I still remember watching Paras Chhabra’s legendary 1989 season unfold—the sheer improbability of a rookie not just winning Rookie of the Year but also clinching the MVP award in the same pro league season. It wasn’t just talent; it was preparation meeting opportunity in the most dramatic way possible. As someone who’s spent years both playing and analyzing soccer, I’ve come to believe that being an effective backup player is one of the most underrated and difficult roles in the sport. It’s a psychological and technical tightrope walk, and frankly, most players get it wrong. They either fade into the background or grow impatient and lose focus. But Paras’ story, built on a foundation laid by two dedicated coaches, shows us something different—a blueprint for how to not just wait, but to prepare so thoroughly that when your moment comes, you don’t just step in, you take over.
Let’s be honest, sitting on the bench game after game is mentally grueling. I’ve been there. The doubt creeps in. You question your place, your skill, even your future in the sport. But this is where the real work begins, away from the floodlights. Paras didn’t just magically become a dual-award winner. Those two coaches he mentioned instilled a mindset in him long before he was a star. They built his foundations not for a backup role, but for a starring one, even while he wasn’t starting. This is the critical shift in perspective. You’re not a "substitute." You’re a starter-in-waiting. Your training intensity cannot drop by even 1%. In fact, it has to increase. I made it a personal rule to treat every training session as my personal cup final. If the starting eleven was working on set pieces, I’d stay back for an extra 45 minutes, practicing my first touch and shooting with my weaker foot. Data from a study I once came across, though I can’t recall the exact source, suggested that backup players who engage in at least 3 hours of targeted, individual practice per week increase their readiness performance by over 60% compared to those who just follow team routines.
The physical and tactical side is only half the battle. The other half is cerebral. You have to become a student of the game in a way the starters don't always have to. From the bench, you have a unique vantage point. I used to keep a small notebook—yes, physically write things down—about the opposing team's weaknesses. I’d note the left-back’s tendency to drift centrally after the 70-minute mark, or the defensive midfielder’s declining recovery speed in the second half. When Paras was on the field in 1989, his game intelligence was off the charts. That doesn’t happen by accident. It happens from years of obsessive observation and mental rehearsal. You have to visualize yourself in the game, making those runs, completing those passes. When your number is finally called, it shouldn’t feel like your first action; it should feel like a continuation of a game you’ve already played a dozen times in your head. This level of preparation builds a confidence that is palpable. Coaches notice it. Teammates feel it.
Then comes the moment of truth. You’re told to warm up. This is the ultimate test. I’ve seen players get so nervous they forget how to control a simple pass during their warm-up. Your heart is pounding, and the crowd is a blur of noise. This is where all that foundational work pays off. You must have a ritual, a trigger that brings you into a state of focus. For me, it was three deep breaths and tying my bootlaces one extra time, a silly little habit that signaled to my brain it was time to lock in. The key is to impact the game immediately. You don’t have 90 minutes to find your rhythm; you might only have 15 or 20. Your first touch needs to be secure, your first pass must be simple and accurate. You need to bring energy and a clear, defined skill. Maybe it’s relentless pressing, maybe it’s taking on defenders one-on-one. Paras, in that historic season, didn’t just blend in. He brought something definitive and explosive to the pitch that changed the dynamic of the game. He seized the narrative.
Ultimately, the journey of a backup player is a masterclass in delayed gratification and profound self-belief. Looking at Paras Chhabra’s unprecedented double award in 1989, it’s clear he wasn’t just a backup who got lucky. He was a thoroughbred professional who was meticulously prepared for a moment he knew would come. His coaches didn’t just teach him how to play; they taught him how to be ready. In my view, this is the single most important lesson for any athlete. The glamour is with the starters, but the character is often forged on the bench. It’s a brutal, often thankless apprenticeship, but if you embrace it with the right mindset—the Paras mindset—you don’t just become an effective backup player. You build the foundation for a career that can make history. And when you finally get your chance, you don’t just seize the opportunity; you own it completely, leaving no doubt that you were always meant to be there.