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by JeffI was recently sent an email from a reader who found himself in a situation similar to my own.

Jeff,

Last week during training (MMA) I ruptured one of my long-head bicep tendons and tore my labrum. It was open mat and during a scramble with my opponent my arm ended up in a bad position and that's when the injury occurred. This is devastating for me. I just came back from a two-month training trip to Fairtex in Thailand to work on stand up and was continuing my prep for a fight (MMA) in June. Training couldn't have been going any better.

Unfortunately, surgery is a must and is scheduled for next week (the time to the procedure is a small window due to the tendon starting to tighten back up). I'll be out of action for 4-6 months. I live and breathe this shit. To not be able to train is a HUGE dagger to the heart and the depression is already setting in. I know you suffered a similar shoulder injury. How did you deal with your recovery mentally? Did you do anything to speed up the recovery process? Any advice would be very much appreciated.

-Kyle

Kyle,

That injury -- any debilitating injury -- is the most frustrating thing in the world for a fighter. When the inflammation goes down and the pain subsides it will feel ok. 90% of the range will be all right and you might gain some confidence in it, then you'll reach too far to get a shirt out of your closet, pull too hard to turn your steering wheel or scratch you crotch will too much fervor and all the sudden you're rolling on the floor in pain.

When I first injured my shoulder I wasn't sure exactly what was wrong and I didn't have insurance. So I took a couple weeks off until it felt decent and went back to the gym. I babied the arm best I could, then threw a punch with too much snap. That was all it took to put me on the floor and keep me out of the gym for a month.

I repeated that cycle for almost a year, missing my opportunity for it to heal naturally -- something my surgeon said it might have done had I taken a full 5 months off right at the onset of the tear.

I can't say much more about how to deal with it. Fighting is a huge part of my life. I dream of it. Being told I couldn't see a set of gloves for half a year killed me. And I'd be lying if I said I didn't sneak in a punch here and there. Just realize that every time you cheat or delay the healing process is double that you'll have to really wait to be healthy --assuming you don't destroy your chance of healing completely. If you don't do what has to be done now, if you push it off and try and work around it, you may never heal right.

This hasn't gone on the site yet, but my surgery didn't work. The labrum could not be fixed and now it can never be fully fixed.

Because I didn't do what had to be done when I first was injured I will NEVER have a shoulder that is 100% healthy. Don't make that mistake.

You have the rest of your life to fight (disregarding natural aging) and injury is a part of it -- a big part of it. All you can do is what is best and that will give you the best chance of continuing to fight. Disregard this and you could end your career in a matter of months.

Watch videos, drill moves in your head, go to classes and watch people roll. It will just make the itch worse but at least your mind will still be in the right mode. Get to a doctor and do EXACTLY what he says. Don't fuck around on this, no matter how much it sucks. Some people have to take a year off from a bad joint injury. If that's the case, THAT IS THE CASE. Skirting the matter might give momentary satisfaction but when you've ruined an entire career because you were stubborn that sort of fucks the whole point of it.

Side note: Make sure you do what you can to keep up your cardio and more importantly, flexibility. Shoulder aside, obviously. But just because you might have to sit on your ass for half a year doesn't mean you have to lose the ability to kick someone in the head. And take it from me-- someone who was depressed about the whole thing and tried to ignore fighting during rehab, including stretching. I'm back, two months into training and my kicks barely reach rib height right now. It's pathetic.

Take care man. Good luck and may you heal soon.

by JeffIt's been three months since my surgery. My shoulder still hurts. It's a deep pain that feels like it could be relieved some by extracting a core sample with a center punch. I'm hoping that it's only paranoia but I feel like the healing process is not going as well as it should. I mean, it feels better than it did two months ago but then two months ago I was still swollen up from having my joint sliced open and pumped full of saline solution.

Now it feels just like it did before the surgery. And the surgery was my last real option. If this doesn't take, I'm not sure what I'll do next, so yeah, I'm pretty scared. I'm waiting in my surgeon's office though and hopefully in a few minutes he'll put my mind at ease.

"Jeff?"

I look up from my laptop at his assistant. She's librarian-cute, wears shoulder length hair that frames thick black glasses, but also wears a wedding ring. Since I came in for my first consultation I've been thinking of asking her how seriously she takes it-- that whole marriage thing-- but have only gone so far as to flirt with her. When I schedule a follow-up appointment or ask her to validate my parking the words are thick with innuendo. She never reciprocates and I'm pretty sure she's offended by my blatant implications.

"Jeff, Dr. Geraldi will see you. Come with me."

I follow her to the exam room. From three paces back her butt looks like a Seychelles nut. I want to eat it. She leaves me to read a Time Magazine article on the GOP's lack of leadership but I don't have time to finish it before Dr. Geraldi shows up.

"How's the shoulder doing?"

No introduction, no formalities. He's a busy guy.

"I'm worried about it doc."

I like calling him "doc." It reminds me of a kinder, simpler time, when breakfast was lousy coffee and lunch was killing Krauts with a .45. It also gives me hope. Doc fixes things. If all I have to do is see doc, how bad could it be?

"It still hurts in a lot of the same ways that it used to. I'm hoping I'm just scared for no reason, but I'm worried the surgical repairs didn't take."

He goes through my chart, flipping page to page and ruffles his brow doing some math in his head.

"Like I told you before, a procedure like this can take up to six months to heal. I say three months is the minimum, but something like this can easily take up to six months." He smiles reassuringly. "I wouldn't worry just yet."

"I hope so, doc. I do."

He puts down my chart and lifts my right arm, applying pressure at varying angles. This is a series of joint tests that were actually invented by a surgeon on the other side of town. He's considered the best shoulder guy in the world and while I did have a consult with him, I wasn't able to have him cut me up due to insurance issues. Tim Ferriss recommended him to me. Tim had his whole shoulder rebuilt by the guy and now Tim insists that his repaired shoulder is stronger than his "good" one. I can't help but wonder if things would be different had he been my doctor.

Dr. Geraldi runs through the gamut of "does this hurt, does that hurt." "Push against me, pull away." Each time he comes to some sort of conclusion in his head and factors that information into the next test. Once this is all said and done he picks my chart back up.

"Jeff, we'll see where this goes. I'm going to write you a script for another four weeks of physical therapy. Keep doing what you're doing for rehab and I'll see you in a month."

"And the healing?" I'm practically begging for good news.

"We're only at three months, like I said. It's not abnormal for you to still be healing at this point. To be honest, if I had to guess, I'd say you're halfway home."

This is good news. I've already waited a year. I can wait another three months. My worry was that the fix to my labral tear did not take. It was, after all, one of those we'll-give-it-our-best-shot procedures that has no guaranteed outcome. I thank Dr. Geraldi and follow him outside to the nurse's station where he has the nurse write me the physical therapy script.

"Take it easy," he shakes my hand, "and don't forget to get your parking validated."

"You too, doc. And don't worry, I won't."

by JeffI broke Ethan Embry's rib today. He seems to think so anyway. Says he heard it crack. I say it was like that when I found it.

It's an odd coincidence actually. Not the rib thing, the Ethan Embry thing. People have been telling me for the past ten years that I look just like him. At what I assume was the height of our similarity I was being told a couple times a week, often by total strangers. So imagine my surprise when one of my trainers introduces me to him a few days after I get back into the gym.

Jeremy, my standup trainer, was giving Ethan a private lesson when I showed up and since we're similar size (shocking) he asked if I would spar with Ethan. Nothing rough, just light sparring. He's been working Ethan's boxing pretty regularly and I've taken the past five months off for my shoulder rehabilitation, so for a while Ethan was kind of working me over. He would lead in with a jab and work some outside shots then jab his way out. At a jabs reach of distance he had the advantage.

On Jeremy's recommendation I closed in. He'd been working Ethan's offense so that was his comfort zone. Closing in on him and putting on some pressure took away any advantage. I added some clinch work and gave some light knees to his body. Nothing hard, mostly pulling him from side to side to keep him off balance and eliminate his power on those hooks. He was out of his element in the clinch. I guess he doesn't do Muay Thai.

A few rounds in and we both were tiring. As I circled left I'd throw low jabs at his body. Each time I did he countered with a lazy left. It was long and looping and left much of his ribcage exposed. I kept up the jab and let him counter three times. On number four I snapped a right hook into his open ribs. Not hard, maybe 70%. He yelped, disproportionately I thought, at the punch I gave him.

He clenched his side and said something about his rib. Jeremy had one of the other trainers lay him down and feel out the injury. In the meantime I did some bag work. I didn't hear what was said between them. After a while he came back out and, to his credit, finished up his training session strong, though occasionally grimacing in pain and clutching his side. Later, Ethan talked to me and said that he'd hurt his ribs before, but he thought this time it was broken; he'd heard and felt the snap.

He went straight to the emergency room from the gym. An x-ray confirmed his rib was more busted than Britney.

That'll teach him. Running around looking like me, thinking he can get away with being a more successful and popular version of me, thinking he's better than me, assuming there won't be consequences.

Not the case, Ethan. Not the case.

by JeffI have him mounted. My knees squeeze his ribs and grind into the mat. My hips torque with each dropped haymaker that slams into his head. Some shots are blocked by his gloves, others sneak around his guard and catch him flush. There's a pause in the rhythm and he looks up at me, his face unscathed, mocking.

I'm throwing punches as hard as I can through air that has the density of pudding. Each fist connects sluggishly and despite my efforts the guy under me isn't hurt. I wake up, my fists clenched in a frustration that carries over from my dream.

This is nothing new. This show stages nightly.

I lie awake most nights drilling combos in my head. Generally whatever I was working that day in the gym or maybe a fight I watched that stuck with me. My heart rate rises and I get all worked up. I can't help it. Some people stress over their bills or tomorrow's to-do list. I obsess over a sweep that I can't quite stick or a four-hit combo that has been lacking snap. Yesterday I was caught in a standing guillotine after I shot in with my head ducked. Last night I shot in dozens of times, reevaluating my head positioning and footwork. I drilled the move over and over until eventually I fell asleep to the TV, a distraction that usually helps.

But once asleep the thoughts rarely stop and most nights I dream of fighting. Very rarely training, it's almost always fighting, although the locations and situations vary, as do the styles. Some nights in a ring or a cage, some nights in a bar. What doesn't change is that I'm powerless, throwing weightless punches through through molasses. What's worse is that in the dream I'm aware of it, but I can't change anything. Dreams should be an escape and I feel cheated, overcome with a feeling of futility. I swing for the fences and kick like a mule but by the time I connect I might as well be wiping a smudge of mustard from his chin.

It drives me insane. I work myself into a frenzy and wake up soaked in sweat, earning me some criticism from those I've shared a bed with. Apparently, girls don't like it when they can feel my sweat pooling against them and there wasn't any sex involved. "It's gross," I'm told, informed that it wouldn't be as bad if I would just stay on my side of the bed, rather than flailing against them as I often do.

What would Freud say about this? Some low level research says this is a pretty common aspect of dreaming, not punching hard enough or running fast enough, though how common it is to have the same dream every night is another issue all together. Clearly I'm obsessed with fighting, it doesn't take a rocket surgeon to figure that out, and probably worried about how good I am. Of course weak striking isn't the only thing I worry about, but maybe my subconscious just isn't smart enough to dream me up a botched omoplata attempt that results in me giving up my back and losing by rear naked choke.

I could keep speculating, but analyzing this stuff would be better served by a professional. Thankfully Rudius has a much needed asset, our own in-house psychologist, Dr. Rob. He was kind enough to give his thoughts on this reoccurring dream.

by Stein Weinstein

So I take the pothead's advice, and my goal for my next class is to go as long as possible without getting submitted. Defend only, don't even think about submissions, just keep the guys from putting me out.

I do this with my first two partners, and with shockingly good results. I mean, I still got submitted, but I lasted much longer. I got submitted a total of five times in the two rounds, whereas my normal total is at least twice that.

Here's the best part: Everything seemed to slow down for me. It's funny--even though I don't really know any submissions well, once I stopped thinking about offensive moves and focused on defending, everything slowed down and my brain was able to keep up with my body much easier. I wasn't five completely confused anymore, now I was just three moves behind. Shit that doesn't smell is much better than shit that does.

I did another thing that the pothead told me to do: I started asking questions.

It seems obvious, but I wasn't really doing that before. Now, every time a guy submits me, I ask him what he did and how to defend it. Some guys aren't very good teachers, but some are very good, and walk me through the escapes. One guy caught me in a nasty arm triangle, so after tapping, I asked him to show me. He showed me the submission, then showed me the two basic defenses (swimming your arm over his head, or putting your hand to your ear, called "answering the phone"). The very next round I made the same mistake and he started a set-up to an arm triangle, and I swam my arm over and got out. It was amazing how exhilarating it was to learn something and then use it properly to escape a submission.

One thing at a time, one escape at a time, I am starting to put this together. Learning BJJ is like learning a new language; it's frustrating and aggravating and painful, but if you dive in and ask questions and keep trying, slowly but surely you start to put it together.

by Stein Weinstein

It's been two weeks. I have gone pretty much every day since I started (thank you OCD), and I still haven't figured anything out. Well, I have figured one thing out: When you tap, it's much better to tap the person's body, as opposed to tapping the mat. When you tap them on the body, they feel it and always let go. When you tap the mat in a crowded gym, they might not hear you and hold the arm triangle until you pass out.

I know this because it happened to me. And I am not kidding when I say this: It was the best part of the class. The sensation you get after waking up from having the blood cut off to your brain is actually very pleasant. Until the instructor starts yelling at you because you didn't tap properly and going out is dangerous.

So after ten or so classes, I am starting to get frustrated. Everything is so complicated, it's like I can't even start to learn. I don't know where to begin. I pretty much just spend the entire class straining as hard as I can and getting nowhere but choked or having a limb pushed past where it's supposed to go.

But my eleventh class goes differently. During the drill portion, I end up teamed with a purple belt (the belts are ranked from lowest to highest; white, blue, purple, brown, black) who is a natural teacher. He really helps me understand not only what we are doing, but why we do it. Then we start rolling, and instead of just plowing through me, he goes slow and instructs me step-by-step. Of course I am still struggle mightily, and get nowhere. Then he gives me the most important lesson I have ever learned injiu-jitsu.

Purple Belt "OK man, you need to relax. BJJ is about flow and technique, not about brute strength. You aren't getting anywhere not because your aren't trying hard enough, but rather because you are trying too hard."
Stein "You sound like Confucius."
Purple Belt "You play golf?"
Stein "Yeah, of course."
Purple Belt "When you take your backswing, do you do it as hard as possible?"
Stein "No, of course not."
Purple Belt "What about your follow through, is that as hard as you can swing?"
Stein "No."
Purple Belt "Exactly. That's because power comes not from power everywhere, but from power applied in the right places and at the right time. You are using power everywhere. Relax and let it come to you. By staying relaxed, you also conserve your energy."

So we got back to it. Amateur philosopher or not, he could really roll. He was so smooth and fluid and calm, but at the same time, very strong. It was like rolling with a python. He didn't snatch at you, but once he got something that was it; I couldn't get it back. I was starting to see his point. Then came the second lesson.

Purple Belt "OK, good. Now, the way you get better is by small steps. Every day, set a goal for yourself. For instance, try and make it 10 seconds without being submitted. Then 20. Then 30. Then a minute. Then two. Then make it a goal to have a dominant position for ten seconds. Then 20. Then a minute. Once you can do that, the submissions will take care of themselves. Everything flows together if you get out of its way and let it."
Stein "Do you smoke a lot of pot?"
Purple Belt "Haha. Yeah, jiu-jitsu and pot seem to go together. But you don't have to do it. You just have to relax."

by Jeff"Why do you want a copy of your MRI?"

"I'm writing about fighting and this surgery is a big part of it."

Dr. Geraldi looks at me like I have a toad on my head.

"Plus, people like pictures."

He looks down and makes a note in my chart. "Alright, well how do you feel?"

"I feel ok. The pain killers take the edge off and most of the swelling has gone down. I slept for like three days after the surgery though."

"Yeah, that's to be expected." He nods to my arm. "You still need that sling?"

I slip off the fabric sling that was given to me when I left the hospital. "No, I wear it about half the day and the other half I'm just careful how I move the arm around." I work my shoulder in a loose circle, mostly just to show that I can do it.

"Great. I've got the images from the camera we used during the procedure. Let's go over what we found and what I did for you."

He pulls out a stack of pictures with notes scratched all over them. They don't look like much of anything to me until he explains what it is I'm looking at.

"This is what your joint should look like. Smooth surfaces. The cartilage isn't pitted or damaged in any way. But when we went in, the first thing I found was this:"

"There were pieces of cartilage and tissue just floating around in there. Some had to be cut away but a lot of it was just loose."

"These were all vacuumed out."

"Your labrum should look like the tissue you see off to the left-- nice and smooth. But on the right you can just see the beginning of your tear."

"It gets worse."

"As you can see the labrum is torn up pretty bad. However, the tear is not as deep as we thought it would be. Think of it like a tile floor. Your tiles are torn up but the thick floor underneath is intact. This actually complicates things. The plan was to stitch the wound closed but that delicate tissue on the surface cannot be sewn. It's more like a pothole than a rift and there is no real way to close it. A cadaver graft would be best, but it would be near impossible to get in there."

"So, what did you do?" I'm thankful that some dead guys tissue wasn't put in me. That's a bit creepy.

"Well the best thing for an injury like this is for you to stay off it for a few months and let it heal, but you passed that window long ago. So I roughed it up-- made some fresh blood-- so that it's a new injury. Then we drained the fluid from the joint to make sure there was blood flowing around. As you can see, there was."

"The debridement of the cartilage was no problem. That's an easy fix. The broken bone had already fused into its own shape, but it didn't look like it was snagging on anything or impeding joint movement."

"So the labrum thing is a bit of a toss up?"

"Well, as long as you rehab it correctly it should heal up fine. It's like a field missing a patch of grass. We laid the seed and fertilized it, now you just have to give it the right conditions to grow. We don't know for sure how long it will take to fill in, but beyond that it should heal just fine."

This is great. Ridiculously awesome. I've been waiting for this for months and to finally be told that everything is good-- hell to be shown in pictures-- is amazing. I'm stoked.

Dr. Geraldi gives me some rehab instructions, a script for the physical therapy and tells me to book an appointment in a month.

"Thanks doc, really, I can't thank you enough." I shake his hand and leave his office with a big fucking grin on my face.

by JeffMost people have pride in their gym or camp. Good. You should. But there is a limit to just how much enthusiasm one should have. You're not a fucking soccer hooligan, after all.

This past weekend I was in San Diego, my old home town, drinking at my old bar. A friend just moved there and I was introducing her around, trying to make her some friends so she doesn't get all lonely start listening to The Best of Morrissey while carving topographical maps into her wrists.

An old training partner of mine, Shane, was talking to me about fighting and some portly Mexican at the pool table happened to overhear us.

Mexican: Where do you train?

Jeff: L.A.

My answer is terse. I'm busy playing pool and I'm in the zone.

Mexican: (smugly) I train at Undisputed.

I used to train at Undisputed. I physically helped put up walls there and was training in that place before the doors ever opened.

Jeff: Never heard of it.

This earns me some smiles and laughs from a handful of friends around the pool table. Three of them have trained there with me and know that I think very highly of the gym. This may even be an understatement. I shout that gym's praises to anyone who will listen and sometimes even to those who won't.

Mexican: (looking annoyed) It's a big gym, eh. Good place.

Jeff: I dunno man. I've never heard of that joint.

Mexican: (pissed) Yeah, well the bouncers here have. They train there.

I worked at this bar as a bouncer for two years. I trained one of the guys he's pointing to when he was hired. The other replaced me. He doesn't know this. Probably doesn't know much of anything. He certainly doesn't know that only one of the those bouncers trains at Undisputed and that the other trains primarily at Krispy Kreme.

Jeff: Those bouncers? Man, they look kind of weak...

Mexican: (fists clenched) You want to go outside about it?

This phrase doesn't make grammatical sense, but I know what he means. I chuckle a little and go back to my game of pool. Some people are retards.

The Mexican wanders off around the table and I continue my game. In between shots I see Shane talking to the Mexican. Shane is talking to him, but he's not looking at Shane. The guy is staring holes through my chest. I wonder if I may have to "go outside about it." I finish my game, racking up another win, and Shane walks over.

Shane: That guy was saying he might have to beat your ass. I told him you were fucking with him, that we both train there, know everyone, and that you were hanging the bags before most people had even heard of that gym.

Jeff: Jesus, what a jackass.

Shane: Oh, that wasn't enough. He started quizzing me, asking if I knew this fighter and that fighter, the owners, everyone.

Jeff: You pass the test?

Shane: I guess not. He got on the phone with someone at the gym and asked me for my name to verify that I was "legit."

Jeff: He called the fucking gym?!?

Shane: (laughing) Yeah, I know!

Jeff: I guess he wanted to make sure he didn't have to kick our asses.

Shane: Thank god for that.

Jeff: Thank god.

When I later checked the Mexican was nowhere to be seen. He was probably running our pictures by someone at the gym's front desk and checking DNA samples from the Bud Light bottles against sweat-filled wraps.

Support your local gym, your local MMA fighter, and your local fight organization. Have respect for the guys who train you and pride in the place that teaches you your craft. But don't be a douchebag.

If you want to talk shit with someone over training centers, chances are you're the insecure one or have just gotten into fighting. The louder you are about your training and the more you want to spout off about how much better you are and who you know, the greater the chances that the quiet and respectful guy in the corner is going to beat the everliving shit out of you.

Be humble, lest you be humbled.

Of course, maybe the lesson is that I shouldn't be a sarcastic dick, lest I have douchebags threaten to beat my ass. Either way, there is certainly a lesson to be learned somewhere.

by Jeff"It ain't about how hard you can hit. It's about how hard you can get hit and keep moving forward. That's how winning is done." ~ Rocky

No matter how much I want to fight, I have very little interest in getting hit. Getting hit sucks. Some guys, they smile while someone beats their face into smashed pomegranate and claim they love every minute of it. They're insane.

Getting hit hurts.

Reacting to a punch the way a fighter is supposed to is completely unnatural. You take any dude on the street and swing at him, he won't keep his eye on the shot and slip to the side, he'll shut his eyes and duck his head. Or flat out run away. They usually do that.

Dodging and taking punches in proper form means teaching your body to do the exact opposite of every instinct. If you're worried about the pain of getting hit, it's that much harder to stay composed under the pressure. Impossible, really.

When I first started training, I couldn't block a shot or duck a punch to save my life. I'd squint my eyes every time I saw the leather coming at me and turn my head to the side, partially covering up. I couldn't counter worth a shit, but I learned real quick how to keep my gloves up and cover my face.

Months of training and I've learned to react accordingly when someone throws a hook my way, but when those shots connect they still hurt like hell. A punch to the nose wells up my eyes and scrunches up my face like I've just blown a fat line of cane sugar. Black eyes come easy and raising a mouse on my head doesn't take more than a snake-lick jab. I'm carved from warm butter. You don't want to fight like you're afraid of being hit. At least I didn't, but that was exactly what I was doing.

I've started taking my work home with me, and my roommate, Justin, is more than happy to help out. As a guy who routinely has me punch him in the face to better prepare for, as he puts it, "anything that might go down," he's happy to help out. Picture the scene from Fight Club, with less shock and confusion.

"I want you to hit me as hard as you can."

"Cool. No problem."

He sucks the last bit of smoke from his cigarette and crunches the butt on the pavement.

"So, like in the face...gut? What are you lookin' for here?"

We punch each other in the face, rotating between bare knuckle and glove depending on how damaged we are from the day before, or how much whiskey is involved at the given moment. After beating on each other in malls, beaches, restaurants, and bars, we could teach a class on eliciting looks of disgust and malaise from strangers. Justin and the gym aren't the only things busting up my face. I've taken to hitting myself.

Every day, in the shower, until large knots form or it hurts too much to continue.

Every day.

Seems masochistic, I know. But it's no different than Muay Thai fighters cracking their shins against cement-filled bags to deaden the nerves and temper the bone. Of course, I do that too. Some swear by rolling bottles or bats down the bone, but I have yet to go that route.

A face of leather doesn't help too much if my body is soft as a bruised plum. Justin and I have a great workout, doing pull-ups while he works my torso like a heavy bag. I also return the favor. It doesn't feel great, but getting hit is what it takes to get used to getting hit. That's just science.

Waking up every day, twice as sore as I would be from a regular training session, feels great. Eventually, the swelling and the aches started to fade. My ribs are no longer tender to the touch and the tissue above my cheekbones is staying the right size. Training is easier. Better.

I'm sparring with Jose. We spar on Tuesdays.

Jose lives in Tijuana and crosses the border every day to train. He fights like he's working out some deep seeded frustration. I gather that he sleeps on a found mattress in a shanty built of old garage doors and duct tape, his furniture is old milk crates and to pass the time he and his neighbor throw used c-cell batteries at stray chickens. It would explain why he feels the need to beat the shit out of someone every day.

I'm slipping most of his shots and countering his kicks with a few of my own. But when I duck a hook and counter I'm exposed, and he drives a cross right down the line. His glove fits right between the padding of my headgear and flattens out my nose. It hurts a bit, but I barely react and slap two left hooks into his kidney and right to his head.

I still don't like getting hit. Those guys who do are nuts. But I don't fight like I'm afraid of being punched either.

by Stein Weinstein

I get into work the next day, still sore and frustrated from my first day of Brazilian Jiu-Jitsu. I've never felt so utterly helpless in my life. Everything was a confusing flurry of arms, legs, and breathlessness. This wasn't like when you get into a bar fight; everyone knows how to throw a punch, even if it's a drunken haymaker. I got my ass handed to me, and I don't even understand what happened.

I head over to one of the interns, the guy who convinced me to take BJJ class, and recommended Rickson's school.

Stein "Yo. What the fuck?"
Raul "Everyone says that the first time. If you don't have any sort of grappling background, you're in trouble."
Stein "That was the worst experience of my life. These little dudes were working me over, I got overheated and nearly threw up, and I don't have any idea what the hell is going on. And it's just sweaty guys rolling all over each other."
Raul "Yeah, I said the same stuff the first time I did it too."
Stein "I'm not going back. That sucked."
Raul "Everyone hates it at first, everyone is confused at first. But trust me--give it a week, and you'll be in love."
Stein "How? Why? I can't imagine ever liking this."
Raul "I know you man, you are too competitive to just let this go. How much did the guy who beat you yesterday weigh?"
Stein "I shit bigger than those guys."
Raul "Doesn't that tell you something about BJJ? Let me explain this to you: Brazilian Jiu-Jitsu is like The Force. No matter where you go, it's always with you, and once you master it, you can defeat anyone."
Stein "Get out of here."
Raul "Here, I'll forward you some YouTube videos where the BJJ guys smoke everyone else. Just watch them. You'll be back in class tonight."

These are the videos he sent me:
1 Royce whipping everyone
2 BJJ versus Hapkido
3 BJJ versus Karate
4 BJJ versus San Shou
5 BJJ versus Kenpo

I watched them once and then got back to work. I probably got two hours of work done, then I watched the videos again. And then looked up more.

The kid had a point. Those guys really laid the wood. They were like sticky monkeys; once they got on you, you didn't have a chance. You were going out.

I did some research of my own. I checked out this piece about the history of BJJ. Basically, it was invented by a tiny 120 pound half-Brazilian, half-Scottish guy named Helio, and he went on to beat some of the toughest guys in the world. Then his sons created the UFC to pit all the different styles against each other on an even playing field. You probably know what happened, it was in one of the videos: His grandson Royce whipped everyone. Boxers, wrestlers, kick-boxers, sumo, tae kwon do, most major styles were represented and defeated.

I walked down to his cubicle.

Stein "OK, you're right."

At 5:30, I was back on the mats at Rickson's.

And basically the same thing happened. Except this time, instead of almost puking, I did puke. At least I made it to the bathroom first.

by Stein Weinstein

His name is Henry, and he is holding me down. Without using his hands or arms.

I am on my back on the mat, and he is laying perpendicularly across me, with his chest pressing onto mine. I am pushing against him and squirming with all my might, but I cannot get him off me. In fact, I can hardly even move him. He is the exact same size as me, but--with his hands literally behind his back--he is pinning me to the ground. Finally, he laughs and sits up, calm as he was before we started. I am sweating, out of breath, frustrated, and angry.

"Why can't I get you off of me? What am I doing wrong?"
He shrugs. "Everything."

My name is Stein Weinstein [obvious pseudonym], and I am at The Rickson Gracie International Jiu-Jitsu Center in Santa Monica, California. It's my first Brazilian Jiu-Jitsu class, and Henry is the black belt who is teaching the class.

"I don't understand."

He just looks at me and smiles, "It takes some time. Go roll with the class, you'll pick it up. Eventually."

I go back to where everyone else is. There are about 20 guys, all in white gi's (kimono-like robes used as work out clothes in jiu-jitsu, judo, and several other martial arts), rolling around on the ground in varying degrees of embrace. Honestly, it looks vaguely homosexual to me. I partner up with a Hispanic kid, at least ten years younger than me, and 30 pounds lighter. I played sports in high school and still stay in shape, so I should at least be able to hold my own.

Within seconds, he has his legs wrapped around my hips and his arm wrapped around my neck. He is choking me out from behind. I tap, he let's go, and we re-start from a neutral position.

A flurry of his hard cotton gi rubbing on my face, and I am in the same position. I tap out, and we re-start, again, from a neutral position.

This time I keep him off my back, but he wrenches my arm so badly I squeek out a yell that he takes as a submission. It is. At this point, perhaps two minutes have passed, and I am sweating like I ran ten miles. I'm completely out of breath, my ears and face are rubbed raw, and my shoulder hurts.

He looks at me empathetically. "First day?"
"Yeah."
"OK, I'll slow down some."

We start again, and this time he lets me lay on top of him, the way Henry was with me, perpendicularly across his chest. Within seconds, he has managed to completely flip me over and we are in a reversal of the starting position--now he's on top of me. I struggle and push and try to bench press him off me, but nothing works. What seems like hours pass, though it's probably only a minute, and Henry calls out, "Switch partners."

I intentionally find the smallest guy in the room. I weigh about 180 pounds, and the guy I find is swimming in his gi. If I dipped it in lead, he wouldn't have weighed 120.

I struggled and fought as hard as I could. It didn't help. He worked me over even worse than the first guy. He kept wrapping his legs around my waist, and then either choking me out with his legs, or almost breaking my arms with his hips.

Though I am married to an actress and I work in Hollywood, I have never been so frustrated in my life.

"You're really good at this."
"Uh...not really. I'm still a white belt. That's the lowest level."
"Fuck you."

Henry calls, "Switch partners," again, but I can't. I'm physically unable to. I pull my gi top off and sit on the sideline, panting like a dog. I eventually get up and go to the bathroom when I have to puke.

I come out of the training area, beet red and still panting. My wife has watched the class from the waiting room.

"Hey. Are you OK?" she asks.
"I just puked."
"Really. It doesn't look that hard."

I just stare at her and snort. I have just learned that Brazilian Jiu-Jitsu is really really fucking hard.

by Jeff"I think I'm going to puke."

The words barely pass my cracked lips. They're stuck together from dehydration and what feels like some dried blood.

"It'll pass. Quit fidgeting."

I can't help fidgeting. I didn't tell the doctor how much being put under anesthesia would bother me. The giving up control, being left completely helpless, it freaks me out, and while I faked my way through being prepped, it wasn't easy. My pulse thumped against my temples, my heart pounding almost audibly, I feigned ease and comfort when the nurse asked if I was all right. When I was left in the hall for a minute or two, somewhere between the preparation room and the OR, I wanted to hop off the cart, cinch my gown closed and walk right out the door. Thankfully, I stifled the urge long enough to be put under, and now, finally, the operation is behind me.

As I'm rolled down the hall the clatter around me comes into focus and the pain in my shoulder goes from dull to sharp. My gurney pops over seams in the floor and bounces hard. I suck in a quick breath through my nose and clenched teeth, as I pop over another seam and roll into the elevator. My eyelids are still heavy from the sedative and I let them fall, trying to shut out the burning and the voices of the hospital staff.

I open my eyes again just as a nurse wheels me into the recovery area. I must have dozed off in the elevator -- maybe they slipped me more painkillers or sedatives. I don't have a room to myself, just a bay that could be curtained off if anyone bothered to do it. Staff mill about and at the foot of my bed is a nurse, seated in a chair. Probably here to make sure I don't have an allergic reaction or start gnawing at my stitches like a lab monkey. Her face is buried in a book, and as I force my eyes to focus, I can make out that it's some grocery-store romance novel. The guy on the cover has long blond hair and I can't read the title, but the first word looks like it says "Passion." It's nice that I obviously have the top tier of society caring for my well being.

"Nurse. Ex...ex...excuse me...nurse." I'm aware that I sound pathetic -- like I'm really hamming it up and it embarrasses me a little. It hurts to talk and every time my lips touch, they stick and pull apart.

"Excuse me...I...I'm sorry...I need some water. And this pain. It really...I mean...I'm really hurting. Ma'am?"

"I'll get you some ice chips in a minute. The doctor gave you something for the pain earlier. I'll ask him when he gets back."

She doesn't look up from her book and turns several more pages before standing. I ease onto my left side, trying to take some pressure off my shoulder. Turns out rolling hurts.

A doctor comes by just as the nurse returns with my ice chips--some new doctor I don't recognize. He tells her to give me so many CCs of whatever and authorizes more if I'm still in pain.

"Can I get those ice chips?"

The ice chips melt across my lips and the runoff trickles down my throat. Immediately, I feel ten times better. I ask her for more and she smears another handful across my mouth before returning to her book. As I settle back into the bed my shoulders scream. I roll from side to side, trying to find an angle that doesn't hurt. Muffled cries of pain escape every time I find the wrong position.

"Whatever you gave me...it wasn't enough. This is killing me."

She doesn't acknowledge me--doesn't raise an eyebrow. If karma is just, someday she'll accidentally staple her tongue to a wall.

"I'm serious. You...you don't know what I'm going through. This hurts. BAD."

"Yeah, and it's a real pleasure sitting here listening to you moan." I can't believe she just said that, and I think maybe she doesn't either. Kinder--sweeter--she adds, "I just gave you some more. Give it a second."

"The doctor pumped your joint full of water, so they could see what was going on. Messes it up. It'll hurt less when the swelling goes down."

She checks something on the machine hooked to my bed and seconds later the pain fades. The burning is reduced to a dull presence--just enough to let me know it's there--and I finally ease comfortably into the bed--feeling like my body sinks four inches into the bedding. I'd like to see my doctor, to ask him how it went but I don't see him around and I'm not sure if I will, we never talked about it.

The last thing I remember before the surgery was the doctor telling me he was going to inject something into my IV. I asked him what it was for and he replied, rather flatly, "To put you to sleep." He hadn't even finished his sentence before the syringe emptied. I thought he was simplifying things-- that there is a multi-step process to putting me under, like lethal injection. Nope. The new liquid was cold, I could actually feel the chill travel up my arm. Seconds later I tasted copper in the back of my throat and slipped into unconsciousness.

This operation is the last thing, hopefully, that holds me back from becoming a professional MMA fighter. And it's been a long time coming. Nine months ago I was training for my first amateur fight when my sparring partner swept me at an awkward angle. I fell away from him and with my arm pinned under his bulk, the momentum dislocated my right shoulder then crushed a section of my scapula. I didn't know what happened at the time--not having medical insurance makes it hard to get a proper diagnosis.

For the next nine months I'd cycle between training hard when I could and staying out of the gym when I was in too much pain to fight.

If I was careful my shoulder would feel all right and I could fool myself into thinking I was better, but one whiffed uppercut, an armbar slightly overextended, or simply a cross with too much snap would leave me crumpled on the floor. The pain was intense. It wasn't just fighting, I would lose all functionality. No gym, hell, no turning a steering wheel for at least three weeks. All I wanted to do was train, and to have some phantom injury that wouldn't heal hanging over my head shut me down. It broke me. Crushed me.

I've always been the kind of person who could do anything if properly motivated. Any task I've ever gone out to accomplish, goal I have set, I have completed. But this busted shoulder, it took all that control and power away. After a particularly aggravating tear while sparring I sat in my car outside the gym, rain pouring down and choking back tears, I beat my good hand into the dash, cracking my windshield, all while screaming and cursing at an enemy I couldn't beat. ALL I WANTED TO DO WAS FIGHT! And the only thing holding me back was my own body, failing me. I HAD NO CONTROL OVER THE ONE THING I'M SUPPOSED TO HAVE TOTAL CONTROL OVER! It's so fucking frustrating. To be reminded of this fact every fucking month, it killed me. I did things I never imaged I would do, went down roads I previously considered non-existent, all in an effort to fix what was holding me back.

Being broken by something I couldn't fight--it was too much. After half a year of failed rehabilitation attempts I was heartbroken. It was an emotional trial, being incapacitated for so long and without an accurate diagnosis of what was wrong with me. Wonderfully, after almost a year of misery, I was able to see a specialist--one of the best in the country--the surgeon of numerous NBA and MLB players.

And now, after a year, I'm finally lying in the hospital recovering from the surgery that's supposed to fix me. My nurse gets up and wanders off without saying anything. I'm comfortable--curious when I'll be leaving. Curious when I'll be well again.

While waiting for my surgery, even though I couldn't fight or train 100%, I'd stubbornly push myself until I got hurt. I at least got a taste of fighting. But the second the doctor made the first incision it became set in stone that I would not be able to throw a punch for the next four to six months. I can't look at a set of gloves for half a year. It's going to be a hard six months.

And there is no guarantee that this will fix the damage. Six months of waiting until I even know for sure. My stomach tightens a bit, the way it sometimes does just before your eyes well up. What if it doesn't work? Where do I go from this if the surgery doesn't take? These aren't questions that I've allowed myself to ask.

I hear the soft taps of my nurse's tennis shoes and see her coming around the corner toward my bed.

"Hey," I say, for no other reason than to say it, happy for the distraction.

She fiddles with my IV for a minute then puts in the remainder of the narcotics -- whatever was left in the vial. A parting gift I guess, to smooth over our relationship. I gladly accept it.

"Thanks." I give her half a smile and I feel my bottom lip crack.

She smiles back and as she walks away, passes some paper to another nurse who's brought a wheelchair. The nurse is beaming and her happiness puts me at ease.

"You ready to go home and start healing?"