2 January, 2009

The white van dropped me off on the other side of Rocinha.  I would have to find the correct route into the institute.  It was seven am on Christmas Eve, it should have been calm.  There was a young woman on the back of a mototaxi, telling the driver to go while her right arm was held firmly by a young trafficker, balancing a glass of beer in his right hand and an AR-15 rifle slung on his right shoulder, his mouth rapidly cursing the young woman.  I turned left past the market and through an alleyway.  A bar inside the alleyway was overflowing with people, speaking much too loudly over the music and clearly not aware it was seven in the morning.  Not daring to look inside as I walked by, a drunken woman reached out from inside the bar and grabbed my right arm, she yelled “Gringo,” proudly announcing her catch.  I shrugged her grip and kept walking, never once actually looking inside the bar. 

 

Luciano had called the day before, asking for a physical training class first thing on Christmas Eve.  The class is beginning to gain some traction with my four dedicated students.  At eight o’clock we ran down to the beach, I with two medicine balls in my backpack, and carrying a kettlebell in one hand, and Luciano with the other kettlebell.  The Rocinha residents do not know what to make of us.  We arrive at the beach and begin our usual procedures.  After stretching I have them rotate through stations of pull-ups, kettlebell swings, overhead carries, and stairs.  As one of the students requires frequent breaks, I become aware of the very real possibility of a heart attack, and mentally plan my course of action if it occurs.  These students have never worked out like this in their life. 

 

I return to Rocinha for Christmas Eve.  I was very pleased to spend Christmas with my students who have become friends.  Fireworks are used to celebrate many occasions in Brazil, Christmas Eve not excluded.  This night the residents in Rocinha were partying, and random fireworks were continuous.  The trafficking stand was in full swing, which added to my apprehension, as it was difficult to tell the difference between gunshots and fireworks.  As I walked by the stand, a shirtless man threw a flaming object across the thoroughfare, landing on the concrete across the aqueduct, the traffickers watching, waiting for it to explode.  A young woman, seasoned, put her fingers in her ears for protection.  I imitated her and I was inside my head yelling “Don’t React, Don’t Jump,” again, and again, til I was clear.  A nervous reaction in this situation would bring unfortunate attention. 

 

Christmas Eve in Rocinha was very nice.  The home I was invited to was beautiful, tightly structured and three stories high, neatly abutted by neighbors sharing walls and a front alleyway three feet wide.  It was a true delight, we watched Polar Express in Portuguese and at midnight we hugged, kissed, and then ate a big meal.  The food was amazing, and I devoured two platefuls.  One day I’ll be a good enough writer to describe the food.  I snuck into the kitchen and began doing some dishes, a therapy I never miss.  I think grandma was actually mad when she caught me because she snapped at me with her towel.  I cowered back to the living room and she brought me a soda. 

 

As the other fighters entered the padded room, I knew I had made a mistake.  They were big, wearing kimonos thin from decades of use, and their belts were brown and black.  I sat in the corner, my kimono was white, too bright, too clean, and hard with its newness.  Brazilian Jiu-Jitsu focuses on ground fighting, achieving a win through pain compliance techniques like chokeholds and joint locks.  It is derived from Japanese Judo and made famous by the Gracies and the now popular ultimate fighting championships.  It was my second class and I solemnly arrived, entering as if to my own funeral. The previous class had been ego crushing.  After each fight I limped on all fours back to the wall, my heart beating out of my chest and on the brink of throwing up. Already I’ve found myself into two chokeholds where my opponent could have killed me.  At these precise moments the brain introduces you to a perfect sample of your own death, an indescribable feeling where the body is still fighting, but the slow drain of blood from the brain is putting the body and its panic, to sleep. I resolved to return, to relax while fighting, and survive. 

 

Ricardo de la Riva is our Professor, a legend famous worldwide.  If you happened upon him on the street he would strike you as an academic, standing five foot eight inches with wire-rimmed glasses, graying hair, and a quick smile.  One mention of his name anywhere in the martial arts world brings animated discussion. We go back to the wall after each fight, to recover.  A body I thought was in good physical condition is nowhere near the desired state for fighting.  The Professor scans the room, asking each fighter if they are ready for another. Most fighters take at least one rest between sessions, I will not.  I need to learn to fight in the most fatigued condition, forcing me to relax my breath, and calm my mind while the body is in full tilt fight mode.

 

The book “The Hustler,” by Walter Tevis, accurately and acutely portrays mans fear of his own success.  I had him, he was only a purple belt but he should have been beating me.  I was clearly stronger than him but I was new, and had very limited knowledge of technique.  Several times during the fight my killer instinct recessed by only the tiniest of fractions, but just enough to let him escape.  It actually happened, I was afraid of beating him on my second class, and the smallest of forgivings are quickly punished on the mat.  A brand new white belt beating a seasoned purple belt would have raised the academy’s expectations of me, and I subconsciously resisted, preferring life at the bottom, with less pressure.  This was unacceptable.  As in Tevis’ novel, I was Fast Eddie Felsen, a young pool hustler who had Minnesota Fats in his sights during a 36 hour pool match, but drank too much as his excuse not to confront his true character, the difference between winners and losers.