I have been going to the Krav Maga gym for over two years now, and have been teaching the Friday evening class for maybe 6 months. At first I had two students who came on Fridays – then three, then two, then four, then ten, then six and last night we had such a damn full-house that I was actually hoping more people wouldn’t come through the door.
We have developed a very good rapport in the group – there are a core of guys (and girls,) who for the most part really like to throw down, don’t mind a cut lip or bloody nose, and are really, truly interested in improving their fightgame techniques and improving their cardio and strengthening and toughening their bodies.
It is really a joy to watch people transform as the weeks go by. They come in very quiet, and cautious and shy. They sit to the side and don’t do anything until instructed to do so. Depending on their previous athletic experience, their movements are often awkward, to put it kindly. They don’t know the length of their own arm or leg, nor how to unwind it to maximize force at the end. They get gassed out, and have to take little breaks during the cardio session. After a couple of weeks their movements are a little bit better, their cardio has improved immensely, sometimes they have dropped some weight and toned up a bit, (in one case, 15 kilos lost in a couple of months– no joke – but that chick was a bit of a porker to begin with.) And even more critically, they lose some of that shyness that kept them glued to the wall before, and start milling around before class begins, and it is here that you can really learn something vital about them.
What people do when there is no instructor guiding them is, to me, a primary indicator of what they have come for. If you look around before class begins, you will see one or two people jumping rope, one person on the double-end bag, a couple people doing calisthentics, about 3 people talking, and 2 or 3 people working on the heavy bags. Every few minutes most of the individuals will probably get tired, and need to take a break from that body part, and so will walk away from their spot, and almost immediately gravitate toward another activity, while someone else will take their place. Almost everybody, that is. Because there is always a small core of people who don’t need to change their activity, because talking about things just never tires them out.
I don’t begrudge these chatters their chat. I really don’t. I do understand that there might be some totally excellent gossip to exchange, or maybe your wrist is hurt today, or maybe you just wanna chitter-chat. That’s cool – I think it does reflect slightly on why you are here – I mean – you are surrounded by toys and tools to help you improve, and you sit there doing what you could do at any tea shop, and probably do all day, but whatever. I do eventually have to conclude, though, that the social aspect is one of the larger factors in why you choose to come here.
And that, too, is totally cool. Frankly, it’s part of the reason I come as well. In fact, other than saying hello to colleagues in passing, and seeing the girliefriend about two nights a week, the gym is about my ONLY social interaction. So I can dig that you might come to hang and see people. I totally get that – but that doesn’t mean you need to hang around me.
More specifically – when I am working on the heavy bags, or the double-end bag, or jumping rope, or whatever, don’t come up and start talking to me. A. Because you are interrupting what I am doing, and B. because you are implicitly devaluing the activity I am doing, by indicating what you have to say is more important. Or, if you do, (and I’ll be nice and stop and chat, and then if you don’t actually have something pertinent to deal with, I will go back to working,) then PLEASE don’t continue to fucking hover in my peripheral vision making random comments trying to get a goddam conversation going with me. And when I eventually get tired of you standing 2 meters away staring at me, waiting for me to speak to you, and I move across the room to another place, DON’T FUCKING FOLLOW ME. Repeat after me: “I am not a damn kitten, looking to bond with a maternal figure. I am a full grown adult male, who needs to direct his fucking emotional needs toward somebody else.” And for fuck’s sake don’t follow me into the dressing room – it’s creepy and I am still going to ignore you, and I’m only there to pull something out of my bag – I promise I’m not going to do anything even slightly interesting, so please fuck off already and stop being clingy.
Right now I have four students who are often on my mind, in part because all of them prefer to train with me as their partner, and have expressed this.
In no particular order, let’s begin with my favorite, who we’ll call Snowflake – because that’s what her name means, and that’s the tattoo on the inside of her forearm. (For those of you far away, let me just say that for some reason here in Istanbul, it is not at all unusual or low-class anymore for young ladies to have tattoos on their wrists and forearms.) Snowflake started with me as her teacher – and she immediately outshone the tall, awkward boy who started at the same time. Her talent lies largely in her ability to take a movement apart into smaller parts, and then work on repeating that sequence again and again until she can execute it well. But her true gift comes from inside. Some people, the first time they hit somebody, immediately cringe and collapse and apologize all over themselves. And others, the first time they land a good hit on somebody, light up inside like the fourth of July. And boy, can you see it on Snowflake’s face. When she lands a good hit, she literally dances a bit to let a wee bit of the excess joy wiggle out. When she learns how to throw a much bigger person to the ground, she cannot stop grinning to save her life. Couple those things with the willingness to practice, practice, practice, before and after class, and she really is turning into a little monster. In fact, she busted Artie’s nose last week. I was very proud of her.
Artie, on the other hand, is a doe-eyed caricature of a sensitive soul. His head is too large for his body, his soft, kind eyes too large for his head, his nose dwarfs even his eyes, and his limbs too skinny to support any of it. His movements have some resemblance to what I imagine giraffes fucking would look like. He has been coming for more than a year, and frankly, you wouldn’t know it. Which is, actually, what has made all the difference for him. About 3 weeks ago a girl who had been coming for a long time, but had never coincided with Artie (his attendance is quite on-again off-again,) made some comment about how he needn’t despair, he was, after all, a newbie. Artie, in his soft-eyed, gangly and jelly-limbed way, took deep offense to this. He came to me after class in deep depression, and asked what he could do. I told him a number of things, and next class, his roundhouse kicks were suddenly fucking crisp, nice, beautiful to behold. (I actually had the whole class stop and watch his roundhouse kick.) His guard had improved immensely, too. His punches were cleaner and crisper. He’s still no ninja, but 6 more months of what he’s been doing for that past three weeks, and he could be. It appears that he has started to really open his mind to focus on what he is doing, and to learn his own body, and has begun practicing at home on his own. The results are really, really encouraging, and I hope he knows that, because I sure do.
Corrie, on the other hand, is on my mind for all the wrong reasons. He friended me on facebook, and instant messages me nearly every day, with questions about whether I plan to attend that night or not. Then he almost always says “let’s be partners tonight – I want to train with you,” which would be fine, really, except that it happens so often it’s a bit irksome. That, and it was most recently (last night,) phrased as “I’ll have you.” Then during weekends he will call me, or message me to see if I want to hang out – which I wouldn’t mind, except that he spends a so much time complaining about his wife, and running her down, that I basically end up trying to change the subject all the time, which I am not all that good at, so it doesn’t work, so I fall back on just not giving him any encouragement, which basically boils down, in practical terms, to him whining and whining, and me occasionally making remarks about the economy, or the weather, or China’s odd stance on Zimbabwe. So I basically stopped answering the phone when he calls, which has led him to make remarks about feeling “dumped,” and his “ass left out in the cold.” Recently he stayed late, after everyone had left, and then stripped off and came out in his towel to talk to me while I was working out a combination, saying “Ooooh, don’t hit the naked guy! Oooh!” These, along with a constant theme of comments about “fucked in the ass,” “the soggy-biscuit game” make me wonder exactly how repressed he is. I mean – I don’t think a legit gay guy would always be talking about gay shit and making gay jokes, but the amount of social, (and physical) contact he wants with me is . . . oddness inducing. And recently he has taken to asking me after class if I want to wrestle – which I wouldn’t mind, except A. You suck at it, and don’t even seem to be trying, and B. You’re weirding the fuck out of me already, go away.
And finally, is Alp. Alp is probably 20 or 22 or so, and probably clocks in at about 6’3’’ and 200 pounds without an ounce of fat on him. (He likes to pause in front of the mirror and check his “baclavas” – the word here for his six-pack.) Really, the kid is a physical phenom. He’s big, strong, and fast as shit. Did I mention strong? And fast as shit? Well, when he first came he was . . . a bit unccoordinated, or just hadn’t really put together yet how to move, how to cover, how to throw. But fortunately for him, he likes to go hard, (I still have a lump on my bone in my forearm from practicing some months ago with him, and was out for a week with a bum knee after he kicked it,) and he doesn’t let his ego get in the way of learning. He hates losing, yet every time he loses, he dialogues with the winner to get advice and tips, and goes to practicing it, and comes back better. And yes – I’m the winner we’re talking about. Other people don’t want to fight with him because – well, did I mention he’s big, ripped, fast as shit, and his technique is getting better and better every damn day? So I fight with him – and he doesn’t know the meaning of sparring, apparently, because we just end up going for the damn knockout. I don’t really want that, but there is a natural escalation in sparring, and when the other guy is literally trying to take your head off, you tend to up your speed and power as well.
It used to be that I won, handily, every match with him. Those days though, are past. A few weeks ago he knocked me out, (momentarily,) and I realized that I was no longer playing with the same kid. He’d learned how to fake with the left, while I had been not training as much as I needed to, and he had been training his ass off, and it showed. So I upped my game over the following week, and held my own again, (but barely.) This week we squared off again, and I won, but I am not sure how convincingly. And so the trend says, and I think that, next week I can put a few things into play that will give me the win – but the lad is constant reminder that youth is no longer on my side – I am NOT the unquestioned best. I am so used to being physically stronger and/or faster and/or smarter and/or tougher than most people (minus professional tough-guys, I hasten to point out,) that it is slightly discomfitting to find that the next generation is indeed crawling up the ladder, and as surely as night follows day, is sure to overtake you someday.
So this morning, when I wake up, and I feel my back muscles slightly sore, my ankles slightly loose, my hips aching, and the cut inside my lip stinging it reminds me that last night was spent in what is coming to be my favorite place – the gym.
