Mark Vancil, the author of Michael Jordan’s biography ‘Rare Air’ said that the difference between Michael and the rest, what set him apart, was that he was “always present.”

He never thought about failure. His mind never wandered to what might happen or how the score in a game might end up. If he missed a shot, even a vital one, it was instantly forgotten. He practised five hours a day, every day. Moments after he had lost the deciding game of the Eastern Conference finals in 1995 to Orlando, his trainer asked him when he would like to resume their daily workouts. “Tomorrow morning.”

His sole interest was in winning the championship. He did not think about anything else. Moment by moment, his preoccupation was to win. The afternoon of a deciding game seven in the NBA finals, his team-mates can be seen larking about in the changing room, listening to music, playing cards, chatting. Jordan is lying silent on a massage table, on his own, eyes closed, remote. Like a lion resting in the shade, conserving his energy for the hunt. In practice he was relentless.

“A bully,” said his famous team mate Steve Kerr, now the coach of the Golden State Warriors. “He couldn’t understand why everybody else wasn’t like him.” Once, during practice, he was goading Kerr to go harder, be better, trash talking and abusing him when eventually Kerr pushed him hard in the chest. Jordan flattened him with a heavy punch.

As Vancil puts it: “There are hundreds of great basketball players who can jump high, shoot great and run fast. The difference between all of them and Michael is that he is always present. That is the gift that sets him apart.”

When Disney contracted him during the off-season to make a blockbuster children’s movie called Space Jam, he insisted as part of his contract that they build him a full size basketball court beside the film lot. He would rise at 6am every morning, start filming at 7am, end at 5pm, then spend five hours on the court.

Roger Federer, believed by many to be the greatest tennis player that ever lived, said once that he was amazed when commentators said his play was “effortless.”

“Everyone can play well the first two hours. You’re fit, you’re fast, you’re clear… but after two hours, your legs get wobbly, your mind starts wandering, and your discipline starts to fade. Yes, talent matters. But most of the time, it’s not about having a gift. It’s about having grit. It’s about being present. Discipline is a talent. Trusting yourself is a talent that comes from very hard work.”

Federer is fond of reminding us that in his staggering career, he won only 54 per cent of all points he played.

“The only important thing is that when you’re playing a point, it is the most important thing in the world. But when it’s behind you, it’s behind you…This mindset is really crucial, because it frees you to fully commit to the next point…and the next one after that… with intensity, clarity and focus. This is the only thing that matters.”

When I heard him saying that I thought of a conversation I had once with Peter Canavan.

I said to Peter that it must have been a blessing to be naturally two footed. He said, “You must be joking.” “You were left footed?” “Right footed.” “You’re joking me.” He went on to tell me that his father had brought him to the 1984 Ulster final and when he saw Frank McGuigan scoring 11 points from play, with both feet, it changed his life.

“The next morning, I started kicking the ball with my left foot and only my left foot. Every spare minute, I kicked with my left foot. It took a couple of years, but by the time I was 15 it was hard to tell the difference.”

Lots of players are quick, two footed, very skilled. Most of them don’t have asthma, which Peter struggled with throughout his career. None of them had his gift of always been present, always being in the moment. None of them had his obsession with winning, that aura of displeasure that shrouded him, that inability to be satisfied.

I recall Owen Mulligan’s story about an All-Ireland quarter-final against Fermanagh, where Tyrone were winning by 18 points with a few minutes to go.

Mulligan said he was clean through with ‘Wee Pete’ at the far post waiting to palm the ball to the empty net. “I took pity on them and fisted it over the bar.”

Owen said he was sitting down in the changing room afterwards all smiles, when suddenly Peter was in his face, screaming at him. “What the f**k are you playing at? Do you think this is funny?” Mulligan said, “Jesus man, we were 18 points up.” Peter roared at him that Tyrone had suffered enough over the years.

By this time the changing room was silent, no one moving a muscle. “If the goal is on, give the ball,” roared Peter, ” Don’t ever f**king do that again.” Years later, Mulligan (laughing) says, “I never did it again.”

Tyrone would never have won the breakthrough All-Ireland without Canavan. Mickey Harte knew that, even playing him on one leg in that 2003 final, bringing him on and off and on again.

When Owen Mulligan had the chance to kick the winning free against Armagh in the epic 2005 semi-final, he twirled the ball in his hands, had a look then beckoned ‘Wee Peter’ over. You know the rest.

True winners are different. Their obsession is a gift. Their ability to be present is something in-built. We see this now with David Clifford, who would be disgusted if he weren’t entrusted with the winning chance, even if he had missed the previous six shots.

Like Canavan, his ego demands the success of his team.

As Michael Jordan famously said, “I’ve missed more than 9,000 shots in my career. I’ve lost almost 300 games.

“Twenty six times I’ve been trusted to take the game-winning shot and missed. I’ve failed over and over and over again in my life. And that is why I succeed.”

It’s a lot easier being ordinary.