The author mentions “The Inner Game of Tennis” as an example of how to train in images and feelings, not words, and I highly recommend it to basically anyone, not just tennis players.
If you’re doing anything that you might hear “don’t overthink it”, then it’s for you. It was recommended to me by a friend who played competitive Foosball; I read it as an instructional about playing chess; and later, after starting to play tennis, I read it again, and I think it’s equally applicable to all of those.
Do you mind expanding on how you applied it to chess. I'm curious how you translated it to this domain. Watching the seems of the tennis ball doesn't seem to translate in an obvious way to me.
I've read the book, and I'm definitely one of those that tends to overthink. I tried reading one of the other books in the series and found it not nearly as helpful.
Here’s an example for chess: I found that I was repeating the same lines and the same ideas over and over during matches. One of the key points in the book is to simply observe what you’re doing without judgment. I realized that I’d fixate (especially under time pressure) on an idea that didn’t work.
I tried working on this with deliberate practice on cycling through different areas of the board. There’s a mental feeling (not too different from the physical feeling of swinging a racket) of working through a line, and then moving to another area and trying a different line.
For another take, there's "Thinking fast and slow". Along with "Happiness Hypothesis", these 3 books all talk about a similar split in two way of thinking.
When I was first learning React, I spent time visualizing the coding of building-block concepts. After a few sessions, the concepts would become well-ingrained because I "simulated" the writing of the code hundreds of times in my head. It's faster than using a keyboard and physically performing the action, and I was able to do it during idle time when I was away from my computer.
I'm now applying the same method to CS and algorithm studies.
The speed at which I can practice iterations is the most valuable part. It also helped increase my ability to visualize things and "see" code in detail in my mind's eye. I won't lie, it is difficult at first, but I think the benefits are huge.
This is very consistent with what I have read from sports psychologist Craig Manning[1]. So much of performance rests in the mind and of not sabotaging our performance with negative thoughts.
1. Esther Hicks is maybe my favorite contemporary philosopher. Her words are incredible. But she operates by channeling the voice of “Abraham,” a non-physical intelligence. Whatever that means, the channeling works. What she communicates is truly awesome.
2. Julian Jaynes — the idea that the voices in our heads were perceived as divine for ancient peoples. The voices in our head can give incredible power—or they can be our greatest barrier to success.
3. I need to get in touch with my coach again. She is amazing and so so worth it.
I think self confidence (where I’m generally high) is extremely valuable. But going into my uncomfort zones, that’s where the value can come. I really do feel faster growth.
I’d love to have a coach focused on non-violence. For marriage, I think I’d find it very valuable—but also for greater self awareness.
I just spoke w a friend yesterday about the non-violence part and how it resonates a bit negatively.
But the gist of the practice is to expand awareness to feelings/emotions and the driving forces behind one’s actions, and bringing ownership to one’s talk and self-talk.
This in a way cleans up a lot of self-maintaining patterns that otherwise keep creating friction. It also makes possible deeper connection and intimacy + effortless compassion in all relationships.
Having trained with elite athletes and coaches before, and knowing religious people, the author got some of it so right. Fear is ego and ego speaks language, so you need to find or hear a voice that separates you from the nagging, halting filter of your own ego to perform at an elite level in pretty much anything. And yet then, and the end of the article, the author judges it with some pitiful story about not getting your body back, from having "given" it in college, as though the incredible and peak human experience of performing at that level is somehow lesser - or worse, their own experience as a critic and anthropologist is somehow equal or worthy of having an opinion of what elite performance entails. The ending read as an unbearable conceit, as though criticism can digest the experience of training at that level, perhaps to seduce magazine readers of Harpers and provide some knowing comfort and justification to people who have stopped at mediocrity. Yes, I'm angry about the article, so (point author) great provocative writing, but what a disappointing analysis. I don't compete, or even place among the people who do the things I do passably as an amateur, and nobody needs my defense, but as a writer, it seemed low.
Maybe there are elite athletes who regret their commitment, or maybe the author is really a former olympic team contender knocking the ladder away behind them, but having trained with olympians and been trained by their trainers, and being involved in mentoring and coaching relationships, the end note about "a former track star sat in my office weeping," seemed out of line. Again, superb insight into the relationship between voice and performance, and how it's closely related to spiritual experiences, but her critical lens really taints it.
Something I tell training partners when they start competing: “Competing in a sport is a skill independent of the skills of the sport itself.”
What I mean is that through training, you learn how to do the sport. That’s table stakes. In order to compete well, you need to learn the skill of competing in that sport. That’s hard, as the practice is competition itself. And it’s a different skill set.
If you’re doing anything that you might hear “don’t overthink it”, then it’s for you. It was recommended to me by a friend who played competitive Foosball; I read it as an instructional about playing chess; and later, after starting to play tennis, I read it again, and I think it’s equally applicable to all of those.