“You can count how many seeds are in the apple, but not how many apples are in the seed.”

Ken Kesey

Ken Kesey was an American novelist and perhaps most famous for his book ‘One flew over the cuckoo’s nest’ which was turned into a movie in which Jack Nicholson won an Oscar in 1976. If you watch that movie, you will know that the author must have seen life through a quite different lens, and he held an unconventional view of the world around him.

That simple yet profound quote speaks about a world of reality and a world of possibility. A world where the answer is right, and there is only one, versus a world which values the question more than the answer, even if it is right. There is an exact number to the first half of the quote and there is little room for argument and no need for auditing. There is no way of knowing the answer to the second half of that quote. In a linear, measurable and exact manner, a first grade school goer will confidently give you a correct answer to the number of seeds in an apple. No quantum physicist would dare venture a definitive answer into the exponential thought of how many apples are in each seed because, well, because it depends.

That quote shows the difference between a finite world and an infinite world.

A large part of our world seems fixated on the finite. Measure, predict, drive for efficiencies, declare a winner, rank the top 100 school rugby teams over the last 10 years, beat everyone else, grab market share, win this quarters best performing asset manager prize, be the number one sales agent. Win the argument with your spouse. Always.

If the world is a finite place and only tangible things carry value, then you better fight to be number one. Grab your share of the pie and live by the mantra that second place is the first loser. Count the seeds in the Apple.

But what if the view of the world was infinite? What if the intangibles like love and appreciation, hope and gratitude, friendship and trust were valued as much? And aren’t those things by their very nature immeasurable anyway? Do we rank our friends on a quarterly basis, can you express what one word of support means to a young sportsman, and what a few minutes of shut-up-and-be-silent-listening might do for a marriage? How many apples of possibility could grow from the seed of an idea well listened to, or a hug of compassion, or a small show of Humanity? Think about the potential of the apples in each seed.

In an extraordinarily well researched book called “No Contest”, the author Alfie Kohn captures a stunning sentiment which argues against the popular view that competition always promotes excellence:

“Trying to do well and trying to beat others are two different things.”

Trying to beat others. Finite. Trying to do well. Infinite.

Long before Simon Sinek finished school, and even before the book by James P. Carse called “Finite and Infinite Games” was published in 1986 which inspired Sinek to write “The Infinite Game”, my world had a teenage example of an infinite player.

I still look up to an older cousin I had in this world once. He died tragically in a car accident on his way back from holiday to his matric year as the head boy of Pretoria Boys High School, one of the truly great schools in South Africa. So, when I say that I look up to him, I really mean that. Many years after his death he still influences my thoughts and my actions. There were others like him who saw the flipside of a finite world, but a story lives with me still which was typical of his view of the world.

My Father Colin, and my cousin, also Colin were keen squash players and they enjoyed a very close relationship as uncle and nephew. Needless to say, the family challenge was laid down in a high stakes series which had a deadline of young Colin’s sixteenth birthday. If young Colin could beat old Colin, the family would enjoy a celebratory meal out on old Colin’s account. Old Colin would have to stand up, make a toast, and admit that his nephew was a superior squash player. If young Colin failed in this quest, he would have to take out an advert in the classifieds of both the Pretoria News and Johannesburg’s The Star newspapers and publicly admit his defeat to his superior uncle. For close on two years, every few months a game would be arranged and in the early battles, the squash savvy guile of experience would beat the raw energy of youth. The banter and bragging rights belonged to the old buffalo whilst the young lion would lick his wounds with a sporting smile. The family would feast together, memories were made and we looked forward greatly to the next encounter across the boerewors* curtain – the line between the Southern city of Johannesburg and its Northern neighbor of Pretoria.

As the day of declaration neared, the games became closer in the finite context of an outcome as the young Lion moved the Old buffalo around the court, but still there was no celebratory dinner, and a phone call to the classifieds looked inevitable for young Colin.

On the day before he turned sixteen, young Colin had a last chance to avoid public humiliation and being roasted like the rest of a substantial quantity of meat at the next family braai. The game wasn’t even close as the young lion tore strips off the old buffalo to leave him sweating in a heap in the corner. With his heavy lungs heaving, settling for humiliation over heart attack, he was helped up by young Colin, and during a very sticky embrace, Uncle Colin realized that he had been played.

He had been played by an infinite player.

There was little doubt that Colin junior could have beaten Colin senior in previous games, but in his eyes then, the game was over. He kept the game alive for as long as possible favouring the infinity of relationship over the finiteness of a result. Cousin Colin loved the family get togethers, as much as anyone else, and he cherished the times, the meals and the other infinite games which would result when there were lots of friends and family gathered together before the invention of Wifi or other distractive devices. Why kill the game before you can extract the full enjoyment which lives in the playing?

Just over a year later, Cousin Colin’s life was over. His finite game had ended way too soon, yet in memory he lives on, lives stong, and perhaps therefor, he lives infinitely.

He imagined the apples in the seeds of relationships long after the finite doors of the squash results were closed.

Our lives are finite and there will be an end to them someday. I wonder if we could live them in an infinite way?

Steve

P.S. Ironically, but maybe so true of an infinite world, I received news of the passing of Ken Hovelmeier within minutes of finishing this reflection. In the world of squash, this man was nothing short of legendary. As a coach he was unparalleled, and he fined tuned many a good player into many a great one through his ability to listen. His hearing was so keen that he could decipher a well struck shot from a poor one and he could deduce the faint placing of footwork through his ear drum. He relied heavily on this sense because he was blind.

He saw nothing yet missed even less. He had no sight, but extraordinary vision. He took a finite disability and lived an infinitely meaningful life.

Hovvy, as he was affectionately known, rebuilt a Mini’s engine, knew every member of staff by the way they walked down the corridors of Saints, and by the time any schoolboy had spent a few months in the College, he knew most of them by their voice.

He lives on in the infinity and in the legacy of memory.

RIP Hovvy - As an infinite player you opened many eyes through your sense of Humanity.

P.P.S in the last 12 hours Our class WhatsApp group has been alive with stories of this man’s influence. Our school days were finite, and they were over a long time ago. What we learned about ourselves, our relationships together, and the world around us lives on.

The world is both finite and infinite – it just seems there is more significance in being an infinite player.