Saturday, June 20, 2009
Wednesday, July 2, 2008
Blood, Sweat, and Toots
The other day in BJJ class, I managed to chomp my tongue during a take down. I'll consider myself fortunate for having my first self-inflicted blood draw to be so tidily and well contained. Other than surmising that perhaps I should use a mouth guard in the future, my vanity off the mat outweighing my vanity on the mat, the few mouthfuls of blood I had to rinse out were not overly traumatic. Of course, I had to contend with talking like I had a speech impediment all week, inconvenient but manageable. Blood is an uncommon bodily fluid for me to deal with in BJJ. Of more perspiring concern is in my output of sweat. Inch for inch, I am convinced that I generate the most perspiration of anyone in my jiu jitsu class, independent of our relative activity levels. That is, I don't sweat more because I work out harder, I just sweat. When we are cooling down with yoga stretches after class, I am always surreptitiously swabbing up the mat with my gi wherever I've left a residual trail. I'm like the sweat snail--you can always tell where I've been by the silver slime.
On the one hand, sometimes having a veneer of sweat is useful for wriggling my eel-like arm out of a grip because I'm basically just too slippery to hold on to. On the other hand, sometimes I lose my own traction and grip. I never stopped to think about it until now, but I suppose it's a good thing I'm not particularly squeamish about having people sweat all over me, probably because my own contribution of total combined sparring sweat (TCSS) constitutes about 80 percent of the moisture yield. My Amazonian rainforest output dilutes away everyone else's civilized London drizzle. It's a good thing I am not any bigger than I am. Could you imagine if I were 3 times my size and commanded the proportional sweat output as I do now? I'd be able to submit someone by drowning them.
Still, I choose bodily invasions of the liquid kind over those of the gaseous variety. During one evening class, I was sparring with a new partner when he threw his leg over my abdomen for a mount. Just as his weight pressed into my belly, my traitorous lower intestine gave a single raspberry squeal of protest at a decibel level equivalent to a 0.44 Magnum at point blank range. Fortunately, this was just a blank grenade, more sound than stench, and not one of those insidiously quiet and potently malodorous bombs. Everyone sparring in the room froze, then glanced around for the point source of pollution. Suppressing a snort of laughter, I did the first reasonable thing that came to mind.
"That was him," I blurted fiendishly, pointing to my partner.
Several expressions warred across his face as he was torn between chivalrously accepting responsibility for the toot and crying out for truth and justice in exposing me for the bubbly little prevaricator I was. He managed to splutter, "Yes, and sitting on your belly had nothing to do with it," just as I realized my error as the lady who 'doth protest too much' by being the first to deny responsibility.
Young Mr. Mason, sitting out of this round of sparring, asked incredulously from the far end of the room, "Was that Miss I-Pei??!"
Way to call me out there, buddy.
By this point, it was almost a relief to be able to tap out from my partner's well-timed arm bar, instead of ignominiously tapping out from sheepish embarrassment. Here after all this academic pondering whether I was becoming a Brazilian Jiu Jitsu inflatable doll in class, what a relief to discover that I'm nothing but a squeaky toy.
Blood, sweat, and the occasional toot. Let it not be said that I don't give it my all on the mat.
On the one hand, sometimes having a veneer of sweat is useful for wriggling my eel-like arm out of a grip because I'm basically just too slippery to hold on to. On the other hand, sometimes I lose my own traction and grip. I never stopped to think about it until now, but I suppose it's a good thing I'm not particularly squeamish about having people sweat all over me, probably because my own contribution of total combined sparring sweat (TCSS) constitutes about 80 percent of the moisture yield. My Amazonian rainforest output dilutes away everyone else's civilized London drizzle. It's a good thing I am not any bigger than I am. Could you imagine if I were 3 times my size and commanded the proportional sweat output as I do now? I'd be able to submit someone by drowning them.
Still, I choose bodily invasions of the liquid kind over those of the gaseous variety. During one evening class, I was sparring with a new partner when he threw his leg over my abdomen for a mount. Just as his weight pressed into my belly, my traitorous lower intestine gave a single raspberry squeal of protest at a decibel level equivalent to a 0.44 Magnum at point blank range. Fortunately, this was just a blank grenade, more sound than stench, and not one of those insidiously quiet and potently malodorous bombs. Everyone sparring in the room froze, then glanced around for the point source of pollution. Suppressing a snort of laughter, I did the first reasonable thing that came to mind.
"That was him," I blurted fiendishly, pointing to my partner.
Several expressions warred across his face as he was torn between chivalrously accepting responsibility for the toot and crying out for truth and justice in exposing me for the bubbly little prevaricator I was. He managed to splutter, "Yes, and sitting on your belly had nothing to do with it," just as I realized my error as the lady who 'doth protest too much' by being the first to deny responsibility.
Young Mr. Mason, sitting out of this round of sparring, asked incredulously from the far end of the room, "Was that Miss I-Pei??!"
Way to call me out there, buddy.
By this point, it was almost a relief to be able to tap out from my partner's well-timed arm bar, instead of ignominiously tapping out from sheepish embarrassment. Here after all this academic pondering whether I was becoming a Brazilian Jiu Jitsu inflatable doll in class, what a relief to discover that I'm nothing but a squeaky toy.
Blood, sweat, and the occasional toot. Let it not be said that I don't give it my all on the mat.
Wednesday, June 11, 2008
Lauren the Momminator vs. I-Pei the Brazilian Softwood: The Rematch
You may recall my previous performance at my first Brazilian Jiu Jitsu tournament in April. My modest goal had been to last the entire 5 minute round without losing by submission. As it turned out, it was a draw whether I lost by points or submission, since the final score was 13 to zero, and the match officially ended seconds before I tapped out from the rear naked stranglehold that Lauren the Momminator had on my throat. I felt confident that our second jiu jitsu tournament, held on June 7, would be a different story. I had been training consistently to increase my stamina for multiple rounds and to improve techniques to submit my opponents. I also knew that Lauren the Momminator was coming to the tournament a week after a vacation in the Virgin Islands, and like a shark sensing potential weakness in its prey, I was out to WIN this rematch.
There were only six women competitors at this school tournament because Haley was out of town to help her aunt. This left her sister, Keaton, the Collie girls, Devyn and Jordyn, my comrade with two kids the same age as mine, Michelle, Lauren the Momminator, and myself. I realized that without Haley, I had a good shot at coming in third place if I won my match against Lauren. It was likely that Michelle and Keaton would eliminate the Collie girls in the first round because of their superior experience, so I wouldn't have to fight them myself. I haven't sparred enough against the Collie girls to know how I would fare against them. I have an extra two months of experience on them, but that little extra training is probably outweighed by their strength and size (do recall that their father is a former pro football player). Granted, Brazilian Jiu Jitsu is about leverage and not strength and size, but if both opponents are roughly equal in technique and strategy level, the stronger opponent can muscle their way to victory.
The adult tournament was scheduled to occur after the children's tournament was done, but the schedule was changed to have the women's matches held in between the children's matches. This was done so that many of the competitors, who either had siblings or kids in the children's tournament, did not have to stay longer than needed. I knew about the schedule change so I showed up at 10 am, an hour before the adult tournament had been slated to begin. By the time I had arrived, Michelle had won over Devyn in a close match (she had been down by 2 points, but her husband yelled that information to her and she rallied for an arm bar to submit), and Keaton had won over Jordyn. Joao came over between the children's matches to ask me to alert him the moment Lauren showed up so that we could have our match. As it turned out, Lauren never got the message about the schedule change so she showed up a little before 11 am. I was raring to go and she was caught a bit by surprise because she had only just arrived.
I had decided to wear a mouthguard because I had chomped my tongue the week before and I really didn't want to take the chance of reinjuring that part of my anatomy. Joao looked at me as we waited on the mat for Lauren and he said, "Wow, a mouthguard, you look like a warrior. It's kind of scary, actually."
"Yeah, that's the idea," I drooled.
Lauren arrived, a bit breathless, and bounced around a bit to stretch out as Joao explained the rules. Take downs and sweeps are worth 2 points, passing the guard (moving past the opponent's knees) is worth 3 points, mounting the opponent's belly for 3 seconds is worth 4 points, taking the opponent's back and placing your hooks is worth 4 points, sitting on the opponent's back while they lie flattened on their belly is 3 points, and pressing one knee on the opponent's belly while extending the other leg is 3 points.
We began the match, both grabbing each other's lapel and sleeve, then breaking apart. After the classic circular dance performed by beginners who don't know many take down techniques, Lauren put her right leg to my belly and sat backwards, dragging me down to my knees, then completed the takedown by rolling me to my back. I managed to wrap my legs around her in a closed guard position without too much difficulty, and a glance at the scoreboard confirmed that she had 2 points for the takedown to my zero.
For the next 4 minutes, I had her in my guard and she was unable to escape. I tried several of the basic submissions I knew from this position: lapel chokes, guillotines, arm bars, a Kimura arm lock, but they were not successful.
Her gi was sliding off and it was hampering both of us, because every time I tried to pull on it, it would slide over her head. Joao, refereeing, pulled it back down, and as I looked at him questioningly he said, "It can't block her view." In the meantime, Lauren used the distraction to knock me onto my back from my partial sitting position.
She however, was not going anywhere, so eventually I tried a sweep and flipped her over so that I ended up in a mount position, putting 4 points on the board for me a little less than halfway through the match. My internal corner man, the one who yells instructions from the corner of my brain did not pipe up until Lauren rolled me on my back again seconds later, still with my legs locked around her in closed guard.
"You are down points," he said. "She just swept you so you're down points. You need to make more points."
I didn't question that inner voice that kept telling me that I was down points. The timer called the 30 second warning, and my internal corner man admonished with more conviction, "You are down points. You are down points. I know, why don't you try that cool sweep you just learned last Saturday? It's foolproof."
Yeah, I thought dazedly, how did that sweep work again? Open the guard, put my feet on her belly, grab her ankles...
Like a bat out of hell, Lauren swooped down after I unlocked my legs from around her waist and attempted to put me in side control. I hooked my leg around her back and tried to climb on her back, my internal corner man saying, "Yeah, 4 points will put you over her," but I didn't have the right leverage and suddenly, she had me in side control.
"Time!" they called, almost immediately, so that it was too late to extricate myself.
"Oh well," my corner man sighed, "you were down anyhow."
Lauren and I gave each other congratulatory slaps for a good match, and as we stood up, Joao came over and said to me, cryptically, "You won. But BADLY. You made one mistake--you opened your guard. You shouldn't have opened your guard!"
"I was trying to sweep her," I blathered blithely, surprised that I had won. But I hadn't, since Joao raised Lauren's arm in victory, and I turned to look at the scoreboard to realize that the score was 4 to 5, and I had lost the match in the last moments when I had opened my guard and allowed her to put me in side control.
In the cruel minutes, hours, and days after I discovered that I had needlessly snatched defeat from the jaws of victory, I had many an opportunity to whack my forehead and think, "What in the name of Gracie was I thinking? How had my internal corner man been so inept?"
I spent the entirety of the match thinking that I was losing, a persistent sort of negativity that had become habitual to the point that it overcame all logic such that 2 + 2 = 5 in my mind. That is, even if Lauren's second sweep had counted for points, which it hadn't, her score would have been 4, since sweeps only count for 2 points. We therefore would have been tied, and even if I had sat there in closed guard for the rest of the match, I could have won on advantage points (given for attempted submissions).
Another failure of logic was my decision to attempt a sweep to earn all those extra points I thought I needed to win when I was already ahead by 2 points. Excuse me? A sweep is worth a measly two points. Why didn't I just attempt another 4 point mount, or (let's be a genius here) better yet, keep up the submission attempts. After all, a submission is the most decisive and efficient way to win.
My Tuesday and Thursday morning instructor, Trent, had only a week earlier told me, "You have a really good closed guard that you should just keep people in."
"That's what I've heard, but I hate feeling like I'm just lying there," I said, thinking of all those times people eventually peeled off my legs and put me in (where else) side control.
"No," he said, "just hold your opponent there until they make a mistake."
Trent said later that week in class, "You lost in the last 3 seconds! It was like something you would see if someone was trying to throw a fight."
No, when I throw a fight, I make it obvious, like 13 to zero, and a bonus tap-out for good measure.
"I nearly yelled out at you," he continued.
"Why didn't you?" I wailed, jumping up and down. But I knew why he couldn't, he had been scorekeeper.
I wondered what Joao would say during our next scheduled class. I came prepared to hear another lecture about why I shouldn't have opened my guard. But instead, he said, "I was going to e-mail you to tell you that I thought you did a really good job, but I decided to wait to tell you in person. You have improved so much! I couldn't root for you because I was refereeing, but Trent and I both had our fingers crossed because you were doing so well."
"But I came so close to winning. Instead I made that stupid blunder!" I sighed.
Joao looked at me wearing his "Wise Sage" (not Wise-cracking Sage) expression and responded, "In 2006, when I was in the Worlds competition, I did the same thing. I was ahead 4 to 2 and in the last 30 seconds, I opened my guard, and lost the match by one point. It was the finals, and it was a really hard match. After losing that match, I just sat on the mat and cried."
As a result of being point minded in the finals, Joao won the bronze medal instead of the silver medal in the World BJJ competition. It was one of those stories where I couldn't find a lot of comfort in it because it made me feel badly for him. The idea, I suppose, is that tactical mistakes are made in tournaments at every level of competition. All we can do is to attempt to learn from our errors.
Keeping my guard closed, or just the concept of maintaining confidence and patience in a dominant position, is the easier lesson for me to understand and possibly incorporate. The more difficult lesson is the one to quiet that inner critic who never even let me realize, much less enjoy, that I had been dominating the match. What point is all that bravado before the match, psyching myself up to believe that I could win, when during the match itself all I heard in my head was that I was losing? In times of duress, our perceptions are skewed, and perhaps we are not failing as badly as we think we are, or perhaps we are not failing at all. Maybe we're even winning.
My daughters came to watch the match, carrying a sign reading "Go Mommy!" I was glad at least that I didn't offer them the specter of the previous tournament, of their mom getting whooped.
Squirrel said, "You did great, Mommy! You were winning all the way until just the very, very end!"
"But I wanted a medal," I pouted, the Botox sting of this loss rejuvenating my puerile attitude.
Back at home, Squirrel solemnly hung the medal she made for me over my neck, a bronze bell attached to several strands of yarn. She had written on the bell, "You're a WinNER!"
Indeed, I am. And I have the cowbell to prove it.
There were only six women competitors at this school tournament because Haley was out of town to help her aunt. This left her sister, Keaton, the Collie girls, Devyn and Jordyn, my comrade with two kids the same age as mine, Michelle, Lauren the Momminator, and myself. I realized that without Haley, I had a good shot at coming in third place if I won my match against Lauren. It was likely that Michelle and Keaton would eliminate the Collie girls in the first round because of their superior experience, so I wouldn't have to fight them myself. I haven't sparred enough against the Collie girls to know how I would fare against them. I have an extra two months of experience on them, but that little extra training is probably outweighed by their strength and size (do recall that their father is a former pro football player). Granted, Brazilian Jiu Jitsu is about leverage and not strength and size, but if both opponents are roughly equal in technique and strategy level, the stronger opponent can muscle their way to victory.
The adult tournament was scheduled to occur after the children's tournament was done, but the schedule was changed to have the women's matches held in between the children's matches. This was done so that many of the competitors, who either had siblings or kids in the children's tournament, did not have to stay longer than needed. I knew about the schedule change so I showed up at 10 am, an hour before the adult tournament had been slated to begin. By the time I had arrived, Michelle had won over Devyn in a close match (she had been down by 2 points, but her husband yelled that information to her and she rallied for an arm bar to submit), and Keaton had won over Jordyn. Joao came over between the children's matches to ask me to alert him the moment Lauren showed up so that we could have our match. As it turned out, Lauren never got the message about the schedule change so she showed up a little before 11 am. I was raring to go and she was caught a bit by surprise because she had only just arrived.
I had decided to wear a mouthguard because I had chomped my tongue the week before and I really didn't want to take the chance of reinjuring that part of my anatomy. Joao looked at me as we waited on the mat for Lauren and he said, "Wow, a mouthguard, you look like a warrior. It's kind of scary, actually."
"Yeah, that's the idea," I drooled.
Lauren arrived, a bit breathless, and bounced around a bit to stretch out as Joao explained the rules. Take downs and sweeps are worth 2 points, passing the guard (moving past the opponent's knees) is worth 3 points, mounting the opponent's belly for 3 seconds is worth 4 points, taking the opponent's back and placing your hooks is worth 4 points, sitting on the opponent's back while they lie flattened on their belly is 3 points, and pressing one knee on the opponent's belly while extending the other leg is 3 points.
We began the match, both grabbing each other's lapel and sleeve, then breaking apart. After the classic circular dance performed by beginners who don't know many take down techniques, Lauren put her right leg to my belly and sat backwards, dragging me down to my knees, then completed the takedown by rolling me to my back. I managed to wrap my legs around her in a closed guard position without too much difficulty, and a glance at the scoreboard confirmed that she had 2 points for the takedown to my zero.
For the next 4 minutes, I had her in my guard and she was unable to escape. I tried several of the basic submissions I knew from this position: lapel chokes, guillotines, arm bars, a Kimura arm lock, but they were not successful.
Her gi was sliding off and it was hampering both of us, because every time I tried to pull on it, it would slide over her head. Joao, refereeing, pulled it back down, and as I looked at him questioningly he said, "It can't block her view." In the meantime, Lauren used the distraction to knock me onto my back from my partial sitting position.
She however, was not going anywhere, so eventually I tried a sweep and flipped her over so that I ended up in a mount position, putting 4 points on the board for me a little less than halfway through the match. My internal corner man, the one who yells instructions from the corner of my brain did not pipe up until Lauren rolled me on my back again seconds later, still with my legs locked around her in closed guard.
"You are down points," he said. "She just swept you so you're down points. You need to make more points."
I didn't question that inner voice that kept telling me that I was down points. The timer called the 30 second warning, and my internal corner man admonished with more conviction, "You are down points. You are down points. I know, why don't you try that cool sweep you just learned last Saturday? It's foolproof."
Yeah, I thought dazedly, how did that sweep work again? Open the guard, put my feet on her belly, grab her ankles...
Like a bat out of hell, Lauren swooped down after I unlocked my legs from around her waist and attempted to put me in side control. I hooked my leg around her back and tried to climb on her back, my internal corner man saying, "Yeah, 4 points will put you over her," but I didn't have the right leverage and suddenly, she had me in side control.
"Time!" they called, almost immediately, so that it was too late to extricate myself.
"Oh well," my corner man sighed, "you were down anyhow."
Lauren and I gave each other congratulatory slaps for a good match, and as we stood up, Joao came over and said to me, cryptically, "You won. But BADLY. You made one mistake--you opened your guard. You shouldn't have opened your guard!"
"I was trying to sweep her," I blathered blithely, surprised that I had won. But I hadn't, since Joao raised Lauren's arm in victory, and I turned to look at the scoreboard to realize that the score was 4 to 5, and I had lost the match in the last moments when I had opened my guard and allowed her to put me in side control.
In the cruel minutes, hours, and days after I discovered that I had needlessly snatched defeat from the jaws of victory, I had many an opportunity to whack my forehead and think, "What in the name of Gracie was I thinking? How had my internal corner man been so inept?"
I spent the entirety of the match thinking that I was losing, a persistent sort of negativity that had become habitual to the point that it overcame all logic such that 2 + 2 = 5 in my mind. That is, even if Lauren's second sweep had counted for points, which it hadn't, her score would have been 4, since sweeps only count for 2 points. We therefore would have been tied, and even if I had sat there in closed guard for the rest of the match, I could have won on advantage points (given for attempted submissions).
Another failure of logic was my decision to attempt a sweep to earn all those extra points I thought I needed to win when I was already ahead by 2 points. Excuse me? A sweep is worth a measly two points. Why didn't I just attempt another 4 point mount, or (let's be a genius here) better yet, keep up the submission attempts. After all, a submission is the most decisive and efficient way to win.
My Tuesday and Thursday morning instructor, Trent, had only a week earlier told me, "You have a really good closed guard that you should just keep people in."
"That's what I've heard, but I hate feeling like I'm just lying there," I said, thinking of all those times people eventually peeled off my legs and put me in (where else) side control.
"No," he said, "just hold your opponent there until they make a mistake."
Trent said later that week in class, "You lost in the last 3 seconds! It was like something you would see if someone was trying to throw a fight."
No, when I throw a fight, I make it obvious, like 13 to zero, and a bonus tap-out for good measure.
"I nearly yelled out at you," he continued.
"Why didn't you?" I wailed, jumping up and down. But I knew why he couldn't, he had been scorekeeper.
I wondered what Joao would say during our next scheduled class. I came prepared to hear another lecture about why I shouldn't have opened my guard. But instead, he said, "I was going to e-mail you to tell you that I thought you did a really good job, but I decided to wait to tell you in person. You have improved so much! I couldn't root for you because I was refereeing, but Trent and I both had our fingers crossed because you were doing so well."
"But I came so close to winning. Instead I made that stupid blunder!" I sighed.
Joao looked at me wearing his "Wise Sage" (not Wise-cracking Sage) expression and responded, "In 2006, when I was in the Worlds competition, I did the same thing. I was ahead 4 to 2 and in the last 30 seconds, I opened my guard, and lost the match by one point. It was the finals, and it was a really hard match. After losing that match, I just sat on the mat and cried."
As a result of being point minded in the finals, Joao won the bronze medal instead of the silver medal in the World BJJ competition. It was one of those stories where I couldn't find a lot of comfort in it because it made me feel badly for him. The idea, I suppose, is that tactical mistakes are made in tournaments at every level of competition. All we can do is to attempt to learn from our errors.
Keeping my guard closed, or just the concept of maintaining confidence and patience in a dominant position, is the easier lesson for me to understand and possibly incorporate. The more difficult lesson is the one to quiet that inner critic who never even let me realize, much less enjoy, that I had been dominating the match. What point is all that bravado before the match, psyching myself up to believe that I could win, when during the match itself all I heard in my head was that I was losing? In times of duress, our perceptions are skewed, and perhaps we are not failing as badly as we think we are, or perhaps we are not failing at all. Maybe we're even winning.
My daughters came to watch the match, carrying a sign reading "Go Mommy!" I was glad at least that I didn't offer them the specter of the previous tournament, of their mom getting whooped.
Squirrel said, "You did great, Mommy! You were winning all the way until just the very, very end!"
"But I wanted a medal," I pouted, the Botox sting of this loss rejuvenating my puerile attitude.
Back at home, Squirrel solemnly hung the medal she made for me over my neck, a bronze bell attached to several strands of yarn. She had written on the bell, "You're a WinNER!"
Indeed, I am. And I have the cowbell to prove it.
Wednesday, May 21, 2008
Kisses from Tici
I didn’t go to Brazilian Jiu Jitsu class on Saturday morning because I am on a strict budget and needed to use the $45 I would save on gasoline (by not driving from Wimberley to Dripping Springs and back again) for a pedicure. And why, pray tell, did I find need to get a pedicure on this particular day? Well, didn’t you hear? We had a lovely fundraiser luncheon for Joao Crus Brazilian Jiu-Jitsu in the elegant upstairs loft of the Cedar Grove Steakhouse (at The Junction, where RR12 crosses RR32) and I wanted my toes to look dashing while hobnobbing with the local BJJ elite. The glitterati were all assembled there, Joao, looking handsome in his tuxedo sweats, Gracie Magazine Supermodel Tici, providing her erudite wisdom in all things healthy and fit…Ok, ok, I’m only kidding about my $45 pedicure and Tici. I slapped that toe polish on myself and promptly trashed it while hiking in flip flops to the top of Mt. Baldy with my kids, and Tici was otherwise engaged, probably sweating on the keyboard for a column deadline. Fortunately, it’s a lot cooler wearing only a G-string, but I digress. The point is, those of us who attended the luncheon greatly enjoyed the cuisine and hospitality of our fabulous hosts, Holly and Bruce Collie, and the attentive service and entertainment of the entire Collie Clan, as well as civilized chatting time with BJJ friends off of the mat. Those of you who didn’t attend, your absence was duly noted, logged, and widely gossiped about. 
- $23.96 for the belly ring
- $300 for the gi
- $8,000 for the plastic surgery
We had our cinnamon sugar in a much tastier form than Sam’s Club pretzels. Here’s a pop quiz for you. How do you respond when all 6 feet and 6 inches of Bruce Collie, former professional football player for the SF 49ers and Philadelphia Eagles, asks, “Do you like honey?”
a. Yes
b. Yes
c. Yes
d. Yes
e. All of the above
Monday, April 28, 2008
Science and Superstition
I woke up last Wednesday feeling as though I had been hit by a, if not a Mack truck, at least a slow moving Winnebago. Perhaps it may be a little more than my middle-aged mom’s body can take by going to the Monday evening BJJ class in Dripping Springs, staying up until 1 am on the computer, and then showing up again at 8:30 am for the Tuesday morning BJJ class in Dripping Springs.
I had attended Monday evening’s class in hopes of rolling with Lauren the Momminator, and to make up for missing the Saturday morning class. It was during this class that I had the august opportunity to roll with Joao, who in the aftermath explained that I needed to move my body more quickly and more often while sparring, instead of remaining frozen on my back in one spot.
“Mmmmpfh,” I noted understandingly, through a mouthful of gi.
Rolling with Joao was akin to wrestling a vat of non-Newtonian fluid. My original analogy was that it is akin to wrestling an octopus because it feels as though he has grown four extra sets of appendages while you weren’t paying attention. However, octopus tentacles are un-analogously squishy. In order to appreciate my analogy, understand that a non-Newtonian fluid is one that changes its viscosity based on the force that is applied to it. Think of how corn starch dissolved in water behaves, flowing when left on its own and instantly hardening when you attempt to compress it. Now immerse yourself in a vat of dissolved cornstarch and flail about, and the non-Newtonian fluid that is Joao is either flowing over you with multiple tendrils if you don’t move fast enough or hardening instantly to immobilize you as you attempt to muscle against it. After an exhausting struggle in quicksand (another non-Newtonian fluid), I eventually settled into a comfortably supine position as I floated buoyantly in hopes of getting submitted out of my predicament. But I just got the “You’ve Got to Move it Move it,” lecture from Joao.
To inflict injury (to my ego) upon insult (to my bleary-eyed, pre-caffeinated self), Tuesday morning class involved not the expected relaxing review of a sweep from the guard position, but a takedown that appeared to require Atlas-like shrugging abilities. Some essential component of the technique eluded me, and amid the triumphant thwacks of the successful takedowns that echoed around me, my partners sagged and flopped and slithered onto my head, definitely not the optimal landing pad for a takedown.
Thus, Tuesday evening found me in intense internal debate over whether to attend my regular BJJ class in Wimberley. On the one hand, my body ached and my bruises throbbed and I felt listless even after an extra dose of caffeine. On the other hand, if I didn’t stay on schedule and assert my opportunity to leave the house, my family would sense weakness and find devious ways to erode this sacrosanct “Mom’s Night Out.”
My gut intuition, the flabby center of my self-preservation instincts, told me I was concocting a recipe for injury by going. Whenever I have ignored my intuition, I have regretted it. However, that hard-bodied, soft-headed internal cheerleader of mine rallied me with the reminder that my reluctance to go to class wasn’t my intuition talking; it was just exercise inertia, a laziness barrier to overcome. I groaned my way into my gi. Then reached for my belt. Which wasn’t in the closet. Or the drawer. Or the car. Or the refrigerator. I had only just worn the belt that morning in Dripping Springs, so realized with a village idiot’s lightning intellect that I had likely left my belt in the studio. This could only mean one thing. It was a sign.
I told Joao as much when I decided on a coward’s compromise by observing class without wearing my gi, eliminating the potential for injury, and more importantly, exiting the house as per regularly scheduled programming.
“It’s not a sign!” he scoffed good naturedly. “Where’s your gi?”
“It’s in the car, but I’m not participating without my belt,” I insisted.
Fortunately, Joao remembered seeing my belt, rolled up with a hair band around it, but he hadn’t known whose it was.
By calling it a sign, I didn’t mean it in the sense that losing my belt was some heaven-sent message to absolve me from class. The interruption caused by searching for it did make me reconsider whether I was just being lazy or whether I was legitimately tired. Forgetting my belt at Dripping Springs that morning indicated to me that I was fatigued beyond my norm, because usually, the thought of going to BJJ class supercharges me with verve.
I didn’t add that I had actually tied another belt on at home to see if it would work. The pink flowers on that fuzzy terry cloth just didn’t do the outfit justice, though--like wearing a tiara with combat fatigues.
I had attended Monday evening’s class in hopes of rolling with Lauren the Momminator, and to make up for missing the Saturday morning class. It was during this class that I had the august opportunity to roll with Joao, who in the aftermath explained that I needed to move my body more quickly and more often while sparring, instead of remaining frozen on my back in one spot.
“Mmmmpfh,” I noted understandingly, through a mouthful of gi.
Rolling with Joao was akin to wrestling a vat of non-Newtonian fluid. My original analogy was that it is akin to wrestling an octopus because it feels as though he has grown four extra sets of appendages while you weren’t paying attention. However, octopus tentacles are un-analogously squishy. In order to appreciate my analogy, understand that a non-Newtonian fluid is one that changes its viscosity based on the force that is applied to it. Think of how corn starch dissolved in water behaves, flowing when left on its own and instantly hardening when you attempt to compress it. Now immerse yourself in a vat of dissolved cornstarch and flail about, and the non-Newtonian fluid that is Joao is either flowing over you with multiple tendrils if you don’t move fast enough or hardening instantly to immobilize you as you attempt to muscle against it. After an exhausting struggle in quicksand (another non-Newtonian fluid), I eventually settled into a comfortably supine position as I floated buoyantly in hopes of getting submitted out of my predicament. But I just got the “You’ve Got to Move it Move it,” lecture from Joao.
To inflict injury (to my ego) upon insult (to my bleary-eyed, pre-caffeinated self), Tuesday morning class involved not the expected relaxing review of a sweep from the guard position, but a takedown that appeared to require Atlas-like shrugging abilities. Some essential component of the technique eluded me, and amid the triumphant thwacks of the successful takedowns that echoed around me, my partners sagged and flopped and slithered onto my head, definitely not the optimal landing pad for a takedown.
Thus, Tuesday evening found me in intense internal debate over whether to attend my regular BJJ class in Wimberley. On the one hand, my body ached and my bruises throbbed and I felt listless even after an extra dose of caffeine. On the other hand, if I didn’t stay on schedule and assert my opportunity to leave the house, my family would sense weakness and find devious ways to erode this sacrosanct “Mom’s Night Out.”
My gut intuition, the flabby center of my self-preservation instincts, told me I was concocting a recipe for injury by going. Whenever I have ignored my intuition, I have regretted it. However, that hard-bodied, soft-headed internal cheerleader of mine rallied me with the reminder that my reluctance to go to class wasn’t my intuition talking; it was just exercise inertia, a laziness barrier to overcome. I groaned my way into my gi. Then reached for my belt. Which wasn’t in the closet. Or the drawer. Or the car. Or the refrigerator. I had only just worn the belt that morning in Dripping Springs, so realized with a village idiot’s lightning intellect that I had likely left my belt in the studio. This could only mean one thing. It was a sign.
I told Joao as much when I decided on a coward’s compromise by observing class without wearing my gi, eliminating the potential for injury, and more importantly, exiting the house as per regularly scheduled programming.
“It’s not a sign!” he scoffed good naturedly. “Where’s your gi?”
“It’s in the car, but I’m not participating without my belt,” I insisted.
Fortunately, Joao remembered seeing my belt, rolled up with a hair band around it, but he hadn’t known whose it was.
By calling it a sign, I didn’t mean it in the sense that losing my belt was some heaven-sent message to absolve me from class. The interruption caused by searching for it did make me reconsider whether I was just being lazy or whether I was legitimately tired. Forgetting my belt at Dripping Springs that morning indicated to me that I was fatigued beyond my norm, because usually, the thought of going to BJJ class supercharges me with verve.
I didn’t add that I had actually tied another belt on at home to see if it would work. The pink flowers on that fuzzy terry cloth just didn’t do the outfit justice, though--like wearing a tiara with combat fatigues.
Sunday, April 13, 2008
The New Small Talk
The form of address that I receive from teenagers here is first, and foremost, ma'am. I am still not used to it outside of the grocery check-out line (in which existed the sole adherents of this convention in California), so it continues to feel like a little poke to the vanity nerve that doesn't want to be constantly reminded that I'm old enough to be a ma'am. So now, one of the young men in my BJJ class, a junior (I believe) in high school, has taken to calling me Miss I-Pei and, of course, ma'am. This wasn't the case when I first began class, but I think I must have raised the matron flag one too many times in class (i.e., joking about wanting a separate women's age category in the tournaments, etc.) so this is the consequence. On the one hand it just sounds so cute to be called Miss I-Pei by this strapping young Adonis, but on the other hand, I feel like his nursery school teacher. And how in the heck can I become a hard-assed Brazilian hardwood BJJ fighter when my WWF moniker is Miss I-Pei?
You can imagine me in class as I'm pouring sweat, getting hair ripped out of a bedraggled ponytail, and straining as much muscle as I can muster in serious combat against a male student (who is trying very hard not to squash me by accident), when I hear cheering on the sideline in the form of, "Go Miss I-Pei!" That just lacks something in the bloodlust infusion department.
After class today, our polite Mr. Ma'am said, "How is it to be the only woman in class, throwing the guys around? It's like, you're our pimp."
I had to check if I heard this correctly.
"Did you just call me a pimp?!!"
"Yes...(seeing my expression)...maybe it means something different now?"
"I hope so. What does it mean now? Watch where you put your foot..."
He looked at his fellow student for some assistance and they hemmed and hmmmed and came up with, "Pimp means, like, being a player."
"PLAYER?" This was, as far as I was concerned, going from bad to worse. "And what does player mean nowdays?"
"Like, an athlete. Popular. Well, you have to be an athlete to be a player. Almost always." His fellow student shook his head in disagreement and muttered, "No you don't. A pimp is like someone who has prostitutes who work for him and he collects all the money."
"Er, yes, that's the definition of pimp that I know about. That's not how you're using the word, though," I prodded.
Mr. Ma'am shook his head, "No, you call someone a pimp if they're popular with the opposite sex."
My expression remained scrunched in doubt, and he added, with the sincerest puppy dog expression you ever did witness, "Being called pimp is a good thing, really."
"If you say so," I grunted grudgingly.
All these Texanisms were starting to confuse me. Maybe that's why when I left the studio I called out, "Goodnight, y'all!"
You can imagine me in class as I'm pouring sweat, getting hair ripped out of a bedraggled ponytail, and straining as much muscle as I can muster in serious combat against a male student (who is trying very hard not to squash me by accident), when I hear cheering on the sideline in the form of, "Go Miss I-Pei!" That just lacks something in the bloodlust infusion department.
After class today, our polite Mr. Ma'am said, "How is it to be the only woman in class, throwing the guys around? It's like, you're our pimp."
I had to check if I heard this correctly.
"Did you just call me a pimp?!!"
"Yes...(seeing my expression)...maybe it means something different now?"
"I hope so. What does it mean now? Watch where you put your foot..."
He looked at his fellow student for some assistance and they hemmed and hmmmed and came up with, "Pimp means, like, being a player."
"PLAYER?" This was, as far as I was concerned, going from bad to worse. "And what does player mean nowdays?"
"Like, an athlete. Popular. Well, you have to be an athlete to be a player. Almost always." His fellow student shook his head in disagreement and muttered, "No you don't. A pimp is like someone who has prostitutes who work for him and he collects all the money."
"Er, yes, that's the definition of pimp that I know about. That's not how you're using the word, though," I prodded.
Mr. Ma'am shook his head, "No, you call someone a pimp if they're popular with the opposite sex."
My expression remained scrunched in doubt, and he added, with the sincerest puppy dog expression you ever did witness, "Being called pimp is a good thing, really."
"If you say so," I grunted grudgingly.
All these Texanisms were starting to confuse me. Maybe that's why when I left the studio I called out, "Goodnight, y'all!"
Sunday, April 6, 2008
Dripping Springs Today, Vegas Tomorrow
Coming soon to a YouTube link near you: Brazilian Hardwood Stump I-Pei vs. Lauren the Momminator in BJJ Women Gone Wild...
NOT!!! that there were any surprises in my tournament last Saturday. My friend Joanna emailed early last week to ask how it went and I responded that the match wasn't until Saturday, but due to my acute powers of prognostication, I could already give her the synopsis:
1. Get thrown.
2. Get sat on.
3. Get choked.
As it turned out, I was one for three in the divination category, since I didn't get thrown but did attempt a throw right away (which failed), so nobody was scored points for a successful takedown. I didn't get sat on, and I was able to put her in my guard twice (meaning to wrap my legs around her waist and lock my ankles, which is considered the dominant position, but does not earn any points). However, I did get choked, but more about that in the bitter end.
I suspected that I would be sparring with Lauren that day because we are about the same height and weight (she actually looks skinnier than me) and frankly, I dreaded it. I had only encountered her previously during a "no gi" weekend seminar and she was a bit scary. Really fast and intense, and while I was partnered with her to practice the new techniques, she sometimes went too quickly and with a hair more force than necessary.
After the din of shrieking cheers that accompanied the children's tournament, the room was much quieter as the adult competitors geared up for their event. I had just pulled out my camcorder when the instructor announced the first women's bout between Lauren and my friend Michelle, which made me breath a sigh of relief that I wasn't up. Then the instructor amended himself and announced that I would be up against Lauren first, so I sighed again, but in resignation, and handed the camcorder to Michelle.
I decided to surprise Lauren by attempting to go on the offensive first, and she said later that she had been surprised, but it didn't take long for her additional experience and superior technique to make their impact. Pretty much the only thing I could do after my failed takedown, a failed choke attempt, and a failed arm bar, was to play defense and try not to get submitted before the 5 minute match was over. I became a slot machine: once she pulled my arm down, the scoreboard started rolling up the numbers like she had hit the jackpot.
Lauren ended up scoring a baker's dozen points against my great big round glazed raised doughnut of a zero. Oh dang, I'm mixing my metaphors--time to get the apple fritters off of the poker table. Fortunately, I wasn't aware of the score during the match, or that really would have been demoralizing. I've had practice sessions where I've been flattened and basically immobilized, so the match actually felt pretty good to me, by being able to continue moving around the mat.
It wasn't until just before they called out 1 minute remaining that I made a serious error, which was to allow her to take my back and get her ankles hooked in between my thighs (major point losses here). Once that happened, it was just a game of Russian Roulette to try and avoid an inevitable choke from behind for as long as possible. I evaded one choke, but the second one closed in and I did just as I thought I would, which was to resist the tap. The referee was on his hands and knees, head near the mat to watch closely, and I heard him say, "OK tap, stop, stop!" I assumed that he was telling me to tap out and I remember thinking, "You're right, gaaaaack!" I tapped. I was still lightheaded when I got up and saw the scoreboard, but most of my disappointment came from not making it to the end of the match.
NOT!!! that there were any surprises in my tournament last Saturday. My friend Joanna emailed early last week to ask how it went and I responded that the match wasn't until Saturday, but due to my acute powers of prognostication, I could already give her the synopsis:
1. Get thrown.
2. Get sat on.
3. Get choked.
As it turned out, I was one for three in the divination category, since I didn't get thrown but did attempt a throw right away (which failed), so nobody was scored points for a successful takedown. I didn't get sat on, and I was able to put her in my guard twice (meaning to wrap my legs around her waist and lock my ankles, which is considered the dominant position, but does not earn any points). However, I did get choked, but more about that in the bitter end.
I suspected that I would be sparring with Lauren that day because we are about the same height and weight (she actually looks skinnier than me) and frankly, I dreaded it. I had only encountered her previously during a "no gi" weekend seminar and she was a bit scary. Really fast and intense, and while I was partnered with her to practice the new techniques, she sometimes went too quickly and with a hair more force than necessary.
After the din of shrieking cheers that accompanied the children's tournament, the room was much quieter as the adult competitors geared up for their event. I had just pulled out my camcorder when the instructor announced the first women's bout between Lauren and my friend Michelle, which made me breath a sigh of relief that I wasn't up. Then the instructor amended himself and announced that I would be up against Lauren first, so I sighed again, but in resignation, and handed the camcorder to Michelle.
I decided to surprise Lauren by attempting to go on the offensive first, and she said later that she had been surprised, but it didn't take long for her additional experience and superior technique to make their impact. Pretty much the only thing I could do after my failed takedown, a failed choke attempt, and a failed arm bar, was to play defense and try not to get submitted before the 5 minute match was over. I became a slot machine: once she pulled my arm down, the scoreboard started rolling up the numbers like she had hit the jackpot.
Lauren ended up scoring a baker's dozen points against my great big round glazed raised doughnut of a zero. Oh dang, I'm mixing my metaphors--time to get the apple fritters off of the poker table. Fortunately, I wasn't aware of the score during the match, or that really would have been demoralizing. I've had practice sessions where I've been flattened and basically immobilized, so the match actually felt pretty good to me, by being able to continue moving around the mat.
It wasn't until just before they called out 1 minute remaining that I made a serious error, which was to allow her to take my back and get her ankles hooked in between my thighs (major point losses here). Once that happened, it was just a game of Russian Roulette to try and avoid an inevitable choke from behind for as long as possible. I evaded one choke, but the second one closed in and I did just as I thought I would, which was to resist the tap. The referee was on his hands and knees, head near the mat to watch closely, and I heard him say, "OK tap, stop, stop!" I assumed that he was telling me to tap out and I remember thinking, "You're right, gaaaaack!" I tapped. I was still lightheaded when I got up and saw the scoreboard, but most of my disappointment came from not making it to the end of the match.
Only later, when I was able to watch the video that Michelle had recorded for me did I realize that what I heard as "Tap!" was actually the timekeeper calling "Time!" So even though there doesn't appear to be much difference between losing a match by a score of zero to 13, versus losing by submission, it was a minor and hair splitting triumph for me to have lasted the full round. After all, when I paid my entry fee of $30, I was thinking that it was going to cost me $1 per second of competition. As it was single elimination, I was free to just watch for the rest of the competition.
Michelle won her first round and then beat Lauren in the second round by two points and ended up placing second. Lauren won her third round and placed third. Ari, of course, defeated everyone handily and placed first.
Afterward, during Ari's farewell luncheon, my instructor said that he thought I had done well.
"Really?" I asked hopefully.
"Yes, really," he replied firmly. "But you cost me money. I bet $100 on you."
"Wow, I'm worth $100?" I responded with mock astonishment.
"Yes, I lost $100 because you didn't win your match," he continued mischievously.
"Well," I sighed, "I actually knew that, so that's why I threw the fight."
Brazilian jiu jitsu is one thing, but when it comes to verbal sparring, I always have the last word.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)