SoulPancake

[SP EXCLUSIVE]

After six hours of coaching, I was ready to go home. My on-court clients’ concerns that day had run a broad range: work, weight, and waiting; chronic pain; adultery; addiction to Internet porn; and a service toss (tennis?) that turned out to be connected to his fear of initiation. A normal, full morning.

But I had a date planned with my wife at 2:30 p.m. for some scary movie (The Da Vinci Code). Love the matinees—cool, dark rooms, holding hands, fresh popcorn. Since it was 1 p.m. and pushing 100 degrees in the San Fernando Valley, I began to leave the tennis facility when another player called out, "Zach, you know everyone. Can you help this guy? He needs someone to hit with."

I looked over at a 40-ish-year-old with a forlorn frown. "My partner just called me—he’s totally hung over and cancelled on me."

"Shit. I hate when that happens," I empathized, my mind searching for which of my students might be available and willing to hit balls with this unknown player at the last minute. "What level are you?"

"I'm pretty good," he nodded, without the arrogance some people have when trying to prove something.

A familiar voice inside me urged me to make an offer: "I'll hit with you for 10 minutes, I'll make you sweat, and then go home for my date."

His name was Bart. We walked silently to the court. But from the first shot, that serenity was broken by Bart barking militaristic directions to himself on how to improve every single shot. "Bend." "Watch the ball." "Swing through." I was quiet, listening to his demanding inner guide. I felt a wave of pain and sadness for what he’d probably endured since childhood. The cruelty and fear were repetitive and relentless: "Lift the racket." "Lower your head."

I wondered who was doing all of this talking? Is this what he would think of as his inner guide? If so, it was guiding him to depression.

Bart huffed and puffed and continued his avalanche of judgments and instructions. "Stop choking." "Move in." "Loosen up." Interestingly, the entire time, there was not one word, syllable, or molecule of encouragement. Where was that voice? I was fascinated—by him, by myself, by the exchange during this 10-minute period... which was now up.

While gathering our things, he said, “I was thinking about getting a coach.”

“What would you work on with a coach?”

“I don’t know,” he started, “I just think I’m very coachable.”

I smiled. "Well, if you are so ‘coachable,’ why aren’t you listening to your self-coaching and following your own barrage of instructions? You keep repeating the same directions but not fulfilling them.”

He laughed, “I guess I might be better being coached than coaching.”

"Maybe," I said, pointing to my chest, "but the first thing this coach would ask you to work on would be this: Listen to your nasty and generous wishes of yourself… and then make more conscious choices."

As we walked toward the parking lot, he said, “I don’t usually believe in karma.” He started to choke up. “I don’t know if there’s luck or serendipity or that type of cosmic stuff, but my friend getting drunk, standing me up, and you generously hitting with me, and asking me about me….” He started to cry.

I don’t wear a watch, but I knew it was getting late. I hesitantly touched the sweaty shoulder of a sobbing man I had just met and whispered in his ear, “I’m gonna leave you my phone number, and I’m going to go meet my wife for our movie date. Call me.”

He nodded fast—like a 3-year-old—knowing something good may come of this, though it felt bad at that moment. He called a month later. We agreed to open the gate, listen to his inner guide, sift through the constant rampage, and trust some of the doable requests.

We did. After two weeks of exploring the voices within, he was freer from the battle with his critical guide; he had begun to hear a humorous guide. One who appreciated learning more than perfection. Bart’s barking was less frequent and muffled, and he laughed more—on and off the tennis court.

Do you trust your inner guide enough to listen to and take its direction?

:: inner guide revealed by sports/life coach Zach Kleiman