The Meaning of Competition
(from The Inner Game of Tennis)
IN CONTEMPORARY WESTERN CULTURE THERE IS A GREAT DEAL OF controversy about competition. One segment values it highly, believing that it is responsible for Western progress and prosperity. Another segment says that competition is bad; that it pits one person against another and is therefore divisive; that it leads to enmity between people and therefore to a lack of cooperation and eventual ineffectualness.
Those who value competition believe in sports such as football, baseball, tennis and golf. Those who see competition as a form of legalized hostility tend to favor such noncompetitive forms of recreation as surfing, Frisbee or jogging. If they do play tennis or golf, they insist on doing it “noncompetitively.” Their maxim is that cooperation is better than competition.
Those who argue against the value of competition have plenty of ammunition.
There is a wealth of evidence showing how frenzied people tend to become in competitive situations.
It is true that,
for many, competition is merely an arena for venting aggression; it is taken as a proving ground for establishing who is the stronger, tougher or smarter.
Each imagines that by beating the other he has in some way established his superiority over him, not just in a game, but as a person. What is seldom recognized is that
the need to prove yourself is based on insecurity and self-doubt. Only to the extent that one is unsure about who and what he is does he need to prove himself to himself or to others.
It is when competition is thus used as a means of creating a self-image relative to others that the worst in a person tends to come out; then the ordinary fears and frustrations become greatly exaggerated.
If I am secretly afraid that playing badly or losing the match may be taken to mean that I am less of a man, naturally I am going to be more upset with myself for missing shots. And, of course, this very uptightness will make it more difficult for me to perform at my highest levels.
There would be no problem with competition if one’s self-image were not at stake.
I have taught many children and teenagers who were
caught up in the belief that their self-worth depended on how well they performed at tennis and other skills.
For them, playing well and winning are often life-and-death issues. They are constantly measuring themselves in comparison with their friends by using their skill at tennis as one of the measuring rods.
It is as if some believe that only by being the best, only by being a winner, will they be eligible for the love and respect they seek.
Many parents foster this belief in their children. Yet, in the process of learning to measure our value according to our abilities and achievements, the true and measureless value of each individual is ignored.
Children who have been taught to measure themselves in this way often become adults driven by a compulsion to succeed which overshadows all else. The tragedy of this belief is not that they will fail to find the success they seek, but that they will not discover the love or even the self-respect they were led to believe will come with it.
Furthermore,in their single-minded pursuit of measurable success, the development of many other human potentialities is sadly neglected. Some never find the time or inclination to appreciate the beauties of nature, to express their deepest feelings and thoughts to a loved one, or to wonder about the ultimate purpose of their existence.
But whereas some seem to get trapped in the compulsion to succeed, others take a rebellious stance. Pointing to the blatant cruelties and limitations involved in a cultural pattern which tends to value only the winner and ignore even the positive qualities of the mediocre, they vehemently criticize competition.
Among the most vocal are youth who have suffered under competitive pressures imposed on them by parents or society. Teaching these young people, I often observe in them a desire to fail.
They seem to seek failure by making no effort to win or achieve success.
They go on strike, as it were. By not trying, they always have an alibi: “I may have lost, but it doesn’t count because I really didn’t try.” What is not usually admitted is the belief that if they had really tried and lost, then yes, that would count. Such a loss would be a measure of their worth. Clearly this belief is the same as that of the competitor trying to prove himself. Both are Self 1 ego trips;
both are based on the mistaken assumption that one’s sense of self-respect rides on how well he performs in relation to others. Both show fear of not measuring up. Only as this fundamental and often nagging fear begins to dissolve can we discover a new meaning in competition.
My own attitude toward competition went through quite an evolution before I arrived at my present point of view. As described in the last chapter I was raised to believe in competition, and both playing well and winning meant a great deal to me. But as I began exploring Self 2’s learning process in both the teaching and playing of tennis, I became noncompetitive. Instead of trying to win, I decided to attempt only to play beautifully and excellently; in other words, I began to play a rather pure form of Perfect-o. My theory was that
I would be unconcerned with how well I was doing in relation to my opponent and absorbed solely in achieving excellence for its own sake.
Very beautiful; I would waltz around the court being very fluid, accurate and “wise.”
But something was missing. I didn’t experience a desire to win, and as a result I often lacked the necessary determination. I had thought that it was in the desire to win that one’s ego entered the picture, but at one point I began to ask myself if there wasn’t such a motivation as an egoless desire to win. Was there a determination to win that wasn’t an ego trip and didn’t involve all the fears and frustrations that accompany ego trips? Does the will to win always have to mean “See, I’m better than you”?
One day I had an interesting experience which convinced me in an unexpected way that
playing for the sake of beauty and excellence was not all there was to tennis.
For several weeks I had been trying to get a date with a particular girl. She had turned me down twice, but each time with what appeared to be a good reason. Finally a dinner date was set, and on that day as I finished my last lesson, one of the other pros asked me to play a couple of sets. “I’d really like to, Fred,” I replied, “but I can’t make it this evening.” At that moment I was informed there was a telephone call for me. “Hold on, Fred,” I said. “If that call is what I’m afraid it is, you may have yourself a match. If so, watch out!” The call was what I’d feared. The excuse was a valid one, and the girl was so nice about it that I couldn’t get angry at her, but as I hung up I realized I was furious. I grabbed my racket, ran down to the court and began hitting balls harder than I ever had before. Amazingly, most of them went in. I didn’t let up when the match began, nor did I relent my all-out attack until it was over. Even on crucial points I would go for winners and make them. I was playing with an uncharacteristic determination even when ahead; in fact I was playing out of my mind. Somehow the anger had taken me beyond my own preconceived limitations; it took me beyond caution. After the match Fred shook my hand without looking in the least dejected.
He’d run into a hurricane on that day which he couldn’t handle, but he’d had fun trying. In fact, I’d played so well that he seemed glad to have been there to witness it, or as if he deserved some credit for my reaching that level—which of course he did.
I don’t want to promote the idea of playing angry as the key to winning. If there was a key that day it was that I played sincerely. I was angry that evening and instead of trying to pretend otherwise, I expressed it appropriately through my tennis. It felt good, and it worked.