Eyeing a slice of mouth-watering pepperoni pizza in the dining hall, I trip over someone’s outstretched leg. As I plunge thoughts of food flee, instantly replaced with concern for my phone, which hurtles towards the tile. Just in time my mind jolts me to action. I regain my balance and catch my phone with my bungee cord arm.

While bystanders might praise good fortune for my miraculous save, I credit Kendama, the Japanese version of the classic cup-and-ball toy. Practicing Kendama builds tremendous hand-eye coordination. The simplest trick, landing the ball in the biggest cup, can elude newcomers, and even veterans cannot land their best tricks 100% of the time. I began playing only three months ago, but the positive effects on my coordination already materialize. And the benefits of Kendama reach far beyond simple coordination: playing with this simple children’s toy builds patience, improves focus, and enhances decision-making, all gentlemanly qualities I want to cultivate.

Practicing Kendama borders on meditation because focusing on anything besides the current trick breaks concentration; training to achieve this state helps me ponder life’s essential questions. As I sit in my room, surrounded by darkness, one thought haunts me: What do I want to do with my life? Every time I try to choose a path, I become indecisive. This hesitation stems not from a lack of options, but an abundance. Imagining the seemingly endless pool of my careers options paralyzes me. I rise from my chair and turn on the lights.

Frustrated once again at stalling my purpose, I decide to take a break and play Kendama to ease my mind. Preparing to play, however, I encounter the same problem; I cannot decide which trick to practice. Although Kendama blesses newer players with some sort of path, just as our parents guide us during childhood, after mastering the obvious basic cup and spike skills, players must choose their own tricks to train. Similar to choosing a college major, I practice tricks that seem impressive yet entertaining; the versatility of Computer Science meshes with the near-infinite trick list for Kendama. The fundamentals of Kendama, coordination and knees, match the fundamentals of Computer Science, thinking in code and problem-solving. By practicing the trick “big cup,” I improve my execution of “little cup,” as well. Similarly, learning one programming language facilitates learning others; both Computer Science and Kendama train people to become well-rounded. I raise the game piece in front of my chest, the string hanging down, suspending the ball, which spins lazily. In the moment, the sphere becomes the earth, travelling through space, and I, the player, a force to change it. Instead of worrying that choosing one trick to train eclipses the others, I consider the carryover between tricks, focusing on the common skills I build by practicing any maneuver.

As I improve at Kendama, I become more confident while practicing in public. Because I have mastered more impressive tricks, passers-by usually recognize the difficulty of the game. However, not everyone respects the instrument. Many people assume that kids’ toys cannot challenge adults; when I hear this argument, I ask the challenger to try Kendama. After grappling with the toy, unable to land many tricks, the haggler leaves with new respect for the time I’ve invested in landing higher-level moves.

Like life, Kendama often presents me with frustrations and difficulties. Despite my enthusiasm to master lighthouse, a trick involving balancing the wooden handle on top of the ball, I am failing each attempt this play session. I understand the trick conceptually, but my coordination and balance falter during execution. To make matters worse, I have landed the trick before, increasing my rage at my current weakness. This anger decreases my fine motor control, rendering the trick more difficult. After a few more attempts, I realize the detriment of my emotions and take a deep breath, feeling my heart rate settle. I ask myself, this isn’t a competition, so why am I getting so heated about failure? I stop criticizing myself so harshly. If I cannot balance a small, carved piece of wood on another, I haven’t developed my skills enough and I need to practice more. As with any activity, skill at kendama increases with practice time. Picking up my Kendama again, my inner resolution and patience to land lighthouse increase.
Dealing with “dama rage” increases my programming ability as well. When tracking down a bothersome computer bug, the equivalent of a troublesome trick, I generate escalating irritation with each failed fix. When I switch my attitude from “Why haven’t I found the problem yet” to “Well, I guess the error isn’t here,” I can calm down and reanalyze the problem. I train my Kendama tricks similarly; if one component of the trick works every time, I focus my efforts elsewhere.
I recently signed up for community service teaching a talent –Kendama, of course- to a 5th grader every Tuesday. As he sits, intently watching me demonstrate, I wonder how he would react to more skillful players. It comes time to teach, so I hand my mentee my first Kendama, its sky-blue paint shining in the intense sun. I outline a couple core concepts, such as how to grip the crosspiece correctly and how to use the knees to make catching the ball easier, then tell him to try to get it in the big cup. These directions seem meager, but I want to avoid impressing my ideas too heavily upon my mentee; multiple approaches can produce the desired outcome in both Kendama and programming: a landed trick or a working program. After a few unsuccessful tries he shoots me a hesitant look, so I return a reassuring smile. I didn’t land the trick my first try, after all.
“Is there some secret to this?”
“Not besides what I already showed you. Now it’s up to you.”
A few attempts later the ball falls into the cup with a thwack! After a moment’s celebration, he attempts to transfer the ball to the little cup, but the ball rolls out, leaving the string taut. This time, neither my mentee nor I look disappointed, and he readies the kendama to try again.
Kendama has its drawbacks, of course. I regularly catch myself playing kendama in my dorm when I should be working (although for this article I consider it “research”). In these situations, I recognize the deviation, and the next time I land a trick on my chosen storage position, the spike, I set down the piece and return to my work refreshed. I’ll continue my exploration of life and toys later.