I DID NOT WRITE THIS, but it sure feels like I did.
STICKS TRAINING ACADEMY
INSTRUCTOR INSIGHT
I'M NO POND KING
A Small-Town Kid With a Big-City Dream
I'm a small-town kid with a big-city dream.
I've played in little bars.
Local tournaments.
Regional tournaments.
Big tournaments.
I've walked into rooms where I was one of the strongest players there.
I've walked into rooms where I was somewhere in the middle.
And I've walked into rooms where I had absolutely no business being considered one of the favorites.
The older I get, the more I've started paying attention to why I choose the tournaments I choose.
And I've realized something.
I'm looking for competition.
Not victories.
Not losses.
Not trophies.
Not validation.
Competition.
There's a difference.
It feels good to win.
It sucks to lose.
I'm not going to pretend otherwise.
I'm a competitor.
When I enter a tournament, I'm trying to win the damn thing.
But winning and competition aren't necessarily the same thing.
I can manufacture wins simply by being careful about where I play.
If I'm considerably better than everybody in the room, my winning percentage should be pretty impressive.
I can stay there.
Keep winning.
Become the big fish.
Eventually I might even start believing that my winning percentage tells me how good I am.
Maybe it doesn't.
Maybe it tells me how small I've kept the pond.
That's the Pond King.
And I don't want to become him.
But there's another trap on the opposite side.
I can skip those tournaments completely.
Tell myself I'm above them.
Then enter enormous tournaments filled with professional-level players where I'm such an underdog that nobody reasonably expects me to win.
Now I get to say:
Look where I'm playing.
Look at these players.
I'm chasing bigger things.
But there's a strange kind of safety there too.
Because if I have almost no chance of winning, losing doesn't necessarily force me to confront anything.
I was supposed to lose.
That's the Paper King.
His crown looks different.
But it can protect the same thing.
The ego.
And that's what I've realized.
The Pond King and the Paper King aren't really opposites.
They're cousins.
One hides from legitimate competition by staying below it.
The other can hide from legitimate competition by jumping completely over it.
One says:
“Look who I beat.”
The other says:
“Look who I play.”
Neither question interests me very much.
I want to know:
Who can you compete with?
Now we're talking.
Because there's a place between being almost guaranteed to win and almost guaranteed to lose.
That's where I want to spend a lot of my time.
The outcome is uncertain.
I might win.
I might lose.
I'm not supposed to win...
but I can.
That's where something happens inside me.
That's where I become curious.
That's where I feel alive as a competitor.
Because now I don't know.
And I've said this for years:
True competition comes from the need to know.
I need to know.
What happens when you put your game against mine?
What happens when I'm under pressure?
What happens when neither one of us knows who's walking away?
What happens when my expectations collide with reality?
That's competition.
And competition gives me something much more valuable than validation.
Truth.
That's what I'm actually looking for.
I don't want competition that exists to tell me how good I am.
I want competition capable of telling me where I'm weak.
Where I'm strong.
What holds up.
What breaks down.
What I understand.
What I thought I understood.
What needs attention.
What needs work.
What needs to grow.
Because the truth creates something.
Need.
And that's where my second principle enters:
Real training begins when there's a need to grow.
How do I know what needs to grow if I never allow legitimate competition to expose it?
That's why I need different tournaments.
Sometimes I need the local tournament.
Sometimes I'm one of the favorites.
That's a legitimate test too.
Can I perform when I'm expected to win?
Can I respect the player everybody thinks I'm supposed to beat?
Can I maintain engagement?
Can I handle the pressure that comes from expectation?
Can I win when winning doesn't make me look particularly special—but losing gets everybody's attention?
That's competition too.
And sometimes I need to remind myself and everybody else:
I'm still here.
I can still play.
There's another level of pool right down the road.
Sticks Training Academy.
Come see me.
But I can't live there.
I can't keep showing up just to beat players I'm supposed to beat and then use those victories to convince myself I'm getting better.
Eventually I've got bigger fish to fry.
I need deeper water.
I need players who can beat me.
I need players I'm capable of beating.
I need uncertainty.
I need competition.
And occasionally I need the other extreme.
I need to walk into the big tournament.
I need to see the monsters.
I need to stand across from players operating at a level above mine.
Not because I want to be a tourist.
Not because I want a picture proving I was there.
Not because simply entering their tournament somehow makes me one of them.
It doesn't.
I'm there because I want perspective.
I want to experience that level.
I want to see what holds up and what falls apart.
I want to be reminded how much room there is above me.
Sometimes I need to be humbled.
That's information too.
But I'm not going to confuse being in the same tournament with being legitimate competition for the people capable of winning it.
Those are two completely different things.
And there's something else I've learned to respect.
The lower-level player who walks into that local tournament knowing he's probably going to get beat?
I see him.
Maybe everybody knows he has very little chance.
He shows up anyway.
I respect that.
Because he's willing to receive information he might not like.
He's willing to find out.
That takes something.
And the strong player who walks into that same tournament as the favorite?
I respect him too.
Because he's willing to carry the expectation.
He's willing to put his reputation on the table.
He's willing to find out too.
That's what I'm interested in.
Players willing to find out.
Maybe that's why I don't want one permanent position in the food chain.
Sometimes I'm the bigger fish.
Sometimes I'm somewhere in the middle.
Sometimes I'm the little fish.
That's okay.
Change the water.
Because every position asks something different from me.
When I'm the favorite:
Can I handle expectation?
When we're evenly matched:
Can I compete?
When I'm the underdog:
Can I rise?
When I'm completely outclassed:
Can I humble myself enough to learn?
Different water.
Different questions.
Different information.
And that's ultimately what I'm trying to do with my ego.
I'm not trying to pretend I don't have one.
I do.
I want to win.
I want people to respect my game.
I want to know I'm capable.
But I'm not interested in building my entire competitive life around protecting that belief.
I want to test it.
I want to expose it.
I want to put it somewhere the answer isn't predetermined.
Because if I already know I'm going to win, what am I finding out?
And if I already know I'm going to lose, what am I finding out?
Give me that uncomfortable space in between.
Give me uncertainty.
Give me somebody who believes he can beat me.
Give me a reason to believe I can beat him.
Rack the balls.
Now let's find out.
That's competition to me.
Not proving.
Discovering.
Not protecting an identity.
Testing one.
Not looking for an environment that confirms what I already believe.
Looking for an environment capable of showing me something I don't know.
Because:
True competition comes from the need to know.
And once competition gives me the truth, I take that truth back to the training table.
Now I have direction.
Now I have questions.
Now I have something that needs attention.
Now I have a reason to work.
Real training begins when there's a need to grow.
Competition reveals the need.
Training addresses the need.
Then I go compete again.
That's the circle.
I'm a small-town kid with a big-city dream.
I don't want to become king of a pond.
And I don't want a paper crown because I stood beside the sharks.
I want legitimate competition.
I want the truth.
Sometimes that truth is going to make me feel pretty damn good.
Sometimes it's going to hurt.
Give it to me anyway.
Because I'm not trying to create the appearance of being a great player.
I'm trying to become a better one.
And I can't do that hiding from the very thing capable of showing me where I stand.
Competition.
Find it.
Gravitate toward it.
Don't run from it.
Put your game out there.
Find out.
Take the truth back to the training table.
And grow.
True competition comes from the need to know.
Real training begins when there's a need to grow.
I'm no Pond King.
I'm no Paper King.
I'm a student looking for competition.
STICKS TRAINING ACADEMY
Small-town kid. Big-city dream.
Students Only.