoon at a cricket ground.
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The only difference was that it was the day before our last must-win cricket match of The Hundred tournament here in the UK.
Sticking to the normal routine I had just finished a hard running session and walked into the weights room dripping in sweat. In there was Veness who was pumping out heavy weights, just like Popeye after he’s nailed a tin of spinach.
The music was up loud, the bass rattling the dumbbells. The gym was pumping.
As I walked in, one of our favourite songs, Insomnia — of all things, at three in the afternoon — had just started.
Daz and I looked at each other and grinned.
Then, for a second or two we did a jig, then we shuffled, then we laughed, and before we knew it we were dancing like two kids at our first disco.
We danced the whole song out, two grown men in a gym in Manchester, jumping up and down like no one was watching, or at least like we didn’t care, even if they were.
Some would call it embarrassing. Others crazy. But for four minutes I would simply call it exhilarating. And so much fun.
You need to know who Daz is to understand why this moment was possible. He was the fitness trainer at Somerset when I played there. An ex-bouncer on the doors up north, ex-bodybuilder, built like a fridge, and the giver of the greatest bear hugs on earth, as well as some of the most honest, wisest and valuable advice anyone could ever ask for.
Daz is outstanding at his job in strength and conditioning, one of the best I have worked with. His energy is the glue of every team he is involved with.
Years ago, I had a person in my life who was stealing my happiness. This went on for about five years.
‘Stalker’ would be the best definition for him. In the first six weeks of meeting Daz, he was the one who eventually helped resolve an uncomfortable situation.
Peacefully, but very directly, in a way only he could, Daz was the person who ensured I have never seen the bloke again. To this day, I am not certain what was said, but it had the desired effect.
That story is for another time, and while we have never spoken much about it, our friendship from that point has been based on trust, loyalty and absolute respect.
So back to the gym last Monday afternoon.
I don’t dance often. My girls would say I am the stereotypical ‘dad dancer’. But every now and then, when I am around people I trust, or I feel won’t judge me, I am happy to admit that dancing is a beautiful, liberating experience.
Earlier this year, it happened again. Four days away with great mates in Nusa Lembongan, a Friday afternoon, the speaker playing our songs, everyone relaxed.
The rain came down in sheets, and I danced by myself, on the grass, in the rain, for a song or two. Fifty-five years old, in the rain, on my own, smiling like an idiot. No judgement. Just freedom.
A few weeks ago, I went to see global country and western superstar Luke Combs at Wembley Stadium in London. Like the Coldplay concert at Optus Stadium, I could have stood there being cool and self-conscious, arms folded, the way blokes my age are supposed to behave.
At Coldplay I was jumping in the air with my arms in the sky next to my daughters, completely lost in the music and the moment. During Luke Combs, I was with strangers, but the meshing of the music and atmosphere of 80,000 people was mesmerizing and inspiring.
There is a great dancing line — “those who were seen dancing were thought insane by those who could not hear the music” — that is stamped all over the internet with Friedrich Nietzsche’s name on it.
Research tells me he never actually wrote those words, but the sentiment is worth reflecting on.
Nietzsche did write two things about music worth keeping though. He wrote: “Without music, life would be a mistake.” And that: “He would only believe in a God who knew how to dance.”
The dancer Martha Graham called dance “the hidden language of the soul”. The novelist Vicki Baum said: “There are shortcuts to happiness, and dancing is one of them.”
I like that one the best, because it is true. Music and dancing come free and, in the time, you are letting yourself go, I would say it is impossible not to feel happy and alive.
Ben Cousins has told me he still loves dancing after competing in Dancing With The Stars. He swears by it.
Every great dressing room I have been a part of has music playing before a game, and of course after it, especially when you win.
We think this is a decoration, but I would say it is much more than that. In every changing room I coach in, one small aspect I insist upon is music as a part of the environment.
I have used this as a player and a coach for 30 years without knowing the science, which researchers have proved is a powerful part of high performance in individuals and teams. As a young player, Ken Meuleman, the great WA cricketer and coach who did so much for me as a young batsman, used to tell me to relax my arms so my feet could dance. It sounds like nonsense until you try it. Tension travels. Stiff hands make heavy feet.
Before every game I would listen to music through my headphones to help me relax and get my feet dancing in the middle. How often do you see athletes getting off their team bus with headphones on. Glenn McGrath would sing a song as he ran in to bowl.
Now, as a coach, I talk to batters and fielders about getting their dancing shoes on. Move like a boxer. Light, balanced, on the balls of your feet, ready to move either way.
Ask yourself, when you dance, are your arms rigid and brittle? Of course not. Nobody dances stiff (dads aside, of course). All great athletes move like water.
I encourage players to bat with headphones on at training, too. Not just for the fun of it but because rhythm is a physical skill, and a player who can find rhythm in the nets can find it under lights with 60,000 people screaming, or when their mind starts playing tricks on them.
Every great athlete I have ever watched, Warne at the top of his mark, Federer moving to a backhand, Pendlebury finding a gap, looks smooth, unhurried, almost lazy. They are all dancing in their own way.
Which brings me back to that Monday afternoon.
I have no way of proving that two middle-aged idiots dancing in a weights room helped us win the next day. But I know what players see. They see everything. They read the head coach’s face and body language the way sailors read the sky.
Twenty-four hours out from a knockout game, they walked past a room where the head coach and the fitness guru were laughing and dancing to a nineties dance track. Not tight. Not grim. Not pacing the boundary with a furrowed brow, radiating anxiety over the group like a weather front.
We won that game to make the semi-finals.
Leadership is contagious, and so is tension. If you want a team to play with freedom, you cannot demand it in a meeting or through words alone. You must show your people what performance looks like in a body through a smile, loose shoulders, trust, fun and the complete absence of judgement.
So, dance like no one is watching, but in a team sense, understand the truth of it — they ‘are’ watching.
And when they see you let go, you have just given them permission to do the same.
And from a personal view, get your dancing shoes on, because it is hard to be stressed when you let the music flow through every cell in your body.
