Earlier this morning, my wife reminded me of a guy who came to train with me when we lived in California.
His name was Brian and he was one cocky sumbitch. His cockiness was obviously warranted because he’d been involved in various martial arts for a couple decades, had a garage filled with trophies and worked as a bouncer at a local pick-up joint.
Anyway, when we met he got to telling me how good he was, how he fears no man, how he knows his martial training has him prepared for anyone and anything, of any size or shape or background. He mentioned that he had 10 years of serious Aikido training, over a dozen years in JKD (jeet kun do), ving tsun, and a few years of submission grappling.
Holy shi-ite, that’s quite a resume.
He was itching to get on the mat, to square off with me as part of his training. I told him I needed to get a drink of water, went into my office, grabbed my mouth piece, cleaned it off in the sink, inserted it onto my teeth and began to breathe fast and deep… while envisioning what reality this poor chap would soon be living in.
I’ll hand it to the guy. He was lightning quick… and nimble… and flexible, too. But as soon as he attacked, I sent him flying, part of the touch and throw philosophy I learned long ago. I landed on top of him, immediately got hold of his foot, cranked him just enough to make his knee ligaments bark… and he howled, tapping the mat as though it was a bongo drum.
We got back to our feet and he tried some spinning wrist lock twirlagig… I immediately re-grabbed him, locked his elbow, kicked him in the shin and watched as he did a tornado-spin, horizontally that is, through the air… landing all by himself as I stood watching time travel. He hit the mat with a thud and a thump, but not to be outdone, not today, not now… he jumped back to his feet and charged into me. All his aikido training fell off the cliff, I suppose, as he tried to lock me up in a tight bear hug. And I let him do so as I’m comfortable there. This is what I call “letting the lad come to papa.”
I pretended to be scared. I acted hesitant. I let him push me back a few steps, showing obvious signs of trouble, and peril. And then I shook my body the way a dog dries itself after a shower, and this movement alone rattled his cage, turning off the circuit breaker to his nervous system, giving him momentary dizziness laced with a pinch of vertigo. He had no idea where he was, or who he was, or if he ever was… and in the midst of his mental confusion, I helped him fly the friendly skies, giving him a first-class ride on a 747.
That was the end of our little training session. He lay on the mat, on his back, eyes looking at the ceiling, unable to catch his breath, murmuring and mumbling about how he’s never been tossed around “like that before,” or this way or that, for the whole of his existence.
I humbly thanked him for the opportunity to serve up some good ole fashioned American rasslin, that which is known as Catch-as-Catch-Can. And I told him that he might want to integrate some of what I do with what he’s been studying. “Otherwise,” I said, “you’re going to need about 40 more years of aikido.”
Aikido is a great martial art. I respect and admire those who practice it, until they get a bit too cocky.
As the saying goes, “Speak softly but carry a big schtick.”
Ah, those are some stellar memories.
I’m so glad I recorded all the techniques, throws, submissions and conditioning methods I was using back then, which you can find by going here.
Kick ass – take names!
Matt Furey
