Tournament

Sunday, 4:15. December 7^th.

I stepped into the ring. A Hispanic man about my height stood a foot away. He was younger, faster, fifty pounds lighter, but I had seen him minutes before; he looked frightened. I didn't look into his eyes now, but at a point lower, the blue field marking his chest protector. I had visualized this moment during the prior two days, had fought down the building fear and sometimes panic, but now that the moment was here, I only felt the beating of my heart, the filling and emptying of my lungs. My head and body were encased in hard foam padding, my arms and legs covered as well. I wondered if this was how the knights felt inside all their armor. I was standing barefoot in front of a crowd of spectators who were now nothing more than noise in the back of my mind, except for the voice of my coach.

"Stay loose," he said, knowing my tendency to stiffen up when I sparred. A woman (the referee) held her hand between me and the man I was standing across from, creating a natural barrier between us. "Shijak!" she yelled, lifting her hand in the air and taking a quick step back; it had begun. The man I was fighting was fast. He kicked me twice in the chest with a combination roundhouse kick within the first few seconds. I felt the blow and hadn't been hit that hard in a long time. I tried to respond immediately with a kick of my own, but he had danced away, staying out of reach. I punched, made contact, kicked at the air, and sometimes landed a kick. Most of the time I was just a little behind, a little too slow.

The first minute ended and we went to our chairs. My coach handed me some water and told me to sit down. "You're doing well for your first tournament," he said. "He's up on you in points, but you're doing well. Now here's what I want you to do. When he comes at you with a kick I want you to raise your knee and block him. Take out his leg, take away his tool. Then, follow it with a punch and kick of your own." I nodded, trying hard to catch my breath. "You want me to block, punch, then kick?"

"Yes."

I nodded again, put my mouth guard back between my teeth and ran out to the floor. Round two would soon begin.

This time when my opponent threw a kick, I lifted my knee. Bone collided on bone, and I saw my opponent step back and wince. I charged, trying a kick of my own, but he danced out of reach. He kicked again, and again collided, and then again, and this time I saw him clearly limping. "Close the gap!" someone shouted, and "lead with a block" my coach yelled. I started a flurry, running forward, trying to kick his stomach, his chest, but the time was up. I had hesitated too long.

I lost the match on points, but knew I had won something. I hadn't given up; I had faced my fear. Later my coach said, "You got inside his head. You stayed with it, you did what I told you to do. If this had been a street fight, you would have won. If the match had gone one minute longer, you would have had him."

I'd heard the talkers. "Yeah, if I was in that situation, I would . . ." They talk about the things they would do, the way they would humiliate their opponent, dominate, and come out without a scratch. I'd never felt that way. According to David Grossman in On Killing, In the Civil War to WWII, 85% of the soldiers with weapons either didn't fire their weapons at all or misfired them, often shooting harmlessly over the heads of their opponents, assuring that they would not kill another human being. There's something deeply ingrained in us that resists harming another human being, even if our own lives are at stake. We feel less hesitation when it comes to harming or killing an animal, but for most of us we draw the line when it comes to another human being. This resistance is a good thing, most of the time.

I didn't know what I would do. I'd been in fights before, and they weren't the glamorous things that others made them out to be, at least not for me. My last fight was in high school, between me and a guy I rode the bus with, over some girl that we both liked. Anyway, we fought, and it was like two terrified animals fighting to stay alive. We threw a few punches and kicks, but it was over shortly after it started, both of us agreeing to a truce. The next day the other guy said he'd won, so I challenged him to a rematch, this time with others watching. We punched, and kicked, stepped back to let cars go by, and then punched and kicked some more, and danced around the street. The people who had come to watch both thought we'd exchanged some shots, and couldn't tell who had won. I went home and put a washcloth on my bleeding lip while my mom was giving piano lessons downstairs, sneaking by so she wouldn't see the blood, and the next day the other guy told me he was sore where I had kicked him. That was my last fight.

The day before the match I felt fear begin to rise up inside me. What would really happen? Would I be able to keep my head, would I panic, would I back off, or would I fight back? I visualized what it would look like to be in the ring. I'd trained, lost weight, become better conditioned, and felt ready to fight, win or lose. I wanted to test myself, to see if I had strength. What if I was in a real fight, on a street, or saw someone being beaten or raped? Would I continue walking, not wanting to get hurt or killed, or would I risk getting involved, jumping in and pushing past my own need for self-preservation for someone else? If someone broke into my home and attacked my wife, my kids, what would I do? Would I have courage? Would I have strength? Would I be able to overcome my fear and do what I needed to do? These were the big questions for me.

I learned something that day. I learned about strength.

I might do another tournament soon, but more than that, I'm not as afraid. I'm not afraid at work, I'm not afraid in relationships, I'm not afraid of making hard choices or possibly getting hurt. There's a heart beating inside my chest. I feel more alive.