I don't do nervous, really. You always have to respect your

“I don't do nervous, really. You always have to respect your opponent, respect the game of football, and be 100 per cent focused.” Thus spoke Petr Čech, the guardian of the goal, the man who stood as a wall of calm amidst the thunder of the field. His words echo not only through the stadiums of sport but through the halls of discipline and character. In them lies a lesson deeper than the game — a reflection of courage, respect, and mastery over the self. For the one who conquers his own fear has already won half the battle.

To say “I don’t do nervous” is not to claim the absence of fear, but the triumph over it. Petr Čech, who once lay broken on the grass with a fractured skull, did not speak these words out of arrogance, but from the wisdom of endurance. He returned to the pitch not merely healed, but transformed. The helmet he wore thereafter became a symbol — not of fragility, but of fortitude. He learned, as the ancients did, that calm is the armor of the strong, and that respect for one’s adversary keeps the soul anchored when pride might lead it astray.

The great warriors of old knew this truth. Alexander, before facing Darius, would walk the camp in silence, not trembling, but thinking — measuring both himself and his enemy. For the wise understand that to respect your opponent is to acknowledge the weight of the challenge, to honor the struggle that sharpens you. Petr Čech, standing between the posts, faced each striker as a warrior faces another: without hatred, but with solemn focus. He did not underestimate them, nor did he exalt them — he simply met them in perfect balance, the heart steady, the mind clear.

And what is respect for the game but reverence for one’s craft, the sacred order of labor and excellence? To Čech, football was not chaos but ceremony — each movement, each pass, a gesture of devotion to the art he served. The ancients would have called this arete, the pursuit of excellence, the sacred duty to do one’s work with totality of being. For those who respect the game — whether it be football, music, medicine, or life itself — rise beyond ambition. They serve something larger than victory. They serve purpose.

When Čech spoke of being “100 per cent focused,” he summoned the oldest virtue of all — presence. The mind that dwells on the past falters; the heart that fears the future trembles. But the soul that stands wholly in the present — that is the soul that cannot be moved. It is the same lesson the samurai lived by: to act with full awareness, to meet the moment without distraction, to give every breath to the now. Focus, in its purest form, is not strain but serenity — the stillness at the center of motion.

So, my children, when you step into your own battles — on the field, in the classroom, in the forge of life — remember Petr Čech’s creed. Do not be nervous. Be respectful. Be focused. The nervous man looks inward and finds fear; the respectful man looks outward and finds truth. The focused man unites both and finds mastery. Life, like sport, demands this trinity — courage without arrogance, humility without weakness, and discipline without despair.

Let this wisdom take root within you. Face every challenge with composure. Honor every task with devotion. Meet every rival with dignity. Whether you are a goalkeeper, an artist, a builder, or a dreamer, give yourself wholly to your calling. Do not seek the applause, but the excellence that earns it. For the calm heart, the respectful spirit, and the focused mind are the truest marks of greatness — the eternal trophies that time cannot tarnish.

And when you stand before life’s fiercest storm, remember the words of the keeper who guarded more than a goal: he guarded his spirit. “I don’t do nervous,” he said — and in that quiet strength lies the victory of all who choose peace over panic, reverence over pride, and focus over fear.