First, you master. Then, you transcend.

This is a progression familiar to spiritual mystics; to artists; to anyone who has spent time trying to grasp what creates “greatness.”

This is the story of Apple, Napoleon, Flannery O’Connor and NASA.

And this is an idea critical in all competition — especially sports.

The “transcendence” is the more glamorous half of the equation, and the part most of us associate with “greatness.”

Transcendence is Michael Jordan in the Flu Game; Bobby Fischer in the 1963 U.S. Championship; Ayrton Senna at Spain-1990.

Transcendence is the magical moment when a great player stops attacking their opponent and starts attacking the accepted understanding of what they are reasonably capable of. This is when the lens of history refocuses not on who will win, but on how the game is being played.

But greatness is not born solely in transcendence. Before you transcend, you must master.

Before you break the rules of what is possible, you have to understand more thoroughly and intricately than anyone else what is possible. This is the unsexy part of greatness, the reason why Rocky created the montage. Otherwise, the first two thirds of every sports movie would just be practice and practice and defeat and resolve and practice and practice and practice and practice and defeat and practice and practice. Our narrative-driven brains are bound to fixate on the “popcorn moment;” but in reality, you need both.

Master, then transcend.

Adam Lindgren is “Armada.” As of September 2019, he has retired and claims he will never play Melee competitively again. But Armada was the definition of “greatness” in the game; he achieved possibly the absolute highest level of “greatness” of any Melee player. And I believe his greatness typified this progression.

Master, then transcend.

This is Armada. This is the Greatest Player of All Time.

This is Sixty Frames. Here is Frame 3: