We Meet Again Old Friend

I gasped on the mat as this twenty-something year old kid swung around me, pulling my collar, trying to strangle me with my gi. I got home later that night and examined the red welt across my neck in the mirror. I almost forgot about the encompassing soreness; yet, familiar feeling.

This was my third jiu-jitsu class in two weeks. My old gym closed down during the pandemic, and I’m lucky to know a few former professors/teachers who run successful schools. They’ve been gracious, and I’ve been popping into different classes around town.

I was fresher when I started BJJ seven years ago. Still old, but I worked hard. Following the advice of a black belt, I trained three times a week and did yoga the other two in order to preserve my body. I was proud of myself for trying something different and sticking to it.

The buzzer rings and another purple belt calls me out. He looks like a living Ken doll, Barbie’s plastic boyfriend. If I saw him on the street, I wouldn’t expect him to know how to choke someone unconscious but that’s what the sport attracts. Any disciplined person can do it. He’s hungry for a fresh roll. Somebody new with an unfamiliar game that can push him.

He has no idea how wrong he is. I sat in my car before class with the same anxiety I used to have my first week. What the fuck am I doing here? Nobody is expecting me. I haven’t trained in almost a year and a half (since Covid) and I'm going back to Florida soon. This is a good time to join the witness protection program and disappear into the sunset. It’s the comedian in me that refuses to quit no matter how futile the situation.

I used to be like him. Adding to my spiral notebook after class, watching YouTube videos, asking a thousand questions. Now I just want to get through the next six minutes without having a stroke. He taps me with an armbar. I retrieve my belt that lies like a dead snake across the mat and wearily retie it around my waist.

“Let’s go again. I’m ready.”

~t