Book - The inner game of tennis

What is the real game? It is a game in which the heart is entertained, the game in which you are entertained. It is the game you will win. - Maharaji

My review

This book is a very good book about mindfulness - for practical purposes. Might be even better than books that talk about mindfulness or focus as the main central subject.

Foreword by Pete Carrol, Football Coach

The game would be illustrated in a physical matchup of some of the greatest athletes. Whereas the game and the field would be highlighted by athletic prowess and memorable playmaking, a much more subtle battle would be waged in the minds of those very same players. The mental aspects contributing to this great physical performance would be crucial to the eventual outcome.

Tim Gallwey has referred to these contributing mental factors as the Inner Game. These athletes must successfully deal with the mind as they prepare to deliver top-flight performances. Coaches and athletes on all levels are confronted with this mental aspect regarding performance. They must clear their minds of all confusion and earn the ability to let themselves play freely.

There are benefits of performing with a quieted mind. If the principles of trust and focus as characteristics are cemented, that could also benefit teams.

The Inner Game is intrinsically connected to all facets of our program. The confidence necessary for performing at a championship level over long periods of time can only be developed on the practice field through repetition. Disciplined practice enables players to develop trust in our coaching and in themselves. They also gain the confidence that allows them the ability to focus, regardless of circumstances or surroundings.

Preface by Zach Kleinman, Coach: Sports and Life

According to Tim Galloway (the author of the book),

It’s not about the tennis. It’s not about the win or the loss; if we’re here to experience, then we are free.

Introduction

Every game is composed of two parts, an outer game and an inner game. The outer game is played against an external opponent to overcome external obstacles, and to reach an external goal.

It is the thesis of this book that neither mastery nor satisfaction can be found in the playing of any game without giving some attention to the relatively neglected skills of the inner game. This is the game that takes place in the mind of the player, and it is played against such obstacles as lapses in concentration, nervousness, self-doubt and self-condemnation. In short, it is played to overcome all habits of mind which inhibit excellence in performance.

And why does it take so long to break a bad habit and learn a new one? Victories in the inner game may provide no additions to the trophy case, but they bring valuable rewards which are more permanent and which can contribute significantly to one’s success, off the court as well as on.

The player of the inner game comes to value the art of relaxed concentration above all other skills; he discovers a true basis for self-confidence; and he learns that the secret to winning any game lies in not trying too hard. He aims at the kind of spontaneous performance which occurs only when the mind is calm and seems at one with the body, which finds its own surprising ways to surpass its own limits again and again. Moreover, while overcoming the common hang-ups of competition, the player of the inner game uncovers a will to win which unlocks all his energy and which is never discouraged by losing.

There is a far more natural and effective process for learning and doing almost anything than most of us realize. It is similar to the process we all used, but soon forgot, as we learned to walk and talk. It uses the intuitive capabilities of the mind and both the right and left hemispheres of the brain. This process doesn’t have to be learned; we already know it. All that is needed is to unlearn those habits which interfere with it and then to just let it happen.

To uncover and explore the potential within the human body is the quest of the Inner Game;

Reflections on the Mental Side of Tennis

The most common complaint of sportsmen ringing down the corridors of the ages is,

It’s not that I don’t know what to do, it’s that I don’t do what I know!

Other common complaints that come constantly to the attention of the tennis pro:

I play better in practice than during the match.

I know exactly what I’m doing wrong on my forehand, I just can’t seem to break the habit.

When I’m really trying hard to do the stroke the way it says to in the book, I flub the shot every time. When I concentrate on one thing I’m supposed to be doing, I forget something else.

Every time I get near match point against a good player, I get so nervous I lose my concentration.

I’m my own worst enemy; I usually beat myself.

But how can one be confident or develop the proper mental attitudes?

These questions are usually left unanswered. So there seems to be room for comment on the improvement of the mental processes which translate technical information about how to hit a ball into effective action. Without developing the inner skills, high performance is impossible.

The typical tennis lesson

I was beginning to learn what all good pros and students of tennis must learn: that images are better than words, showing better than telling, too much instruction worse than none, and that trying often produces negative results.

What’s wrong with trying? What does it mean to try too hard?

Playing out of your mind

Reflect on the state of mind of a player who is said to be hot or playing in the zone. Is he thinking about how he should hit each shot? Is he thinking at all? Listen to the phrases commonly used to describe a player at his best: He’s out of his mind; He’s playing over his head; He’s unconscious; He doesn’t know what he’s doing. The common factor in each of these descriptions is that some part of the mind is not so active.

Athletes in most sports use similar phrases, and the best of them know that their peak performance never comes when they’re thinking about it.

To play unconsciously does not mean to play without consciousness. That would be quite difficult! In fact, someone playing out of his mind is more aware of the ball, the court and, when necessary, his opponent. But he is not aware of giving himself a lot of instructions, thinking about how to hit the ball, how to correct past mistakes or how to repeat what he just did. He is conscious, but not thinking, not over-trying. A player in this state knows where he wants the ball to go, but he doesn’t have to try hard to send it there. It just seems to happen—and often with more accuracy than he could have hoped for. The player seems to be immersed in a flow of action which requires his energy, yet results in greater power and accuracy. The hot streak usually continues until he starts thinking about it and tries to maintain it; as soon as he attempts to exercise control, he loses it.

A better way to describe the player who is unconscious is by saying that his mind is so concentrated, so focused, that it is still. It becomes one with what the body is doing, and the unconscious or automatic functions are working without interference from thoughts. The concentrated mind has no room for thinking how well the body is doing, much less of the how-to’s of the doing. When a player is in this state, there is little to interfere with the full expression of his potential to perform, learn and enjoy.

The skill of mastering the art of effortless concentration is invaluable in whatever you set your mind to.

The Discovery of the Two Selves

Who was talking to whom? Who was scolding and who being scolded? I’m talking to myself, say most people. But just who is this I and who the myself?

Obviously, the I and the myself are separate entities or there would be no conversation, so one could say that within each player there are two selves. One, the I, seems to give instructions; the other, myself, seems to perform the action. Then I returns with an evaluation of the action. For clarity let’s call the teller Self 1 and the doer Self 2.

The first major postulate of the Inner Game: within each player the kind of relationship that exists between Self 1 and Self 2 is the prime factor in determining one’s ability to translate his knowledge of technique into effective action. In other words, the key to better tennis - or better anything - lies in improving the relationship between the conscious teller, Self 1, and the natural capabilities of Self 2.

The typical relationship between Self 1 and Self 2

Self 1 is ordering Self 2. It seems as though Self 1 thinks Self 2 doesn’t hear well, or has a short memory, or is stupid.

The truth is that Self 2, which includes the unconscious mind and nervous system, hears everything, never forgets anything, and is anything but stupid. After hitting the ball firmly once, it knows forever which muscles to contract to do it again. That’s its nature.

Self 1 is initiating unnecessary effort. It seems Self 1 doesn’t really trust Self 2 to do the job. This is the nub of the problem:

Self 1 does not trust Self 2, even though it embodies all the potential you have developed up to that moment and is far more competent to control the muscle system than Self 1.

Self 1 complains. By thinking too much and trying too hard, Self 1 has produced tension and muscle conflict in the body. He is responsible for the error, but he heaps the blame on Self 2 and then, by condemning it further, undermines his own confidence in Self 2. As a result the stroke grows worse and frustration builds.

Trying hard: A questionable virtue

We have been told since childhood that we’re never going to amount to anything unless we try hard.

We have to sense the difference between trying hard, the energy of Self 1, and effort, the energy used by Self 2, to do the work necessary. If Self 1 is fully occupied in watching the seams of the ball, Self 2 will be able to do its own thing unimpaired.

Getting it together mentally in tennis involves the learning of several internal skills:

1. learning how to get the clearest possible picture of your desired outcomes;
2. learning how to trust Self 2 to perform at its best and learn from both successes and failures; and
3. learning to see nonjudgmentally—that is, to see what is happening rather than merely noticing how well or how badly it is happening.

This overcomes trying too hard. All these skills are subsidiary to the master skill, without which nothing of value is ever achieved: the art of relaxed concentration.

Quieting Self 1

It is the constant thinking activity of Self 1, the ego-mind, which causes interference with the natural capabilities of Self 2. Harmony between the two selves exists when this mind is quiet and focused. Only then can peak performance be reached.

When a tennis player is in the zone, he’s not thinking about how, when or even where to hit the ball. He’s not trying to hit the ball, and after the shot he doesn’t think about how badly or how well he made contact. The ball seems to get hit through a process which doesn’t require thought. There may be an awareness of the sight, sound and feel of the ball, and even of the tactical situation, but the player just seems to know without thinking what to do.

As soon as we reflect, deliberate, and conceptualize, the original unconsciousness is lost and a thought interferes. … The arrow is off the string but does not fly straight to the target, nor does the target stand where it is. Calculation, which is miscalculation, sets in….

Man is a thinking reed but his great works are done when he is not calculating and thinking. Childlikeness has to be restored….

• D. T. Suzuki, a renowned Zen master, describes the effects of the ego-mind on archery in his foreword to the book Zen in the Art of Archery

Great poetry is born in silence. Great music and art are said to arise from the quiet depths of the unconscious, and true expressions of love are said to come from a source which lies beneath words and thoughts. So it is with the greatest efforts in sports; they come when the mind is as still as a glass lake.

Such moments have been called peak experiences by the humanistic psychologist Dr. Abraham Maslow. Researching the common characteristics of persons having such experiences, he reports the following descriptive phrases: He feels more integrated [the two selves are one], feels at one with the experience, is relatively egoless [quiet mind], feels at the peak of his powers, fully functioning, is in the groove, effortless, free of blocks, inhibitions, cautions, fears, doubts, controls, reservations, self-criticisms, brakes, he is spontaneous and more creative, is most here-now, is non-striving, non-needing, non-wishing … he just is.

When this happens on the tennis court, we are focused without trying to concentrate. We feel spontaneous and alert. We have an inner assurance that we can do what needs to be done, without having to try hard. We simply know the action will come, and when it does, we don’t feel like taking credit; rather, we feel fortunate, graced. As Suzuki says, we become childlike.

The image comes to my mind of the balanced movement of a cat stalking a bird. Effortlessly alert, he crouches, gathering his relaxed muscles for the spring. Not thinking about when to jump, nor how he will push off with his hind legs to attain the proper distance, his mind is still and perfectly concentrated on his prey. No thought flashes into his consciousness of the possibility or consequences of missing his mark. He sees only bird. Suddenly the bird takes off; at the same instant, the cat leaps. With perfect anticipation he intercepts his dinner two feet off the ground. Perfectly, thoughtlessly executed action, and afterward, no self-congratulations, just the reward inherent in his action: the bird in the mouth.

In rare moments, tennis players approach the unthinking spontaneity of the leopard. These moments seem to occur most frequently when players are volleying back and forth at the net. Often the exchange of shots at such short quarters is so rapid that action faster than thought is required. These moments are exhilarating, and the players are often amazed to find that they make perfect placements against shots they didn’t even expect to reach. Moving more quickly than they thought they could, they have no time to plan; the perfect shot just comes. And feeling that they didn’t execute the shot deliberately, they often call it luck; but if it happens repeatedly, one begins to trust oneself and feel a deep sense of confidence.

In short, getting it together requires slowing the mind. Quieting the mind means less thinking, calculating, judging, worrying, fearing, hoping, trying, regretting, controlling, jittering or distracting. The mind is still when it is totally here and now in perfect oneness with the action and the actor.

At this point the question naturally arises: How can I quiet Self 1 on the tennis court?

For most of us, quieting the mind is a gradual process involving the learning of several inner skills. These inner skills are really arts of forgetting mental habits acquired since we were children.

The first skill to learn is the art of letting go the human inclination to judge ourselves and our performance as either good or bad. Letting go of the judging process is a basic key to the Inner Game; When we unlearn how to be judgmental, it is possible to achieve spontaneous, focused play.

Bad effects of judgements by too much interference from Self 1

1. trying too hard
2. trying to control your shots
3. the process of thinking and self-conscious performance
4. tight muscles
5. rigid swings
6. awkward movements
7. gritted teeth
8. tense cheek muscles

Results:

1. mis-hit balls
2. a lot of frustration

Letting go of judgments

What is important to see here is that neither the goodness nor badness ascribed to the event by the players is an attribute of the shot itself. Rather, they are evaluations added to the event in the minds of the players according to their individual reactions.

What is judgment? It is the act of assigning a negative or positive value to an event. In effect it is saying that some events within your experience are good and you like them, and other events in your experience are bad and you don’t like them. You don’t like the sight of yourself hitting a ball into the net, but you judge as good the sight of your opponent being aced by your serve. Thus, judgments are our personal, ego reactions to the sights, sounds, feelings and thoughts within our experience.

What does this have to do with tennis? Well, it is the initial act of judgment which provokes a thinking process. First the player’s mind judges one of his shots as bad or good. If he judges it as bad, he begins thinking about what was wrong with it. Then he tells himself how to correct it. Then he tries hard, giving himself instructions as he does so. Obviously, the mind is anything but still and the body is tight with trying. If the shot is evaluated as good, Self 1 starts wondering how he hit such a good shot; then it tries to get his body to repeat the process by giving self-instructions, trying hard and so on. Both mental processes end in further evaluation, which perpetuates the process of thinking and self-conscious performance. As a consequence, the player’s muscles tighten when they need to be loose, strokes become awkward and less fluid, and negative evaluations are likely to continue with growing intensity.

What usually happens is that these self-judgments become self-fulfilling prophecies. That is, they are communications from Self 1 about Self 2 which, after being repeated often enough, become rigidified into expectations or even convictions about Self 2. Then Self 2 begins to live up to these expectations. If you tell yourself often enough that you are a poor server, a kind of hypnotic process takes place. It’s as if Self 2 is being given a role to play—the role of bad server—and plays it to the hilt, suppressing for the time being its true capabilities. Once the judgmental mind establishes a self-identity based on its negative judgments, the role-playing continues to hide the true potential of Self 2 until the hypnotic spell is broken. In short, you start to become what you think.

Be clear about this: letting go of judgments does not mean ignoring errors. It simply means seeing events as they are and not adding anything to them. Nonjudgmental awareness might observe that during a certain match you hit 50 percent of your first serves into the net. It doesn’t ignore the fact. It may accurately describe your serve on that day as erratic and seek to discover the causes. Judgment begins when the serve is labeled bad and causes interference with one’s playing when a reaction of anger, frustration or discouragement follows. If the judgment process could be stopped with the naming of the event as bad, and there were no further ego reactions, then the interference would be minimal. But judgmental labels usually lead to emotional reactions and then to tightness, trying too hard, self-condemnation, etc. This process can be slowed by using descriptive but nonjudgmental words to describe the events you see.

Judgment results in tightness, and tightness interferes with the fluidity required for accurate and quick movement. Relaxation produces smooth strokes and results from accepting your strokes as they are, even if erratic.

See Detatched interest

The first step is to see your strokes as they are. They must be perceived clearly. This can be done only when personal judgment is absent. As soon as a stroke is seen clearly and accepted as it is, a natural and speedy process of change begins.

Discovering natural learning

Usually, our minds are so absorbed in the process of judgment and trying to change bad strokes that we never perceive the stroke itself.

Just watch your game. Watch yourself closer than you I ever had before. Instead of seeing what is wrong with your backhand, just start observing, and improvement will happen on its own.

This is the wonderful process of natural learning.

The key that unlocks new backhand or any stroke - which is really there all the time, just waiting to be let out - is that, in the instant you stop trying to change your backhand, you see it as it is. At first, with the aid of the mirrors or cameras, directly experience your backswing. Without thinking or analyzing, increase your awareness of that part of your swing. When the mind is free of any thought or judgment, it is still and acts like a mirror. Then and only then can we know things as they are.

Awareness of what is

In the game of tennis there are two important things to know. The first is where the ball is. The second is where the racket head is. You simply watch the ball and let the proper response take place.

In the same way, you don’t have to think about where your racket head should be, but you should realize the importance of being aware of where the racket head is at all times. You can’t look at it to know where it is because you’re watching the ball. You must feel it. Feeling it gives you the knowledge of where it is. Knowing where it should be isn’t feeling where it is. Knowing what your racket didn’t do isn’t feeling where it is. Feeling where it is is knowing where it is.

The most beneficial first step is to see and feel what we are doing - that is, to increase our awareness of what actually is. But to see things as they are, we must take off our judgmental glasses, whether they’re dark or rose-tinted. This action unlocks a process of natural development which is as surprising as it is beautiful.

For example, suppose that a player complains that the timing on his forehand is off. Simply ask him to put his attention on where his racket head is at the moment the ball bounces on his side of the net. If his judgmental mind is engaged, he is likely to become a little nervous, since Self 1 likes to try to do things right and is nervous when he doesn’t know the rightness or wrongness of a particular action. So at once the player may ask where his racket should be when the ball is bouncing. But decline to say, asking him only to observe where his racket is at that moment.

After he hits a few balls, I ask him to tell me where his racket was at the moment in question. The typical reply is, I’m taking my racket back too late. I know what I’m doing wrong, but I can’t stop it. This is a common response of players of all sports, and is the cause of a great deal of frustration.

Forget about right and wrong for now. Just observe your racket at the moment of bounce.

Uncomfortable without a standard for right and wrong, the judgmental mind makes up standards of its own. Meanwhile, attention is taken off what is and placed on the process of trying to do things right. Even though he may be getting his racket back earlier and is hitting the ball more solidly, he is still in the dark about where his racket is. (If the player is left in this state, thinking that he has found the secret to his problem - that is, getting his racket back earlier - he will be momentarily pleased. He will go out eagerly to play and repeat to himself before hitting every forehand, Get it back early, get it back early, get it back early ... For a while, this magic phrase will seem to produce good results. But after a while, he will start missing again in spite of his self-reminder, will wonder what’s going wrong and will come back to the pro for another tip.)

So instead of stopping the process at the point where the player is judging positively, I again ask him to observe his racket and to tell me exactly where it is at the moment of bounce. As the player finally lets himself observe his racket with detachment and interest, he can feel what it is actually doing and his awareness increases. Then, without any effort to correct, he will discover that his swing has begun to develop a natural rhythm. In fact, he will find the best rhythm for himself, which may be slightly different from what might be dictated by some universal standard called correct. Then when he goes out to play, he has no magic phrase that must be repeated, and can focus without thinking.

What I have tried to illustrate is that there is a natural learning process which operates within everyone—if it is allowed to. To discover this natural learning process, it is necessary to let go of the old process of correcting faults; that is, it is necessary to let go of judgment and see what happens.

What about positive thinking?

The bad effects of negative thinking are frequently discussed these days. Books and articles advise readers to replace negative thinking with positive thinking. People are advised to stop telling themselves they are ugly, uncoordinated, unhappy or whatever, and to repeat to themselves that they are attractive, well coordinated and happy. The substituting of a kind of positive hypnotism for a previous habit of negative hypnotism may appear at least to have short-range benefits, but I have always found that the honeymoon ends all too soon.

Understand how Self 1 operates. Always looking for approval and wanting to avoid disapproval, this subtle ego-mind sees a compliment as a potential criticism. It reasons, If the pro is pleased with one kind of performance, he will be displeased by the opposite. If he likes me for doing well, he will dislike me for not doing well. The standard of good and bad had been established, and the inevitable result was divided concentration and ego-interference.

Clearly, positive and negative evaluations are relative to each other. It is impossible to judge one event as positive without seeing other events as not positive or as negative. There is no way to stop just the negative side of the judgmental process. To see your strokes as they are, there is no need to attribute goodness or badness to them. The same goes for the results of your strokes. You can notice exactly how far out a ball lands without labeling it a bad event. By ending judgment, you do not avoid seeing what is. Ending judgment means you neither add nor subtract from the facts before your eyes. Things appear as they are—undistorted. In this way, the mind becomes more calm.

But, protests Self 1, if I see my ball going out and I don’t evaluate it as bad, I won’t have any incentive to change it. If I don’t dislike what I’m doing wrong, how am I going to change it? Self 1, the ego-mind, wants to take responsibility for making things better. It wants the credit for playing an important role in things. It also worries and suffers a lot when things don’t go its way.

There is an alternative process: a process by which actions flow spontaneously and sensibly without an ego-mind on the scene chasing positives and trying to reform negatives.

Read this profound but deceptively simple story told me by a much respected friend of mine named Bill.

Three men in a car are driving down a city street early one morning. For the sake of analogy, suppose that each man represents a different kind of tennis player. The man sitting on the right is a positive thinker who believes that his game is great and is full of self-esteem because his tennis is so superior. He’s also a self-admitted playboy who enjoys all the pleasures life has to offer. The man sitting in the middle is a negative thinker who is constantly analyzing what is wrong with himself and the world. He is always involved in some kind of self-improvement program. The third man, who is driving, is in the process of letting go of judgmental thinking altogether. He plays the Inner Game, enjoying things as they are and doing what seems sensible.

The car pulls up at a stoplight, and crossing the street in front of the car is a beautiful young lady who catches the attention of all three men. Her beauty is particularly apparent as she is stark naked!

The man on the right becomes engrossed in thoughts of how nice it would be to be with this lady under other circumstances. His mind races through past memories and future fantasies of sensual pleasures.

The man sitting in the middle is seeing an example of modern decadence. He’s not sure that he should be looking closely at the girl. First miniskirts, he thinks, then topless dancers, then bottomless dancers, and now they’re out on the streets in broad daylight! Something must be done to stop all this!

The driver is seeing the same girl that the others are observing, but is simply watching what is before his eyes. He sees neither good nor bad, and as a result, a detail comes to his attention which was not noticed by either of his companions: the girl’s eyes are shut. He realizes that the lady is sleepwalking. Responding immediately with common sense, he asks the person next to him to take the wheel, steps out of the car, and puts his overcoat over the woman’s shoulders. He gently wakes her and explains to her that she must have been sleepwalking and offers to take her home.

My friend Bill used to end the story with a twinkle in his eye, saying, There he received the rewards of his action, leaving each listener to hear what he would.

THE FIRST INNER SKILL to be developed in the Inner Game is that of nonjudgmental awareness. When we unlearn judgment, we discover, usually with some surprise, that we don’t need the motivation of a reformer to change our bad habits. We may simply need to be more aware. There is a more natural process of learning and performing waiting to be discovered. It is waiting to show what it can do when allowed to operate without interference from the conscious strivings of the judgmental self. The discovery of and reliance upon this process is important.

But first, one balancing thought. It is important to remember that not all remarks are judgmental. Acknowledgment of one’s own or another’s strengths, efforts, accomplishments, etc., can facilitate natural learning, whereas judgments interfere. What is the difference? Acknowledgment of and respect for one’s capabilities support trust in Self 2. Self 1’s judgments, on the other hand, attempt to manipulate and undermine that trust.

Summary

The first step in bringing a greater harmony between ego-mind and body—that is, between Self 1 and Self 2—was to let go of self-judgment. Only when Self 1 stops sitting in judgment over Self 2 and its actions can he become aware of who and what Self 2 is and appreciate the processes by which it works. As this step occurs, trust is developed, and eventually the basic but elusive ingredient for all top performance emerges—self-confidence.

Trusting Self 2

Who and what is Self 2?

What is Self 2?

Respect Self 2. This amazing instrument is what we have the effrontery to call uncoordinated.

Reflect on the silent intelligence inherent in all Self 2 actions and our attitude of arrogance and mistrust will gradually change.

With it will dissolve the unnecessary self-instructions, criticisms and tendencies to overcontrol that tend to occupy the unfocused mind.

The tightening process

Let’s take a closer look at this tightening process, because it is a phenomenon which takes place in every athlete in every sport. Anatomy tells us that muscles are two-way mechanisms; that is, a given muscle is either relaxed or contracted. It can’t be partially contracted any more than a light switch can be partially off. The difference between holding our racket loosely or tightly is in the number of muscles which are contracted. How many and which muscles are actually needed to hit a fast serve? No one knows, but if the conscious mind thinks it does and tries to control those muscles, it will inevitably use muscles that aren’t needed. When more than necessary are used, not only is there a waste of energy, but certain tightened muscles interfere with the need of other muscles to relax. Thinking that it has to use a lot of muscle to hit as hard as it wants to, Self 1 will initiate the use of muscles in the shoulder, forearm, wrist and even face which will actually impede the force of the swing.

If you have a racket handy, hold it and try this experiment. (If you don’t have a racket, grab any movable object, or just grab the air with your hand.) Tighten up the muscles in your wrist and see how fast you can snap your racket. Then release the muscles in your wrist and see how fast it will snap. Clearly, a loose wrist is more flexible. When serving, power is generated, at least in part, by the flexible snap of the wrist. If you try to hit hard intentionally, you are likely to over-tighten the wrist muscles, slow down the snap of your wrist and thereby lose power. Furthermore, the entire stroke will be rigid, and balance will be difficult to maintain. This is how Self 1 interferes with the wisdom of the body. As you can imagine, a stiff-wristed serve will not meet the expectations of the server. Consequently he is likely to try even harder next time, tightening more muscles, and becoming more and more frustrated and exhausted—and, I might add, increasing the risk of tennis elbow.

Trust thyself

As long as Self 1 is either too ignorant or too proud to acknowledge the capabilities of Self 2, true self-confidence will be hard to come by. It is Self 1’s mistrust of Self 2 which causes both the interference called trying too hard and that of too much self-instruction. The first results in using too many muscles, the second in mental distraction and lack of concentration.

What does Trust thyself mean on the tennis court? Trusting your body in tennis means letting your body hit the ball. You trust in the competence of your body and its brain, and you let it swing the racket. Self 1 stays out of it.

See Detatched interest

Letting it happen is not making it happen. Don’t try to control it too much.

Often when we are rallying we trust our bodies and let it happen because the ego-mind tells itself that it doesn’t really count. But once the game begins, watch Self 1 take over; at the crucial point it starts to doubt whether Self 2 will perform well.

Why shouldn’t a beginning player treat his backhand as a loving mother would her child?

Let it happen

If your body knows how to hit a forehand, then just let it happen; if it doesn’t, then let it learn.

Self 2 learning process - natural learning

So the important thing for a beginning player to remember is to allow the natural learning process to take place and to forget about stroke-by-stroke self-instructions. The results will be surprising.

Communicating with Self 2

Communicating with Self 2

Summary

THE PRECEDING CHAPTERS PLACED HEAVY EMPHASIS ON THE IMPORTANCE of quieting the thinking mind by letting go of mental self-instructions, focusing attention and trusting the body to do what it is capable of doing. The purpose of these chapters was to lay the foundation for learning technique in a more natural and effective way.

Discovering Technique

Before introducing specific techniques of the various tennis strokes, I would like to make some general comments on the relationship between technical instructions and the Self 2 learning process.

To me it makes sense to build any system of instruction upon the best possible understanding of natural learning, the learning process you were born with. The less instruction interferes with the process of learning built into your very DNA, the more effective your progress is going to be. Said another way, the less fear and doubt are embedded in the instructional process, the easier it will be to take the natural steps of learning. One way to gain insight and trust in natural learning is to observe young children learning before they have been taught, or to observe animals in the act of teaching their young.

Once when I was walking through the San Diego Zoo, I had the chance to observe a mother hippopotamus giving her baby what looked to be its first swimming lesson. At the deep end of the pool one hippo was floating with just its nose above the surface. Soon it submerged and sank to the bottom, where it seemed to rest for about twenty seconds before pushing off with its hind legs and rising again to the surface. Then I watched a mother hippo, which had been nursing her baby in the sun, get up and begin to push it toward the pond with her snout. When the baby toppled in, it sank like a rock to the bottom and stayed there. Mother sauntered casually to the shallow end of the pool and waded in. About twenty seconds later she reached the baby and began to lift it upward with her nose, sending it toward the surface. There the young student gasped a breath and sank again. Once again the mother repeated the process, but this time moved off to the deeper end of the pool, somehow knowing that her role in the learning process was finished. The baby hippo inhaled on the surface and sank again to the bottom, but after some time, it pushed itself toward the surface with its own hind legs. Then the new skill was repeated again and again.

It seemed that the mother knew exactly how much it needed to “show,” when to encourage and when encouragement was no longer needed. It knew it could trust a great deal in the instinct of the child, once it was “jump-started.” Though I would not go so far as to say a topspin backhand is already imprinted within your genetic structure, I would say that the natural learning process is so encoded, and that we would do well to acknowledge and respect it. As either teacher or student we will be most ourselves and most effective only to the extent that we can be in harmony with it.

There is no substitute for learning from experience

How to make best use of technical instructions

How to watch the Pros?

Changing Habits

THE PREVIOUS CHAPTER MAY HAVE GIVEN YOU SOME IDEAS ABOUT changes you would like to make in your tennis strokes. The aim of this chapter is to summarize the Inner Game method of how to effect such changes so that they become a spontaneous part of your behavior. Tips are a dime a dozen, and there are good ones and bad ones. But what is more difficult to come by is a workable way to apply tips, to replace one pattern of behavior with a new one. It is in the process of changing habits that most players experience the greatest difficulty. When one learns how to change a habit, it is a relatively simple matter to learn which ones to change. Once you learn how to learn, you have only to discover what is worth learning.

Summarized below is what could be called a new way of learning. Actually, it is not new at all; it is the oldest and most natural way of learning—simply a method of forgetting the unnatural ways of learning that we have accumulated. Why is it so easy for a child to pick up a foreign language? Primarily because he hasn’t learned how to interfere with his own natural, untaught learning process. The Inner Game way of learning is a return toward this childlike way.

By the word “learning” I do not mean the collection of information, but the realization of something which actually changes one’s behavior—either external behavior, such as a tennis stroke, or internal behavior, such as a pattern of thought. We all develop characteristic patterns of acting and thinking, and each such pattern exists because it serves a function. The time for change comes when we realize that the same function could be served in a better way. Take the habit of rolling one’s racket over after hitting a forehand. This behavior is an attempt to keep the ball from going out, and it exists to produce the desired result. But when the player realizes that by the proper use of topspin the ball can be kept in the court without the risks of error involved in a roll-over follow-through, then the old habit is ready to be dropped.

It is much more difficult to break a habit when there is no adequate replacement for it. This difficulty often exists when we become moralistic about our tennis game. If a player reads in a book that it is wrong to roll his racket over, but is not offered a better way to keep the ball in the court, it will take a great deal of willpower to keep his racket flat when he’s worried about the ball flying out of the court. As soon as this player gets into a game, you can be sure that he will revert to the stroke that gave some sense of security that his ball would not sail out.

It is not helpful to condemn our present behavior patterns—in this case our present imperfect strokes—as “bad”; it is helpful to see what function these habits are serving, so that if we learn a better way to achieve the same end, we can do so. We never repeat any behavior which isn’t serving some function or purpose. It is difficult to become aware of the function of any pattern of behavior while we are in the process of blaming ourselves for having a “bad habit.” But when we stop trying to suppress or correct the habit,we can see the function it serves, and then an alternative pattern of behavior, which serves the same function better, emerges quite effortlessly.

Habits - Making a change in stroke

Learning - The usual way vs The Inner Game way

Concentration: Learning to Focus

UP TO THIS POINT WE HAVE BEEN DISCUSSING THE ART OF LETTING go of Self 1 control and letting Self 2 play the game spontaneously. The primary emphasis has been on giving practical examples of the value of letting go of self-judging, thinking too much, trying too hard—all forms of overcontrol. But even if the reader is wholly convinced of the value of thus quieting Self 1, it may not be found to come easily. My experience over the years is that the best way to quiet the mind is not by telling it to shut up, or by arguing with it, or criticizing it for criticizing you. Fighting the mind does not work. What works best is learning to focus it. Learning to focus is the subject of this chapter and to whatever extent we learn this primary art, it can benefit us in most anything we do.

Strangely, even when one has experienced the practical benefit of a still mind, we continue to find it an elusive state. In spite of the fact that I deliver my most effective performance when I permit the spontaneous Self 2 to be in control, there is still a recurring impulse to think about how I did it, make a formula out of it and thus to bring it into Self 1’s domain where it can feel in control. Sometimes I recognize this impulse as the persistent Self 1 wanting to gain credit, to be something it really isn’t, and in the process spawning an endless flow of distracting thoughts that distort both perception and response.

There was a time at the beginning of my exploration of the Inner Game that I found myself able to let go of almost all conscious effort on my serve and as a result the serve just seemed to serve itself with rare consistency and power. For a period of about two weeks 90 percent of my first serves went in; I didn’t serve a single double fault. Then one day my roommate, another professional, challenged me to a match. I accepted, saying half jokingly, “But you better watch out, I’ve found the secret to the serve.” The next day we played and I served two double faults the first game! The moment I tried to apply some “secret,” Self 1 was back in the picture again, this time under the subtle guise of “trying to let go.” Self 1 wanted to show off to my roommate; it wanted the credit. Even though I soon realized what had happened, the magic of the spontaneous, effortless serving didn’t return in its same pure form for some time.

In short, the problem of letting go of Self 1 and its interfering activities is not easy. A clear understanding of the problem can help, but practical demonstrations help more and practicing the process of letting go helps still more. Nevertheless, I do not believe that ultimately the mind can be controlled by the mere act of letting go—that is, by a simply passive process. To still the mind one must learn to put it somewhere. It cannot just be let go; it must be focused. If peak performance is a function of a still mind, then we are led to the question of where and how to focus it.

As one achieves focus, the mind quiets. As the mind is kept in the present, it becomes calm. Focus means keeping the mind now and here. Relaxed concentration is the supreme art because no art can be achieved without it, while with it, much can be achieved. One cannot reach the limit of one’s potential in tennis or any endeavor without learning it; what is even more compelling is that tennis can be a marvelous medium through which skill in focus of mind can be developed. By learning to focus while playing tennis, one develops a skill that can heighten performance in every other aspect of life.

To learn this art, practice is needed. And there is never a time or situation that you cannot practice, save perhaps sleep. In tennis the most convenient and practical object of focus is the ball itself. Probably the most often repeated dictum in tennis is “Watch the ball,” yet few players see it well. The instruction is an appeal for the player to simply “pay attention.” It does not mean to think about the ball, how easy or difficult this shot is to make, how I should swing my racket at it, or what Tom, Dick or Harry will think if I make the shot or miss it. The focused mind only picks up on those aspects of a situation that are needed to accomplish the task at hand. It is not distracted by other thoughts or external events, it is totally engrossed in whatever is relevant in the here and now.

The theory of concentration

Games People Play on the Court

THAT SOMETHING ELSE BESIDES TENNIS IS BEING PLAYED ON THE courts is obvious to the most casual observer. Regardless of whether he is watching the game at a country club, a public park or a private court, he will see players suffering everything from minor frustration to major exasperation. He will see the stomping of feet, shaking of fists, war dances, rituals, pleas, oaths and prayers; rackets are thrown against fences in anger, into the air for joy, or pounded against the concrete in disgust. Balls that are in will be called out, and vice versa. Linesmen are threatened, ball boys scolded and the integrity of friends questioned. On the faces of players you may observe, in quick succession, shame, pride, ecstasy and despair. Smug complacency gives way to high anxiety, cockiness to hangdog disappointment. Anger and aggression of varying intensity are expressed both openly and in disguised forms. If an observer was watching the game for the first time, it would be hard for him to believe that all this drama could be contained on a mere tennis court, between love-all and game, set and match.

There is no end to the variety of attitudes toward the game. Not only can the full spectrum of emotional response be observed on the court, but also a wide range in the motivations of its players. Some care only about winning. Some are amazingly tenacious about warding off defeat, but can’t win a match point if it’s offered to them. Many don’t care how they play, just as long as they look good, and some simply don’t care at all. Some cheat their opponents; others cheat themselves. Some are always bragging about how good they are; others constantly tell you how poorly they are playing. There are even a small handful who are out on the court simply for fun and exercise.

In his widely read book, Games People Play, Eric Berne described the subliminal games that lie beneath the surface of human interaction. He made it remarkably clear that what appears to be happening between people is only a small part of the story. The same seems to be true on the tennis court, and since, to play any game well, one must know as much as possible about it, I include here a brief guide to the games people play on the tennis court, followed by a brief account of my own search for a game worth playing. I suggest that this guide be read not as an exercise in self-analysis, but as a key to discovering how to have more fun while playing tennis. It’s difficult to have fun or to achieve concentration when your ego is engaged in what it thinks is a life-and-death struggle. Self 2 will never be allowed to express spontaneity and excellence when Self 1 is playing some heavy ulterior game involving its self-image. Yet as one recognizes the games of Self 1, a degree of freedom can be achieved. When it is, you can discriminate objectively and discover for yourself the game you think is really worth playing.

A brief explanation of the meaning of “game.” Every game involves at least one player, a goal, some obstacle between the player and his goal, a field (physical or mental) on which the game is played and a motive for playing.

In the guide below I have named three categories of games with their aims and motives for playing. I call these games Good-o, Friends-o and Health-o–Fun-o, and they are played both on and off the courts. Under each of these major categories are subgames, which have subaims and submotivations, and even each subgame has numerous variations. Moreover, most people play hybrid forms of two or three games at a time.

Main Game 1: Good-o GENERAL AIM: To Achieve Excellence GENERAL MOTIVE: To Prove Oneself “Good” SUBGAME A: Perfect-o THESIS: How good can I get? In Perfect-o, “good” is measured against a standard of performance. In golf, it is measured against par; in tennis, against self-conceived expectations or those of parents, coach or friends. AIM: Perfection; to reach the highest standard possible. MOTIVE: The desire to prove oneself. OBSTACLES: External: The never-closing gap between one’s idea of perfection and one’s apparent abilities. Internal: Self-criticism for not being as close to perfection as one would like, leading to discouragement, compulsively trying too hard and the self-doubt that made you think you had anything to prove in the first place. SUBGAME B: Compete-o THESIS: I’m better than you. Here, “good” is measured against the performance of other players rather than against a set standard. MAXIM: It’s not how well I play, but whether I win or lose that counts. AIM: To be the best; to win; to defeat all comers. MOTIVE: Desire to be at the top of the heap. Stems from need for admiration and control. OBSTACLES: External: There is always someone around who can beat you; the rising ability of the young. Internal: The mind’s preoccupation with comparing oneself with others, thus preventing spontaneous action; thoughts of inferiority alternating with superiority, depending on the competition; fear of defeat. SUBGAME C: Image-o THESIS: Look at me! “Good” is measured by appearance. Neither winning nor true competence is as important as style. AIM: To look good, flashy, strong, brilliant, smooth, graceful. MOTIVE: Desire for attention, praise. OBSTACLES: External: One can never look good enough. What looks good to one person does not look so good to another. Internal: Confusion about who one really is. Fear of not pleasing everyone and of imagined loneliness.

Main Game 2: Friends-o GENERAL AIM: To Make or Keep Friends GENERAL MOTIVE: Desire for Friendship SUBGAME A: Status-o THESIS: We play at the country club. It’s not so important how good you are as where you play and who plays with you. AIM: To maintain or improve social status. MOTIVE: Desire for the friendship of the prominent. OBSTACLES: External: The cost of keeping up with the Joneses. Internal: Fear of losing one’s social position. SUBGAME B: Togetherness-o THESIS: All my good friends play tennis. You play to be with your friends. To play too well would be a mistake. AIM: To meet or keep friends. MOTIVE: Desire for acceptance and friendship. OBSTACLES: External: Finding the time, the place and the friends. Internal: Fear of ostracism. SUBGAME C: Husband-o or Wife-o THESIS: My husband (or wife) is always playing, so … AIM: To see your spouse. MOTIVE: Loneliness. OBSTACLES: External: Becoming good enough for spouse to play with you. Internal: Doubts that loneliness can be overcome on the tennis court. (See also internal obstacles of Perfect-o.)

Main Game 3: Health-o–Fun-o GENERAL AIM: Mental or Physical Health or Pleasure GENERAL MOTIVE: Health and/or Fun SUBGAME A: Health-o THESIS: Played on doctor’s advice, or as part of self-initiated physical improvement or beautification program. AIM: Exercise, work up a sweat, relax the mind. MOTIVE: Health, vitality, desire for prolongation of youth. OBSTACLES: External: Finding someone of like motive to play with. Internal: Doubts that tennis is really helping. The temptation to be drawn into Perfect-o or Good-o. SUBGAME B: Fun-o THESIS: Played neither for winning nor to become “good,” but for fun alone. (A game rarely played in its pure form.) AIM: To have as much fun as possible. MOTIVE: The enjoyment, in expression of excellence. OBSTACLES: External: None. Internal: Being pulled into Self 1 games. SUBGAME C: Learn-o THESIS: Played out of Self 2’s desire to learn and grow. AIM: Evolve. MOTIVE: Enjoyment of learning. OBSTACLES: External: None. Internal: Tendency to be drawn into Self 1 games. These three subgames can all be played at once without interfering with each other. They are internally harmonious with Self 2’s innate desires.

THE COMPETITIVE ETHIC AND THE RISE OF GOOD-O

Many “serious” tennis players in our society, regardless of the reasons which they may think motivated them to take up the sport in the first place, end up playing one or another version of Good-o. Many start tennis as a weekend sport in the hope of getting exercise and a needed relief from the pressures of daily life, but they end by setting impossible standards of excellence for themselves and often become more frustrated and tense on the court than off it.

How can the quality of one’s tennis assume such importance that it causes anxiety, anger, depression and self-doubt? The answer seems to be deeply rooted in a basic pattern of our culture. We live in an achievement-oriented society where people tend to be measured by their competence in various endeavors. Even before we received praise or blame for our first report card, we were loved or ignored for how well we performed our very first actions. From this pattern, one basic message came across loud, clear and often: you are a good person and worthy of respect only if you do things successfully. Of course, the kind of things needed to be done well to deserve love varies from family to family, but the underlying equation between self-worth and performance has been nearly universal.

Now, that’s a pretty heavy equation, for it means that to some extent every achievement-oriented action becomes a criterion for defining one’s self-worth.

If someone plays bad golf, it comes somehow to mean that he is not quite as worthy of respect, his own or others’, as he would be if he played well. If he is the club champion, he is considered a winner, and thus a more valuable person in our society. It then follows that the intelligent, beautiful and competent tend to regard themselves as better people.

When love and respect depend on winning or doing well in a competitive society, it is inevitable (since every winner requires a loser and every top performance many inferior ones) that there will be many people who feel a lack of love and respect. Of course, these people will try hard to win the respect they lack, and the winners will try equally hard not to lose the respect they have won. In this light, it is not difficult to see why playing well has come to mean so much to us.

But who said that I am to be measured by how well I do things? In fact, who said that I should be measured at all? Who indeed? What is required to disengage oneself from this trap is a clear knowledge that the value of a human being cannot be measured by performance—or by any other arbitrary measurement. Do we really think the value of a human being is measurable? It doesn’t really make sense to measure ourselves in comparison with other immeasurable beings. In fact, we are what we are; we are not how well we happen to perform at a given moment. The grade on a report card may measure an ability in arithmetic, but it doesn’t measure the person’s value. Similarly, the score of a tennis match may be an indication of how well I performed or how hard I tried, but it does not define me, nor give me cause to consider myself as something more or less than I was before the match.

MY SEARCH FOR A GAME WORTH PLAYING

At about the age I was tall enough to see over the net, my father started me on tennis. I played the game more or less casually with my cousins and older sister until I was eleven, when I received my first tennis lesson from a new pro named John Gardiner at Pebble Beach, California. That same year, I played in my first tournament in the “under 11” division of the National Hardcourt Championships. The night before the match, I dreamed of the glory of being a dark-horse winner. My first match was a nervous but easy victory. My second, against the second-seeded player, ended in a 6–3, 6–4 defeat and with me sobbing bitterly. I had no idea why winning meant so much to me.

The next few summers I played tennis every day. I would wake myself at 7 A.M., make and eat my own breakfast in five minutes, then run miles to the Pebble Beach courts. I usually arrived a good hour before anyone else and would spend the time hitting forehands and backhands tirelessly against a backboard. During the day, I would play ten or fifteen sets, drill and take lessons, not stopping until there was no longer enough light to see the ball. Why? I really didn’t know. If someone had asked, I would have said that it was because I liked tennis. Though this was partially true, it was primarily because I was deeply involved in the game of Perfect-o. There was something I seemed to want badly to prove to myself. Winning was important to me in tournaments, but playing well was important day by day; I wanted to get better and better. My style was to think I would never win, and then to try to surprise myself and others. I was hard to beat, but I had an equally difficult time winning close matches. Though I hated losing, I didn’t really enjoy beating someone else; I found it slightly embarrassing. I was a tirelessly hard worker and never stopped trying to improve my strokes.

By the time I was fifteen I had won the National Hardcourt Championship in the boys’ division, and felt the rush of excitement at winning a major tournament. Earlier the same summer I went to the National Championships at Kalamazoo and lost in the quarterfinals to the seventh-seeded player 3–6, 6–0, 10–8. In the last set, I had been ahead 5–3, 40–15 on my serve. I was nervous but optimistic. In the first match point, I double-faulted in an attempt to serve an ace on my second serve. In the second, I missed the easiest put-away volley possible in front of a packed grandstand. For many years thereafter, I replayed that match point in countless dreams, and it is as vivid in my memory now as it was on that day twenty years ago. Why? What difference did it really make? It didn’t occur to me to ask.

By the time I entered college, I had given up the idea of proving my worth through the vehicle of championship tennis, and was happy to settle for being “a good amateur.” I put most of my energy into intellectual endeavors, sometimes grade-grubbing, sometimes a sincere search for Truth. From my sophomore year onward I played varsity tennis, and found that on days when I did poorly in my academic work, I would usually perform badly also on the tennis court. I would try hard to prove on the court what I had difficulty proving scholastically, but would usually find that lack of confidence in the one area tended to infect the other. Fortunately, the reverse was also true. During four years of collegiate play, I was almost always nervous when I walked onto a court to play a match. By the time I was a senior and had been elected captain of the team, I was of the intellectual opinion that competition really didn’t prove anything—but I was still tight before most matches.

After graduation I gave up competitive tennis for ten years and embarked on a career in education. While teaching English at Exeter Academy in New Hampshire, I realized that even the smartest of kids interfered significantly with their ability to learn and perform academically. Then, while a training officer on the U.S.S. Topeka, I saw how impoverished was our system of education and how backward our methods of training. When I got out of the Navy, I joined a group of idealists to found a liberal arts college in Northern Michigan. During its short five years of existence, I became more and more interested in learning how to learn and how to help others learn. I studied the work of Abraham Maslow and Carl Rogers in the late sixties, and studied learning theory at Claremont Graduate School, but did not really make a practical breakthrough in learning until, while on sabbatical from “education,” I taught tennis during the summer of 1970. I became interested in learning theory and, that summer, began to gain some insights into the learning process. Deciding to continue teaching tennis, I developed what came to be called the Inner Game—a way of learning that seemed to increase tremendously the learning rate of students. It also had a beneficial effect on my game. Learning a little about the art of concentration helped my game revive quickly, and soon I was consistently playing better than ever. After I became the club pro at the Meadowbrook Club in Seaside, California, I found that even though I didn’t have much time to work on my own strokes, by applying the principles I was teaching I could maintain a game which was seldom defeated by anyone in the local area.

One day, after playing particularly well against a very good player, I began wondering how I might fare in tournament competition. I felt confident of my game; still, I hadn’t played against ranked players. So I entered a tournament at the Berkeley Tennis Club in which top-ranking players were competing. On the appointed weekend, I drove to Berkeley with confidence, but by the time I arrived I had started to question my own ability. Everyone there seemed to be six foot five and to be carrying five or six rackets. I recognized many of the players from tennis magazines, but none of them seemed to recognize me. The atmosphere was very different from that of Meadowbrook, my little pond where I was chief frog. Suddenly I found my previous optimism turning to pessimism. I was doubting my game. Why? Had anything happened to it from the time I left my club three hours before?

My first match was against a player who literally was six foot five. Even though he carried only three rackets, as we each walked to a backcourt my knees felt a bit wobbly and my wrist didn’t seem as strong as usual. I tested it several times, tightening my hand on the handle of my racket. I wondered what would happen out on the court. But when we began to warm up, I soon saw that my opponent wasn’t nearly as good as I had imagined. Had I been giving him a lesson, I knew exactly what I would tell him, and I quickly categorized him as a “better-than-average club player” and felt better.

However, an hour later, with the score 4–1 in his favor in the second set, and having lost the first set 6–3, I began to realize that I was about to be beaten by a “better-than-average club player.” All during the match I had been on edge, missing easy shots and playing inconsistently. It seemed my concentration was off just enough so that I missed lines by inches and hit the top of the net with every other volley.

As it worked out, my opponent, on the verge of a clear victory, faltered. I don’t know what was happening inside his head, but he couldn’t finish me off. He lost the second set 7–5 and the next 6–1, but as I walked off the court, I had no sense that I had won the match—rather, that he had lost it.

I began thinking immediately of my next match against a player highly ranked in northern California. I knew that he was a more experienced tournament player than I and probably more skilled. I certainly didn’t want to play the way I had during the first round; it would be a rout. But my knees were still shaky, my mind didn’t seem able to focus clearly, and I was nervous. Finally, I sat down in seclusion to see if I could come to grips with myself. I began by asking myself, “What’s the worst that can happen?”

The answer was easy: “I could lose 6–0, 6–0.”

“Well, what if you did? What then?”

“Well… I’d be out of the tournament and go back to Meadowbrook. People would ask me how I did, and I would say that I lost in the second round to So-and-So.”

They’d say sympathetically, “Oh, he’s pretty tough. What was the score?” Then I would have to confess; love and love.

“What would happen next?” I asked myself.

“Well, word would quickly get around that I had been trounced up at Berkeley, but soon I’d start playing well again and before long life would be back to normal.”

I had tried to be as honest as I could about the worst possible results. They weren’t good, but neither were they unbearable—certainly not bad enough to get upset about. Then I asked myself, “What’s the best that could happen?”

Again the answer was clear: I could win 6–0, 6–0.

“Then what?”

“I’d have to play another match, and then another until I was beaten, which in a tournament like this was soon inevitable. Then I would return to my own club, report how I did, receive a few pats on the back, and soon all would again return to normal.”

Staying in the tournament another round or two didn’t seem overwhelmingly attractive, so I asked myself a final question: “Then what do you really want?”

The answer was quite unexpected. What I really wanted, I realized, was to overcome the nervousness that was preventing me from playing my best and enjoying myself. I wanted to overcome the inner obstacle that had plagued me for so much of my life. I wanted to win the inner game.

Having come to this realization, knowing what I really wanted, I walked toward my match with a new sense of enthusiasm. In the first game, I double-faulted three times and lost my serve, but from then on I felt a new certainty. It was as if a huge pressure had been relieved, and I was out there playing with all the energies at my command. As it worked out, I was never able to break my opponent’s spinning, left-handed serve, but I didn’t lose my own serve again until the last game in the second set. I had lost 6–4, 6–4, but I walked off the courts feeling that I had won. I had lost the external game, but had won the game I had wanted to, my own game, and I felt very happy. Indeed, when a friend came up to me after the match and asked how I’d done, I was tempted to say, “I won!”

For the first time I recognized the existence of the Inner Game, and its importance to me. I didn’t know what the rules of the game were, nor exactly what its aim was, but I did sense that it involved something more than winning a trophy.

The Meaning of Competition

1. The Meaning of Competition
2. The Meaning of Winning

The Inner Game Off the Court

UP TO THIS POINT WE HAVE BEEN EXPLORING THE INNER GAME AS IT applies to tennis. We began with the observation that many of our difficulties in tennis are mental in origin. As tennis players we tend to think too much before and during our shots; we try too hard to control our movements; and we are too concerned about the results of our actions and how they might reflect on our self-image. In short, we worry too much and don’t concentrate very well. To gain clarity on the mental problems in tennis we introduced the concept of Self 1 and Self 2. Self 1 was the name given to the conscious ego-mind which likes to tell Self 2, you and your potential, how to hit the tennis ball. The key to spontaneous, high-level tennis is in resolving the lack of harmony which usually exists between these two selves. This requires the learning of several inner skills, chiefly the art of letting go of self-judgments, letting Self 2 do the hitting, recognizing and trusting the natural learning process, and above all gaining some practical experience in the art of relaxed concentration.

At this point the concept of the Inner Game emerges. Not only can these inner skills have a remarkable effect on one’s forehand, backhand, serve and volley (the outer game of tennis), but they are valuable in themselves and have broad applicability to other aspects of life. When a player comes to recognize, for instance, that learning to focus may be more valuable to him than a backhand, he shifts from being primarily a player of the outer game to being a player of the Inner Game. Then, instead of learning focus to improve his tennis, he practices tennis to improve his focus. This represents a crucial shift in values from the outer to the inner. Only when this shift occurs within a player does he free himself of the anxieties and frustrations involved in being overly dependent on the results of the external game. Only then does he have the chance to go beyond the limitations inherent in the various ego trips of Self 1 and to reach a new awareness of his true potential. Competition then becomes an interesting device in which each player, by making his maximum effort to win, gives the other the opportunity he desires to reach new levels of self-awareness.

Thus, there are two games involved in tennis: one the outer game played against the obstacles presented by an external opponent and played for one or more external prizes; the other, the Inner Game, played against internal mental and emotional obstacles for the reward of knowledge and expression of one’s true potential. It should be recognized that both the inner and outer games go on simultaneously, so the choice is not which one to play, but which deserves priority.

Clearly, almost every human activity involves both the outer and inner games. There are always external obstacles between us and our external goals, whether we are seeking wealth, education, reputation, friendship, peace on earth or simply something to eat for dinner. And the inner obstacles are always there; the very mind we use in obtaining our external goals is easily distracted by its tendency to worry, regret or generally muddle the situation, thereby causing needless difficulties from within. It is helpful to realize that whereas our external goals are many and various and require the learning of many skills to achieve them, the inner obstacles come from only one source and the skills needed to overcome them remain constant. Until subdued, Self 1 is capable of producing fears, doubts and delusions wherever you are and whatever you are doing. Focus in tennis is fundamentally no different from the focus needed to perform any task or even to enjoy a symphony; learning to let go of the habit of judging yourself on the basis of your backhand is no different from forgetting the habit of judging your child or boss; and learning to welcome obstacles in competition automatically increases one’s ability to find advantage in all the difficulties one meets in the course of one’s life. Hence, every inner gain applies immediately and automatically to the full range of one’s activities. This is why it is worthwhile to pay some attention to the inner game.

Building Inner Stability

THE GOAL OF THE INNER GAME

Now we come to an interesting point, and the last one. We have talked about gaining more access to Self 2 and about getting out of our own way so that we could perform and learn better in whatever outer games we choose to play. Focus, trust, choice, nonjudgmental awareness were all recommended as tools for this end. But one question has not been raised. What does it mean to win the Inner Game?

A few years ago, I might have tried to answer this question. Now I choose not to—even though I think it is the most important question. Any attempt to define an answer to this question is an invitation to Self 1 to form a misconception. Self 1, in fact, has come a long way if it has gotten to the point where it can admit, and mean it, that it doesn’t know and never will. Then the individual has more of a chance to feel the need of his own being, to follow the inner thirst and to discover what is truly satisfying. That my Self 2 will be the only one who knows—that there will be no external credit or praise—is something I greet with relief.

LOOKING FORWARD

Sometimes I am asked about my vision for the future of the inner game. This game has been going on well before I was born and will go on well after I die. It is not for me to have a vision for it; it has its own vision. I feel fortunate enough to have the chance to witness and enjoy it.

Regarding the Inner Game with capital letters, i.e., the development and applications of the methods and principles articulated in the Inner Game books, I believe they will become more and more important during the next century. I honestly believe that during the past few hundred years, mankind has been so absorbed with overcoming external challenges that the essential need to focus on inner challenges has been neglected.

In sports, I would like to see teaching professionals of all sports become equally competent in both domains—able to guide the development of both the external and the inner skills of their students. As they do so, a greater dignity will come to their profession as well as to those who play sports.

I believe the areas of business, health, education and human relationships will evolve in the understanding of human development and the inner skills they require. We will become better learners and more independent thinkers. In short, I believe we are still just at the beginning of a profound and long-needed rebalancing process between outer and inner. This is not me-ism. It is a process of self-discovery that naturally makes its own contribution to the whole as we learn to make the basic contribution to ourselves.