Star. Veteran. Prankster. Fun. Crowd favourite. Team man. Brother. Life of the party. Legend.
These and other such epithets have been used, often, for a 36-year-old whose name will forever be associated with the Indian men’s hockey team breaking the voodoo, removing the shackles and throwing off the albatross of a 40-year medal drought at the Olympics. The irony of six seconds defining a 22-year-long career, with its fair share of ecstasy and agony, is not lost on P.R. Sreejesh.
“That’s just how life is, isn’t it? I have made better saves, played better games, won tougher matches and yet, my hockey career is, in a way, all about those six seconds in Tokyo. And the funny thing is, it shouldn’t even have been that way, we were definitely the better side on that day and should have won easily. And then I would have been just one in a team of 16. I still am, but that final save brought me front and centre. Makes you believe all the more in destiny, right,” he says with a shrug, settling down for a relaxed chat just before leaving for Paris.
Destiny. The word has been intricately entwined with the man from Kizhakkambalam village, Ernakulam, in Kerala. How else do you explain the lanky youngster moving to the G.V. Raja Sports School in Thiruvananthapuram at the age of 12, far from his family despite never having been separated even for a few hours until then? Or being advised, and agreeing, to try out hockey goalkeeping even though that is one event his State, a sporting powerhouse, never identified with? Or getting selected for junior national camps simply because he managed to impress at the school level because the rest of his team was too weak to challenge the stronger States and the goalkeeper happened to be the busiest player on the field?
The man behind the mask
Athletes are supposed to be all about their performance on the field, becoming idols to multitudes for their achievements. Yet, it’s the person off the field that often shapes and defines characters and sporting careers. Sreejesh, always ready with a smile and a selfie with fans, has managed to lock his struggles away from the spotlight. This time, he makes an exception, opening a tiny window into himself when asked why he wants to go to a fourth Olympics.
“When I first came into the national camp — the humiliation I faced, the rock bottom I hit on and off the turf — all that is like a fire inside that has never allowed me to sleep peacefully. That constant burning is the only thing that has pushed me hard every day, to keep getting better. Because after winning the bronze, I realised we are capable of doing better. A player gets satisfied once he achieves something but I think I haven’t got what I really want. I feel if we had only given that one percentage extra, we could have had a different medal. And that’s why I’m here. It’s one last chance for me to change that colour,” he explains.
It’s a rare insight into a man known for his sense of humour. Sreejesh has often spoken about his initial struggles, his lack of resources and the linguistic barrier, his hesitation to step up amidst stronger, more confident kids even in the national camp as a junior. What he hasn’t revealed is how much those early days continue to be a part of his present and drive his hunger for success. He says he’s ready, now, to open the floodgates.
“My first camp was in 2002, now it’s 2024 and nothing ever came easy. Tokyo did not happen overnight. I was a standby at the junior level, I sat on the bench as the second goalkeeper. Then I finally got a chance to play in the first 11. Then I got selected to the senior squad and I was a standby there. Then I went up to being the second goalkeeper. Then I got the main goalkeeper opportunity after several years.
Psychological hurdles: Sreejesh speaks movingly of the guilt goalkeepers experience after conceding and of how he has learnt to deal with it. | Photo credit: Murali Kumar K
“The hard work, the dedication, the humiliation, the sacrifices — not only me, my parents, my family. All that forces me to stay greedy because it’s not about me. It’s my parents, my kids. When they used to say you are never there with us. But now, when they see me winning medals, standing on the podium, they realise their daddy’s achieving something special, he’s doing something different from the normal fathers around them,” he reveals.
Watching, learning, growing
There is also an acknowledgement of knowing what you do and, more importantly, what you don’t, and the importance of biding your time. “You know, people say it’s tough to warm the bench but for me, it was not. The toughest period for me was when I became the main goalkeeper in the team. Because I always knew where I stood.
“I ended up in the national under-16 camp because I played the junior nationals and in Kerala, 65 of the 70 minutes the ball’s in your circle and you just keep saving and people feel the goalkeeper is great. At the camp my equipment was not good, I wore ragged clothes, I always stood at the back.
“I was lucky to have Adrian [D’Souza] by my side, he played the 2004 Olympics and came back to the junior team. He was superb and for me a role model and I started copying him in everything. One fine day he simply said, ‘Sree, if you copy me, you will become the next Adrian, you will never become Sreejesh P.R. You have to develop your own style.’ And that was my first big lesson, to be myself.
“In 2008, when I came to the senior camp, India had three top-class goalkeepers — Baljit Singh, Bharat Chhetri and Adrian — so I knew there was no place for me then. And so again I waited and I learnt from three of them, three different styles. I knew I needed to learn. And when Jose Brasa gave me a chance, I used that opportunity.
“Then in 2012, there was big drama because the entire world was taking only one goalkeeper to London but Michael Nobbs chose to take two, giving me my first Olympic outing. Chhetri dropped out after that, I became the No. 1 goalkeeper and there was nobody to push me and that was my first big challenge. All my life, I sat outside, watched and learnt. But then I was told, a goalkeeper can decide the outcome of a match and I feel we should not lose because of me. That has stayed with me always,” he explains.
The mental challenges
The happy-go-lucky persona also hides the several battles he has fought, physically and mentally, even after becoming the country’s No. 1 goalkeeper. There have been times he has come close to quitting, unable and unwilling to handle the failures, racked with guilt every time the team lost.
“I keep challenging myself. I have no idea of the number of broken bones in my body, many of them permanently deformed. My injury in 2017 [at Azlan Shah] was the big one, I was out for almost eight months after surgery and the youngsters — Akash Chikte and Suraj Karkera — were doing good, [Krishan] Pathak was coming into the scene. That was the first time I thought of retirement, but I wanted to wear that India jersey just once more. And that drove me.
“But 2018 was not good. I was the best goalkeeper at the Asian Games but we couldn’t get into the final and lost in the quarterfinals at the World Cup, my father went through heart surgery and there was a lot of drama going on. I spoke to a lot of seniors and I was thinking of retiring from international hockey because of the pressure. I wouldn’t say it was depression — more like taking all the blame and having too much guilt for everything going wrong.
“There were people who suggested I was letting my team down. That time was really bad and my family sensed I didn’t want to do that anymore. And then we got a two-month break, I spent time at home, blocked everything and everyone else. That helped me decide to give it one more try,” he pours out.
To hear a livewire like him talk about depression and guilt — something most Indians are still wary of admitting — is revealing. He has found strength and calmness in his books — he proudly declares that every time the team flies, he pays for extra baggage because of all the books he always carries. But there were those, too, who stood by him in those times. And Sreejesh is thankful to them, among them former Dutch goalkeeper Jaap Stockmann, whom he calls his ‘guardian angel’.
At ease with himself: Sreejesh is as comfortable in a suit on the red carpet as he is in a mundu walking barefoot through his farms. | Photo credit: Getty Images
“At Tokyo, I was texting him every time, ‘I need your help’. At Rio, we had lost in the quarters so I wanted to know how to keep myself up. Semifinals was really new to me and then the bronze medal match was an absolutely new thing. I kept asking him, ‘What should I do? What do I focus on?’ He always reminds me, ‘It’s your game. Don’t worry, don’t overthink, just focus on basics, don’t think of negative talk when you concede.
“You know, we goalkeepers have a psychological block different from others because the guilt we feel after conceding, especially in a lost match, is huge. We sit separately, think differently and keep assuming that the rest of the team is always talking about our mistakes. But he forced me to sit and talk to others, be a part of the team. It wouldn’t be wrong to say that I took his experience with me to Tokyo. And even after that, I was thinking of giving up when he messaged, ‘Why? Has anyone told you to? Has the federation or the coach said you are not fit enough? How will you know until you try?’ I think that one message has kept pushing me until now.”
The past, however, is never too far from the surface and it comes up every time he talks about his family — his parents who know nothing about hockey but never had second thoughts over doing what made their son happy; his kids who would sleep in the car every night before he had to leave for another camp to try and keep him, leaving him heartbroken to move them gently; and his wife, who has managed to keep it all together, allowing him to focus on the game.
“We talk about it every time. How my father got me a new passport in one day for my first camp. The journey to my first school, how I cried there, how I joined hockey and became goalkeeper, how I got my first game, played the nationals, got into the national camp and was made fun of because of my hand-stitched jersey and pads and complained to my parents who sold our cow to get me a new kit. I got my first India jersey in 2004 and how we kept looking at it, my father wore it, my brother wore it.
“How they came to see me in Delhi during the 2010 World Cup but by the time they came, I was injured. My mother remembers how, as farmers, we never had to skip a meal but in monetary terms, we struggled to get even ₹10. And now, when I look back at all this, we have a laugh at it all. But I don’t regret anything. If you ask me whether I want to change anything in my past, no I don’t — not the injuries, not the downfall, not the matches we lost at London 2012. Because everything taught me something, helped me to be what I am today.”
What he is, is a legend in a sport that is still largely non-existent in his home State. An icon who today proudly lives in a house that stands on a road that bears his own name — Olympian P.R. Sreejesh Road. A testament to his growth into someone who, from not knowing anything other than Malayalam, can now converse in multiple languages and is as comfortable chairing the FIH Athletes’ Committee and flaunting the biggest of brands as he is in a mundu walking barefoot through his farms.
When greed is good
The years have also given him the confidence to declare what every successful sportsperson believes but, at least in India, wraps up in a coat of humility — athletes are selfish people. “Oh yes, I am a very selfish, greedy player. Every athlete is, it’s just that the greed is different for different people. We hockey players are not rich in terms of bank balance. We are rich with our performances, the medals which we get. It’s not the luxury that tempts us, or the rewards that come after winning medals. It’s the respect you get when people come up to you and say you inspire them, the pride you feel when somebody asks you what you do and you tell them, you play hockey for the country, you are an Olympic medallist. That I want more all the time,” he declares.
So, what happens if that elusive medal doesn’t come at Paris? Will he keep pushing his body and mind, give in to his greed, even though he has declared the end of his international journey, this time for real? “There will always be the next tournament, the ACT, then the Pro League, the HIL, then next season. No. I’m done.”
