Musings of a Hairless Ape |
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1/29/2019 0 Comments We Hit The older you get, the more you realize and understand that this discontent you feel is timeless. In the 1950’s, the “Is this all?” movement swept the ranks of housewives across America. I think American men are at that same crossroads today.
Men, with their (toxic) masculinity under attack, have never been more disconnected from the ways of “Being a Man” in the history of Western Society. Real benchmarks of manhood are being replaced with “Ab Off”s, gym selfie’s, Vape contests, competitive eating, and fucking gaming. I’ll even go so far as to say the average American male has never been in a fistfight. To quote Tyler Durden, "How can you really know yourself if you’ve never been in a fight?" There’s something visceral, something our minds or souls or psyches desire about combative contact. There is something about the first time you’re hit. It’s not just the sting, or the swelling, or the blood in your mouth - it’s that it doesn’t hurt the way you thought it would. Sure it hurts, but it’s manageable and your adrenaline can mitigate it while you’re actually fighting. And that, true believers, is your first REAL victory. Whether or not you win or lose that fight, your realization that “it’s just a fight” by being struck for the first time is the real triumph. The first time I was hit for real by a man, I was 15. And I mean hit. Not some schoolyard fight, but by a grown man with bad intentions. The clarity that comes from hitting and being hit, to the uninitiated, will read as bravado. It’s not. I remember thinking how it should’ve hurt worse. How strangely calm I felt. As I left the house and headed to school, I laughed. That kind of laugh that happens when you almost roll your Jeep but don’t. Or when you count to 4000 too quickly and your chute opens on 5000 and a half. That relieved laugh has been replaced by a happy one. When I spar or roll against one of my students and they really put it on me, I can’t help but laugh out loud and be proud of them at the same time. When I’m getting hammered by my coach, I can’t help but laugh and say “Good One!” as I take my licks. I am better for it and I feel not only refreshed but proud. Proud that I still got it in me and proud that I’m a good example to my students.
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1/2/2019 0 Comments 2 For 20 My head snapped back again and again. Circling and covering, circling and covering. Snap, snap like a towel cracking in the locker room, one after another. Someone, somewhere, saying something loudly but I have no idea what it is they are saying. Suddenly, there’s something rusty, something metal tasting in my mouth. Again Charlie Brown’s agitated teacher yells something. Snap, snap, snap!!! The towel cracks again. My monkey brain takes over and I drive off my rear leg, cross - lead upper cut - cross.
Then someone pushes the dimmer switch all the way to the top and the tunnel I was in disappears. I stood there, sweat covered and mouth bloodied. My training partner of just a few weeks was lying on the canvas in front of me. Our coach comes in the ring with an ammonia cap and snapped it under my partner’s nose. After he sat up, Coach turned his attention to me, no doubt to praise me for my first ever knock out (to be fair it was a knock down - he wasn’t out, I don’t think, he was just exhausted from punching me so much). “Goddammit Baldy-locks!” (that’s me) “You box just like Joe Frazier!!!” My heart swelled with pride. “That in NO WAY is a compliment!!!” Cue the wha... wha... whaaaaa... tuba solo. As near as I can remember, the last part of our conversation went like this: Coach: “You know how many punches you threw in that round, Dummy?” Dummy: “I’m not sure, Coach, I was… I think… maybe…” Coach: “Three!!! You threw three fucking punches in three minutes! You dumb son of a bitch, you’ll eat twenty punches to give two!” Dummy: “I thought you said I threw three, Coach?” (not argumentatively, more like confusedly) Coach: “You’re missing the fucking point, Son!!!” He was mumbling some other stuff as he stormed out of the gym toward the locker room. I missed most of it, but I caught several “motherfuckers”, “goddamn“, and “sons of bitches” you can be sure. My “style” could be summarized fairly quickly as the style of “no style”, or was that “no technique”? Anyway, 26 years has passed since that day’s lesson. I believe I’d at least make Coach proud knowing I still do “Free Bird” rounds, and that while I might not have done everything he said, I heard every word. Not only do I remember, I am still teaching it HIS way. I am a product of his wisdom and patience, (and boy did he have patience) and owe him more than I could ever put into words. Sure, he yelled and cussed, but he always worked in a, “Goddammit Dummy, you’re tough”, or “a normal human would’ve went down by now”. Those statements meant the world to me as a slow, heavy-footed, non-technician. I was lucky to have his heavy-handed brand of tough love and it’s served me well these last few decades. And Coach, if you can hear me, I understand what you meant now: You can teach them to jab and cross with the best of them, but you can’t teach them to love the contact. They either do or they don’t. And maybe that’s a good thing. |
AuthorJust a Hairless Simian making his way through a world full of "More Evolved" Primates who cannot see that the Emperor is naked and that Rome is burning. Archives
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