Turning Pro

It happened one night near the end of my restaurant shift. I was pretty tired and wanted to get out of there, so I wasn’t really paying attention. I was refilling Tabasco bottles, which require removing that little plastic disk with the hole through it (that dispenses the sauce in drops).

So I filled it completely. More actually, since the sauce crowned over the top and was held there only by surface tension. Forgetting Bernoulli’s principle entirely, I snapped the lid back on. It was like putting your thumb over a garden hose. The teaspoon of Tabasco only had one place to go, and it did–straight through the goddamn pinhole, jet-streaming the liquid right into my eyes.

The first quarter-second registered only annoyance at having to clean myself off, and the slight embarrassment of giving myself a money shot. This quickly dissipated when my eyes reacted to the mixture of red peppers, vinegar, and salt.

I didn’t know a person could be so instantly filled with rage. It was like a flipped switch, a spraybottle before a cockfight. I wanted to rip out someone’s eyes in a vain attempt to replace my own. Instead, I just flailed around like a retard.

I may as well have been kicking and screaming. I don’t explode very often, so that moment of complete loss of control was unusual enough to stick with me. I must have looked ridiculous and small. Ryan talks about this here, and I think the Bill O’Reilly thing is a good barometer:

If someone were watching a video of your outburst, would they laugh at you?

(The title of this post is in honor of Hank Hill and the series’ recent demise.)

I took some time to visit Kansas City this weekend, mostly sticking around the place where I grew up, a small town that you may have read about exactly once. Although I couldn’t have asked for a much worse start to a trip (I’ll write about it another time), the dust has settled and I’ve been able to unwind a bit. I walked with my friends to the costume shop nearby, in a strip mall that has never housed much else, other than a grocery store. But there’s been a recent addition, something that wasn’t there last time I was around: a mixed martial arts gym.

Later, when I drove down my old street, I noticed two kids, probably 12-14 years old, grappling on the front lawn. You can see the booming popularity of the sport in the attendance and Pay-Per-View numbers, but it’s experiences like this that lead me to appreciate the perpetual influence of the sport, and make me excited to be a part of it, no matter how small and newcomer that part is.

Apart from this being a personal blog, where I’m trying not to limit my voice to any particular theme (if you’ve been here for awhile, you can tell I’m bad with this), you might still be curious about the shift in material, why I want to write about blocking kicks, and what it means.

I mentioned this recently, but I am in perhaps a unique position in that I’m not only a beginner to MMA, I am a beginner to sports. You wouldn’t know it by looking at me, because I lift weights and work out a lot, but there is a huge difference between an athletic-looking person and an athlete. This is one of the gaps in my development, and I am trying to fill it with one of the most intense and demanding sports possible. I chose fighting for several reasons:

• I’m a fan who was excited about and interested in MMA anyway.
• I’ve never been in a street fight, and although it’s not something I anticipate, it wouldn’t hurt to be prepared for it.
• The level of conditioning and toughness–both physical and mental–you must develop is rivaled by very few sports. I don’t have that yet, and I want it.
• Violence is part of humanity. It’s not even a matter of condonation, it’s about control and acceptance versus ignorance.
• Let’s just say I’d rather have my arm raised in victory inside a ring, no matter how amateur, than winning a local softball match.

So I think there is a lot of value to be extracted and shared. But if nothing else, at least you’ll get to laugh at an uncoordinated grown man as he learns new concepts like left, right, front, back, and stop getting hit in the face.

“Dude, remember that I beat you now. Because in 3 months I won’t be able to anymore.”

That’s the best thing I’ve ever heard after getting my ass handed to me. I was sparring with someone, and he told me this right after the round ended. I’m not some sort of MMA prodigy or even close. I have strength and size on the guy, but cannot leverage it properly. He also sees me training regularly, so he knows it’s just a matter of time.

I’d like to say that this didn’t really affect me, that I would have trained exactly as hard if he told me I’d never win, or if he said nothing at all. That validation is irrelevant. But that would be a lie. I started taking more classes, and qualifying to take new ones. Starting next week, my schedule will look like this:

2-3 sessions Brazilian Jiu-Jitsu
2-3 Muay Thai
2 MMA
2 Wrestling
3 Strength training

A big part of it is rebound from not playing sports at all in youth and adolescence. No Little League, no high school football. I started weight training when I was like 20, but had nothing to apply it to except itself. Now that I have an athletic focus, I’m probably being a little obsessive because I want to see what I can do with it. What my limits are, where my body breaks down.

So in 3 months, I may still throw like a girl, but I’ll be able to kick you pretty hard if you tell me so.

From an article on product integration:

Asked to use a particular phone, Whedon might say yes. “If we need to talk about the wonder of that phone? I don’t know.” Television is a mass art, requiring compromise, pragmatism, he knows—but the line creators draw should not be about “How coolly can I do this? The most artful can be the most unethical.”

You don’t say?

Jeff dreams of fighting. Of swimming his fists through impossibly thick air to surmount his opponent. He probably wakes up with his pillow in an omoplata. He is a pro.

I’ve been training consistently the past few weeks, and now I too dream of fighting. Usually my dreams are pretty incomprehensible, but last night the miasma was gone, revealing my subconscious determination:

I almost ran him over. He came out of nowhere. This being a dream, probably literally.

I jumped out of the car, frantically apologizing. He was pissed.

“You almost fucking hit me. Don’t worry, I can return the favor.” He was also drunk. Slurring his speech.

“Dude, I’m sorry, I didn’t see you. It doesn’t need to come to this. It’s just not a good idea.”

“You sound pretty fucking confident. Do you train?”

“Huh?”

“Like MMA, fighting?”

“Uh, yeah I gu–”

“I don’t see the problem then. You probably WANT to fight me.”

I paused for a second. “Well, uh, no, not really. I mean, you’re a centaur.”

And that’s what happens when you watch Old Spice commercials. Marketing 1, Overcoming Adversity 0.

So I’m probably not a natural after all. But in my defense, I woke up in something that sorta resembled a sprawl, and I had put my own arm to sleep.