Only A Fighter Knows The Feeling (Part 1)
March 10th, 2010Some people summit mountains. Others conquer triathlons, sky dive, or chase giant waves around the world. Whether it’s the adrenaline rush or a personal affliction, everyone has a passion that drives them. For me, that passion manifests itself in the form of physical combat.
Really, I can’t really explain the reasons. Five years or so ago, my Judo coach, Steve Sanford, said you had to be mentally bereft of all your senses to be a Judo player. Of course, this point of view came from a man that used duct tape instead of sports tape because it was less expensive, but the argument stands. Steve was a 5th dan and played Judo until a medical condition told him to take it easy. Even then, he still visited the gym from time to time. Another coach, Harry Doherty, the guy who took over the club, was strictly prohibited from fighting after neck surgery. One throw and he could be paralyzed from the neck down. Harry explained his time on the mat to his wife by telling her he never fought, which was a small lie, to say the least. He did significantly minimize the risk by never being thrown. Indeed, I’ve never seen Harry off his feet. I asked Harry once why he risked so much to spend time on the mat. He just smiled and said it was better than anything else.
After knee surgery and a long period of rehabilitation, I have recently returned to Judo and Brazilian Jiu Jitsu. I have yet to return to boxing, but that’s coming soon. My time away from the mat and the gym was a period of deep reflection and personal misery. I found myself missing the little things I used to take for granted: the smell of the gym, the bruises that are inevitable after training (especially when drilling technique with less experienced athletes), the smack talk and camaraderie. What I missed the most, however, was fighting. I found little relief in other forms of physical exercise – mentally, every leg extension was a low kick, every bench press rep a punch, every medicine ball exercise a tai otoshi or uchi mata. I feared I would go insane. The day I returned to the mat, a 10-ton weight was lifted off my chest.
During my period of inactivity, my personal interest in Mixed Martial Arts grew. Certainly, this is also related to my involvement in Rupture and the interactions I have with professional and amateur MMA fighters, promoters and managers. However, there was something else nagging at me. And then, though a friend, a BJJ brown belt, I met Matthew Hickney. This young film maker was the director and producer of ”Walking To The Cage“, an award-winning documentary about Mixed Martial Arts. I watched it three times in one day, and many more times after. The subjects of the film – coaches, amateur and professional fighters, all shared different periods of adversity, injuries, pain and suffering – and above everything else, a genuine love for the sport. I found that I shared their joy when they won, sorrow when they lost, distress and anger when they were hurt. I also knew, then and there, that despite being a competitive Judoka and Jiu-Jitsu player, a piece of me wanted something else.
In the next few months, my footsteps will lead to a cage, where someone will wait to engage me in an officially sanctioned Mixed Martial Arts fight. I have no idea who this person will be, or when the event will take place, exactly. I’ve been preparing for this moment for a long time; maybe since the moment I put on a gi for the first time as a young boy, maybe even longer than that. I expect to walk in the cage and have my hand raised at the end. Maybe that will happen, maybe it won’t. But, barring another serious injury, I know it’s something I absolutely have to do. Why, exactly? To be honest, I find most words to be inadequate. I think the title of this story, aptly borrowed from Matt’s documentary, explains it much better than I ever can.
