Chapter Four: "Trying Hard": A Questionable Virtue

Haven't we been told since childhood that we're never going to amount to anything unless we try hard? So what does it mean when we observe someone who is trying too hard? Is it best to try medium hard? Or might the answer depend on the person doing the trying? Equipped

with the concept of the two selves, see if you can answer this seeming paradox for yourself after reading the following illustration. Watch the Zen paradox of "effortless effort" dissolve. One day while I was wondering about these matters, a very cheery and attractive housewife came to me for a lesson complaining that she was about to give up the game of tennis. She was really very discouraged because, as she said, "I'm really not well coordinated at all. I want to get good enough that my husband will ask me to play mixed doubles with him without making it sound like a family obligation'. When I asked her what the problem seemed to be, she said, "For one thing, I can't hit the ball on the strings; most of the time I hit it on the wood'.

"Let's take a look," I said, reaching into my basket of balls. I hit her ten waist-high forehands near enough so that she didn't have to move for them. I was surprised that she hit eight out of ten balls either directly on the wood or partly on the strings, partly on the frame. Yet her stroke was good enough. I was puzzled. She hadn't been exaggerating her problem. I wondered if it was her eyesight, but she assured me that her eyes were perfect.

So I told Joan we'd try a few experiments. First I asked her to try very hard to hit the ball on the center of the racket. I was guessing that this might produce even worse results, which would prove my point about trying too hard. But new theories don't always pan out; besides, it takes

alot of talent to hit eight out of ten balls on the narrow frame of a racket. This time, she managed to hit only six balls on the wood. Next, I told her to try to hit the balls on the frame. This time she hit only four on the wood and made good contact with six. She was a bit surprised, but took the chance to give her Self 2 a knock, saying, "Oh, I can never do anything I try to!" Actually, she was close to an important truth. It was becoming clear that her way of trying wasn't helpful.

So before hitting the next set of balls, I asked Joan, "This time I want you to focus your mind on the seams of the ball. Don't think about making contact. In fact, don't try to hit the ball at all. Just let your racket contact the ball where it wants to, and we'll see what happens'. Joan looked more relaxed, and her racket proceeded to hit nine out of ten balls dead center! Only the last ball caught the frame. I asked her if she was aware of what was going through her mind as she swung at the last ball. "Sure," she replied with a lilt in her voice, "I was thinking I might make a tennis player after all'. She was right.

Joan was beginning 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. During the last set of balls, Self 1 was fully occupied in watching the seams of the ball. As a result, Self 2 was able to do its own thing unimpaired, and it proved to be pretty good at it. Even Self 1 was starting to recognize the talents of 2; she was getting them together.

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

• Learning to program your computer Self 2 with images rather than instructing yourself with words;
• Learning to "trust thyself" (Self 2) to do what you (Self 1) ask of it. This means letting Self 2 hit the ball;
• 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' as these skills are subsidiary to the master skill, without which nothing of value is ever achieved: the art of concentration. The Inner Game of Tennis will next explore a way to learn these skills, using tennis as a medium.

We have arrived at a key point: it is the constant "thinking" activity of Self 1, the ego-mind, which causes interference with the natural doing processes of Self 2. Harmony between the two selves exists when the mind itself is quiet. Only when the mind is still, is one's peak performance reached.

When a tennis player is "on his game," 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 an automatic 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. Listen to how D. T. Suzuki, the renowned Zen master, describes the effects of the ego-mind on archery in his foreword to Zen in the Art of Archery:

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 with long years of training in self-forgetfulness.

Perhaps this is why it is said that 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 j, "feels at the peak of his powers," "fully functioning," "is in the groove," "effortless," "free of blocks, inhibitions, cautions, fears, doubts, controls, reservations, selfcriticisms, brakes," "he is spontaneous andmore creative, ""is most here-now," "is non-striving, non-needing, non-wishing ... he just is'.

If you reflect upon your own highest moments or peak experiences, it is likely that you will recall feelings that these phrases describe. You will probably also remember them as moments of great pleasure, even ecstasy. During such experiences, the mind does not act like a separate entity telling you what you should do or criticizing how you do it. It is quiet; you are "together," and the action flows as free as a river.

When this happens on the tennis court, we are concentrating 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 stalkinga bird. Effortlessly alert, he crouches, gathering his relaxed muscles for the spring. No 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. It is the purpose of the Inner Game to increase the frequency and the duration of these moments, quieting the mind by degrees and

realizing thereby a continual expansion of our capacity to learn and perform. At this point the question naturally arises: "How can I still my mind?" or "How can I keep from thinking on the tennis court?" The answer is simple: just stop! As an experiment the reader might want to put down this book for a minute and simply stop thinking. See how long you can remain in a perfectly thoughtless state. One minute? Ten seconds? If you were able to quiet your mind, there is no reason to read further in this book because you already know the key to a concentrated mind, and thereby the secret that reveals all life's other secrets and the source of truth and joy. More than likely, however, you found it difficult, perhaps impossible, to still the mind completely. One thought led to another, then to another, etc.

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; its meaning will emerge as you read the remainder of this chapter. When we learn how to be judgmental, it is possible to achieve spontaneous, concentrated play.