Concentration: Practice and In the Game

Concentration: Practice and In the Game

By Janpha Thadphoothon

There is a huge difference in your concentration when you do a listening practice in an English Language Teaching (ELT) classroom and when you are engaging in a high-stakes job interview or presenting at an international academic conference. More so when you are sitting in a sterile examination hall taking an international standardized test like IELTS, TOEFL, or TOEIC.

I am sure you would agree with me that the mind behaves quite differently when the stakes are real. Recently, I was listening to a fascinating conversation on the Lex Fridman Podcast (#46), Garry Kasparov: Chess, Deep Blue, AI, and Putin

During the interview, Garry Kasparov—widely regarded as the greatest chess player of all time—shared a profound insight about the nature of human focus. He explained that the level of concentration when you are actually in the game playing chess at the board with the clock ticking is entirely different from the concentration you have when you are calmly analyzing the game afterward, simply moving the pieces around.

That's why sports players and spectators or commentators often have completely different perspectives. From the comfort of the commentary box or the living room sofa, everything looks obvious. We wonder why the striker missed an open goal, or why the grandmaster missed a tactical combination. Yet, down on the pitch or across the sixty-four squares, under the crushing weight of time, fatigue, and consequence, reality shifts.

As a language teacher, I see this exact psychological divide every single week in my classrooms in Bangkok.

The Illusion of the Safe Practice Room

First of all, let us look at what happens inside a typical language classroom. You may wish to picture this scenario: a Tuesday morning at a university Thirty-five undergraduate students are sitting in an air-conditioned room, wearing comfortable headphones or listening to clean, studio-recorded audio played through high-quality speakers. The topic is predictable—perhaps a polite conversation at a hotel reception desk or a brief lecture on climate change.

In this environment, students often perform remarkably well. They nod along, circle the correct multiple-choice answers, and feel a quiet sense of mastery. As we know, the classroom is designed to be a safe harbor. If a student misses a word, the teacher can pause the track, rewind ten seconds, and offer a reassuring smile. There is no real penalty for hesitation.

However, I notice that this safety net creates a subtle illusion. When learners step out of that controlled environment and into the real world, their cognitive architecture undergoes a sudden shock. I think many students assume that listening comprehension is a purely mechanical skill—like riding a bicycle—that transfers effortlessly from the practice track to a busy highway. In my opinion, that assumption is deeply flawed.

It is my personal belief that concentration is not a static container of attention that you simply carry from room to room. Rather, it is an elastic, dynamic state that interacts violently with emotion, risk, and stakes. When you are merely practicing, your brain operates in a low-threat mode. Your working memory is free to process syntax, vocabulary, and phonological cues without interference.

The moment you enter "the game"—whether that game is negotiating a business contract, defending a thesis, or facing an IELTS listening module where each audio track is played only once—your nervous system changes the rules.

Kasparov’s Paradox: Analysis vs. The Ticking Clock

Let me introduce you to the notion of what I call Kasparov’s Paradox. In his interview with Lex Fridman, Kasparov reflected on his preparation during the 1980s and 1990s. Back then, before modern chess engines could refute a move in a split second, Kasparov and his coaches spent countless hours analyzing openings at the board. Yet, he admitted that during this calm analysis, they often missed subtle flaws. Why? Because the quality and intensity of concentration during peaceful study cannot replicate the razor-sharp, survival-driven focus required during an actual tournament match when the clock is ticking.

What's more interesting is that Kasparov also noted a mysterious connection between those hours of practice and actual performance. Even when the specific variations he studied never appeared on the board, the sheer volume of dedicated preparation somehow transformed into a kind of "spiritual energy" or intuitive readiness that helped him find brilliant ideas under pressure.

I must admit that this resonates deeply with my own journey as both an educator and a lifelong learner of languages. They say that practice makes perfect, as the saying goes, "Practice makes perfect," though in language teaching we prefer to say "Practice makes permanent." Not only do I agree with Kasparov’s distinction between analysis and live play, I also believe it explains why so many brilliant, hardworking students freeze when the pressure is on.

I often doubt myself when designing listening assessments. Have I prepared my students for the serene world of academic analysis, or have I prepared them for the chaotic reality of the ticking clock?

The Spectator vs. The Player in Language Assessment

It is well known that standardized tests like IELTS, TOEFL, and TOEIC are designed to measure language proficiency under controlled conditions. Critics such as prominent applied linguists and critical language testers would tell you that these exams often measure test-taking stamina and anxiety management just as much as actual communicative competence.

Fundamentally, it is all about cognitive load. When a candidate sits for the TOEIC listening section, they must process one hundred questions across forty-five minutes with zero pauses. If they miss question fourteen and spend even three seconds regretting it, they have already lost the crucial opening phrase of question fifteen. The ticking clock shows no mercy.

In contrast, consider the spectator—or in our case, the test designer or the teacher holding the answer key. When I review a listening transcript with my class after a mock exam, everything seems crystal clear. The clues are obvious; the distractors are transparent. We become commentators analyzing a replay in slow motion.

I know you would agree with me that it is unfair to judge a player’s split-second decision using the luxury of slow-motion replay. Yet, in education, we do this constantly. We forget what it feels like to be inside the arena, where auditory input vanishes into thin air the millisecond it is spoken, leaving behind only a fragile echo in short-term memory.

The Neuroscience and Psychology of "In-Game" Focus

Let's be a bit more scientific. Why does concentration mutate when we move from practice to performance?

According to cognitive psychology and neuroscience, attention is closely tied to the arousal of the autonomic nervous system. The classic Yerkes-Dodson law suggests that performance increases with physiological or mental arousal, but only up to a point. When levels of arousal become too high—triggered by the fear of failing an expensive international exam or losing a coveted job opportunity—cognitive performance plummets.

Here is what happens inside the brain during an "in-game" listening event:

• Tunnel Vision (or Tunnel Hearing): Under acute stress, the prefrontal cortex—responsible for executive function, nuanced inference, and complex syntactic parsing—partially cedes control to the amygdala. The learner starts listening desperately for isolated keywords rather than holistic meaning.
  
  
• Internal Noise: In practice, the only sound is the audio track. In the game, the loudest noise is often internal: “Did I hear ‘fourteen’ or ‘forty’? What if I fail this section? My parents paid so much for this test.” This internal monologue hijacks working memory.
  
  
• Decision Fatigue: Kasparov pointed out in his podcast interview that top players burn thousands of calories during a tournament purely through intense mental exertion. Similarly, sustaining hyper-vigilant listening in a second language for two hours depletes glucose and neurotransmitters rapidly.
  
  

Experts say that expert performers develop "automaticity"—the ability to execute foundational sub-skills without conscious effort, thereby freeing up cognitive bandwidth for higher-level strategy. I am not an expert, but I have read somewhere that when a concert pianist or a chess grandmaster practices, they are essentially trying to push basic mechanics down into the subconscious so that their conscious mind can remain calm during the storm of live performance.

For an English learner, if decoding basic phonemes or common vocabulary still requires conscious effort during practice, then during the actual game, their cognitive system will inevitably overload.

The Thai Classroom Context and the Specter of "Face"

In Thailand, for example, the gap between practice concentration and in-game concentration is widened by unique cultural and educational factors. Having taught English in Bangkok for nearly three decades, I have observed this phenomenon across thousands of students.

Those were the good old days for some when English education focused almost exclusively on grammar translation and silent reading. In those days, students had plenty of time to stare at a printed sentence, dissect its clauses, and consult a dictionary. There was no ticking clock of real-time spoken interaction.

Like it or not, the world moves on. Today, Thailand is deeply integrated into the global economy, tourism, and international academia. Our graduates are expected to sit in boardrooms, participate in Zoom conferences with multinational teams, and pass international proficiency benchmarks.

Yet, I notice a persistent cultural hurdle: the fear of making mistakes and losing "face." In his interview, Kasparov made a striking observation about the psychology of top competitors: he stated that the fear of making a mistake actually guarantees mistakes. At the very top, you must possess the inner strength to make a decision even when the consequences are uncertain, standing firm without wasting precious mental energy on hesitation.

Gradually, I have come to realize that many of our Thai learners suffer not from a lack of vocabulary, but from an excess of hesitation. During practice, they are relaxed because no one is judging them. In an interview or a conference, the fear of misinterpreting a question paralyzes their auditory processing. Instead of listening openly, they tense up, trying to pre-formulate an answer while the speaker is still talking.

AI, Closed Systems, and the Future of Concentration

As someone who has recently immersed himself in the study of Generative AI and Large Language Models, I cannot help but connect Kasparov’s reflections on Deep Blue and AlphaZero to modern language learning.

The news has it that artificial intelligence can now transcribe, translate, and summarize spoken language in real time with near-human—or even superhuman—accuracy. According to the media, some commentators are even questioning whether humans need to agonize over learning foreign languages at all when AI earbuds can do the heavy lifting.

Accordingly, some argue for a radical shift away from traditional listening drills, claiming that technology will soon render high-stakes language testing obsolete. Some argue against this view, insisting that genuine human connection, diplomacy, and leadership require unmediated linguistic presence.

What we all know and agree upon is that AI is transforming the landscape of education. In the Lex Fridman podcast, Kasparov drew a brilliant distinction between closed systems (like chess or Go, where rules are fixed and machines will always achieve superior steadiness) and open-ended systems (like real human life and communication, where context, ambiguity, and moral judgment reign).

Make no mistake, an international standardized test like TOEIC or IELTS is, to a large extent, a closed system. It has predictable formats, time limits, and clear right-or-wrong answers. However, a live job interview, a diplomatic negotiation, or a spontaneous Q&A session at an academic conference is an open-ended system.

I like the idea of using AI as a sparring partner to bridge the gap between practice and the game. With modern conversational AI, learners no longer have to rely solely on sterile, predictable textbook recordings. They can simulate high-pressure interviews, adjust speaking speeds, introduce background noise, and practice responding under realistic time constraints.

As a matter of fact, AI can serve as the analytical engine—just like Stockfish or AlphaZero in chess—helping learners review their "games" afterward and spot where their concentration lapsed. Yet, when the actual human encounter begins, no machine can sit inside your consciousness and steady your nerves for you.

Bridging the Divide: How to Train for "In-Game" Concentration

So, how do we help learners—and ourselves—transition from the relaxed focus of the practice room to the intense, resilient concentration required in the game?

I’d like to entertain you with the idea that we need to stop teaching listening as a passive receptive skill and start coaching it as an active, athletic performance discipline.

No one knows everything, but I would like to share a few pedagogical principles that I have found effective in my own classes and personal language study:

1. Introduce Controlled Stress into Practice: If practice is always comfortable, it fails to inoculate the learner against real-world anxiety. Teachers should occasionally simulate "in-game" conditions: play audio only once, enforce strict time limits, introduce mild distractions, and require immediate oral or written summaries.
   
   
2. Train Recovery, Not Perfection: Kasparov admitted that even as World Champion, he made blunders. What separated him from lesser players was his ability to recover emotionally and keep fighting. In listening, learners must be trained to let go of a missed word instantly. Holding onto a missed detail is like mourning a lost pawn while your king is under attack.
   
   
3. Build Cognitive Stamina Gradually: Just as a marathon runner does not start with forty-two kilometers, language learners must build attentional endurance. Moving from three-minute classroom dialogues to twenty-minute authentic lectures or podcasts trains the brain to resist fatigue.
   
   
4. Practice Metacognitive Awareness: Learners should learn to observe their own attention drifting. When you notice your mind wandering during a conference talk, gently bring it back to the speaker’s rhythm and intonation rather than panicking.
   
   

I somehow think that we underestimate the physical side of concentration. Kasparov specifically highlighted that physical conditioning is crucial for mental endurance. A tired, dehydrated, or sleep-deprived brain cannot sustain high-level concentration in a second language, no matter how many grammar rules it has memorized.

Reflections on Mastery and the Arena

Nevertheless, it is my long-held belief that (though I could be wrong) true mastery in any human endeavor—whether chess, teaching, or speaking a foreign language—is forged only when we willingly step out of the safety of analysis and into the unpredictability of the arena.

It has perplexed me for years why some students with modest test scores communicate brilliantly in international conferences, while others with near-perfect practice scores struggle to utter a coherent sentence under pressure. The difference, I have come to see, lies in their relationship with "the game." The former embrace the uncertainty; they treat communication as a live, dynamic interaction rather than an exam to be survived.

Wisdom from the past hints that we learn most when something is at stake. The ancient Stoics practiced premeditatio malorum—imagining adversity beforehand so that when difficulty arrived, the mind would remain unshaken. In a similar vein, the best language preparation anticipates the pressure of the arena.

The past is the past. We cannot cling to outdated methods that treat language merely as an academic subject to be analyzed on paper. Those were the days when everything was simple, but today’s learners inhabit a fast, interconnected world that demands real-time agility.

One may ask what true concentration really is. Is it merely staring intently at a page or straining one's ears toward a speaker? I guess it is something much deeper. Fundamentally, I would argue that true concentration is the alignment of preparation, emotional steadiness, and complete presence in the moment.

My gut tells me that when you are truly in the game, time seems to behave differently. Anxiety fades into alertness. You are no longer thinking about the language; you are thinking through the language.

Stepping Onto the Board

Nevertheless, it is my belief that every learner and every teacher must periodically test themselves outside their comfort zone. Whether I am preparing a lecture for my students, diving into the mathematics of Large Language Models, or practicing a foreign language myself, I remind myself of Kasparov’s lesson.

It's hard to describe, but I will try: there is a quiet thrill in realizing that your hours of unseen preparation have suddenly crystallized into clarity when the clock is ticking.

Having said that, I realize that we must also show compassion to our learners—and to ourselves—when we falter under pressure. Being human means being inconsistent, unlike the cold, steady perfection of a chess engine. But the beautiful thing is that our human vulnerability is also the source of our creativity, our empathy, and our resilience.

However challenging, I determine to make it clear to my students that the goal of practice is not simply to get the right answers in a quiet room. The goal is to build the inner strength to stay present, calm, and curious when the game truly begins.

About the Author:

Janpha Thadphoothon is an Assistant Professor of English Language Teaching (ELT) at the Faculty of Arts, Dhurakij Pundit University (DPU) in Bangkok, Thailand. He also holds a certificate in Generative AI with Large Language Models issued by DeepLearning.AI.