Sporting Grace

The Zen of Spectatorship

I took the photo above on a walk yesterday in my small town of Great Barrington, Massachusetts. Someone had placed the Buddhist figure (a Kwan Yin) next to a shed outside an old little league diamond, thus combining, for me at least, two sacred images. It made me think of writing something about the spirituality of sports—not the playing but the watching. Then I remembered I already had, some years ago. So I dug out that essay and offer it up here.

My wife thinks I watch too many ballgames. I tell her it’s an important part of my spiritual life. She rolls her eyes and laughs. Not without some justification, I have to admit. Sometimes, I watch sports with all the spirituality of couch potato with a bet on the game. At other times, though, when I’m attentive and higher purpose is alive in my awareness, watching sports is a profound spiritual practice.

Anything that inspires awe and wonder can be a spiritual experience. So can anything that uplifts the soul, proclaims the dignity of the human spirit, or affirms our capacity to shatter boundaries and transcend limitations. A shortstop dives for a ball in the hole and turns a double play; a closer strikes out a slugger to end a tight game; a swift, elusive point guard orchestrates a fast break and a graceful giant slams home a dunk; a running back eludes an onslaught of behemoths and wends his way to the end zone—moments like those can be as awe-inspiring as a leaping school of dolphin, as sublime as a Himalayan sunset, as elevating as a gospel choir. If you’re so inclined, and if you allow it to.

Feats that go beyond physical prowess and bring to bear strength of will and nobility of character elevate the spirit in a different way. Some athletic endeavors transcend sports entirely and rise to the level of mythology—the U.S. hockey team beating the Soviets, Jesse Owens humiliating Hitler, Jackie Robinson breaking the color line—and some performers make you feel like you’re watching something as miraculous as a sea parting its waters or a burning bush speaking. Watching a Doctor J, a Michael Jordan, or a LeBron James seemingly defy the laws of physics, for instance, makes the mind-over-matter feats of yogis and fakirs seem plausible.

Watching teammates interact with friction-free harmony, selfless execution, and virtually psychic communication, I gasp at what humans can accomplish when they let go of their egos, tune in to one another’s hearts and souls, and strive for common goals. Reading Bill Russell’s description of being on court with his Boston Celtic teammates recalls watching a jazz ensemble or reading the Tao Te Ching on attaining perfect harmony with one’s surroundings. And acts of courage, fortitude and self-sacrifice in athletic competition bring a lump to my throat, not unlike the admiration inspired by Gandhi, King, or Mandela.

Ah, but we know those noble moments are a small portion of the spectator’s sporting life. What about the heartbreak, the ruthless competition, the monotony, the obscene emphasis on winning at all costs? Actually, what seems to be vulgarity is where watching sports really becomes a spiritual practice. It’s a testing ground, much as the challenges of everyday life test our capacity to carry into real-world action our articles of faith, our spiritual ideals, and the inner peace of prayer and meditation. In that context, the old cliché that sports are a metaphor for life takes on new meaning.

Common to every spiritual tradition is the recognition that the satisfaction of ordinary pleasures and achievements is transient. Well, so is the elation of victory on the playing field, because tomorrow your team might lose—and if not tomorrow then surely the next day or the one after that. Even the best go down to defeat about a third of the time. Your favorite player got four hits? Scored 30 points? Passed for the winning touchdown? Next time around, he might be humiliated. Your team is in the lead? Enjoy it while you can. Everything is transient—fortunately, not only the good times, but also the pain, the sorrow, and the disappointment. Today’s losers are tomorrow’s champs, and today’s champs are tomorrow’s chumps. Like real life.

Because these ups and downs are vivid and sometimes precipitous, sports are a great lesson in the spiritual imperative to seek contentment within ourselves, in the moment, not in the external realm of impermanence and uncertainty, and not in the hope of future glory. They’re also a great curriculum for learning how to deal with unpredictability and change, because nothing changes as quickly or as unpredictably as the score of a game or the fortunes of a team.

Serious spiritual practitioners work on cultivating attributes such as non-attachment and letting go of concern for their fruits of their actions. Well, few things in life measure progress as dramatically as watching a game whose outcome you care about. Sometimes, as I get caught up in rooting or the anxiety of a pivotal moment, I think, “Haven’t you learned anything?” But, at other times, I have the blessed experience of what the Bhagavad Gita calls “equanimity in loss and gain,” as I gleefully watch a tense game while feeling perfectly at peace inside, unconcerned with the outcome (admittedly a whole lot easier to do when you don’t have an emotional stake in either team).

Skeptics might say that watching sports can’t be compared to authentic spiritual practice. I understand the point, but any experience can be spiritual. It depends on what you bring to it. You can walk on the beach at sunset to strengthen your leg muscles or to post a lovely photo on social media—or to immerse your soul in the sublime glory of creation. You can dance to impress a date or show off your agility—or because it’s an ecstatic expression of a devotional impulse. You can have sex to dominate another human being, or to feed your ego, or to gratify a physical urge—or as a sacred act of love in a holy union.

Similarly, you can perform religious rituals outwardly while your inner landscape is so dark and dreary you might as well be in a bowling alley. As someone once said, sitting in a church or temple doesn’t make you spiritual any more than sitting in a garage makes you a car. It all depends on what you bring to the occasion. William Blake wrote that “the tree which moves some to tears of joy is, in the eyes of others, only a green thing that stands in the way.”

If you bring to sports a spiritual intention and a fully attentive mind, a game is more than a game; it’s a step on the soul’s ladder of progress, win or lose.

Play ball!