Most people on this fine planet of ours try their darndest at all they set their mind to. No matter the level of their ability they strive and hope that one day they will arrive at their potential.

International Cricketers are no different. They will tether their minds to high performance with all their might. Not always do they get it right. That goes without saying. After all, none of us are perfect.

But each individual will go out of his way to garner desirable results for the greater good of the team and, also, his own personal goals. Batsmen, bowlers, Captains - They're all in it together.

Ah yes, the Captain, that leader of a team's industrious efforts to soar to the heights of their capacity, and with the ultimate responsibility to come up trumps tactically.

That being the case, for those of us laymen out there, could someone - Possibly Steve Smith - explain why when your team has scored five hundred and thirty runs in their first inning and has India 250 for three in reply, with two hundred and eighty runs to play with, a spinner is on, bowling deliveries of a low trajectory fast and flat at ninety-five kilometres per hour.

There are no demons in the pitch. Indian batsmen, who generally play spin well, having been brought up on dry sub-continent wickets, ease on to the back foot and push the ball into one of those many gaps on the on-side for an easy single.

The field, spread to all corners of this scenic and stately stadium, put absolutely no pressure on the batsmen.

Said batsmen are loving their freedom. Nothing of interest is occurring - Except for those run gatherers gathering easy runs, which is just the way they like it.

So why not bring the fielders in closer, get in the bowler's ear suggesting (demanding) he take ten to twenty kph off his delivery speed and entice the batsmen to take the risk of hitting over the in-field?

What is there possibly to lose? You still have ten over's to go until the new ball becomes available, copious amounts of runs to play with and you give yourselves a chance to attack in an otherwise slow period of play.

You may go for a few runs. Then again, you may grab an unlikely wicket.

Or is that a likely wicket.

Within the depths of one's thunder
With one's sheen torn asunder.
Weighed down within a goal lost,
Rolling along the dales of cost.
Searching for that elusive heed
A mind aches to succeed
As desire raises an elite trip
On the precipice's tip.
Tumbling aloft the dreams of now,
Life's breathe lowering thou.
Futures lost in uncertainty,
For hell works tirelessly
While hope reflects upon itself
As another chance atop a stately mountain peak
emanates honour upon such humble hope.

Perfection.

Absolute unadulterated perfection.

It is not often that one person comes along to make a mark and mark her day; Afar along the way, never astray aloft the loftiest of spheres. Sitting perched there, the clouds of insecurity dissipating with a mind suddenly so clear and the green shade bestrode by such flair.

Never before did such a combination of power and timing befall one. Power, yes, timing, maybe, but the two together, no. But this is Petra Kvitova we're talking of here. One so unique, indeed. Petra by name and the game to shoot straight to fame. A Queen fit for the jungle, but also a lady of the day.

She wasn't always a Queen, though. More like a Princess, one that would offer up delightful servings of mesmerising stroke-play one day, and the next, an error strewn monstrosity of a performance. A Princess searching for power, but unable to keep a grasp on it for any significant length of time. There was that first Wimbledon title in 2011. A talent had risen, or so it had seemed. There one moment, and quick as a flash, gone the next.

It wasn't that she didn't possess the most glorious of shots; She did. Really, though, it was the lack of consistency that was most puzzling. With a glaring lack of self-belief for one seemingly destined for greatness, maybe, like a rabbit caught in the headlights, she didn't know which way to turn. Not really comprehending what being a professional entailed, her fitness regime was of such low intensity that it was the equivalent of having a heart rate of "my career is going nowhere".

Of late, there is a new dedication to fitness and a sports psychologist has been employed. Which has led to increased power, both on a physical and mental level. What a difference six months makes.

They say Britain has never been conquered. Not so. Yesterday, this 6ft Amazonian Queen from Czechoslovakia rode into town and bequeathed many a grateful new disciple with a flawless display of power Tennis to marvel at. And not only did she take possession of Britain, Kvitova, just for good measure, grabbed hold of the colonies and gave them a good shake, too.

Canada's Eugenie Bouchard may not have appreciated this invasion, not that she had the slightest say in proceedings.

Such was Kvitova's Perfection. The 6-3, 6-0 kind of Perfection.

It's not just that she hit with her usual fearsome power, it also came with the detonation of immaculate precision. Such is the bravery of youth that Bouchard planted herself on the baseline and steadfastly refused to move. Normally this would be fine, but with Kvitova landing balls within inches of the baseline, Bouchard simply had no time to respond. Bouchard, it turned out, was a girl playing on a woman's court; Petra Kvitova's court.

Kvitova has always enjoyed the use of a left-handers swinging serve, and a forehand that has often threatened to break the speed of sound. On this stunning day, soon to appear was the ultimate weapon for someone with all the shots; A mind made of steel. Cold, hard, ruthless steel that refused to bend.

This was the one area Bouchard was supposedly superior in and it turns out that she was a minor in that regard, too. The Canadian has made much of her desire to succeed in the now. Not to be content with a Final's appearance as a learning tool for the future. Fair enough. After all, she has now reached the semi-finals of two grand slams and a Wimbledon Final all in the space of six months.

All this hard minded talk, such noble notions. Of course, she had that nobility knocked out of her by a tougher opponent. Which goes to show, have the mental toughness but not the ability, or vice versa and it all amounts to zip when up against a foe that possesses more of both.

In this case she was up against a player that offered a blast from the past that fast circumnavigated its way around all the oddities of one not yet worldly, and travelled forward in time to appear on the grandest stage of them all; Saturday July 5th on Centre Court of Wimbledon. The past and the present collided into a kaleidoscopic montage of exhilarating shot-making fare.

Bouchard's only hope was for some thunderous elements to prevail and unsettle Kvitova with a stoppage in play.

But even with inclement weather nearby, the Czech simply indulged in a race to see who could cause the most destruction first: Like with everything else on this day, Kvitova won.

Perfection.

Absolute unadulterated perfection.

Angelique Kerber is a giant killer in mind, and with shots that appear to go pop. How does a woman with the mildest of serves terminate the title hopes of one Maria Sharapova? You know, the one with the sizzling serve, not to mention barnstorming ground-strokes, that could issue many a storm warning and keep her foe holed up for weeks. The only storm warning Kerber's serve should or could send out is to itself to cover up if it does conjure up the spirit to wander onto centre court.

The German pulls off a three set victory, winning 6-4 in the third, armed with nothing more than a slug gun, while her Russian foe is sitting on her Countries entire nuclear arsenal, but unfortunately nobody gave her the instruction manual on how to operate it.

This was like David ( 5ft8") versus Goliath (6ft2"), except this time it was Davina and Davina turned out to be divine and divine was Angelique who became a quarterfinalist.

Once again, how did she win? It can only be mind. They say ninety-five percent of top level sport is those top few inches. In Kerber we now have irrefutable proof. This Woman has no right to win. At least not in this encounter. Yes, she is ranked number seven in the World - And that in itself is remarkable - but this is a bent so undermanned that you keep expecting her to send out an SOS at any given moment.

Her serve has the velocity of a mid summers breeze - And that's just her first serve. Neither does it have the acuteness of a Petra Kvitova. So, no wide serve from the Ad side of the court and no other discernible threats . . . And she wins. Remarkable. Without an improved serve it is undeniable that she will not threaten the number one ranking. What this nugget of timeless effort will do, with that sturdy mind, is jump straight back up every time she is knocked down and continue pestering the hell out of some very exasperated foes.

Which is effectively what she did to Sharapova. It's not like the fifth seed didn't offer any resistance. To the contrary, Sharapova regularly manipulated Kerber around the wearing greenery of centre court, moving her from side to side, wrong footing her with inside out forehands and the like. But Kerber scrapped and fought and clawed and scratched, whatever it took. Many a time she appeared on the ropes and dazed in anticipation of that final knockout punch. Yet, one more shot kept coming back and inevitably Sharapova would generate errors at the costliest of times.

That is the thing with Kerber though, she is very definitely the real deal. What you see is what you get. This is no fraudulent fraulein. Win or lose, you know her all has been given. She'll run, she'll scamper and she'll put a dampener on the hope of a good sprinkling of most competitors.

Especially with that mind. Yes, that mind. This is a Lady that should avoid going through airport security anytime soon for fear of attracting any untoward attention. Such is the state of her mind, it appears to be fitted out in the steeliest of impregnable fortitude. She doesn't have the angles to her strokes that Sharapova has. Put simply, she doesn't have Sharapova's talent. What she does have is the capacity to play to her optimum for three sets. She did. With nerves of steel. The Russian did not. At 5-4 up in the third and attempting to break serve to close out the encounter, she had numerous match points. She wasted some of those opportunities, but kept fighting. It took awhile, but finally she closed it out. Fortunately she did, for there is only so long the lesser talent can hold on for.

With Serena Williams already knocked out, Sharapova was many people's favourite to take title. Not anymore. If Kerber is to cause more upsets, she will need to go through Bouchard first, then Halep or Sabine Lisicki and possibly Kvitova. That's a lot of power to contend with.

Sharapova will, of course, go home titleless again. Ten years since she won her solitary Wimbledon title, there is still time to garner another as she is only twenty-seven. The young guns are barking, though. Before long the likes of Kvitova, Bouchard, Halep, Stephens and co will be biting. Best to take her shot soon, because when that bite does come, she may never recover.

And even if they don't, there is always Angelique Kerber to put paid to the best laid plans.

The Spanish inquisition is back on. For Rafael Nadal has delved into his kitbag and discovered the ravages of his lost youth. Watch the French Open if you want proof. Such does his Tennis hand land multiple blows to bloodied opponents that he is now cemented in the psyche of World Tennis as the greatest clay courter of all time. Yes, even better than Bjorn Borg.

Strike a blow, beat them down, knock them out - Lo. Relentless in his crusade, genius flows through his arteries. Those arterial routes are showing themselves at Roland Garros - Lo. For, come Sunday, two semi-finals down and fate has greeted the Spaniard with a potentially epic clash against World number two, Novak Djockovic, in a Final showdown.

Three setters are his favoured delicacy. Not for him to waste time on five sets -such inadequacy. Well, not usually, anyway. Occasionally he will relent and allow an underling one set. It's not that it overly pleases him, but that's what you get when presiding over a hard earned kingdom; The rats of servitude getting notions above their station in life.

Of course struggles reside.

Every so often it isn't just a set they sneak. No, they launch a full scale invasion. There are many battles in what is at times a long and arduous war. Only this last few months those incursions have become numerous as the pests of wannabe stardom seek out their own niche in the world. First, Djockovic attacked. Two times he has downed Nadal and one of those was on enemy territory - Clay. To make matters worse, David Ferrer fired shots at Nadal in the Quarterfinal of the Monte Carlo Masters and won. It was one thing the talented Djockovic making inroads, but the journeyman Ferrer; That must have hurt.

But they never win the war.

He might have taken a pounding and his body often resembles an injury wreaked cavity of twenty-eight year old bones rattling around aimlessly while wondering where his next stride will miraculously appear from. That body, those muscles, twisted and rotated and saturated with the contortion of an unnaturally violent style of action packed ferocity. Heavily top spun forehands, heavily top spun backhands, just heavily top spun. All of which takes its toll on the body of this thirteen year veteran of the circuit.

Those old bones though are made to look youthful through the iron-willed desire presiding within. Initially a one trick wonder who could do no wrong on clay but could play little else, wanted it all. He practiced and he played and he strayed onto grass and hard courts and strived and finally arrived into the realms of all round success. Four years of gruelling graft and finally he broke Roger Federer's veneer of invincibility with a win in what was one of Wimbledon's greatest ever finals. And that's on grass. No not that kind, the real thing, he's legit. Never one to take short cuts, hard work and dedication were and are his drug of choice.

Everyone starts somewhere. Everyone at one stage or another are just a mere upstart. You see, what is now Nadal's wasn't always. Federer used to dominate all before him. Then when Federer was at his peak, someone better came along; Nadal. What used to belong to a Swiss now belongs to a Spaniard.

As you can see, this dynasty was not procured overnight. It was solidified over many a year. Initially the cost of this tournament was dirt cheap, but it soon became a valuable commodity. Now it has become so prosperous that his dominion over this empire has spread to the sum of eight titles. Sure, it has a leasehold to be paid in the form of beating seven foe each year. So much blood, sweat and tears and that is mainly his opposition, such is his dominance.

In a particularly ruthless mood this last fortnight, it has seen him garner six victories at the piffling cost of just one set lost. Such imperious form, even Andy Murray, in the semi-final, could only conjure up a measly six games.

Now it is the big one, up against Djockovic. He can smell the rich aromas of Grand Slam title number fourteen wafting his way in 2014. The topspin heavy ground-strokes of Nadal up against the flattened out shots of Djockovic. Two relentless retrievers defending and attacking and counter-attacking, such a heavenly encounter with two of the brightest stars battling it out for a spot in the sun.

In the end, on clay, it is always Nadal's way or the highway. Don't want to live under his rule, he will banish you from his long held territory - Lo.

The World is a different place today. Fads come and fads go, as is their wont. Values change. Well, duh, you say. Still, back in the day they would chop a tree down(get over it Greenies)with an axe, now it's a chainsaw. Nothing wrong with that of course, progress and all, except that these days it seems like there is forever someone looking for a short cut to success, like getting someone else to do the job for them. Or, in this day and age of instant gratification, if success doesn't occur, move on. They often do. Or maybe, in the case of Tennis, if a set appears a lost cause, hold back on the effort and wait until the second set.

It wouldn't have happened fifty years ago, but then values have changed. And the mighty dollar has taken over. Those values again. Or lack thereof.

Fortunately though, there is still hope for some of the young folk out there.

Like Eugenie Bouchard. Here is a young lady that doesn't go in for all the modern claptrap that is often spouted. Here's a lady that finds herself down 5-2 in the first set. So what does she do? One, sing the theme song to the Monkeys' and do what some others would do and throw the set and start afresh in set two, albeit one set down? Two, fight back with all her might and take said first set 7-6 in the tiebreaker?

You betcha the Canadian would find the maturity to select option two. She didn't even have to send out a search party. Such an easy decision. After all, let a foe win one set and gather momentum and you may not be able to put a halt to the tidal wave of effervescent confidence of a frontrunner. So, toughen up and search for the hurt, alert for a way back, don't slack.

Gain the respect of your peers for a never say die attitude, or at the very least, show the blighters what is coming their way when they next attempt to tangle with you.

But this isn't just about the winning of an encounter in the present. No, it runs deeper than the cosmetic sheen of a slithering mind falsely enlightened by the shallow beat of the laziest of souls. It's about respecting oneself. No lazy deed is rewarded by long term success. Instead, taking pride in a performance, developing habits to the good for a lifetime and an attitude where one never backs down, no matter what.

Sure, there is always an easy way out. Give away that set you thought was gone, give away a chance to progress to the next round. For there was fear, but to care and dare would dare the jeers of doubt to wear the flare of rare and near flawless fare veering beyond the tears of all peer. Give away a potential semi-final spot. Go on, do it, take that risk. If that's for you, fine.

Centre court of Roland Garros, the loveliest of all things Paris. Eugenie Bouchard wants that experience. Already a Semi-Finalist in Australia last January, why not aspire to consistency as well as being a Princess of brilliance.

Fight, fight back from 2-5 down and show the Tennis world what a decade there is to come.

And that fight back paid off for the twenty year old as her opponent, Carla Suarez-Navarro, fought her way back to take the second set. Just think what might not have been if Bouchard had passed on that first set. Possibly not a 7-5 win in the third.

But it was only that fight back that would enable this potential Grand Slam winner with the mass of talent to land herself a berth in the final four.

Often in life there are opportunities available for the taking. In sport they come and, then, they dissipate just as quickly. One lost one day, another here tomorrow. Some take them, some don't. There are sights we all want to spy such as the towering twosome of the Williams sisters opposing each other in round three in Paris. But that was one opportunity they could not bring to fruition.

Whether, deep down, they would want to face each other is another matter. It is well known that neither enjoy playing the other. Never have, never will, for the two have always been close. They have gone through a lot together, their careers virtually joined at the hip. One year apart in age, and despite Venus having a wee head start on that count, Serena was the first to garner a grand slam title, in 1999 at Flushing Meadows. Only a year later Venus joined in what was to become a rampage of glutinous domination over the next four and a half years as they won twelve between them and have since gone on to win twenty-six singles slam titles during their illustrious careers.

This is before even considering the narrative of two black girls brought up the on wrong side of the tracks, not to mention encountering the well to do tennis environment of the conservative white middle class. Yeah, they've gone through some. They had a father to push them along. They more than likely have Richard Williams to thank for the position they now find themselves in life. Two of the greats of the game, more money than they know what to do with and plush homes to reside in. He protected them, as much as is possible. He pushed them, they became great.

It can't have been easy though. Dealing with the racial overtones and negative comments with which white parents of their peers often made. To feel the pain of discrimination - Nobody deserves such. And then there was their older half-sister who was brutally murdered in 2003. Shot. Coldly. Now that is life. One life cruelly disposed of and at least two others affected for life. Neither sister won a Slam title for another two years and we haven't even got to Indian Wells yet.

Indian Wells, was it racism or Venus pulling out of her match against Serena four minutes before the game was due to begin to avoid the sisters playing each other, both of or none of the above? To that, none of us will ever know. The only way to know if racism was rearing its ugly head in the form of a torrent of booing is for the same to have occurred with two white sisters. Maybe there was racism, maybe there wasn't. It could have been a simple case of a crowd upset at being denied the chance to get their money's worth. That said, both Venus and Serena have refused to play the event since. That's thirteen years and counting. They stand on principle. And the Sisters have played each other since.

Did it happen in Paris? Two sisters losing deliberately to avoid a confrontation? Well, NO. Down conspiracy theorists. Didn't happen. Quite simply, on one side we have Venus, a Woman who is a mere shadow of her former self and suffers from sjogren's syndrome. She gets tired easily. Simple as that. She will never be the same player again. And then there was Serena who competed an hour later and would have known her Sister had already lost. Go home conspiracy theorists.

We all get Venus, but what of Serena? Where to now for the Woman that many regard as the greatest female player of all time. There are five ahead of her on the all time list of Singles winners. Chris Evert, Martina Navratilova, Helen Wills-Moody, Steffi Graf and Margaret Court. Of those five, with the exception of Graf, she would have been too strong for the rest and she has had to compete in an era where the depth is significantly stauncher.

There will be those that say the others would adjusted to the modern game. Maybe, maybe not. Let it be said though that within a year of Graf appearing on the scene, her power quickly overwhelmed Navratilova, until then regarded as the greatest. The thing with Graf was not just her power but her mental faculties were second to none. Very rarely did she lose early in a tournament, certainly not to the extent of Williams. Very rarely did she misfire in the heat of a Final. Though she may not have won every time, she sure didn't go down without a fight.

That is not to say Williams does not fight, but inconsistencies persist. To lose 6-2,6-2 in the second round of the French Open, or any Slam event, is verging on unbecoming. What did Oscar Wilde say? Something about losing early once may be regarded as a misfortune, to lose twice looks like carelessness. Or words to that affect. The mind boggles on what it may be to lose early many more times than twice, and, for Williams, it has become a regular occurrence.

This performance was an errant vista of error strewn shot-making seeping treacherously from an over-indulgent mind. A mind clearly not on the job, there is only one person who knows where to locate the consistency of mental toughness required to bring about a legacy for the ages.

Five slams behind Graf, to be revered as the greatest, she is going to have to overtake the German wonder by some considerable margin to go down as the greatest.