The beautiful fight

The beautiful fight.  Which one?  This one, that one, somehow, someone.  Not all of them, in fact, few of them, cause if we’d pair them down we’d see the thread in them.  That’s, that they are the beautiful fight.

Three different scenarios this week, on three different days.  In Gestalt terms, they were the same scenarios.  I’m at Fight Club Fitness Gym in Escazu.  My little (not-so-little-no-more) cousins Diego has been telling me about this place. Finally, schedules coincide, and as my baby boy is getting regaled with love and gifts, and gifts of love and loving gifts, I am gifting myself health and strength. 

Since I was little, very little, I loved martial arts.  My uncle Carlos quickly brought me under his Tae Kwon Do wing, and gave me a gift of a lifetime.  Kicks, blocks, nun-chucks, forms and determination.  Up to blue belt that time around.  Blue is a beautiful color.   I kept up kicks with soccer, and later, much, much later, dove in again with Capoeira, Krav Maga, and finally, mixed martial arts (MMA).  MMA represents the synthesis of effective person-to-person combat systems, mixed up with all the advances you can imagine that deal with athleticism, such as conditioning, stamina, explosive energy, strength, flexibility.  

You must be versed in stand up arts, such as the beautiful Muay Thai, the parsimonious discipline of boxing; you have to be able to prevent take downs or be able to take your opponent down: in comes grappling disciplines, Judo, Sambo, San Shou, wrestling; if you make it to the ground, you have to be able to survive and submit your opponent: jiu jitsu, most notable, the Brazilian variety.

But nothing here related is mechanistic. The beautiful fight is mostly inside.  Inside your head, your heart that feels it’s about to burst, your lungs.  A very wise Muslim once told me that Jihad is the war within.  The beautiful fight is a fight against acid, lactic. Intergalactic forms of communicating, and multiple ways of expressing.  No one could ever fault me for my metaphysical love.

Okay, I guess some things can be mechanistic, depending on the dissecting angle.  If you will, so will I: yesterday we warm up, and then proceed to do 7 600 ft sprints, full out.  1 minute rest.  50 push-ups, lactic acid, 3 more rounds of sprints.  Shit, but it’s more like “shh-hhh-t.  Vowels are costly in atmospheric terms. “I hate this.  F—this, I hate this…”  I actually think that, and it’s genuine.

Few minutes later, we are practicing offense/defense related to jab, cross, hook, upper cuts, knees and elbows.  Muay thai: the art of 8 limbs.  I’m back, inside.  It’s better inside.  Blue is a beautiful color. 

On three other occasions this week I hated it too.  I was outside, it sucked…

But tonight was the real beautiful fight.  The fight.  Friday night is sparring night.  F yeah.  I’ve used a “dance” metaphor before to describe the difference between martial art and pure self defense.  One is more a game, the other is pure practicality.  When you train arts martial, you want to dance (I do, at least).  Cup, 16oz gloves, shin guards, mouth piece and head gear.  Game face, light footing, counter-attack.  We did eight, tree minute rounds: some were pure boxing, some kick-boxing, and some boxing and kick-boxing with take downs included. 

I start out always being very respectful of my partners. I’m going to be their friend.  By the end of the round, maybe a little taste of blood—but for sure—a hug and a friend.  God it feels good to dance.  The beautiful fight, light and life.  The horrible training makes sense.  You hate that to love this.  And I l-o-v-e this, and I l-o-v-e this…