Sorry for the hiatus. It's not that I didn't have anything to write about lately. I have. I just didn't admire what I was going to write.

My shoulder has not healed as it should have. It's not the end of the world-- the majority of professional athletes get their jobs done while nursing one injury or another. If you don't have a bum body part on you somewhere, you're probably not fighting hard enough. None-the-less, it's taken a mental toll on me which has in turn grown to depress my entire training attitude. My motivation and intensity feels like it's running at quarter capacity.

A couple weeks ago I was training with some kid-- no one special--I should be able to beat him in the cage thirteen times out of ten. But I wasn't. I was barely holding my own. Now I took a lot of time off from training and I've gone easy on certain upper body exercises to ease my shoulder into things, but that had nothing to do with this. My head wasn't there. More importantly, neither was my heart. In retrospect I was working just hard enough to keep from getting torn apart, but at the time it just felt like this nobody was tooling me and there was nothing I could do to change it.

Instead of throwing that switch in my head, turning on the juice and realizing my full potential, I let my emotions drag me down. I fought worse. He worked me to the point that I was reconsidering whether I could ever be a fighter. I only fell farther down the spiral.

At the end of our session we were doing sit-ups where he would be in my guard and I would use my core to come up-- my elbows to his chest. I couldn't finish the set. I was struggling to get my back of the ground. It felt like I didn't have the physical strength but the fact is I was missing the mental fortitude. My body was shaking and I was barely prying my shoulders up from the mat. This kid reaches down to help me, coaches me like he's the superior one. "Come on, you've got this, just five more." I shook him off and tried to sit up once more.

Nothing.

Then this mother fucker, this piece of shit nobody, reaches down again to help me and again coaches me along. This kid, who has never fought a day in his life, whose day job is modeling, is showing me up and trying to coach me like I'm some fucking scrub. I lost it. Stood up and walked out of the gym without saying a word to him or my trainer.

I've been in the gym since, but not the usual pace of a couple sessions a day. I've been showing up every couple days, putting in my hour and heading out. I feel like whatever skills I had, whatever I've learned over the years, has been stripped away. I've lost my spark and my smile, and that's the most important part of all this. I mean, if I can't crack a smile while wearing four ounce gloves, why am I choosing to fight?

I've got to get my head right, I'm just not sure how.

Anyway, again, sorry for the hiatus and if that model kid is reading this, sorry to you too. It wasn't you, it was me.

by Jeff

Jeff,

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

by Jeff

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.

by Jeff

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 Jeff

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

"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.

by Jeff

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

This blog is about my training in mixed martial arts; how I started, why I kept going, what it's been like, and everything that comes with an average guy training in MMA with some of the best fighters in the world. I started this blog because I met Jeff and Erin Tyler at Legends MMA (where I do most of my training), and we were talking one day and they thought my story would make a cool blog, yada yada yada, here I am. Even though I keep my identity anonymous (my boss still thinks the interwebs are a collection of tubes connecting anarchists and striking WGA writers), everything else I write here is true. The people and places I name are all real; I don't use pseudonyms or try to hide anything else (unless I specifically indicate so).

Even though I train in MMA, I don't consider myself a fighter. I am not doing this for a living, and I don't ever see myself stepping into a cage to fight an opponent. I think I could fairly be described as an MMA dilettante. A dilettante is defined as, "Someone who is interested in an art as a spectator, not as a serious practitioner. Most often used to mean a dabbler, someone with a broad but shallow attachment to the field." I call myself this not disrespectfully, but to clearly differentiate me from the guys who dedicate their lives to martial arts. I go to the gym an hour or two a day, five times a week. That might seem like a lot to someone who sits at home and does nothing, but when compared to the guys I train with, it's nothing. A slow day for them is two hours of training; most days are four to six hours of training, on top of several hours of teaching people like me. They push themselves in ways most people cannot imagine, past limits into areas that most people don't even know they have. I've been lucky enough to have the opportunity to train with these men, but I would never compare myself to them. They are professionals in the truest sense; I just dabble in their art.

I'm not really sure what I want to accomplish with this blog: I think I decided to write it because I have fallen in love with MMA, and I want to show other people who used to be like me and think that MMA is just mindless brawling that it is actually an amazing and complicated sport. That, and even though I am in the entertainment business, my particular job is about as boring and uncreative as one can be. This is pretty much my only expressive outlet.

My name is Jeff and to put it simply, I'm trying to give this fighting thing a shot. I started training a few years ago, standup at first, then got into BJJ and MMA. Then about a year and a half back my obsession really blew up. I was dreaming of fighting every night, drilling grappling moves in my head instead of normal day dreaming and starting to wonder how I would do in a sanctioned bout. Fuck an amateur fight though. I mean, yeah, I'll do them. But the end goal has to be a professional fight-- a few of them. I don't have any grand expectations. I'm not expecting to go out and get the UFC's welterweight belt. But there is no reason to doubt that I can do well in this sport, and I have all the motivation I need to find out.

Nearly a year ago, not long after I set my sights on competing, I injured my shoulder in training. I tore my labrum, fractured some bone, and did enough cartilage damage to keep me out of the ring for a long while. It was only recently that I was finally able to see a surgeon who could work on me. This blog will jump off from there, and as I go through the recovery process I'll be playing some catchup to fill in some details in my story. Becoming a professional fighter is not as simple as just signing up at your local cage fight, so I hope that here I will be able to accurately portray the emotional and physical trials I go through. It should be fun.

(I swear to god I wanted to end this with "so read along to find out if I become The Ultimate Fighter," but I figure a bunch of people wouldn't get the joke.)

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

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.