I played a race to seven against Nike tonight. I call him Nike because he's always wearing a bright white pair with ocean blue shoelaces. He says he's had them for over six years and takes pride in the fact he's maintained them for so long.

He stopped by looking like he'd been through a petty drug deal gone wrong. His clothes were soaked with sweat, there was a bruise on his cheek, and the normally straight bill on his camouflage baseball cap was bent and turned almost backwards. He was breathing heavier than normal too, but when I asked him if he was alright he only grinned and gave me a familiar thumbs up from the red chair he was slouched in.

"I'm right as rain, baby!"

He's not a bad player by any means, but he has a bad habit of hitting the balls way too hard and throwing his entire body into every shot. The harder the shot the more he throws, and it's usually not long until he's going through the motions of a mini seizure while trying to make an insane cut.

I noted that although he looked like shit his shoes were pristine as always, and that made his face split with happiness.

"When you're a broke motherfucker like me you gotta take care of your shoes," he said while tilting one foot to show off, "and you take care of your shoes because your shoes take care of your feet. So if you want your feet to love you it's important to take care of your shoes!" Then he laughed while grabbing his crotch. "That, and you get pussy with good shoes. You can look like a caveman but still get women with shoes like mine. I'm proof of that."

I didn't wanna go down that rabbit hole of a conversation so I told him to rack 'em up and after a less than stellar break on my part we were off.

For the most part, I'm pretty comfortable playing against guys like Nike now. They're experienced because they spent years shooting it up in bars, but never stuck with it and/or practiced a whole lot and ended up with an inconsistent and incomplete game. That doesn't mean I can run laps around them. I still have to focus and play my best, but at this point I'm competent enough to know that a handful of mistakes won't necessarily cost me a game.

There's no doubt in my mind that I'm still a beginner, but I'm not bad for a beginner, if that makes sense.

Anyway, we ran through four games and I found myself up three to one, so there wasn't supposed to be any pressure to exceptionally perform, but it was there anyway, and all because of Nike's annoying fucking snickering.

Whenever I'd miss a shot he'd shake his head and snicker, snicker, snicker, and when I'd scratch he'd snatch the cue ball off the table with this shit-eating grin that made me wanna shatter his jaw. He's built like a lumberjack, so I'm sure he could take a punch, but the point is that he was doing a fine job of pissing me off, which only helped to make me lose control of my emotions. What started as a relaxed, friendly set quickly became one in which I had to obliterate Nike, and pretty soon I went silent and glared at the table while waiting for my turns.

Obviously, my frustration didn't help my game. I played much worse, and it wasn't long until I was down four to three and wondering, as I seem to do so often, what the fuck happened.

And it got me thinking.

As I stood watching Nike line up for another shot I asked myself why I was allowing my attitude to fuck everything up. I was being an angry shithead. I despised Nike and wanted nothing more than to crush him. And that was when the lightbulb clicked on. You should've seen my face. I realized that all of my focus was on HIM instead of my GAME.

More and more, I'm realizing how absolutely critical my mentality is, and as I peeled my epiphany apart I hurried over to my phone and started typing. I had to make a note to record my feelings in the moment.

Now, my autocorrect's a real bitch so the following's a grammatical gangbang, but don't worry, I'll clean it up for you.

These are my original notes, typed while Nike was busy doing whatever the fuck he was doing:

Youe frustration cant ve xjrected at yourself. Ad it cant ve directed at your lplonent. It needs to be turned into an unwavering focus, and that focus needs to be aimed at playing patterns and making balls. Anything else is self destrxtvw, one if the only things guaranteed to doom your game in the long run.

There's nothing wrong with a scorching desire to win, but it has to conteoled. It cant e allowed to rage like a forest fire, otherwise you risk losing control of your emotions.

And here's the clean version:

Your frustration can't be directed at yourself. And it can't be directed at your opponent. It needs to be turned into an unwavering focus, and that focus needs to be aimed at playing patterns and making balls. Anything else is self-destructive, one of the only things guaranteed to doom your game in the long run.

There's nothing wrong with a scorching desire to win, but it has to controlled. It can't be allowed to rage like a forest fire, otherwise you risk losing control of your emotions.

After calming down and focusing only on playing my best while pretending that Nike didn't exist, I came back to beat his snickering ass seven games to four, winning the set.

I didn't wanna give him dap after because I still hated his guts, but I did anyway. I understood that after a bit I wouldn't hate him anymore than I hated the night sky, and ended up practicing for some minutes alone until I decided to call it a day.

Lessons like these seem so obvious in hindsight, but in the moment it's so hard to be completely in control of myself. I'll have to make training my mind just as vital as training my stroke. I know I'll need it to be stronger than steel eventually.