Writing in my journal and losing at billiards. That's been my entire life for the past two months. Sixty-three matches played, sixty-three losses recorded in neat columns in my notebook.
Match fifteen. Match twenty. Match fifty-nine. I've become a master at losing. At least now I know how to lose without running away screaming.
Master Long has started showing up at tournaments. He stands way back, drinks coffee from a paper cup, and watches me play with those sharp eyes of his. He never says anything during the match—just observes.
Today I played Quan at Gagon. Lost 9-2. As usual.
"You were focusing too much on those guys in the audience," Master Long said when I walked out.
Yeah... he was right. I kept noticing these drunk guys at the next table commenting on every shot I made.
---
That evening at Gagon, Master Long pulled out my journal to look at it. He flipped through the pages, reading my messy handwriting. Sometimes nodding, sometimes raising an eyebrow.
"What do you see in all this?" he asked.
I sweated a little. Felt like being called on by a teacher.
"It happens more than I thought."
"You didn't think you were that anxious?"
"No. I thought... I was normal."
Master Long looked at me with kind eyes, not judgmental ones. "It's not fear. Your body is just trying to protect you. It thinks there's danger where there isn't any."
He sipped his coffee. "Do you see a pattern?"
I flipped back through the pages I'd written. Meeting with my boss, presentation, complaint phone call, playing billiards. All the times my hands had betrayed me.
"When I'm afraid people will judge me?"
"Exactly." He pointed to the part I wrote about the presentation. "Here, you weren't scared your presentation would bomb. You prepared well. You were scared people would think you're incompetent."
He flipped to the page about billiards. "And here, you're not scared of losing. You keep coming back to play. You're scared of looking like a fool."
"Interesting, right?" He raised an eyebrow. "When do you think it started?"
It started getting worse about eighteen months ago," I said, my voice shaking a bit. "My company went through this massive restructuring. Layoffs, reorganization, the whole nightmare. Suddenly I had to present to the board of directors—these people who'd never heard of me before but could decide whether I kept my job.
I stopped abruptly. Almost said something about my family being there. About disappointing people I loved. But I wasn't ready to go there.
"What were you about to say?" Master Long asked, tilting his head.
Shit. Why was he so observant?
"Nothing important. Just work politics." I reached for my water glass, trying to hide the tremor in my hands.
Master Long studied my face for a long moment. Like he could read the parts I wasn't saying.
"Alright," he stood up suddenly. "Today we're not working on billiards technique."
Thank god. I didn't want to dig into that memory.
"Today we're working on breath control."
---
"Breath control" sounds simple but it's not. Master Long didn't teach me meditation or anything mystical. He just taught me how to use breathing to anchor my mind in the present.
"When you're anxious, your mind time-travels," he explained. "Replaying past failures, imagining future disasters. Breathing brings you back to now."
He put his hand on my shoulder. "Where are you right now?"
"Here with you."
"No. Where is your mind? What are you thinking about?"
I hesitated. "I'm thinking about yesterday's meeting. And what if I miss this next shot."
"See? You're everywhere except here. Try again. Breathe in... hold... breathe out... Now where are you?"
I closed my eyes. "Here. Just here."
---
Two weeks later, Master Long was still only teaching breathing exercises and stance work. I started getting frustrated.
"Look," I finally exploded, "I came here to learn billiards! When are we actually going to play pool?"
My voice carried across the room. Players at other tables glanced over.
Master Long didn't get angry. He just smiled and pulled a white ball from his pocket.
"How many matches have you lost now?" he asked calmly.
"Thirty-seven." I paused, doing the math in my head. "Three tournaments a week, sometimes four matches per tournament. Been doing this for eight weeks straight."
"Fifty-nine matches. What do you think the problem is? Your technique or your head?"
I went quiet. All my irritation just evaporated.
"When someone breaks their leg," he said slowly, "they don't immediately start running marathons. They learn to walk again first. Your confidence is broken, Phi Dang. We're teaching it to walk.
"You're not ready for advanced technique yet. You're still in rehab."
The words stung more than I expected. Here I was, thinking I'd made progress, and I was still stuck in beginner mode. I could feel my jaw tighten, preparing for the usual speech about patience and slow progress.
But Master Long surprised me. "Don't look so disappointed," he said, a slight smile playing at his lips.
He took the ball from my hand and placed it on the felt. "I'm going to shoot this ball into the corner pocket."
He closed his eyes and gave the ball a gentle push with his finger.
The ball rolled... straight into the side pocket.
He opened his eyes and shrugged. "Big gap between intention and reality."
This time he kept his eyes open and rolled the ball directly into the corner pocket.
"The art of pool is closing that gap."
I stared at the ball, then at my own hands. Hands that could debug complex code but couldn't control a simple sphere.
Suddenly I thought about my programming career. Years of perfect designs that never worked as planned. Features that looked great on paper but crashed in production.
"Like my code," I muttered.
I'd spent countless hours architecting elegant solutions, but reality was messier. Users did unexpected things. Systems failed in unpredictable ways.
Master Long just nodded, tapping his fingers on the rail.
Master Long tapped his fingers on the rail, studying my face. "You know, most people who come here are running toward something. But you..." He paused. "You're running away from something. And lately, you've been checking your phone less during practice. No urgent emails pulling you back to work mode."
I shifted uncomfortably. "Maybe."
"You've been thinking about leaving your job, haven't you?" he asked quietly.
My stomach dropped. Had I been that obvious? "How could you tell?"
He smiled. "I've seen it before. When people start understanding the game, they start questioning everything else too."
He pulled out a black ball and set it next to the white one. "Opposites. But they both belong on the same table."
I looked at the contrast. My corporate life suddenly felt like a series of meetings where I was physically present but mentally absent. Going through the motions without really engaging.
"I didn't come here to get better at pool," I whispered. "Did I?"
He squeezed my shoulder. Not to correct my posture. Just human connection.
We sat in comfortable silence. The sounds of other games—balls clicking, players laughing—created a bubble around us. Something had shifted.
"Master Long," I said finally. "I need to tell you something."
He waited patiently.
"I already quit my job."
The words hung in the air between us. Six words that represented fifteen years of my life, a steady paycheck, health insurance, my parents' approval, and everything I thought I was supposed to want. Six words that meant I was now officially a thirty-five-year-old man whose only skill was losing at pool in progressively less embarrassing ways.
Master Long didn't look surprised. If anything, he looked relieved.