A Bad Idea I'm About to Do (29 page)

Despite (and possibly because of) my size, some of the instructors really liked me and knew that I'd put in enough time at the gym to know—ever so slightly—what I was doing. So, on
occasion, the teachers liked to use me as the experienced guy who faced off with the wild-eyed newcomers. After all, there is nothing better to prove the effectiveness of a martial art than losing to a dude who looks like me. On top of that, the teachers seemed to find it funny watching muscle-bound dudes with neck tattoos get worked up about not being able to beat me.

One afternoon, I was pitted against a very aggressive, brooding young man who weighed close to 300 pounds. Not 300 pounds of muscle, either—300 pounds of fat and bad attitude. I had immediate trepidations. Even with a year of experience, I still wasn't good at all. I was adequate at best. Usually in this situation, the teachers would face me off against some dude just a little bigger than me. I'd put him in some basic move he didn't know was coming, and he'd calm down. But this kid was different. Not only was he the biggest person I was ever asked to spar, something about his expression made him seem truly unhinged.

Our instructor matched us up and our grappling began. My opponent flailed all over the place, unable to control his movements. I remained calm, looked for an opening, and after a few minutes placed him in a triangle choke—a move that involved lying on my back and using my legs to cut off the supply of blood to the guy's brain. I had it locked in very tight.

Normally, the response to any locked-in submission move is to tap out and signal that you've given up. There's no shame in tapping out. I did it every day I walked into the gym. But this kid had a lot of ego and a lot of pride, and couldn't bring himself to admit defeat.

Before I knew it, the behemoth hoisted me into the air above his head. My instructor yelled, but the kid didn't pay any attention. He threw me down to the mat, putting his full 300 pounds behind him. I hit hard, and he came barreling down with me.
His head hit me in the front tooth and my entire top row of teeth went numb.

I stood, stared at him furiously, and walked off the mat. My instructor yelled at him some more.

Fuck, my teeth are gone
, I thought.
There goes my acting career.
My mouth was so numb I couldn't feel how many teeth I'd actually lost.

A muscle-bound Brazilian came out of the other training room and looked at me.

“What happened, my friend?” he asked, gently.

“Y feeth,” I said. “Got ocked in y feeth, on't know ow any gone.”

He placed his finger in my mouth.

“They're all there,” he said. He yanked hard on my front tooth. “And they're still strong. That would have taken them out if they were coming out.”

That man was Renato “Babalu” Sobral, the former light heavyweight champion of Strikeforce Fighting. Two nights later, he was knocked unconscious while fighting in the Ultimate Fighting Championships. I watched it on live TV and felt really bad about it. I also wondered exactly how my life had gotten to the point where I actually knew an Ultimate Fighter who had stuck his fingers in my mouth to make sure all my teeth were still there.

After about fourteen months at the gym, something I wasn't expecting happened: I got my blue belt. This is the second worst belt in Jiu Jitsu, but it was still more than I ever hoped to accomplish. There are few things I'm more proud of in life than that blue belt. The majority of guys who signed up for the gym quit before they got theirs, and every single one of them was more physically able to keep up than I was. The difference was I stubbornly and maybe even foolishly refused to quit, and I was rewarded for it.

Unfortunately, getting my blue belt also meant I was bumped up to the advanced classes. Now I was sparring the other blue belts, as well as the purples, browns, and blacks. I wasn't just in over my head. “In over my head” implies I still had a chance at coming up for air. This was more like a state of permanent drowning.

I once took a class where the other people
taking
the class included five UFC fighters, among them the legendary Georges St. Pierre. He was preparing to defend the UFC welterweight title later that week. I was preparing to audition for a role as a “guy who gets Cheerios thrown at his face” later that week. We very obviously represented the extreme opposite ends of the skill spectrum of the class.

Every day, I'd walk into the gym knowing I was going to get my ass beat. I'd get my ass beat. Then I'd leave, knowing that if I decided to come back the next day I would again get my ass beat. I'd come back the next day. And I'd get my ass beat. Repeat.

Somehow, though, I convinced myself I was getting better in spite of the beatings I took. After all, I was at one of the best gyms in the world, going up against some real monsters, and I kept coming back. While I was thrashed left and right, I rationalized that I had to be improving, and that in a less competitive environment I'd finally see my skills come to life.

So when I had the chance to sign up for a fight outside of the gym, I took it.

Once a year, my school holds a tournament. Students at all of the affiliate schools—those whose instructors studied under Renzo himself—are invited. Hundreds of people compete, and even more come to watch. I figured it was time to put my skills to the test.

Being smart was the only thing that ever helped me in Jiu Jitsu. Other guys could rely on strength and speed, but I had
neither to fall back on. Any time I defeated a guy, it was because I was more focused than he was and made smarter choices than he did. So when the tournament was announced, my first attempt at outsmarting people was to cut weight.

At the time I was walking around at 155 pounds. I was in very good shape, but I knew that the other guys at my natural weight were all stronger than me, so I decided to cut down to the 135-pound weight class. I dieted for months leading up to the competition, eating only breakfast bars and cottage cheese. Within a few weeks, a physical transformation was visibly noticeable. At the same time I also decided to shave my head, telling myself I wanted to “look more like a fighter and less like a comedian.” In reality, what I looked like was someone with a terminal illness.

Weigh-ins took place the morning before the tournament. The night before, I weighed myself at 147 pounds—still too heavy for my weight class. But this was intentional. The whole point of a weight cut is to drop all the water weight out of your body right before the weigh-ins. Water weight is very easy to put back on, so after the weigh-in you can actually regain a few quick pounds and fight at a weight much greater than the limitations of your weight class. I knew that if I could pull it off, I'd be fighting much smaller guys for once—an advantage I rarely ever held.

My friend Eugene is also into fighting, though he practices Muay Thai, the style of kickboxing founded in Thailand that involves kicking trees and shit. He offered to help me with the weight cut. The next morning, hours before the weigh-in, he and I went to the Russian baths in New York's East Village. As an extra measure, I rubbed a lotion called Albolene all over my body. The stuff is water based and opens up your pores, helping you sweat more. Wearing just shorts and covered in this goo, I stepped into one of the saunas.

The Albolene was a mistake. As soon as the heat hit my skin, my pores exploded and sweat covered me. I was soaking wet within minutes. The strain of the diet coupled with the water-weight expulsion had an immediate effect.

“You okay?” Eugene asked.

“Murrr,” I replied.

“What?” He squinted at me with concern.

“Mmmmb,” I grunted. I was too weak for words, too exhausted to explain. My eyes drooped, my head got heavy. After twenty minutes, Eugene dragged me back to the locker room.

I weighed myself. I was still a few pounds off, so we went back into the sauna. My lips were dry, my eyes hurt. I was soaking with sweat I could no longer spare. Mercifully, after just a few more minutes, he dragged me out of the sauna again. This time, my weight came in right at the limit.

We got dressed and I was too weak to even mumble. Every step I took required massive effort. Every movement of my head caused pain. We left the bathhouse and I recoiled at the sunlight. We walked to the corner so Eugene could get coffee.

“I'll be right back out,” he said. “Then we'll get a cab.”

I nodded. He stepped inside. I collapsed on the sidewalk. He came back out and hoisted me into a taxi. We headed to the gym.

At the weigh-in I stood in a long line of men far more physically impressive than I was. I made weight no problem. I'd lost twelve pounds in the twenty-four hours leading up to the fight, nine in the sauna that morning alone. I drank Gatorade, ate real food for the first time in weeks, and felt completely focused. Through my hard work and determination I'd given myself a leg up. That night I slept well, and when I woke up the next morning, my game face was on.

I showed up for the tournament at a high school gym in Bayonne, New Jersey, with ten of the pounds I'd lost back on my frame. The floor was covered in mats, upon which fights were set to take place all afternoon. It was ten in the morning, so most of the competitors weren't there yet, but the stands were already packed with spectators. Due to luck of the draw, my weight class and belt level was up first.

All of my possible opponents stretched in the warm-up area. I sized them up and felt great about it. They were tiny. My plan had worked. I was one of the bigger guys.

Or so I thought. As I finished stretching, a very confident-looking dude walked into the fenced-off area. He was significantly bigger than me and had a thick soul patch on his chin. I assumed he was there to help one of the competitors.

Trainers aren't supposed to come in here
, I thought to myself. Then the dude sat down and stretched.

That motherfucker cut weight too!
I thought.
And he did it way better than I did.

One of the refs walked up to the entrance of the pen.

“Who's Chris?” he said. I stood and nodded. “And Tom.” The big dude rose.

“You guys are up first.” We looked at each other. I smiled. He did not. His eyes were completely devoid of emotion. I'd spent countless hours during the prior week mentally processing through moves and sequences, visualizing how this fight might go. I'd obsessively and nervously considered all my options. This guy's eyes demonstrated nothing but the cool confidence of a person who actually knows what he's doing. My stomach twisted. He walked past me onto the mat. I paused. I wasn't ready.

You're never going to be ready
, I reminded myself. I took a breath and followed him.

Not only was I in the first weight class, I was in the first fight of the day. As I walked to the center mat, a roar broke out from the crowd. They'd been sitting and waiting in the uncomfortable bleachers for too long. Now the violence was finally about to begin and they were excited.

This monster whose name was apparently Tom stood across from me. His gi hung open and I could see he had a number of tattoos, as well as well-defined abs. I looked at his face and locked in on the most terrifying aspect of all. He. Had. A. Soul. Patch.

I'm fighting a guy who can grow facial hair
, I thought.
I can't grow facial hair. Fuck, fuck, fuck.

I was psyching myself out at a breakneck pace. The ref told us to walk to the center of the mat, where we shook hands. Then the match started.

He gripped my gi and I gripped his, and we battled for the takedown. The spectators cheered us on. No other matches had started yet, so their undivided attention was on us. This dude was strong. And confident. He had great posture. His grips were tighter than mine. Also, there was that motherfucking soul patch.

Still, he couldn't take me down.

I don't know if he was nervous too, or if his technique just wasn't there, but I realized he wasn't going to throw me. I calmed down and remembered one of my favorite moves: a sneaky judo throw where you use an unorthodox grip and trip your opponent.

I switched my grips and knew I had the move ready to go. He was a sitting duck.

But I hesitated.

I paused just long enough to second-guess myself and worry that the move wasn't going to work. Doubt, even if only briefly present, was death. I went for the throw and got into the correct position. I slid my foot around his in what would be the final step.

But then, halfway through the sequence, I bailed. My fear overtook me and I didn't commit fully to the move.

Tom picked up on the hesitation and acted fast. He grabbed my torso and threw me to the ground, hard. It wasn't pretty, but I can say firsthand it was really fucking effective.

From there I don't remember much, outside of being pinned down. My legs were positioned wrong.
Switch your legs!
I thought, but in my panic I didn't follow through on the impulse. At one point Tom went for an armbar, and I felt enough space to escape. But, again, I hesitated and allowed the moment to pass. Luckily, his technique was sloppy enough that he didn't finish me with it.

About a minute and a half into the match, he locked in another hold. When he fully committed to it, I tried in vain to escape. I rolled over my left shoulder and heard a sickening crack.

My own escape attempt popped my elbow out of its socket. From botching moves to overdoing escape attempts and injuring myself, I had defeated myself in every conceivable way. My arm went numb immediately. Unlike Renzo in the match I'd seen on DVD, I opted to stop fighting.

All my hard work in getting into the weight class was for nothing. All my illusions of having gotten better were proven false. I'd lost in less than two minutes.