Two Balls. Two Sixes. And the War Inside Arshdeep's Head.

Note: I wrote this as a student of performance psychology — someone who studies what happens inside the mind during high-pressure moments. This is not an analysis of any player's ability, character, or temperament. Every cricketer who represents their country at the highest level has my deepest respect. What I observe here is the universal human experience of performing under pressure — something that applies to all of us, on any field, in any profession. The moments I reference are not critiques. They are windows into the mental game that every performer navigates — and that I believe we can all learn from. My intent is never to single out, but to understand. And through understanding, to grow.

Arshdeep Singh's post-match apology to Daryl Mitchell — and Mitchell's gracious acceptance — demonstrated exactly the kind of emotional awareness and repair that elite performers practice. The incident and its resolution, taken together, is what makes this a story worth learning from.

I wrote an article right after India's World Cup win.

About the rupture and the repair. About what Surya did on the field that night. About what it takes to hold a team together when the pressure is trying to pull it apart. (You can read it here.)

India won. We celebrated. The trophy came home. The story moved on.

But I didn't move on.

Because something about those few seconds in the 11th over has stayed with me. Not the celebration. Not the victory margin. Not the trophy lift.

Three balls. That's what I keep replaying.

And what happened inside a man's mind between those 3 balls.

What the World Saw

March 8, 2026. T20 World Cup Final. India defending 255 against New Zealand.

11th over. Arshdeep Singh bowling to Daryl Mitchell.

Ball 1: Six. Mitchell finds the middle. Clean. Commanding. Over the boundary.

Ball 2: Six. Again. Mitchell is settled, in control. Arshdeep is under siege.

Ball 3: Mitchell plays a simple defensive shot. The ball rolls back to the bowler. A dot ball. The pressure should have eased for a moment.

Instead — Arshdeep fielded the ball in his follow-through and threw it. It struck Mitchell on the upper thigh.

Mitchell dropped his bat. Advanced toward Arshdeep. Furious. Words were exchanged. The field erupted.

Suryakumar Yadav walked over. Calmed Mitchell. Stood between the fire and the fuel.

Umpire spoke to Arshdeep. The moment was contained.

After the match — which India won by 96 runs — Arshdeep walked up to Mitchell during handshakes and personally apologized. Mitchell accepted. They smiled. Shook hands. Hugged.

Beautiful ending.

Except the ICC also reviewed the footage. Arshdeep was found guilty of breaching Level 1 of the Code of Conduct — Article 2.9: throwing a ball at or near a player in an inappropriate and dangerous manner. He was fined 15% of his match fee and given one demerit point on his career record.

Two sixes. One throw. A fine. A demerit point. Footage that will live on the internet forever. In a World Cup Final.

The apology was genuine. The sportsmanship was real. The recovery was admirable.

But some things can't be un-thrown.

And that's what I've been thinking about.

What I Can't Stop Thinking About

What I can't stop thinking about is what happened inside those few seconds. Between those three balls. Inside one man's mind.

Because the same thing happens inside yours. And mine. Every day. In moments far less visible than a World Cup Final — but with consequences just as real.

Slowing Down those 3 balls.

Ball 1: Six.

The moment the ball crosses the boundary, Arshdeep's brain fires a response. Fast. Automatic. Before he's aware of it. System 1 — the part of the brain that Nobel Prize winner Daniel Kahneman proved operates 500 milliseconds before conscious awareness — takes over.

Cortisol spikes. Heart rate jumps. Jaw tightens. Breathing becomes shallow. The prefrontal cortex — the part responsible for clear thinking, strategy, composure — starts going offline. The amygdala — fight or flight — takes the wheel.

This is not a choice. This is neurochemistry. It happens to every human being under acute stress. The only variable is what happens next.

Ball 2: Six. From that state.

Now the brain is in full Red. Two sixes in a World Cup Final. 130,000 people. Millions watching on television. The batsman standing there with the confidence of a man who owns the moment. And the identity under attack. I cannot be hit like this. Not here. Not now. Not me.

Ball 3: The defensive shot comes back.

Here's what's crucial. The cricket moment is neutral. A dot ball. The pressure should have released. In Green, Arshdeep fields it, tosses it to the keeper, walks back, plans the next delivery.

But he's not in Green. He's in Red. And Red doesn't process the dot ball as relief. Red processes it through the filter of the last two balls — the two sixes that are still burning in the nervous system.

The throw that follows , at the batsman, unnecessary, dangerous — that's not Arshdeep the cricketer making a cricket decision. That's the emotional state making a decision on his behalf. System 1 acted. System 2 — the conscious, rational, choosing brain — arrived too late.

He didn't choose to throw at Mitchell. The Red chose.

The Questions That Stay With Me

What caused those emotions?

Was it performance pressure? The weight of a World Cup Final? The knowledge that one bad over changes the narrative of your career?

Was it self-imposed expectations? The identity that says "I am the guy who delivers under pressure." When that identity gets hit for six — twice — the threat isn't to the scorecard. It's to the self.

Was it situational? The noise. The momentum. Mitchell's body language. The fielders' energy shifting. The stadium sensing blood.

Was it aggression? The competitive fire — which sometimes produces the spell of a lifetime and sometimes produces a throw that costs you 15% of your match fee and a permanent mark on your record.

I don't know what was in Arshdeep's mind. Nobody does. Only he knows. And even he might not fully know — because these responses fire before conscious awareness.

But here's what I keep coming back to:

What if there were ways to process those emotions before they cost you something you can't take back?

We Are Humans. That's the Starting Point.

I want to be very clear about something.

Arshdeep Singh is an elite performer. Playing in a World Cup Final. Representing a billion people. Under pressure that 99.99% of humans will never experience. The fact that he's there at all — competing at that level, delivering match-winning spells, handling the death overs for India — speaks to a mental strength that most of us will never need to develop.

We are humans. We make errors. We feel emotions. We lose composure. That's not weakness. That's the operating system we were born with.

But that's exactly where the edge is.

Not in never feeling the emotion. That's impossible. Arshdeep felt what he felt because he cares. Because the match matters. Because his identity is invested. You can't compete at the highest level without emotional investment. The fire is the fuel.

The edge is in what you do in the 15 seconds between the trigger and the next action.

Those 15 seconds are the entire game. In cricket. In the boardroom. In life.

When Aggression Helps and When It Destroys

Sometimes aggression helps. Arshdeep's best spells come from that fire. The competitive intensity. Controlled aggression is one of the most powerful performance states in sport — and in business, in leadership, in life.

But uncontrolled aggression? That's the throw at Mitchell. That's the email you sent at 11 PM that you can't unsend. That's the words you said to a colleague in a meeting that changed the relationship permanently. That's the decision you made from anger that looked like strength and was actually a loss of control.

The difference between controlled and uncontrolled is one thing: awareness.

Are you using the aggression? Or is the aggression using you?

If you know you're in Red and you choose to channel it — that's the bouncer at 150 km/h that changes the match. That's controlled fire.

If you don't know you're in Red and the Red is running the show — that's the throw. That's a fine. That's a demerit point. That's footage that lives forever.

So the question is never "should I feel this?" You will. Always.

The question is: do I know what state I'm in right now?

What Surya Actually Did

Most people saw good captaincy. "Surya calmed things down." And he did.

But what Surya actually did was far more sophisticated.

He recognized Arshdeep's state before Arshdeep could recognize it himself. He saw the Red. He saw that the next action from that state would make things worse. And he intervened — not with a tactical instruction, not with a motivational line, but with presence.

He walked over. He stood between the fire and the fuel. He didn't lecture. He absorbed the energy. He gave the moment space to breathe.

That's emotional co-regulation. When you can't regulate yourself, someone who is regulated steps into the space and their calm becomes your calm. Parents do this for children. Great leaders do this for teams. Great captains do this on the field.

But here's the uncomfortable question that I keep sitting with:

What if Surya hadn't been there?

What if the next ball had been bowled from Red? What if the throw had hit the face instead of the thigh? What if Mitchell had retaliated physically? What if the umpires had escalated to Level 2 — a match ban, in a World Cup Final?

We can't build careers — or lives — on the assumption that someone will always step in when we lose control.

At some point, you have to be your own Surya.

The Tool That Won the 108-Year Wait

This is where it comes together for me.

The Chicago Cubs hadn't won the World Series in 108 years. Their mental performance consultant, Ken Ravizza, gave them a tool so simple it sounds ridiculous:

The Signal Light.

Green: I'm focused. Calm. Ready to compete. My brain is online.

Yellow: I'm drifting. The last play is in my head. Something's off.

Red: I'm reactive. Emotional. Making decisions from frustration, fear, or ego. My executive brain is offline.

Before every pitch — every single pitch, across an entire season — Cubs players asked one question: What colour am I right now?

Green — compete. Yellow — reset. One breath. Focal point. Back to Green. Red — step out completely. Do not throw the next pitch until the state changes.

The Cubs won the World Series.

Now imagine this tool running in the 11th over at Ahmedabad.

Ball 1: Six. Arshdeep checks — what colour am I? Red. He knows it.

Ball 2: Before bowling, he pauses. Steps off the mark. One breath. Looks at a spot on the ground. Not fully Green — but aware. He bowls from Yellow. Maybe the six still happens. Maybe it doesn't.

Ball 3: The defensive shot comes back. He's in Yellow. Not great. But the conscious brain is online enough to say: field the ball, return it to the keeper, walk back, reset.

The throw doesn't happen. The fine doesn't happen. The demerit point doesn't happen. The footage that lives on the internet forever doesn't exist.

Three seconds. One question. What color am I right now?

That's the difference between a moment that passes and a moment that stays on your record permanently.

This Is Not Just About Cricket

I know sports context is different from professional settings. I know a World Cup Final is not a Monday morning meeting.

But some methods work no matter what profession you are in.

Because the brain doesn't care whether you're holding a cricket ball or a quarterly report. The stress response is identical. The emotional hijack operates the same way.

You're in a meeting. Your proposal gets shut down publicly. Your face is hot. Your jaw is tight. You want to fire back. What color are you?

You get an email. The client is furious. Your boss wants answers by 5 PM. Your chest tightens. Your fingers are already typing the defensive response. What color are you?

You're reviewing someone's performance. They say something that triggers you. You feel the flash — the same flash Arshdeep felt before the throw. What color are you?

The consequences of acting from Red at your desk may not make international news. But they're just as real:

The email you sent in anger that damaged a relationship beyond repair. The words you said to a team member that they'll remember for years. The decision you made from panic that cost the project six months.

Some throws can't be un-thrown. In cricket. And in life.

The Practice

You can't control what the batsman does. You can't control what the client says. You can't control the market, the board, or the 130,000 people in the stands.

You can control one thing: the state you're in when you respond.

Green. Yellow. Red.

Three colors. One question. Asked before every important moment until it becomes as automatic as breathing.

When this tool helped a team break a 108-year curse, it's worth giving a try.

Whether you're bowling the 11th over of a World Cup Final. Or walking into tomorrow's first meeting.

Know your color. Choose your next ball.

Reference: The Signal Light (Green-Yellow-Red) and The Flush are mental performance tools developed by Dr. Ken Ravizza (1955-2018), one of the pioneers of applied sport psychology. A professor at California State University, Fullerton for over 35 years, Dr. Ravizza devoted his career to studying, researching, and teaching mental performance skills to athletes, coaches, and performers at all levels.