I miss the fighting.
Six ounce gloves, after a while the light, aerodynamic pieces of foam rubber start to weigh on your arms and shoulders like a load you have carried all day. The sweat rolling down your forearms, causing the fingers grooves to become nice and slippery, having to be readjusted every now and then. Velcro and elastic straps having to be retightened, refastened.
The feel of carpet under callused feet, the certain grip it gives after it has worn the blisters deep. The feel of it against your face if you do not mind your step, or don’t mind the leg coming for that nerve in your thigh. Canvas pants, heavy and sturdy, sliding up and down your legs with each bounce, stutter, extensions, and pulls.
The hair getting in your eyes, the patient rise and fall of your chest.
I miss the feel of my heart when I let my head down, when I came around to find Ricks rock sized fist bearing down on my head. Those shitty Velcro straps of his tearing up my forearms with each block. The look of anger in his eyes when I slipped a punch to his nose, even if I didn’t connect it. He knows I pulled it. Left to the head, feet already moving to step to the right, and a right to the kidney, step back, foot behind the knee, right to the head, left to the kidney, fall back.
Amazing the cycles you get used to.
All the smug faces on the first day of class. I’m just a long haired japanophile. Too bad this is a Korean based art. The look on the first day of sparring. Always Rick and myself as the examples. Rick’s a dangerous one, very little control, but a lot of knowledge and skill, even for an old guy.
Brick shithouse.
The smile I used to have when I got to help train the white belts. The apprehension on their faces. I like a little bit of fear. They just got to see me go basically no holds barred with Rick, and we always go strong. Nobody else will spar him, that’s how bad it is. The surprise at the first punch, the feel of their breath rushing out on my fingers, so close to their faces, the pupils dilating, the flinch, the pain that never comes.
I only wish I hadn’t had my accident.
Smug faced instructor the beginning of my last year, usual MMA build. Muay Thai, Boxing, and some jujitsu. I could feel him eyeing me up. Weighing in. Looking down. I never got to spar him. Probably never will, and most likely for the best.
I miss coming in to teach Thursday classes, and nobody but Rick being there. 3 hours of constant fighting, using the entire floor, swear pouring off of the both of us, damn near breaking each other so many times.
I miss the rush. The feeling of accomplishment. The gratification knowing that I can take care of myself.
The usual testosterone rush knowing that I can beat the living shit out of whoever.
Except one guy. I’ve been more than glad to spar anyone. Rick, insanely powerful, strong as shit, uncontrollable. Jeff. Tall, powerful, insane reach, very skilled. (I still feel horrible about busting his eye). Captain Washington. Short, stocky, quick as holy shit. Everyone else.
Then there’s Josh.
Control.
Theory.
Application.
I’m not sure that we’ve properly sparred, legs and all. 16 oz. boxing gloves sure. But that takes the speed away, limit’s the legs, and it was at night at a party in car headlights. Just messing around it’s kind of scary how effective he is. I’ve never seen anyone’s eyes weigh me like his do. It’s a bit invigorating, standing toe to toe with him, even half speed, just for locks and practice. I’ve got to properly fight him at least once. The only person I would ever really be truly…not scared…but rather…wary about.
We’ll see.
I miss fighting. And I miss my friends.
Kinda funny how that goes eh’?
o.O
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