"Are you planning to stand out here all day or what?"
Minh Lun's familiar voice called out. I turned around to see my friend grinning widely. Today he wore a plain white t-shirt and faded jeans—nothing flashy like the other billiards players who liked to dress up.
"I'm... mentally preparing myself."
"Mentally preparing for an H-rank tournament?" Minh Lun chuckled dryly. "Phi Dang, do you really think you can win?"
The question was too blunt. I stayed quiet for a moment.
"At least I had the guts to register," I replied, my voice a bit small.
"True. Not everyone dares to," Minh Lun patted my shoulder. "Let's go. We'll learn together."
---
Gagon was located deep in the basement of an old building. No signs or advertisements anywhere. To find this place, you had to know the exact address. A narrow staircase led down to a spacious area divided by rough concrete pillars. The lighting in the room was meticulously arranged—dim and gloomy in the areas between tables, but brilliantly bright over each billiard table thanks to low-hanging lamps.
Fifteen billiard tables arranged in rows. The humid space was saturated with the smell of cigarettes, beer, and sweat. Old rock music played from worn speakers, occasionally drowned out by laughter or cheers when a betting match ended.
Shit, the cigarette smoke was too strong. I wasn't used to it yet. And why were all these old guys looking at me weirdly? Oh, probably because I looked too young.
Before registering for this tournament, I had participated in five other matches at various clubs throughout the city. Didn't win any of them, but my ATSM condition had improved significantly. With each loss, I buried a part of my fear underground. In the third match at Anh Duong Club, I managed to hit three balls consecutively before my hand started trembling; in the fourth match at Thien Thanh Billiards, I even held the lead in the first half before the pressure from the audience became overwhelming.
Minh Anh still checked in regularly after each match. With every failure, she offered specific advice—not about technique, but about controlling match tempo, movement, and how to view the billiard table. Simple yet effective advice, as if she understood exactly what I was struggling with.
"When standing before the table, forget the crowd," she wrote. And I tried to follow it, getting slightly better each time.
By the third week, I was no longer an unfamiliar name in the amateur billiards circuit. "Phi Dang K-rank" had become a strange phenomenon—a young man who lost continuously but kept entering tournaments. Even those who had once mocked me began to look at me differently—half curious, half admiring my fighting spirit.
I didn't know how I should feel—ashamed to be mentioned for failures or proud to be recognized for perseverance. Probably both.
"Number eight, Phi Dang," the tournament manager called my name and pointed toward a table in the corner. "Your opponent is already waiting."
---
Quan with Glasses stood waiting at table eight, his metal-framed glasses catching the overhead light. Everything about him screamed precision—pressed shirt, polished shoes, the way he held his cue like a surgical instrument.
"Phi Dang." Not a greeting. Just confirmation.
His eyes swept over me with clinical interest. "I watched your match with Minh Lun. That corner shot on the three-ball... interesting technique for someone so new."
The way he said it made my skin crawl. Like he was dissecting me.
I broke clean—two balls dropped. Progress.
We traded shots for twenty minutes. Quan played like a machine, calculating every angle, every possibility. I managed to keep pace until the pressure mounted.
Then came the shot that mattered: five-ball hanging on the pocket edge, cue ball three meters away in the worst possible position.
My hands started their familiar tremor. The crowd around our table had grown—word was spreading that the chronic loser might actually finish close.
I remembered the theory. Wrist, not arm. Control, not power.
Breathe.
The cue ball rolled smooth and true. When it kissed the five-ball, the room went silent. The ball rolled... rolled... dropped.
"Subtle," Quan admitted, the first crack in his mechanical facade. "Very subtle."
But he closed out the match efficiently. Nine-eight.
"Better than the rumors," he said, extending his hand.
I shook it, realizing something had changed. For the first time, I'd played a complete match without my ATSM crushing me.
Small victory. But it was mine.
---
While packing my belongings, a figure quietly approached beside me. He had platinum-white hair like smoke and mist and a stern face marked with thoughtful wrinkles on his forehead. He wore a simple gray shirt and black trousers. His modest attire couldn't conceal the calm dignity radiating from him.
"Your strokes have power," he said, his voice deep and slow.
I looked up, surprised by the stranger's words.
"Thank you, sir, but I still lost."
He didn't respond; he looked at me deeply, assessing hidden thoughts. Then, without warning, he extended his hand to take my cue stick.
"Your cue," his weathered hand took it gently, executing a fluid practice stance without touching any balls. After examining it closely, he returned the cue, his eyes reflecting newfound understanding.
"This isn't a high-end cue. I watched how you grip it—you seem uncomfortable with it," he said, his voice carrying decades of experience. "But that stance... I've seen it before. Unmistakable."
My heart beat faster. Something about the way he spoke...
"Who are you?"
He didn't answer directly. Instead, he posed a question to me.
"Do you know why I have the nickname 'The Bender'?"
"Master Long... 'The Bender'?" I stammered, unable to hide my surprise. "I... I've only heard your name. I didn't think I'd meet you here."
Long continued. "Minh Anh told me about you. She said you have potential... and a particular problem."
"Minh Anh thinks you can help me."
"Perhaps," Long replied, his eyes still intently focused on me as if searching for a specific sign on my face. "Come with me."
---
We left Gagon and walked to a small tea shop a few blocks away. The shop was quiet, with only a few customers. We chose a corner table, away from any noise. The old wooden tabletop had scratches like scattered memories.
But why did I keep feeling like this wasn't the first time I'd met Master Long? Weird.
Master Long listened without interrupting as I recounted my stiffening condition, the first day I ran away, and my online encounter with Minh Anh.
"What do you call this thing that torments you?" he finally asked, his eyes still not leaving my face.
"Anxiety That Stiffens Muscles."
The master smiled faintly. "A direct name. But the essence goes much deeper than those words. The haunting fear that crushes will, mocking laughter piercing the heart, the burden of expectation crushing every effort. And when that darkness comes, you can only curl up."
I shivered slightly. He described too accurately what I knew—not just muscle stiffness but also the soul freezing.
"Are you overseas Vietnamese?" Long suddenly asked.
"That's right, I've been back in Vietnam for nearly ten years."
Long stood up, pacing slowly around the table with the measured steps of a teacher who had guided countless lost souls. "I've met many people like you, son. They don't lack skill or passion. They only lack the cool head to master not just the game, but themselves."
"So how do you train that cool head?" I asked eagerly, trying to hide my rising excitement.
Master Long turned back, his eyes holding both wisdom and genuine concern. "First, we must examine the battlefield of your mind. What did you tell yourself before stepping into Gagon today?"
I remembered, feeling my chest tighten as I recalled my self-talk. "I can finish the match."
"And you did play," Long affirmed slowly, his eyes seeming to see through to my soul. "But what about the previous match?"
My throat suddenly constricted. "I... I was afraid of missing shots. I thought about the mockery if my strokes were clumsy."
"And when you thought that, what happened?" Long continued, his voice deep but non-judgmental.
"I froze," I described further. "Couldn't move. Like someone had poured cement into every joint in my body."
"That's why we don't need to rush," Long said, his voice slightly different.
I frowned, confused. "So where do we start?"
Master Long walked to his worn leather bag and withdrew a brown journal, its cover aged by countless hands. He placed it before me with the reverence of someone presenting a sacred text.
"By truly understanding your condition," he explained, his voice taking on the weight of years spent studying human nature. "For the next week, document every instance when your body rebels against your mind—whether speaking to authority, meeting strangers, or facing any form of judgment. Record not just what happens, but the thoughts that precede and follow each episode."
My disappointment must have shown clearly on my face. I'd come seeking the secrets of legendary shot-making, not homework assignments that felt more suited to a therapy session than a billiards hall.
"Not just that," Long continued, his voice growing gentler like a father preparing to share a difficult truth. "I want you to recall the fateful match in 2005—try to remember your feelings when taking that massé stance."
I frowned, a sharp pain suddenly piercing my temple. "2005? What happened in 2005?"
"The International Youth Tournament," Long said slowly, his eyes not leaving me. "You participated and reached the finals."
"The memory of that event... I can't recall it, Master Long," I hesitated.
"You don't remember, or you don't want to remember?" Long looked directly into my eyes, his gaze bright and sharp as if trying to pierce through the fog covering my mind.
I fidgeted with the leather notebook's edge, my mind reaching for memories that seemed to slip away like smoke. Every attempt to recall that time felt like tuning a broken radio—fragmented images would flicker briefly before dissolving into static.
"I... I truly can't remember," I admitted, the words feeling hollow.
Master Long was silent for a moment, and I caught a flicker of something deeper in his eyes—not just understanding, but a kind of protective sadness as if he were watching a son struggle with wounds too deep to heal quickly.
Finally, he spoke with the gentle firmness of someone who had walked this path before.
"It's not time to reveal everything yet, child. First, you need to be ready to face it. And to do that, you need to learn to accept failure as your teacher, not your enemy."
"Is that why you want me to lose a hundred matches?" I wondered, but the memory of my conversation with Minh Anh was still clear.
"That's right," Long confirmed, sipping hot tea from his ceramic cup. "But first, you need to understand that the upcoming battles aren't with opponents."
"But battles with yourself."
Long's eyes brightened with something approaching paternal pride. "And that's exactly why wins and losses will become meaningless in this journey. In each match, remember only one element: 'the process.' Focus on hand placement, cue angle, striking force, breathing, and every minute detail."
Long smiled warmly, the expression transforming his weathered features. "This is the fundamental principle you must engrave in your heart, son. The shot that sinks the nine-ball will bring victory, but it pales beside the hundreds of preparatory strokes that made it possible."
I picked up the notebook, flipping through the pristine white pages, imagining they would gradually be filled with emotions, daily moments, and perhaps memory fragments hidden in my brain waiting to be discovered.
"One week," I accepted the notebook, trying not to show disappointment. "And after that?"
Long smiled with the warmth of someone who had guided many lost souls back to their path.
"That depends entirely on you, Phi Dang. Do you want to defeat your fear, or do you want to keep letting it defeat you?"
At that moment, I looked into his eyes and saw not just a teacher but also a father figure—someone who had walked through the darkness I was experiencing and understood not just the destination but every stumble along the way.
"I want to," I replied, my voice more resolute. "I'll do whatever it takes to become better."
---
As we left, the Saigon sunset had painted the sky red. I stood on the sidewalk, watching Master Long's figure disappear into the crowd. The weight of the past and the pressure of the future seemed to blend with the city's hazy mist.
My phone buzzed with a notification.
"Did he agree?"
I stopped in the middle of the street, thinking about the recent meeting and the mysterious connection between Master Long and Minh Anh. Why did he know about my past? And most importantly, what happened in 2005 that caused me such severe psychological problems?
I replied: "Met him! He gave me a notebook to keep a journal."
The response appeared instantly: "Good! Do as he says. I'll see you this weekend."
On my way home, I opened the notebook. Each page would be an opportunity, and each line I wrote would be like a step toward maturity.
It wasn't clear what would appear on these pages, but one thing was certain: I would see this journey through to the end.