Chapter 3: The Value of Misses

Chapter 3: The Value of Misses

(Grip and Flow – A Kendama Memoir)

Kaijo wanted to skip the misses.

He wanted to move fast, land big, and be known.

He didn’t want to grind.

He wanted flow.

So he watched the pros—Nick, with his endless trick calendar and calm mind.

Zach, the quiet anchor who didn’t flinch, even after the fifteenth fail.

And then there was Hachime—his teacher.

Old, steady hands.

Eyes that had seen generations of misses rise into mastery.

“Again?” Kaijo asked one day, sweat on his brow, knees aching.

“Again,” Hachime said, placing a new X on the calendar.

It was Day 23.

Same trick.

Same breath.

Same lesson.

Kaijo rolled his eyes. “I already missed it. I know how it feels.”

Hachime smiled, unmoved. “But do you know what it teaches?”

Kaijo swung. Missed again.

“Nothing!” he snapped.

Hachime didn’t answer right away.

He walked over, picked up the Ken, and held it out.

“You don’t train for the catch,” he said.

“You train for the gap between the drops.

That’s where your character lives.”

Kaijo carried more than a Kendama.

He carried the hunger to prove himself.

To be someone.

To be seen.

He didn’t just want to land a trick.

He wanted someone—maybe even himself—to say,

“You’re good enough now.”

That’s why every miss felt like failure.

Why he winced when it fell short.

Why he looked around the room instead of within.

Nick kept showing up. Quiet.

He never commented on others.

He just breathed, moved, marked his calendar, and left.

One tick at a time.

One trick at a time.

Zach stayed late.

Never spoke much.

But Kaijo noticed something—

Zach smiled after every miss.

It made no sense.

Until one day, Kaijo missed and smiled too—

not out of pride, but out of peace.

Like something had lifted.

Years from now, Kaijo will teach.

And when a young student groans after a failed attempt,

he’ll smile like Hachime did.

He’ll hand them the Ken.

And say softly,

“You don’t train for the catch.

You train for the space between.

And that space becomes who you are.”

The trick will come.

The catches will land.

But it’s the misses that shape you.

They humble you.

They reveal you.

They give you a chance to choose:

Will I keep chasing perfection, or will I return to presence?

Every X on the calendar isn’t a failure.

It’s a fingerprint of your becoming.

And every time you miss—

you get another shot to remember:

This is where the real training begins.

Chapter 4: The Pause Between Tricks

(Grip and Flow – A Kendama Memoir)

There’s a moment between tricks.

Some skip it.

The eager ones. The rushed ones.

They drop into the next move like they’re running from silence.

But the ones who stay—

the ones who pause—

they’re the ones who find it.

It’s not just stillness.

It’s space.

A breath.

A reset.

A reset so complete that your body begins to remember what your mind forgot.

Bella was the first one I saw do it without being taught.

She’d land a trick, step back, and… pause.

Not for show.

Not for the crowd.

Just for herself.

Her eyes would settle. Her shoulders would drop.

And the next move would flow out of her like water.

I used to teach the pause as a form of recovery—

but now I see it as command.

It’s the athlete’s way of telling the moment,

“I’m not chasing. I’m choosing.”

When the younger ones ask,

“Why are we stopping?”

I tell them—

You’re not stopping.

You’re aligning.

You’re practicing the part no one claps for.

The space between the applause.

Zach taught this with his silence.

Nick taught it with his breath.

Kaijo struggled.

He thought pausing was weakness—hesitation.

Until Hachime made him pause after every trick.

Ten seconds.

No movement.

No rush.

Just breathe and feel.

At first, it felt like forever.

But slowly… Kaijo found a rhythm inside the quiet.

And once he trusted that space,

his tricks started landing like echoes—

clean, centered, effortless.

The pause isn’t wasted time.

It’s what makes time bend in your favor.

It’s where process over outcome is no longer a motto—

it’s muscle memory.

It’s where routine becomes ritual.

And ritual becomes flow.

And when you teach others to honor the pause—

you’re not just teaching Kendama.

You’re teaching life.

So when I see a student land a trick

and close their eyes for just one breath

before moving again—

I know they’ve learned it.

Not just how to play.

But how to listen to the quiet between the moves.

Where the flow gets in.