P'nK Books

by DeLeon DeMicoli

The man lies on his back. His legs are wrapped tightly around my waist. His forearm is clamped against my forearm and his thighs are like vice grips against my ribcage.

He cups is hand around the back of my neck trying to draw me closer into his chest. His legs slowly move up the length of my torso.

I’m trapped in his guard. This prevents me from moving away from him. I try and rise up from the web of his sweaty limbs. I stick the palms of my hands into his gut and press down on his stomach. I remain seated on my knees, trying like hell to posture my back.

Both of us sweat as if guns are pressed against our temples.

****         

I began fighting at twelve years old. My training began in Tae Kwon Do. The gym was located in a mini mall situated in-between a dry cleaners and Big Boy restaurant. This was back in Michigan.

My mother thought I needed more discipline. I was spending too much time hanging out with kids that enjoyed stealing and breaking into cars.

My coach, a tenth degree black belt and chronic cigarette smoker, would whip me with a bamboo stick when my mother would tell him about my misdemeanors and the bad influences I hung around with.

I trained in Tae Kwon Do for several years. I competed in tournaments and won several metals and trophies. When I got into High School, all of that changed. I started using drugs and stopped training. I hated everything and everyone. I was angry and I never understood why.

****

My damp shirt is an adhesive stuck to my body. Sweat drips off my chin and down the length of my sideburns. A strand of perspiration drips from my forehead and gets caught in my eyelashes and absorbs into my eyeball. It stings like hell.

I push harder down on the man’s gut. His stomach muscles are contorted and I keep my posture and he tries to pull me back into him. His arms are like constricted pythons wrapped around my biceps and around the back of my neck trying to suck me down into his closed guard. I try to pry apart his interlocked ankles, but his thighs squeeze tighter. He uses the strength of his thighs and arms to pull me closer. I hover over him and press on his chest and try to regain position. His legs move higher onto my body. Right when I break his hold around my waist, his hips shift to one side. One leg folds into my armpit, the other leg folds over my neck. The pressure almost makes me fall to my side. He attempts an armbar submission and his body is tight against mine. The moment he begins to push his hips forward and pull my forearm against his chest, I grip my open hand against the one locked into his and keep my arm at a ninety degree angle.

If he fully extends, he’s got me. If he bends my arm back far enough, I could possibly suffer from a hyper extended elbow or a broken arm. I pull my fist towards me like a lever. I try to get back in-between his legs and fall back into his guard.

Right now, I can’t give up.

****

Years passed and I forgot about training. I was sober and began writing. I would attend college and work several odd jobs.

I met a girl and fell in love. We would eventually marry. We would move from Detroit to Chicago, Chicago to Berkeley.

During our first grocery store trip to Whole Foods we drove past the Ralph (pronounced Halph) Gracie Ju Jitsu Academy. As we picked through bins of organic oranges and freshly picked strawberries in the produce section I asked my wife if I should get back into training. She thought it would be fun and was interested in learning as well.

For a year I trained in jujitsu. I would wear the white gi and learn the techniques used to win competitions. I got beat up everyday and had men twice my size lie on top of me and choke me and make my arm bend in ways that was only possible if I was double jointed or a G.I. Joe action figure. I was neither and would leave with bruises and sore limbs.

I kept coming back because I was told size didn’t matter. I was a bit skeptical.

****

Spit shoots out from the blue rubber of his mouth guard. His face is red, pimple red and looks like it could pop at any moment.

The dude is upside down. All of his weight rests on the back of his neck. I get to my feet and fold him in-half like a cheap lawn chair.

I refuse to give in, give up, tap out.

I know how to escape this. I have to remain calm. Remember to breathe. Be patient.

I push down on the back of his thighs. His knees are pushed passed his head. His toes touch the mat. If I fold him up any more he could have a possible future with Cirque du Soleil.

My arm remains against his chest. He tries to straighten his body out. I turn my head and place my face against his butt. I pull up and out. My arm slowly slithers out from his grip. I pull harder and use my shoulders as leverage.

Our muscles are tight. We’re both constricted.

I try to get loose.

He won’t give up and neither will I.

****

After a year of training at the Ralph Gracie Academy I realized I needed to evolve as a fighter and learn how to punch.

I discovered Krav Maga, an Israeli hand to hand combat fighting system. Krav Maga was developed in the 1930’s as a means to protect the Jewish community from the Nazis. That’s what is says on Wikipedia. A guy I train with told me something different. He said Krav Maga was just a cool way to beat up a bunch of douche bags.

My first class consisted of getting kicked and punched in the face. A feeling you never get used to. I cracked a tooth, had a bloody nose, and I jammed my finger. Later I learned my finger was fractured and it filled up with fluid. It could’ve been reset and drained if I got the proper medical care, but I didn’t. My finger remains permanently swollen and looks deformed.

I should’ve quit training and tried something less violent, but I couldn’t. I was addicted to the competition, the adrenaline, and the release of endorphins. I mean, I sit all day and write and go to the movies where people can’t shut up and then someone cuts me off on the highway and then someone else speaks on their cell phone and stands in line at the coffee shop and doesn’t know how to do two things at once and then there’s forgetting to make the credit card payments and receiving another rejection letter and all the junk mail I get it (I mean do you know how long it takes to shred all that shit?)—all of it makes me throw a right cross into my opponent’s face and it feels great. But it isn’t his fault that I’m annoyed by others, right? He doesn’t know that so I punch him again. He punches back.

I’ve dislocated my jaw twice in the same month from a Muay Thai fighter. I had my elbow hyper-extended when the guy I was sparring with caught me in an armbar and didn’t feel me tap. The joints popping out of place sounded like the uncorking of a champagne bottle.

My friends think I’m crazy. When I talk to my father he tells me I need to be more careful. I fight, punch, and grapple with students from the academy each day of the week and during the weekends we share pizza and beer and we watch a UFC event on pay-per-view.

Sometimes it hurt to make friends.

****

I continue to pull, trying to yank my arm out. My head is pressed against his butt cheek and I can feel my arm slowly slipping free.

A huge breath of air escapes his lungs. Rabid foam forms around his mouth. He doesn’t want to lose the hold. This is all he has. If he gives up, he may be too tired to try for another submission.

He growls and squeezes and is determined to make me tap out.

The pressure releases.

I feel a rumble against my face. The type of vibration you feel when you stick your ear against the railroad or use a massage chair.

My sparring partner just farted in my face.

I should be upset, but these things happen. Ever since I started grappling there isn’t a week that goes by that I don’t get farted on. When you fold someone in half, push large amounts of weight down on their stomach, it’s bound to happen.

It’s no ones fault. It’s all part of training. Fighting makes you fart.

In grappling class everyone sucks in large amounts of air from the warm up, the training, the sparring. People come to class with their stomachs filled with undigested lunches. Put these two factors together, pressure on the abdominal muscles, a tight sphincter from trying to submit me with an armbar, and suddenly your asshole is playing Guitar Hero. Eat enough protein bars throughout the day and try to sweep someone into mount and you might just shit your pants.

My sparring partner loosens up on my arm. There’s a smile on his face. He’s embarrassed that he passed gas and we stop sparring.

He says, “Sorry,” and sticks his hand out for me to shake.

I take it and say, “No problem.”

When I began grappling I used to feel violated like I was the butt end of some fraternity hazing. Or I was at a friend’s house and I was the first guy to fall asleep only to wake up and stare straight up into the vertical smile of a friend’s ass crack. But now I’ve gotten used to it. These things happen.

Me and my sparring partner return seated on our knees. We shake hands again and prepare for another round of sparring.     

As we begin, he lunges at me and falls into my closed guard. My legs are tightly wrapped around his body. I work towards an Americana by cranking his arm up from behind his back, but don’t get it. I grab the back of his head and pull him down in-between my legs trying to set up a triangle choke. He’s way too slippery and my limbs slip off the back of his neck.

Most of my strength is gone now. I’m too exhausted and grab a hold of his body. I remain in the clinch trying to catch my breath. He remains close to me sucking in air like a dying fish.

Before either of us get a chance to recover, our coach tells us to stop and grab a new sparring partner.

Me and my sparring partner relax our muscles. We untangle our limbs. We both shake hands and tell each other nice job.

Everyone else in class follows suit.

I quickly turn around and greet my next opponent. There’s no time to catch my breath. We shake hands and coach, yells, “Fight!”

Me and my new sparring partner begin fighting, looking to submit one another.