Confidence is Overrated: Chapter 5 "Make the Complex Simple"

Confidence Is Overrated by Travis Thomas. This is an informal reading of the book. Chapter 5, Make the Complex Simple. Quote, the man on top of the mountain didn't fall there. Vince Lombardi, one of my favorite quotes. Here we go. Going into my freshman year of high school, I was small. Puberty hadn't hit yet. I really wanted to make the varsity soccer team as a freshman. My ego really wanted it, but I was nowhere near having the work ethic or toughness to play at that level. My older brother had just graduated from the same school the previous year, and despite being super talented, he had a bad experience with the coach. So I already had a negative perspective from the onset. It was clear from the first day of tryouts that I wasn't ready. I wasn't big enough. I wasn't fast enough. I wasn't tough enough. I had skill, but it didn't mean much if I couldn't get on the ball. Practices were brutal. It pushed me to my limit, and I broke. Although I survived 2 weeks of tryouts, I didn't make varsity. In my head and in my heart, I knew I wasn't good enough. But my ego couldn't take it. I complained to the coach. I complained about the coach. I made excuses. It was victim thinking 101. To this day, I still can't believe I did this, but I quit. I quit the game I love. I let my ego and my fear of a challenge win. I quit the team. I don't know how my parents allowed me to go through with it. But they did. That had to be so hard for them not to force me to stay with it and stick it out. And I can't believe I didn't eventually go crawling back to the coach. What was I thinking at that time? Knowing what I knew I had to do to get better and more physical seemed overwhelming to my ego. Quitting was less painful than the pain that was required to grow. Sadly, I let my ego win. What I needed at that time was a path ahead on how to navigate the challenge. The mountain in front of me was too big. I didn't know how to take the first step. I needed someone to help me make the big small. A few weeks after quitting the soccer team, my dad told me about a friend of his who had opened a karate studio. His 10-year-old son was already a national champion. And the instructor was a young guy who had proven himself at the national level. With all this extra time on my hands, my dad signed me up for classes. The first thing I noticed was how supportive everyone at the studio was. My instructor was from North Carolina, and his name was Bruce. Not Lee. It was Bruce Loudermilk. He was thin but strong. He had a gentle and supportive manner that felt safe, but he wasn't to be messed with. Nothing like a little bit of Southern drawl to put you at ease, but when he needed to, he knew how to demand the attention of the room. He ran a straightforward class steeped in discipline, respect, and commitment. Karate was hard. Sparring was scary, but I liked the adrenaline of fighting someone in a safe environment. Karate was outside my comfort zone, but I was enjoying it. I looked forward to my two classes each week. About six months into my training, Bruce let everyone know that we would be participating in a tournament on the other side of the state. Even though I was still a white belt, he felt the experience would be good for me. I would get a chance to perform my kata in front of judges, but more importantly, I would get to compete in the sparring tournament. It was a three-hour drive, and Bruce convinced my parents that being at my. It— try that again. It was a 3-hour drive away, and Bruce convinced my parents that being my first tournament, it probably didn't make sense for them to make the drive. If there were any expectations, they were low. This was about me experiencing a tournament for the first time and knowing how it felt. I performed my rehearsed form kata for the judges. I felt good, but apparently not well enough to finish in the top 3. Then it was my chance to fight. I mean, this is karate. The original Karate Kid was my favorite movie growing up. Would I sweep the leg, try a running jump kick, or pull out Mr. Miyagi's crane kick? No. I was a white belt competing against kids with yellow, green, and blue belts. They were far more experienced than I was. Bruce pulled me aside before my first fight. and gave me these simple instructions. Don't throw any kicks. Let them come at you. Let them throw a kick or try a punch, and all I want you to do is block and punch. Block and punch? Like, that's it? Yeah, just block and punch. When you block them, you'll open up their chest, and you have a direct punch to score a point. Okay. I wasn't going to argue with Bruce. I just wanted to survive my first-ever fight without getting hurt. Remember, fighting didn't come naturally to me. This was way outside my comfort zone. I can't even remember my first opponent, but I'm pretty sure he wasn't a white belt. We all know that feeling of being in something high-pressure, feeling the adrenaline spike, and then losing our focus. But because of Bruce's simple instructions, it slowed everything down. Block and punch. The first fight ended pretty quickly. The first fighter to score 3 points wins the match. I won 3 to 1. This is a karate tournament and I didn't throw a single kick. Block and punch. The second fight was even easier. No kicks, just block and punch. Another victory. The semifinal fight was against a kid kicking green with a kick. Woo! The semifinal fight was against a wild kicking green belt. My leg didn't even go that high. It didn't matter because I really wasn't using my legs. Even though my opponent was far superior in skill and experience, I prevailed again. The only hiccup came when I got too excited during one of the points. My opponent attempted a high roundhouse kick towards my head. As instructed, I used my left arm to block the kick to the side. It opened up and exposed the chest of my opponent, and with a burst of adrenaline, I punched them in their kidney, sending them to the ground and trying to catch their breath. I got a warning for a wild punch. I wasn't trying to injure them. I was just trying to survive. One point later, I was on to the final block and punch. There is no sensational finish in the championship fight. The greatest drama came from my instructor and another student almost missing his fight because they were cheering me on. As for the details in the final, I don't remember any of them, but I know that I won. I do remember scoring the final point and looking at my instructor. in shock, confused over what just happened, and then being awarded a trophy way too big for the occasion. What? How did this happen? Block and punch. It would take over 30 years for me to realize the genius of the coaching I received that day. Over the next year, I went on to fight in 3 or more, 3 or 4 more tournaments. I went from a white belt to a yellow belt. and eventually a blue belt. I got better. I was far more experienced, yet I never came close to winning another tournament. I could kick now, and because of my soccer background, I had a nice array of kicking ability. I loved throwing kicks. But having more tools didn't help me. Instead, what I really needed was to block and punch. With those 2 simple instructions, Bruce had made my world small. He made the complex simple. He knew my limited ability as a white belt, and he knew my head would be spinning as a first-time competitor. So instead of trying to process all this stimulation and find out where to put my focus, he did it for me. I was the least talented fighter in the group with the least experience, but I had the clearest focus and intention. I was only thinking about 2 things, block and punch. What this proved to me from a performance standpoint is profound. It is less important to have lots of options and more important that we focus on the 1 or 2 most important behaviors needed to be effective. When I'm working with individual players, my goal is always to help them make the big small. But complex simple. That is why I ask them to tell me the 2 to 3 most important behaviors for them to be successful. Again, I'm asking them about behaviors and actions, not feelings. Going back to the karate tournament, if I had focused on my feelings, I would have been a nervous mess with no target to set my attention. But by focusing on 2 simple actions, It allowed me to turn down the volume on all the other options and distractions. Make the complex simple. Jason Wicker is the co-founder of On the Fly Productions. He and his wife, Jennifer Reagan, have taken their skill set all over the world, from cruise ships to Broadway to America's Got Talent. They are performers and choreographers who do aerial stunts and flying entertainment, Dangling from 100 feet in the air, twirling from silks, and suspended from harnesses. Not only does Jason choreograph and teach others how to safely work the equipment, but he is also a performer. And you would think that it takes a special, fearless person to choose a profession that high in the air. The problem is, Jason has a fear of heights. What? Jason became a friend of mine years ago, and all along I assumed he was this crazy guy with a screw loose. But one day he opened up about not realizing he had a fear of heights until he was actually hired to be an aerial artist. Instead of quitting and letting fear get the best of him, he created a routine, a literal routine. In the process of doing so, he didn't get over his fear of heights. But he now knows how to manage it by choosing where he focuses his attention. It has worked so well for him that he uses the same technique to train other performers dealing with the same fear. Let me paraphrase this, but this is essentially what Jason told me. I accepted that I have a fear of heights. So when I'm learning a new routine, I start off by rehearsing it at ground level without being worried about my fear. I focus on each move over and over Getting comfortable knowing it like the back of my hand. Then I practice it being suspended about 10 feet from the ground. Same thing over and over, move to move, focused on the routine. Then I go higher and practice more, then higher and higher. Eventually I get to the final height, however high it is, and I just focus on the routine. Am I still afraid of heights? Yes. When I look down and see how high I am, it hits me and I get scared. But then all I do is go back to my routine, focusing on the next move, then the next move, and then the next. When I focus on each move in the moment, I can't also be focused on my fear at the same time. The fear of heights hasn't left, but knowing what to focus on shifts my attention and And allows me to still perform at my top potential. Block and punch. Move to move. Make the complex simple. If you are running a marathon, there's no need to focus on mile 26 while you're running mile 1. Be where your feet are. My good friend Brian Rook, Is an ultra marathon runner. Ultra. When I asked him about how the— how he mentally and physically manages competing in an ultra event, he had this to say. For those of you who don't know, ultra marathon events are marathons longer than 26 miles, sometimes like in trails and hills. Crazy time. That's all I have to say. Here's what Brian had to say about mentally and physically preparing. Ultra races strip life down into very— into 2 very simple, very beautiful, very different, and sometimes painful, literally, realities. One, attachment is nothing, just observing. 2, the impermanence and uniqueness of everything. Let me explain. This is what Brian says. One, Hold on to nothing. Not the pain, not fatigue, or the bliss, or the heartache, or the duality of anything. Just be. Be curious. Be courageous. Be open. If you start to cling, you start to become the thing you cling to. Like, if you cling to, I'm in pain, well, then eventually leads to, I quit. So try to release your thought from any emotion, thought, or feeling. Ultras are insane, especially the long ones over 60 miles on rough courses. One moment you think you're gonna die, you must stop, you have to stop, and then the feeling thought melts and suddenly it's 11 miles later and you feel really good. That's why I regret quitting my first 100-miler at mile 87. Oh. I was basically finished. 13 miles to go. That's it. And I stopped. Sure, I had an injury, but I know for a fact I could have finished. But I didn't trust rule number 2 enough to know that in just 2 to 4 more hours, it would be over. The feeling of pain wouldn't last forever. It's impermanent. All that to say, feelings are the enemy of actual real-time performance. Instead of feeling, shift to observing and maintaining agency over your mental state. That is the sweet spot of running an ultra. Surrender to the now and just be, be in the moment. Be calm and strong and reassure yourself you don't need to react to an emotion. Ultras are basically the training ground for my life, which is why I run so much. Thanks, Brian. During one of my team talks with the professional soccer team FC Dallas, I shared with them how an ultramarathon is any marathon over 26.2 miles. Ultra races can be 50 miles, 100 miles, and even longer. A professional soccer season, when you add up all the games, can be over 40 games. It's a long season. During this team talk, they had just finished the 2nd game of the season. And we're still stinging from a bad loss at home. As I described to them how a soccer season is like an ultramarathon, it put things into perspective. We don't need to focus on game 40. We just need to learn from game 2 and now prepare for game 3. In our race, we were just beginning mile 3. Make the complex simple. Block and punch. Move to move. One mile at a time. Legendary coach Mike Krzyzewski is one of the most decorated basketball coaches of all time. He went to 13 Final Fours and won 5 national championships. The NCAA March Madness tournament is a gauntlet, a single elimination tournament spanning 3 weeks that requires 6 straight wins to win the title. No one was better in March than Coach K. During an interview, he was asked how he prepared his team for the tournament. His answer always stuck with me. Instead of getting them mentally prepared to win 6 straight games, he focused his team on winning each weekend. He wasn't mentally preparing them for one long tournament, but rather 3 mini 2-game tournaments. Just win the weekend and advance. Make the complex simple. Block and punch. Move to move. One mile at a time. Win the weekend and advance. Going back to my experience in 9th grade, I needed help making the complex simple. Had Bruce been my soccer coach and could see how overwhelmed and afraid I was, he may have found a similar task I could focus on. When I work with players now in similar situations, I try to come up with smaller goals that seem less daunting. For a young baseball player getting used to facing a curveball for the first time, the impulse is to bail out of the batter's box. Courage at that point is not getting a hit, but just staying in the box. As the player gets older and is now facing someone throwing over 90 miles an hour, courage might look like simply making contact. No matter the sport, profession, or period of life we are in, there is an opportunity for courage. The line is always moving because as we get more comfortable, the challenges continue to get bigger. Failure is not making mistakes. Failure is choosing to stop growing and evolving because of the fear of those mistakes. Courage is the ability to keep moving forward into the discomfort. When I stand on stage these days and deliver a keynote to 1,000 people, I am more excited than nervous. 10 years ago, it would have felt daunting. Today, with hundreds of talks under my belt in all types of environments and audience sizes, my comfort level has expanded. Am I confident? Yes. My confidence is based on so many reps of competence. When I take the stage, whether it's in front of 12 people or 12,000 people, the actions and behaviors for success are the same. The feeling of confidence is nice, but it's my simple focus that brings me peace and clarity. Courage is not this fixed quality where you either have it or you don't. Courage is a muscle that needs to be developed. Little by little, over and over, forever. I remember working with the University of Georgia football team for the first time. Although I delivered countless team talks, being introduced by Kirby Smart to the team felt different. I was nervous. I knew I had to have energy and exude strength in order to be taken seriously by these men. Yes, I had done similar talks before, but this environment was calling forth more courage. I wasn't highly confident, but I had self-belief, which allowed me to have more courage. As a parent, coach, teacher, or leader, our responsibility is to create a space where people feel safe and supported enough to step into the discomfort and know that we have their back. It is not to coddle or do the hard work for them, But to give them the belief that they can work through it. Our job is to support, mentor, and encourage them through the struggle. Our role is to provide clarity through simplicity, making the big small. Block and punch, block and punch, block and punch. Make the complex Simple. Here are your chapter 5 reflections. Question 1, is there something in your life right now that feels too big, too complex, and you don't know how to handle it? Question 2, can you take the mountain in front of you and turn it into a molehill? What are 1 or 2 simple actions that will start you on the path of progress. And just a side note before we end chapter 5 here, while I was finishing the book and, and working with, with different clients and athletes, this, this equation came to me as a way to help, um, coach. And it's this idea that V plus E equals P. And I know I, I talk about it a little bit later, but that V is validation. That E is encouragement and the P is progress, right? To really be able to validate how someone's feeling, right? They feel safe. Encourage them, right? Encourage that courage, encourage the next right step. And what do you get back as a result? You get progress. V plus E equals P. I'll see you at chapter 6.