#judoka
Back in 2014, a couple months after what would be my last fight, I was at my academy, Williamsburg MMA. It was a Sunday afternoon and I had just finished a 3 hour training session of striking, conditioning and grappling. As I was happily walking off mats, looking forward to a shower and a meal, I saw Akrira Corassani,Phillipe NoverandJared Gordon walking in with their sparring gear. Immediately I know what I am going to do, what I have to do, against my better judgement, I have to fight. I offer my services to them since they are a man short of even, they agree with the same glee that a poker hustler agrees to let you join there game, it’s your funeral.
My instructor quietly asks if I’d rather just go home, knowing very well what my answer would be. As I wrap my hands my stomach burns for fuel, I feel my stomach acid churning, searching for sustenance but I have nothing to offer it. I stand, adorned with head gear, shin pads, 16 ounce gloves and a mouthguard that has “Lopez” written in glittery barb wire, a joke doesn’t seem so funny now.
I can’t tell you how long this session lasted, I can’t remember how many rounds we did nor who landed the most strikes on me. It was a hurricane of pain and frustration. I’m good at this, I have a big stupid gold belt in my room to prove it but to these guys, I was toy. As my training partners walked past in their street clothes eager to head home, I noticed most of them decided to stay, to watch me take my licks. Every time I stood up from getter dropped or taken down I glanced over at them, I couldn’t tell if they were enjoying it or felt sorry for me.
My weak nose is leaking, every few seconds I’m forced to suck the blood back into my throat so my coach won’t notice and make me stop. I can’t walt for this to be over, I can barely lift my arms enough to protect my head. My mouth taste like pennies. This is getting bad. The one or two strikes I land are met with a flurry of uppercuts and leg kicks. What kind of a life is this? The bell rings and I limp away, pretending I’m not moments from tears.
I want to make this clear, these men weren’t trying to go super hard with me, they are just at a level that even when they go easy it’s still hard. They are good dudes who I thank for their help. I was made better, the same way a samurai sword must be bent and beaten to be stronger. In all honestly I rarely think about this moment, its 12:45 am and I’m writing this now because I just had a memory of it whizz by in my mind as I showered. I don’t think about this because I don’t regret it. I think thats why I forced myself to spar, because I knew that if I walked away from it, it would haunt me. I’m not sure what this says about me but I know it’s honest. This is who I am, and who I have been made into.