The Speech I Didn't Prepare

Friday evening. I’m seated in the front row at Jagran Lakecity University in Bhopal, invited as the Chief Guest for their 13th Foundation Day.

To my left: the Founder-Chancellor and his family.

To my right: HMG head of sport Aman Solanki 

Behind us: rows upon rows of students, parents, and guests.

On stage, speeches are underway. Applause comes and goes.

And me?

I’m not listening.

My mind is doing something far louder.

It’s racing.

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Two thoughts are battling it out in my head.

First: mild irritation at my former student, now friend, Aman Solanki.

“You couldn’t have warned me this was a big stage? That I might have to actually prepare something?”

Second:

“What on earth am I going to say when they call my name?”

Because here’s the truth, I didn’t come with a prepared speech. Not even a rough outline. Just vibes… which, at that moment, were not helping.

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Time starts behaving strangely in these situations.

Every minute feels both rushed and stretched.

You’re aware that your turn is coming… but also praying that somehow it gets delayed.

Thankfully, this is India, where some speeches run reliably long. What should have been a 20-minute wait turned into almost 45. A small gift. Extra time to think. Or, more accurately, extra time to panic productively.

Phrases start floating through my head like uninvited guests:

“Scarcity breeds creativity.”

“Necessity is the mother of invention.”

“Desperate times call for desperate measures.”

At that moment, all of them felt less like wisdom and more like pressure.

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What wasn’t helping my anxiety was the warmth.

Because in India, when you’re invited as a “special guest,” you’re not just welcomed, you’re celebrated.

From the moment I arrived, there was generosity, respect, gratitude… the kind that makes you feel like you’ve already achieved something extraordinary.

I had felt something similar during a recent visit to National Sports University in Imphal (see The Currency of Time posted April 6, 2026). The same heartfelt reception. The same unspoken expectation.

And that’s the thing.

When people give you that much respect… you feel an obligation to rise to it.

To not disappoint.

To deliver something meaningful in the few minutes you’re given.

Cue: rising blood pressure.

Cue: imposter syndrome making a dramatic entrance.

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Meanwhile, the Vice Chancellor is on stage, sharing the university’s achievements over the past year.

And somewhere between his words and my wandering mind, something shifts.

I begin to settle.

Not fully calm, but grounded enough to observe.

I look around the campus. There’s something about educational institutions that always stirs something in me. A sense of possibility. Of becoming.

Then my eyes drift to Aman.

And suddenly, I’m not anxious. I’m proud.

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I think back to 2018.

Mumbai.

A young Aman walks up to me after a talk I had delivered on careers in sport.

Fast forward a few years…

After graduating from the sports management institute I helped build, he goes on to create the HMG Centre of Sports Excellence, now a hub for sport in Madhya Pradesh.

In just a few years, he has:

• Built and run professional teams 

• Created academies 

• Led infrastructure development across cities 

• Played a key role in shaping sports programs in schools like Shrewsbury International 

• Nurtured champions 

I’m sitting there, watching him… and thinking:

This is what it’s all about.

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And then it clicks.

Not gradually.

Not gently.

But all at once.

Like connecting dots on a wall.

Like finally fitting two stubborn puzzle pieces together.

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Sport and education.

That’s it.

That’s the thread.

That’s my story.

That’s the speech.

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From age 4 to 16, sport was everything.

It shaped my days, my friendships, my identity.

Then came the realization, I wasn’t going to make it as a professional athlete.

So I turned to education. Not as a backup… but as a bridge.

A way to stay connected to sport. An attempt to learn how to help others do the same. 

That journey led me through university, then an MBA in sports management, and eventually to Major League Soccer in 2003.

For years, I was back in sport, building programs, partnerships, platforms.

Until I hit another wall.

Public speaking.

Ironically, a big part of my job.

And I wasn’t good at it.

So once again I turned to education.

This time at New York University, enrolling in a public speaking course.

That decision changed everything.

Confidence grew. Clarity improved. Opportunities expanded.

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Then came India, in 2009.

Back into sport.

Traveling. Building. Creating.

Until… another roadblock.

Around 2017, I found myself asking a difficult question:

Am I actually making a meaningful impact?

Because in a country like India, passion alone isn’t enough.

And I realized something deeper:

The challenge wasn’t just infrastructure or funding or talent.

It was people.

A lack of trained, qualified professionals to build and sustain the sports ecosystem.

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So, once again I turned to education.

This time, not as a student.

But as a builder.

That journey led to the creation of the Global Institute of Sports Business in Mumbai in 2018.

The mission was simple:

Develop the next generation of sports industry leaders in India.

Equip them with knowledge, networks, and skills to grow sport sustainably and ethically.

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And sitting there in Bhopal…

Watching Aman…

I realized:

This wasn’t theory anymore.

This was proof.

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Sport → Education → Sport → Education.

A rhythm that had shaped my life.

First, I fell in love with sport.

Then I used education to stay connected to it.

Then I returned to sport to build.

Then I created education pathways for others to do the same.

And Aman was living that cycle beautifully.

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Just as the structure of the talk settles in my mind…

I hear it.

My name.

There’s a brief moment where everything goes quiet.

I stand up.

Walk to the stage.

Say a short prayer.

Take a deep breath.

And begin.

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Something interesting happens when you speak from a place that feels true.

The words don’t feel forced.

They don’t feel rehearsed.

They just… flow.

Was it exactly as I had imagined in my head?

Probably not.

But it was honest.

And it was enough.

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After the speech, I receive kind words from the Founder-Chancellor and other dignitaries.

But more than that…

I feel relief.

Gratitude.

And a quiet sense that I had done justice, not just to the moment, but to the people who had welcomed me with such warmth.

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Because in the end…

That’s what it’s really about.

Not a perfect speech.

But an honest one.

And maybe, just maybe…

One that connects a few more dots for someone else sitting in the audience.