Fighting Dirty

Within seconds, he struck me with an elbow across the jaw. My eyes shuddered, and he stopped. “I’m sorry,” he said.

The following is an excerpt from a series of essays about my experience earning a black belt in the Israeli self-defense system, Krav Maga.

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I was relaxed one night as I walked onto the mat and began conditioning. Jumping jacks, mountain climbers, and burpees made my heart pound and strike against my breastplate. It felt good to drive adrenaline through my veins. But when our instructor said, “Grab a partner. Ground defense tonight,” my stomach knotted with trepidation.

I looked up into the eyes of the student nearest to me. He was almost a foot taller and outweighed me by 100 pounds. Joining the class only two months before, he was uncoordinated and slow. After a few years of training, he would grow fast, and his gross motor skills would be more precise; he would be dangerous. I was nearing my test for black belt. But instead of feeling confident, my stomach fluttered nervously. It would not be a fair fight, even in the controlled and relatively safe gym. He was too big. I consoled myself in knowing I would learn something. The concern of embarrassing myself in front of my four sons training a dozen feet away closed in on me like a fog.

We took turns. My partner lay on his back, and I straddled his torso, sat on his stomach, and started driving lightweight punches to his face and the side of his head. This position is called the mount and replicates someone knocked down while attacked. It is a dangerous position, and getting to your feet as quickly as possible is imperative. I was a cooperative partner, helping with his technique and echoing the advice given to me many times. “Slow down,” I would say. “Stop the threat first.”

We switched positions. The higher the rank, the greater the desire to make the training realistic. My rank was higher, and my partner unconsciously made it difficult with his hulking clumsiness.

Within seconds, he struck me with an elbow across the jaw. My eyes shuddered, and he stopped. “I’m sorry,” he said.

Behind us, standing at the knee wall that framed the mat, was my friend, a recently promoted black belt, who snickered with uncontrollable shaking.

He barely moved, and his weight sat heavily on my abdomen.

We began again. My partner struck me with another elbow within a split second.

“I’m sorry,” he said.

“Stop elbowing me,” I said.

“Yeah. I’m sorry,” he mumbled.

My friend, the black belt, shook harder. His eyes were teary from laughing.

I lay down in a supine position. My clumsy partner mounted me, but when the strikes began, I shot my arms forward and locked my hands around his neck. I pulled myself into his torso and, with my forearm, struck the inside of his elbow. He fell forward toward me. I braced my legs and moved my foot outside of his calf and knee. I concentrated on the proper technique, sure that it would work. I then raised my hips for leverage, working to roll him over and off of me. He barely moved, and his weight sat heavily on my abdomen.

I slowed down briefly, looking for options because the technique I had practiced and was supposed to work did not. "Techniques and training are not foolproof. They will fail. Then what?" my instructor often said. His words snapped at me.

My mind raced through scenarios. What would I do if this fight was not on a mat under cold fluorescent lights and instead was at the entrance of an alley yawning in the darkness? Devious plans quickly sprang up from the soil of my fertile imagination like nightshade. They were violent and possibly wicked. But we were training, and he was not threatening my life, only my ability.

I needed leverage. I grabbed my partner's dark hair, pulling his head over and toward the ground. He moved reflexively and more submissively than I expected. Then, I bucked my hips hard toward the sky and used my right leg to drive upward, rolling us over. I was now in his guard position with his legs locked around my waist. Repeatedly striking at his head made him cover his face and flail one arm out to grab my fist. I elbowed the inside of his thighs just above his knees and bounced back. He grunted and wheezed. I was out and standing. My friend with the black belt laughed again. This time, I laughed with him.

My opponent stood, stretched, and rubbed his neck attentively. I was surprised at how easy it had been to get this mountain off of me. He did not expect me to grab his hair. I would have liked to flip him over with strength and technique. But a hair pull had worked.

We began the drill again. He became more aggressive. I did, too. My friend standing behind us was smiling, prodding us on. A flailing elbow struck my jaw again. My ears rang. I grabbed one of his hairy arms glossy with sweat and reached for the side of his curly head, yanking his head back hard. Again, I bucked and rolled. He followed my motion and flipped onto his back. I rolled over and into his guard position, striking at his face, elbowing the inside of his thighs, and pushing his legs to escape. I sprang out, nearly falling backward to clear the reach of his kicks.

We were both breathing heavily. Neither of us were smiling. My jaw swelled after the careless blows, while his neck was stiff from my intentional pulls. He kept rubbing the side of his neck with his massive hand, turning his head to the left and right in a stretch. We switched to new partners. Each were a more modest and manageable size.

During the next half an hour, I moved slowly through the drills, enjoying each one. When the class ended, we all left the mat and sat in the plastic chairs lining the gym to remove our gear and belts and put our shoes on. When I looked to my left, I saw, several seats away my original lumbering partner standing, still massaging the muscle near his jaw. He walked my way and gave me a perfunctory nod when he passed. I nodded, watching him open the wide glass door and step onto the sidewalk.