She's gone /Oh I, oh / I'd better learn how to face it

It's the end of an era. The TMMB has shut down.

As inappropriate and harsh as that place could be, it was bar none the finest collection of incredibly smart, talented and funny people I've ever come across. People I'm proud to have conversed with. Soldiers, engineers, scientists, health workers, lawyers, alcoholics, bums, writers, professional strongmen, MMA/BJJ competitors etc. etc. etc. (and attractive women too) made that place astoundingly informative and entertaining. Before I make it sound like a paradise, I have to mention the incredible ability of even smart people to engage in cognitive dissonance, lie or refuse to listen. Stuff that was truly sad or made me incredibly angry that popped up there every so often. Stuff that I laughed for days about popped up too. Stuff that made me think intensely came along amazingly on the regular.

That board was probably the biggest factor in my transformation from an eighteen year old bad person to the twenty-three year old less-bad person I am now. In a way I didn't get often from the real world, it forced the rapid improvement of my analytical and writing abilities, while dramatically raising my standards for performance and conduct - both my own and those of others. Stupidity was not tolerated there and the community self-enforced in profane and hilarious manner.

Morons with entitlement complexes were swiftly ridiculed, banned or prompted to grow beyond who and what they were before. The board, along with the stories its creator told, helped me discover who I was, what I wanted from life and how I could achieve those goals. I made true friends there and frequently go on drinking expeditions with one who lives close by (as well as spoil his dog rotten).

To commemorate its passing, I post the link to Hall & Oates's She's Gone. I'll miss ya, TMMB. You weren't real, but the people that frequented you were. I'm sorry that my brother won't have the chance to surf you.

"They just fell out of your pocket."

So I tried an acrobatic move against Phil recently (for those of you interested in exactly what I tried to do, it's the headstand/waggle/fall at 0:56 of this Leo Viera video).

I failed.

Phil's about 225 pounds, a blue belt and turtles up real well. I'm about 163 pounds, so I basically went up in the air, waggled a little bit and then WHAM, hit the ground flat on my back. Phil didn't move. I'd done a lot of nothing without anything getting done.

What's more is that Phil, Victor and the others who were watching knew precisely what I was trying to do, who had made the move famous and had probably seen the exact video I'd seen.

So once I scrambled and managed to regain Phil's back, I look over and saw Victor laughing quietly. I look down and I saw Phil cracking a smile. I look to my right and I see Bryan looking at me with a "That was funny" expression on his face.

I don't mind failing, even on the "larger stage" the mat offers. So I smiled too and got back into it. There was no taking off of the shoes, one sock or crying going on here.

I tried it again with a lighter opponent again later. I got the turn and hooks in, but I didn't have the audience watching this time. So only you, dear readers, know about this success.

I love this sport and it's completely distracting me from the original purpose of this place. I even scoot out of bed these days on instinct. More on the Nepali side of things to come soon.

Enjoy the summer days and summer nights!

What It's Like

Maybe you had a coach all up in your face, spit flecks flying and flinty eyes osmosing determination, telling, yelling, almost begging, you to Get out there and leave it ALL on the field. Win this for you. Win this for the people in the stands. Win this for me.

Maybe you saw a movie where that happened. Pre-sporting miracle, of course.

Maybe you never had that. I didn't.

Maybe that coach is hidden inside you and needs to be awakened.
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I spar at least twice a week at my BJJ gym. We usually work with a partner of similar size for drills, but the sparring match-ups are on a different level mentally and physically. Some people have to sit out due to injury or there won't be an even number of people in the gym that day, and matches between someone 50 pounds lighter than me or 90 pounds heavier always happen. The intensity dials up dramatically and the sweat flows.

At least twice a week, Victor says "Pair off" in a strangely muted voice. I don't usually notice. Everyone else does and I swear that the atmosphere changes in the gym - this I notice - because it's time for the real thing. These sparring rounds are done at 70 to 80 percent intensity and can go for several five minute rounds, a half hour straight or anything in between. Any tap-out means a quick reset and resumption of "hostilities".
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I drift to a random spot on the mats, take off my hearing aids and put them somewhere safe off-mat, eyeball who I'm up against, settle down into posture or guard, slap hands in acknowledgment and then wait for the signal.

"Go."

When I first started, this was the signal to go ape-shit. Completely balls to the walls, max energy exertion. I'd immediately try frantically to do something - anything - and initially it'd work. I'd land in side mount or have something halfway in. Then the other guy would swoop right in for the choke. I would sit out for a match by the third round, gasping for breath. This got old fast

I asked someone what the secret was. He told me that I got tired doing stuff that didn't matter while my opponent just rode the storm out. Now I try to pick and choose my moments. Doesn't work real good, but it's better than what I did before.
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My world shrinks when I grapple. During the workouts and drills, there's headspace to spare, people to watch, things to think about. My brain can run on multiple tracks. When Victor says Go, that all slides away into no-space and the lizard brain scrabbles into dominance.

That family shit? Gone. Worries about money or school? Gone. Frustration/bewilderment over a girl? Gone.

To focus so deeply on something that all the other tracks running trains of worries, desires or cares disappear is restful. And revelatory. This is the zone where I find out what skills and resources I have and gaze upon the enormity of what I don't have. This is where I find out in truth how I measure against the others.

Do you ever ask yourself: Am I good at what I'm doing?

Fight and find out.
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The first 300 seconds isn't bad. My heart rate's up and I'm fresh. Even with the slower pace I set these days, I move quickly and surely. Sometimes even acrobatically. So does he (or she). The end always comes as a surprise.

I could have done more, we weren't finished here yet, what would have happened...

I let go of my opponent, sit up, slowly stand up, straighten my gi and face my opponent. The instructor tells us to shift to the right or left. We move to a different match. To a different mind, to a different set of strengths, weaknesses, predilections. Adrian likes collar chokes. Rich leaves the omaplota open a lot. Bill's working on his upside down guard.

The second matches are the ones that I have the best shot at escaping unscathed or even locking in a submission myself. I've made the change from remembering what it's like to roll to actually rolling again. In the flow, mind zinging, and the energy is there to take lots of risks, to experiment.

So, if I hang out here and keep this down, I can slide up my foot and Wow, I wasn't expecting that. Okay, worked/didn't work. Next thing...

The third match is the beginning of the slide. I used to think that this was my limit, but the combination of the new rhythym, getting more experienced and pushing through some mental barriers lets me go on. By now, I've usually gone up against one blue, maybe someone around my level and either another blue or someone newer than me. Maybe I get a solid row of blues, maybe I work only with people newer than me.

It's a shuffle. I admit to being tempted to position myself so I get an easier session, but the coach is there in the back of my mind. You didn't come here to puss out, did you?

I get what I get.

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When the grapple permits, I look up and see Victor watching us roll, holding that stopwatch and barking out one or two word orders. With me, he can't bark those orders, so I have to be watching as he mimes the techniques or clearly enuciates the orders while I'm looking.

Sometimes, it's just a smile or a shake of the head and I understand him anyways.

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By the fourth, I'm tired. Twenty minutes of grappling. I make a lot of mistakes. Arms out of position, legs aren't where they should be, holes open up. The coach inside is starting to rant and rave. I roll onto my hands, knees, forehead and breathe for a few moments after each choke. I look forwards to the end. A sense of duty propels me to shakily regain my feet, rearrange my rumpled gi, retie my white belt and line up again for the switch.

"Shift to your right."

Again? This is some sick satanic spin cycle of sweat, pain and jiu-jitsu, isn't it?

Usually around the fourth switch, I reach THAT match - the Lay it all on the mat match. Third wind. This is when I burn those reserves of energy I save for later. This is when that coach inside break into AlPacinoInAnyGivenSunday mode. The coach pushes me to do everything, absolutely everything, I can to win. Breaths come hard and I grimace. Any smoothness I had to my technique is gone. It comes in jerks and stutters. I make more mistakes. Stupid mistakes I know better than to make. I also learn how to succeed here too.

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As I gain more experience in rolling, I'm learning to see the doors that the moves open. Even when they don't go as planned, there's alternatives, different routes to take. From my back, I can try the gogoplata (which almost always fails), shift to an arm-bar (sometimes works), perhaps scoot out and go for an omaplota (sometimes works, if it doesn't, I'm usually in better position), sweep (with the one plausible sweep I have, sometimes works), try to take the back, disengange, roll into upside down guard and so on. The doors were always there. I just had to build the instincts to see and to open them by being on the mats.
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The next match is my breaking point.

It's hard to do anything right. I maintain position. I'm in straight survival mode. I left it all on the mat last match. I cannot reliably match thought with action - nothing works right anymore. The sweeps, the shifts in position are slow and the more you slow down, the harder you have to work because your opponent has more time to see the move and react. The coach inside is subsiding, angrily muttering and giving me dirty looks. When "Time" is called, I actually blank for a few blissful seconds. I get back to my feet, rearrange my gi and then look across the mat at my opponent. Sometimes the last bout is a good one and we're both happy with it. Sometimes it's a bad one and I'm frowning in disappointment. Or my opponent is.

No bout has ever been precisely the same as one before it. I don't know if I remember the entirety of them either. I think I remember just bursts, impressions, sections I didn't like, or moves that worked. I do remember vivdly the time my elbow went crunch in an armbar. John and I looked at each other with those Oh shit! expressions on our faces and disengaged before the pain hit me.

In the locker room, I stand with a subtle smile on my face because there isn't anything else I'd rather have done with my time. The coach inside is tentatively satisfied and knows that I'll be working in and out of class to come back again stronger, faster and smarter. Injuries be damned.

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I'm pushing that exhaustion point farther and farther away now.

Victor added two stripes to my white belt recently. I wasn't expecting it and was honored. Now I'm trying to live up to it and then some.