Vipassana and Soccer

In 2009, I visited my high school, North Central, in Indianapolis. Before the trip, I checked the school website and found that its head soccer coach was my assistant coach twenty-seven years ago. With excitement, I immediately sent him an email, introducing myself as “a member of the ’82 Indiana State Champions.” The next day, I had a second thought: “What if he doesn’t remember me? I was the worst player on the team.” Fortunately, Coach Little not only replied but remembered me well. He also gave me updates on my former teammates; a few of them had sons who played for my school. After telling him that my eldest son, Kiet, was also playing competitive soccer, Coach Little invited us to come to the school’s annual tryout. When I took Kiet to meet him at the field, he graciously introduced me to his players as “a member of the school’s first State Championship [team].” When each player took turns shaking my hand, I was overwhelmed with gratitude and pride, momentarily forgetting that I was a mere bench warmer.

Unlike me, Kiet has athletic talents. I can still vividly remember his first goal at age 5. While he was dribbling, a defender charged up and kicked the ball into his face. He fell, cried, and looked at me. I met his eyes but didn’t run out to console him, wanting to check his toughness. Kiet stared at me for another few seconds, stood up, wiped his tears, chased down the ball, stole it, reversed the direction, beat a few players, and scored. I punched my fist in the air and screamed at the top of my lungs, “Yes! Yes! Yes!”

That same year, I started meditating daily. After combing through dozens of Buddhist books, I came across the autobiography of Ajaan Lee. Tales of superpowers captivated me. I dreamt of levitating and beaming white light from my third eye. That fall, I attended a retreat with Ven. Thich Nhat Hanh in San Diego but didn’t learn much about meditation. My practice became worse the following year. I made a typical rookie mistake in trying to do too many things at the same time. I meditated in the morning for an hour and struggled to be mindful throughout the day (e.g., driving without music, no gossiping with friends at work, or no surfing the internet during lunch). If that wasn’t enough, I also promised to skip a meal every time I broke a precept; predictably, this rule lasted less than a week. Surprisingly, when I heard about a four-day vipassana meditation retreat at the local temple, I enthusiastically signed up. On the night before the retreat began, however, I received a “rude awakening” during a conversation with Bhikkhu Aggasami (Ven. Thich Khanh Hy):

“Can I use a cushion?”

“No, the Buddha didn’t use a cushion; I don’t use a cushion.”

I proceeded to sit in pain for the entire retreat. During sits, my left thigh would often develop a burning sensation at the forty-minute mark. Sometimes, I would manage to endure the pain for the whole hour; but, mostly, I would swallow my pride and change my sitting position before the striking of the bell. Sitting, however, was easier than walking meditation. With sitting, at least, I could return to my breath after bouts of pondering, planning, philosophizing, and solving the world’s problems. With walking, I simply couldn’t force myself to walk like a zombie for even fifteen minutes. Yet, when Bhikkhu Aggasami mentioned a ten-day program at the Tathagata Meditation Center during lunch on the last day of the retreat, I blurted out, “I’ll be there,” and immediately thought, “That was the stupidest thing you’ve ever said.” Fortunately, that retreat turned out to be one of the best things that has ever happened to me. I learned how to sit without pain, how to walk, and how to stay with my breath. Most importantly, I found my teacher, Bhikkhu Aggasami.

For the next several years, I struggled to find Kiet a good soccer coach. His first two coaches were well-intentioned parents who knew practically nothing about soccer. His third coach was a wealthy lawyer who gave new meaning to the idea of a volunteer coach by taping every game, reviewing it afterward, and writing two-page game analyses to his assistant coaches and even interested parents. Once, he penned an eighty-page report after a tournament! At the end of our first season, he threw a party for the team and gave each player a fifteen-minute personal highlight video. While the kids swam in the pool, he told me that six starters had decided to leave the team for a traveling league. When I told him Kiet would stay, he asked me to help him coach the next season. Without hesitation, I said, “Sure.” 

At first, morale was low because most of the starters had left the team. Together, the head coach and I came up with a set of drills to help each player according to their strengths and weaknesses. A defender who was physical but lacked a ground game would practice a lot of dribbling; a midfielder who could dribble but held the ball too long had to learn how to dribble while looking up; a forward who had blazing speed but couldn’t finish would practice shooting. The kids responded well to me, and I had a great time coaching them. I flicked their ears when they repeated the same mistake three times and let them punch my chest when they did something well. Despite losing six starters, we made it into the second round of the state championship playoffs for a recreational league and lost in the quarter-final. 

After two years with the Skyrunners, Kiet was ready to move on. When he made the city’s top competitive league, I was ecstatic, partly because I knew he would be coached by professionals and partly because I could enjoy watching him play without the stress of coaching. After nine years of practice, I had finally found peace of mind, and I didn’t want to lose it. Before, the only way I could practice mindfulness was by minimizing sensory inputs. I stopped reading, especially Buddhist books, because it exacerbated my habit of pondering; I canceled memberships from chat groups because they provoked heated discussions; I even stopped attending the local temple because a certain tall woman with silky black hair triggered lustful thoughts within me. If I talked as little as possible during the day, I could be calm and mindful. My life was simple and joyful as long as I could refrain from social activities. Simply put, I wanted to observe life, not live it. Ironically, watching Kiet play soccer at that higher level turned out to be harder than I thought. 

Jockeying for playing time in the new league was fierce. Many of Kiet’s teammates were stronger, faster, and more skillful than he was. For the first time since Kiet began to play soccer, he wasn’t a starter. During game time, I paced anxiously on the sideline, half-heartedly watching the game while peeking at the bench every five minutes. When the coach stood up and waved his hand, my heart beat fast in anticipation; but my hopes would soon turn into disappointment when Kiet wasn’t called up. When one of his teammates went down with an injury, I immediately glanced at the bench before feeling sorry for the kid. Whenever Kiet was in the game, I monitored his movement as if following a toddler. When he failed to trap a high ball, I sighed; when he made a beautiful pass, I smiled; when he sent the ball to an opponent, I mumbled, “No, No, No”; when he had an assist, I pumped my fist; when he missed an open shot, I threw both hands up in the air in frustration; when he scored a goal, I screamed, “Yes!” I loved every minute of the thrill; I hated every minute of the agony; and I refused to accept the fact that my son wasn’t a starter. 

I soon designed a training program to help Kiet improve his game. We practiced advanced techniques of dribbling, passing long ball, and, most importantly, shooting with his left foot. Kiet responded quite well, and by the end of the season, he became a starter. In the state championship’s semifinal game, Kiet played poorly in the first half and got pulled out. During half time, I walked over to the bench and asked Kiet to take a short walk with me. 

“You don’t have to tell me, Dad,” Kiet said, “I know I played terribly in the first half.” Without any warning, I punched him in his chest.

“What the . . .?” Kiet stared at me with a disgusted look on his face.

“I’m not mad at you. Please don’t be angry. I just want to wake you up,” I tried to balance my tone of voice between firm and gentle.

The trick worked. He rose to the occasion in the second half and made a beautiful cross with his left foot that resulted in a goal. His team, the Baton Rouge Soccer Club, for the first time ever, beat their archrival, the Cajun Soccer Club, 4–3, and advanced to the finals. It was the best sporting event I had ever watched. On the drive home, I told Kiet how proud I was of him. He thanked me for developing his game. Neither of us could wait for the next season to start.

As luck would have it, Kiet’s coach resigned, and the new coach wanted him to play defense, one of Kiet’s major weaknesses. To my disbelief, not only did Kiet not start but we also saw his playing time gradually diminish during the next few games. Kiet was frustrated, and I was angry. Our disappointment, however, turned into shock at the next game, where Kiet wasn’t even dressed to play. At first, I couldn’t believe my eyes. I kept staring at the bench to make sure that Kiet was indeed one of the three nondressed players. As denial shifted into rage, I glared at the coach, seething with contempt and loathing. I closed my eyes and struggled to calm myself by controlling my breathing, but my right eye kept fluttering and refusing to shut. No amount of meditation could prepare me for such a moment. After a while, I lowered my head and walked dejectedly toward a pavilion, where I sat for the rest of the game. Afterward, I had a long talk with Kiet, who was distraught but seemed to handle the situation better than I did. He told me he would do whatever it takes to regain his starting position.

On the outside, I projected a gung ho attitude and came up with a set of drills to develop Kiet’s defensive game. Internally, however, I felt a mixture of pain and humiliation, which gradually morphed into somber self-analysis. For several reasons, I had stopped sitting daily, rationalizing that sitting less would force me to be more mindful throughout the day. But the stress of Kiet’s soccer tribulations brought me back to the cushion. On the weekends, I sat even longer to prepare for Kiet’s games. I wanted to observe my thoughts and feelings while I watched the game the same way I monitored my mind during a sitting. In time, a simple truth slowly began to emerge for me: As a youth, I had failed at soccer, and so now, Kiet would make it up for me. 

Like dozens of nooks and crevices hidden inside my mind, I always “knew” that I held on to this belief, but I had never had the guts to face it head-on. Essentially, I blamed Kiet’s coach, his karma, and everything but myself for his shortcomings. As I continued to reflect on this issue, I came to understand the second noble truth in a new light. At one level, I held a craving for Kiet’s success, and when it didn’t materialize, I suffered. On a deeper level, I knew that I created and brought most of the sufferings on myself. I didn’t get benched, yet I felt much worse than Kiet.

I didn’t get benched, yet I felt much worse than Kiet. 

As soon as I was able to observe my thoughts calmly during a game, I noticed right away that I could handle Kiet’s mistakes or his lack of playing time much more easily. At a calmer level, I could laugh at myself while calling the coach “an idiot” at the same time. “To be free from this suffering,” I told myself, “I must figure out a way to watch the game with complete nonattachment.” 

By the end of the season, Kiet not only started but had also become one of the best players on his team, playing right back. His team won the league title and were invited to play in Chicago that summer. And for the first time, Kiet talked openly about playing in college. Unfortunately, his team had yet another new coach the next season, and Kiet once again went through the same process—he had to prove himself all over again. While Kiet eventually regained his starting position, I continued to sit daily, especially before his games. Thanks to this routine, I worried less about Kiet’s performance and had more appreciation for the time I got to spend with him. After each game, we still analyzed it objectively and looked for ways to improve his skills, but we also had fun discussing tactics, complaining about the refs, and gossiping about European football. When we traveled by car, we took turns listening to each other’s music. He introduced me to Green Day, Cage the Elephant, and Radiohead; I showed him Pink Floyd, Led Zeppelin, and Jethro Tull. 

Later that year, I spent a week in self-retreat at Forest Refuge. The first two days were arduous, but after a three-hour sit on the morning of the third day, my mind shifted into a new gear, and I finally was able to live like a snail, doing nothing, and enjoying every minute of it. Although I didn’t “discover” anything new, I didn’t take the last day “off” as usual. Instead, I contemplated the possibility of adapting this deeper level of mindfulness into lay life.

Up until that point in my Buddhist practice, I had focused solely on doing one thing at a time. While my mindfulness improved, I also noticed I could no longer multitask. I can recall one instance when I was bored at work, turned on a radio, and immediately had to turn it off because I couldn’t read emails while listening to music. While implementing this approach, I became increasingly aware that I was calm and peaceful only when life was uneventful. When difficulties arose, I frequently dreamed about becoming a monk.

Yet, when I had first taken up the path many years ago, I was full of life. When normal kids played at the swimming pool, I would talk my friends into crossing the Mekong River. When coworkers would celebrate a milestone by going out to dinner, I would try to persuade colleagues to take a white-water rafting road trip. Somehow, my practice had changed me from an active and energetic person into a pseudo-hermit. 

Life, no matter how hectic, had always been easy and joyful right after a retreat, but, usually, it lasted only two to four weeks. After the self-retreat, though, I tried to prolong it. Subconsciously, I must have thought that using a deeper level of mindfulness would better equip me to handle the roller coaster of family life. These ideas were regurgitated inside my head in the weeks following the retreat, during which Kiet’s high school soccer season was in full swing. As I watched the games, I suddenly picked up finer action and movements from the players. I tracked the ball and whoever had it instead of watching Kiet. When the ball was kicked, I followed its trajectory, noticing how it rotated. When a player dribbled, I saw how his feet shuffled, how his arms swung, and how his hip turned before he made a cut to beat his opponent. If the ball ran out of bounds, I noted how the ball boy hustled and acted like hundreds of eyes were focused on him. Sometimes, I didn’t even realize when Kiet was pulled out of the game. As the game went on, my concentration increased and my fingers became numb. Watching soccer, instead of being a source of suffering, had turned into a great vipassana experience. 

Meanwhile, Kiet raised his game to the next level during the second half of the season. He created chances, made assists, scored, and sometimes dominated a game enough to cause the opposing coach to assign a player to shadow him. No matter how well he performed, I enjoyed watching him with utmost concentration and complete objectivity. During a crucial game against St. Amant, in which the district title was on the line, Kiet played his best game ever. When he scored a goal in the fifteenth minute, I pumped my fist and noticed a surge of pride, which quickly subsided because my mind had to continue following the game. St. Amant tied the game before half-time. With about five minutes left in regulation, Kiet took the ball from the midfield, beat a couple of players, and passed to his teammate who scored to win the game. As his bench erupted and ran onto the field to celebrate the first district title Baton Rouge Magnet High School had ever won, I noted a sensation in my eyes. Raising my right hand, I identified the sensation as tears, and lowered my head to wipe them away, and again noticed a surge of proud feelings for my son. 

As fate would have it, Kiet told me he didn’t want to play college soccer right after the high school season ended. 

“Are you sure?” I asked, noticing a sad tone in my voice.

“Yes, Dad,” Kiet replied.

Kiet was a man of few words. Knowing his mind had been made up, I sighed, sat down, and closed my eyes to watch my mind grieve, realizing that my dream of fathering a professional soccer player had just evaporated. I thanked him for all the wonderful times he gave me during the last twelve years. He thanked me for watching and coaching him. I reminded him that his club season was not over yet and urged him to continue to play at his best to help his team win the state championship. As I watched him play his last game, where his team lost to the Cajun Soccer Club in the semifinal, a thought popped up, “Life is unpredictable, like a soccer game. It is so beautiful in one moment and yet terrifying at the next. Take refuge in the present moment and you’ll find peace.”