Chapter 17: The Inner Game Applied to Life

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 1 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, the body and unconscious computerlike mind, 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 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 concentrate 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 concentration to improve his tennis, he practices tennis to improve his concentration. 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 increasing self-realization—that is, knowledge 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. Self 1 is the same wherever you are and whatever you are doing.

Concentration in tennis is fundamentally no different from the concentration 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.

Now it will be useful to discuss more specifically the relation of these inner skills learned in tennis to everyday life.

Unfreakability: The Art of Quieting the Mind

Perhaps the most indispensable tool for man in modern times is the ability to remain calm in the midst of rapid and unsettling changes. The person who will best survive the present age is the one Kipling described as one who can keep his head while all about are losing theirs. "Unfreakability" refers not to man's propensity for burying his head in the sand at the sight of danger, but to the ability to see the true nature of what is happening around him and to be able to respond appropriately. This requires a mind which is clear because it is calm.

"Freaking out" is a general term used for an upset mind. For example, it describes what happens in the minds of many tennis players just after they have hit a shallow lob, or while preparing to serve on match point with the memory of past double faults rushing through their minds. Freaking out is what some stockbrokers do when the market begins to plunge; what some parents do when their child has not returned from a date on time; or what most of the human population would do if they heard that beings from outer space had landed on Earth. The mind gets so upset that it does not see clearly enough what is happening to take the appropriate action. When action is born in worry and self-doubt, it is usually inappropriate and often too late to be effective. The causes of "freak-outs" can be grouped into three categories: regret about past events; fear or uncertainty about the future; and dislike of a present event or situation. In all cases, the event and the mind's reaction to it are two separate things. It takes both to produce the result, but the freak-out is in and of the mind; it is not an attribute of the event itself.

Let's take a closer look at each of these three kinds of freak-outs. First, regret about the past. This is the "crying over spilled milk" syndrome. In this case the mind not only neglects present action, but—as demonstrated in earlier chapters—usually becomes involved in harsh self-criticism. The regret at hitting the ball into the net starts with a judgment of the event, such as "What a bad serve," but then, through a subtle, lightning-quick process of identification with the event, becomes the self-critical "I'm a bad server." In another instant a belief emerges in the player that he is uncoordinated and incompetent. Finally, since coordination is often taken as a sign of one's manhood, the player may even arrive at the conclusion that he is not very masculine. Probably the least damaging result of this chain of thought is that the player has perfectly programmed himself to hit another ball into the net at the first opportunity.

In freak-outs about the past we typically worry about what we can do little about at the time, then scold ourselves needlessly and end up worrying about someone else's worrying. This kind of mental process is almost universal, and if it is allowed to go its way unchecked it causes unnecessary anxiety and wastes valuable energy. It also prevents us from seeing things as they are.

Now let us look at anxiety, or the feeling of uncertainty about the future. This is the primary cause of tension and nerves on the tennis court. At a crucial point in a match, my mind, controlled by apprehension, starts thinking. If I lose this point, the score will be 5-3, and if I don't break his serve, I'll lose the set. Then I'll have a really hard time winning the match... I wonder how it will sound when I tell Barbara that I lost to George in straight sets... I can just hear the guys at the office talking about it... I wonder what the boss is going to think about the report I submitted... I really should have put more work into it... My position in the company isn't really that secure; I'd better buckle down next week... I wonder if there's any other kind of work I could do if I happened to lose this job...

Needless to say, such a train of thought isn't going to help me swing smoothly and naturally on my next shot; Self 1 has too much riding on it to just let it happen. When such a mental process starts, try to stop it as soon as you recognize what is happening. The mind must be brought back to the here and now. If you have nothing better to focus your attention on, I have found it effective to concentrate my mind on the process of breathing, which automatically keeps me in the present. Another way to deal with the uncontrolled mind is to simply observe it. Attempt to stay uninvolved with your mind's trip and just see where it goes. This can be a good way to learn something about the games that Self 1 plays.

A good off-the-court example of future freak-out is what happened in my own mind as I set out to rewrite the first draft of this chapter. My editor at Random House had called me long distance to tell me that in order to meet our publishing schedule, the completed manuscript must be finished in four days. Although this gave me a few more days than I'd expected, it was still a deadline, and when the new text didn't seem to flow, I began a mild freak-out. The closer the deadline approached, the more pressure I would feel. The more pressure, the less flow; the less flow, the more pressure. I became unhappy about the results coming out of my typewriter and felt I had to read them to someone else for confirmation. When my usually doting mother fell asleep during one of these test marketings, I knew I had to start all over again. But how was I going to meet the deadline now, with less time and just as much work to do? You can imagine some of the trips my mind started to take, all stemming from worry over an imagined future event—or, more exactly, imagining that a certain future event would not happen. Had I not been writing on the very subject, this mental process might have seemed so normal that it would have passed by unnoticed. But I awoke the next morning realizing that the example I needed to explain freaking out over the future was within my own immediate experience, and that the solution to the pressure I was feeling was the solution for the chapter. Once again, as in all cases, the answer begins with seeing that the problem is more in the mind than in the external situation. It wasn't the deadline that was causing the problem, but the way my mind was reacting to it. Admittedly, failing to meet the deadline would result in certain consequences, but the pressure was coming mostly from my imagined beliefs about the harm such consequences could actually do me or others.

The proper function of the deadline (like death itself) is to encourage effort to accomplish one's purpose. But what function does worrying serve? Only to show me more about the nature of self and how it likes to work its way into controlling my mind and actions.

A good example of what happens when Self 1 is not allowed to interfere was given by John Newcombe as he came from behind to win the first match of the 1973 Davis Cup finals against Stan Smith. When asked after the match what he had been thinking about when he was behind, two sets to one, and with all the pressure of representing his country, Newcombe said that he wasn't thinking at all. He just felt the adrenaline flowing through him, and with it something akin to anger and determination. "I became very concentrated, and the shots just seemed to flow out of me," he concluded.

As we learn to keep our minds in the present and decline to take fear trips into the future, we find that there is an automatic process which gives us the necessary resources to deal with the situation at hand. As the mind learns to remain calm in critical moments, it becomes able to distinguish easily between real and imagined danger. It is noteworthy that the same mind which causes us to worry about its own projected fantasies also frequently ignores real and present dangers. An entire population is capable of ignoring the signs of a potentially catastrophic war while it freaks out over events that are already past. To repeat, calmness does not mean lack of concern; it means the ability to separate the real from the unreal and thereby to take sensible action.

Perhaps this is an appropriate place to remind the reader that I am not suggesting "positive thinking" as the best means of overcoming freak-outs. To replace negative programming with positive programming by repeating such assertions as "I have a great backhand; I am going to win today," or "There is no misery and suffering in the world," only adds to the mental blur which prevents us from seeing things as they are. Positive thinking is the same kind of mental activity as negative thinking; it is the other side of the same coin and thus inextricably linked to it. If you view some events as positive, it becomes psychologically impossible not to see others as negative. The mind only adds positive and negative attributes to events when it is not satisfied to see things as they are. Such a mind distorts reality in an attempt to gain peace which it lacks.

A gusty wind during a tennis match, a baby screaming, or a shortage of fuel are examples of the third category of freak-out—dislike of a present event. They are all annoying distractions which intrude on our consciousness at varying intervals for varying durations.

The first step Self 1 usually takes in such instances is to judge the event as unpleasant—neglecting, of course, the possibility that the "unpleasantness" may have its source in the mind rather than in the event. Then, if the event recurs or the situation continues, the mind experiences it as still more unpleasant. Next, we may try to do something to change the situation, whether it is a bad backhand or a displeasing sound, and when this does not work we approach the height of our exasperation. A loud record player in the apartment below seems annoying when it begins; it seems more so when you decide you want to read a book; but it becomes infuriating after you have gotten up, gone downstairs and, using all your diplomacy, extracted an agreement from your neighbors to keep the music lower, only to hear the music turned up to full volume again fifteen minutes later as you're getting ready for bed. This time each measure of music carries the added disturbance of direct insult to the ego.

There are only two possible approaches to dealing with upsetting circumstances in the present. One is to change the circumstance; the other is to change the mind which is experiencing the upset. Sometimes finding the appropriate way to change the circumstances is the most sensible, but the player of the Inner Game always has another option. He can realize that there is no need to give any sight or sound the power to upset him. He can choose to see the disturbance as stemming from his mind and not from the event. Then he can find a solution. For example, in the case just mentioned the man may decide to listen to and enjoy the music, or to try to tune it out, taking this opportunity to gain some practical experience in the art of concentration which will stand him in good stead in our noisy world.

Letting It Happen

There are always going to be thoughts and events that try to pull our attention away from the here and now. Each is an opportunity to practice the all-important art of concentration. As we become able to turn annoyances and apparent obstacles to our advantage in the inner game, are we not becoming freer? The cause of all the freak-outs discussed above can be summed up in the word attachment. Self 1 gets so dependent on things, situations, people and concepts within his experience that when change occurs or seems about to occur, he freaks out. Freedom from mental freak-outs happens as one's peace of mind becomes more and more a function of inner resources and less and less dependent upon externals.

Letting go of attachments does not mean losing anything (a child does not risk losing his thumb when he stops sucking it); it does mean releasing our grip on things and our desire to control them. Example: it is the grip on wealth which makes a miser uptight and unhappy, not the wealth itself. A Zen master once asked an audience of Westerners what they thought was the most important word in the English language. After giving his listeners a chance to think about such favorite words as love, truth, faith, and so on, he said, "No, it's a three-letter word; it's the word 'let.'" Let it be. Let it happen. Though sometimes employed to mean a kind of passiveness, these phrases actually refer to a deep acceptance of the fundamental process inherent in life. In tennis it means trusting in the incredibly complex and competent computerlike mechanism of the human body. In the more general sense it means faith in the fundamental order and goodness of life, both human and natural.

Letting go means allowing joy to come into your life instead of contriving to have a good time; learning to appreciate the love and beauty already happening around you rather than trying to manufacture something which you think isn't there; letting problems be solved in the unconscious mind as well as by straining with conscious effort.

But perhaps where letting go is most important is in the area of human growth. Many people who read this book may be involved in one or more attempts at what may be called self-improvement.

It would be natural if they thought. Here is a book that may help my tennis, and perhaps some other areas of my life which need working on. Admittedly, much of this book may seem to read that way, but speaking as a man who once was a compulsive Self 1 improver, I want to make it clear that the last thing I wish to do is to encourage any notion that you should be any different from what you are right now. I say this with great conviction because I spent many not-so-happy years trying to become "better" than I thought I was, trying to change into somebody I thought I should be. In my eagerness to achieve that "should" I found it easy to lose touch with the sense of who and what I truly was—and of course still am.

Many people carry around with them an image of the kind of person they wish they were, much as a tennis player imagines the kind of serve he wishes he could deliver. When our behavior does not seem to measure up to our ideal, we grow dejected and then start trying hard to correct it ("Perhaps I should take a series of lessons, or a course on personality development, or read a book about how to become less self-critical, or undergo therapy, or join an encounter group"). Such steps are not necessarily foolish—I have taken them all—but what is needed is not so much the effort to improve ourselves, as the effort to become more aware of the beauty of what we already are. As we begin to see and appreciate our essential selves, we manifest automatically that beauty and our true capacities, simply by letting them happen.

This approach may sound too simplistic to be practical, and I don't wish to give the impression that discovering one's essential self can be done simply by agreeing with concepts written in a book. But I see tennis players every day trying hard to correct their "faulty" games, and they learn at a much slower rate than the player who places his confidence in whatever potential is already within him and then lets it happen. Both have to practice, but the first type is beset with problems of self-doubt trying to make himself into something he's afraid he isn't, bearing all the credit and blame for the results. In contrast, I see the second player trusting the potential within himself and learning to rely on the natural process by which that potential becomes actual. He trusts Self 2 to learn to play the game, and as a result gains a very practical confidence in this process within him which he didn't consciously produce. In this way he becomes confident, yet remains humble. Any and all credit goes to Self 2, not Self 1.

In respect to my own growth, whether in tennis or any other aspect of development, I have found it helpful to look at myself as the seed of a tree, with my entire potential already within me, as opposed to a building, which must have stories added to it to achieve a greater height. This makes it easier for me to see that it doesn't help me to try to be what I'm not at any given moment, or to form concepts of what I should be, or to compare myself to the other trees around me. I can understand that I need only use all the rain and sunshine that come my way, and cooperate fully with the seed's impulse to develop and manifest what it already uniquely is.

Letting go in this sense means letting go of our attachment to the idea of controlling our own development; the only other example I will give here could be called letting go of the final attachment. One cold winter evening, I drove from New Hampshire to a small town in northern Maine. On my way back at about midnight, I skidded on an icy curve and spun my Volkswagen gently but firmly off the road into a snowbank.

As I sat in the car getting colder by the second, the gravity of my situation struck me. It was about twenty degrees below zero outside, and I had nothing other than the sports jacket I was wearing. There was no hope of keeping warm in the car while it was stationary, and there was little hope of being picked up by another car. It had been twenty minutes since I had passed through a town, and not a single automobile had passed me in that time. There were no farmhouses, no cultivated land, not even telephone poles to remind me of civilization. I had no map and no idea how far ahead the next town might be.

I was faced with an interesting existential choice. I would freeze if I remained in the car, so I had to decide whether to walk forward into the unknown in the hope that a town might be around the very next corner, or to walk back in the direction from which I had come, knowing that there was certain help at least fifteen miles back. After deliberating for a moment, I decided to take my chances with the unknown. After all, isn't that what they do in the movies? I walked forward for about ten steps and then, without thinking, pivoted decisively and walked back the other way. After three minutes, my ears were freezing and felt as if they were about to chip off, so I started to run. But the cold drained my energy quickly, and soon I had to slow again to a walk. This time I walked for only two minutes before becoming too cold. Again I ran, but again grew fatigued quickly. The periods of running began to grow shorter, as did the periods of walking, and I soon realized what the outcome of these decreasing cycles would be. I could see myself by the side of the road covered with snow, frozen to death. At that moment, what had first appeared to be merely a difficult situation began to look as if it was going to be my final situation. Awareness of the very real possibility of death slowed me to a stop.

After a minute of reflection I found myself saying aloud, "Okay, if now is the time, so be it. I'm ready." I really meant it. With that I stopped thinking about it and began walking calmly down the road, suddenly aware of the beauty of the night. I became absorbed in the silence of the stars and in the loveliness of the dimly lit forms around me; everything was beautiful. Then without thinking, I started running. To my surprise I didn't stop for a full forty minutes, and then only because I spotted a light burning in the window of a distant house.

Where had this energy come from which allowed me to run so far without stopping? I hadn't felt frightened; I simply didn't get tired. As I relate this story now, it seems that saying "I accepted death" is ambiguous. I didn't give up in the sense of quitting. In one sense I gave up caring; in another I seemed to care more. Apparently, letting go of my grip on life released an energy which paradoxically made it possible for me to run with utter abandon toward life.

"Abandon" is a good word to describe what happens to a tennis player who feels he has nothing to lose. He stops caring about the outcome and plays all out. This is the true meaning of detachment. It means letting go of the concern of Self 1 and letting the natural concern of a deeper self take over. It is caring, yet not caring; it is an effortless effort. It happens when one lets go of attachment to the results of one's actions and allows the increased energy to come to bear on the action itself. In the language of karma yoga, this is called action without attachment to the fruits of action, and ironically when the state is achieved the results are the best possible.

A woman walks into a dark room and sees a snake coiled ominously in the middle of the floor. She panics and calls for her son. When the son comes he turns on the light in the room and the woman sees only a coiled rope.

In the foregoing sections on unfreakability and letting it happen, the essential art to be learned was shown to be that of becoming increasingly aware of things as they are. The ghosts of the past and the monsters of the future disappear when all one's conscious energy is employed in understanding the present. The light which dispels the shadows of our mental projections is the light of our own consciousness. When we understand something, we may have cause to be wary of it, but there is no fear. Understanding the present moment, the only time when any action can occur, requires concentration of mind: the ability to keep the mind focused in the here and now.

Concentration and Higher Consciousness

I had already spoken of consciousness as the energy of light which makes an experience knowable, just as a light bulb in the forest illuminates its surroundings. The brighter the light, the more that is known or understood about one's experience. When the light is dim because some of our energy is leaking into regrets over the past or fears of the future, or is in some way wasted in resisting the flow of life, then one's experience is filled with shadows and distortions. But when most of our conscious energy is brought to bear on the present with a sincere desire to understand what is before us, then something called "higher consciousness" occurs. It is called "higher" merely because more is seen and understood than before. It is something like walking up a mountain and having an increasing view of what is going on in the valley below—except that in the case of increased consciousness you are not only able to see more because of your point of view, but you can also see the subtler details with greater clarity. Thus the art of concentration is basically the art of experiencing ever more fully whatever is in the here and now for you.

Concentration is said to be the master art because all other arts depend on it; progress in this, as in any art, is achieved only through practice. I have found tennis an enjoyable arena for practicing concentration, but there is in fact no life situation where one cannot practice focusing one's full attention on what is happening at the moment. Normally, we tend to concentrate only when something we consider important is happening, but the player of the Inner Game recognizes increasingly that all moments are important ones and worth paying attention to, for each moment can increase his understanding of himself and life.

What makes it possible to learn more from ordinary experience? Two people witness the same sunset; one has a deep experience of beauty, and the other, perhaps because his mind is preoccupied, has a minimal experience. Two people read the same lines in a book; one recognizes a profound truth while the other finds nothing worth remembering. One day we get out of bed and the world looks full of beauty and interest; the next day everything appears drab. In each case the difference lies in our own state of consciousness. In the final analysis it is our state of consciousness which is the determining factor in our appreciation of the beautiful, the true, or the loving. A man may own an exquisite oil painting, but if he can't appreciate its beauty, how valuable really is that painting to him? Another man may own nothing beautiful, but if his consciousness is attuned to beauty, he is rich because he will always be surrounded by beauty.

The Goal of the Inner Game: The Discovery of Self

I was once asked: "In a conversation between a fool and a wise man, who learns the most?" Being a teacher at the time, I was quick to think that since the wise man had more to offer, the fool would benefit the most, but then I saw that the opposite was in fact true. The fool is a fool because he doesn't know how to learn from his experience; the wise man is wise because he does. Therefore the wise man will learn more from the conversation than the fool. Then it became clear to me that if I wasn't learning as much as my tennis students in the course of a lesson, I probably shouldn't be teaching them. This notion gave me an entirely new perspective on teaching. I began paying attention not only to backhands and forehands, but to the process of learning itself. It was only because my students taught me something about the learning process that this book could be written.

Each of the above examples points to the value of the Inner Game. Every heightening of consciousness enables one to appreciate more fully the experiences which life offers each player. Changes in consciousness alter our lives automatically because it is only through consciousness that we experience life. Now we come to an interesting point—and the last one: out of all the human experiences possible, which does the player of the inner game pursue? Even in the here and now there are almost limitless choices about what to focus one's attention upon. What do we really want to tune in to? What do we really want to see and hear, and what do we really want to do? These are the questions that the player of the inner game finally arrives at and continues to ask himself until he has found his answer. Found what? That which he can love and that which gives complete satisfaction. For only when a man is paying attention to something he really loves can he concentrate his mind and find true satisfaction.

So the search is on, the search for the goal of the inner game. Players of the game have given many names to this goal. Some call it self-knowledge, some call it soul, others reality. It has been called Peace, Truth, Love, Joy, Beauty, Super-Consciousness, and God, as well as many other names in other cultures. But the name is not important because no one has ever found satisfaction by repeating the name; nor have labels helped people learn where to look or how to find that which the names refer to. Those who have experienced the reality behind the label say that it is beyond names which can be spoken and beyond a beauty which can be described. It has been found by the learned and the untutored, the rich and the poor, the Easterner and the Westerner. Apparently, the only qualifications for this discovery have been that the seeker is human and have the will and good fortune to find the way.

When one undertakes the quest for this priceless treasure, when one searches for the secret which is capable of meeting the deepest longing within his heart, then he has truly embarked on the Inner Game. At that point, all the inner skills described in this book will be of help, but the player's most valuable assets will be his sincerity and determination.

My own experience is that the true goal of the Inner Game is to be found within. Nothing outside of ourselves is ever permanent enough or sufficient to satisfy completely, but there is something within every human being that is not mentioned in psychology books. It is not a concept, a belief, or something that can be written in words. It is something real and changeless; its beauty and its value have no limits. It is the very source of all our potential; it is the seed from which our lives grow. It is the origin of every experience we have ever had of love, truth or beauty. Its presence within can be intuited, deduced and read about, and it can be experienced directly. When one finds one's way to the direct experience of it, when one can actually meet face to face with the essence of his life, then he has achieved the first but not the final goal of the Inner Game.

When the lighthouse of the home port is in sight, the ship's radar can be turned off and navigation aids set aside. What remains is to keep the lighthouse in sight and simply sail toward it. The biggest surprise in my search for the inner self was finding that it could be experienced by any human being whenever his desire for it was sufficiently sincere. This sincere desire alone will lead one to the discovery of a practical method for uncovering what could be called Self 3. Then the only instrument required is the human body itself in which consciousness is able to be aware of itself. The search is within, and the lighthouse can be seen no matter how near or far from home port one actually appears to be in terms of his own physical, emotional or spiritual development. Realizing this goal is within the capabilities of all of us and not the special privilege of any elite.

When, the player of the Inner Game, has searched for and found his way to the direct experience of Self 3, he gains access to the catalyst capable of finally stilling his mind. Then his full potential as a human being is allowed to unfold without interference from Self 1. He plays the rest of the game in the increasing joy of expressing with love his unique humanness, and in accordance with his own given talents and circumstances.

He is free.