Jew Jitsu

Loyal Readers (Victoria and Janelle),

So not gonna lie, I’m actually a lot busier than I expected. Who would’ve thought that at a federally funded foreign military academy that asks a binding 30 year military commitment of its cadets (35 if you include the actual school itself and the mandatory prep school year) that I’d be doing lots of stuff. Go figure. In any event, the next few posts ought to be in quick succession, very different, and somewhat out of sequence due to my current location and internet availability (Deep in the concrete jungle and none, respectively) My deepest apologies in advance.

So this post is not entirely aptly named; I just figured a few of my readers and *cough* former roommates who believe I bear a strong resemblance to a relatively famous actor of Hebrew religious beliefs would get a kick out of it. Cheers, guys. For those of you wondering why I type so much, I love the sound of my voice in my head just as much as when it’s spoken. So you understand why these posts tend to meander somewhat. A second round of apologies.

Moving right along, on a Thursday night with little to do (read: Wifi was down), Cadet Orlando Sonza (who, if I have not formally introduced yet, deserves a personal apology. For those of you who don’t know Orlando, you’re truly missing out on an opportunity to enrich your life and for those of you who don’t personally know Orlando, I highly suggest quietly invading another country with him (read: study abroad). The kid’s a riot. And he speaks Portuguese. Winning) and myself decided that in order to spend our time well in the Southern Hemisphere, we needed to do a little maintenance on the one thing we packed before anything else; our godlike physiques. A late night, end-of-week swole sesh was in order and who else better suited for such chicanery than a man of lore from the Jersey Shore himself and the Italian Stallion. The stars have never aligned this straight.

En route to Orlando’s room, I spy with my little eye him and one of his 7 roommates in the hallway. His roommate has his gi (for you non martial arts practitioners out there, imagine what a robe would look like if it were shorter and came with pants. Also, much thicker and less gentle on the skin) over his shoulder. Orlando sees me coming and waves me in, “Hey, change of plans, we’re going to jiu jitsu tonight.” Images of UFC fighters bleeding from their eye sockets as rapid fire punches bounce repeated off the back of their head and their arms flail uncontrollably as their legs lie locked and useless behind them. I respond jovially, “Far out. Where at?” “Academia do muscolo.” Directly translated to mean, “Academy of Muscle” and the completely serious name for the gym they have here, our thick necked friend resembling a certain Staten Island wrestler I’ve grown to know and love said this as he smiled at us with excitement, much the way a wolf would smile at a baby lamb asking it for directions back to the farm. Lovely.

Fast forward about 20 minutes. Breathing heavily and bleeding somewhat from my nose after the first two fights, I held my hand up in a somewhat defensive motion as the starting whistle blew, “Senhor, nao se muito e nao se nada do jiu jitsu.” As I explained my lack of knowledge in his sport, our instructor, an engineering lieutenant with an easy 20 pounds (8 some odd kilograms for you Brazilians out there) of deeply tanned sinewy muscle on me, held his hand out, expectant of the traditional hand slap and fist bump that started the round and looked at me quizzically; between my American accent and unapologetically terrible grammar, I had my doubts that we were in the same book let alone on the same page. He thought for a moment, and in his own thickly accented English asked calmly, “What do you know?” Thinking back to all the Jiu Jitsu based Army Combatives I had had the distinct pleasure of learning one day each of the last two summers and promptly dumping (to make room for more Plebe knowledge and secret radio frequencies to chat with the other Buckner bays, respectively) I said, “Wrestling, senhor. Luta livre.” He slapped my unsuspecting hand, gave my limp fingers the pound and proceeded to grab my neck. “Then wrestle.” Baptism by fire.

We rolled for about 5 minutes, as with all 5 of the fights that night. It didn’t seem to me that American folkstyle wrestling was the more dominant of the styles exhibited that night (I’m pretty sure I had a record of 0 submissions versus being submitted well into the double digits, possible triple) being that Brazilian Jiu Jitsu is entirely a submission based sport whereas wrestling is often more about scoring points. I rolled out from under him at the next whistle, thoroughly gassed and ready to just about die when I opened my eyes. Ah, the ceiling. I’ve been here before. Obstructing my familiar view from my back, my opponent was doubled over by my side breathing just as heavily. Ah ha, so the Gods can bleed. “Thank you very much. What-huh………What do you think of Jiu Jitsu, Bri-un?” He overly emphasized the last syllable of my name, a product of his accent and heavy exhalation. “Ta bom. Eu gusto muito, senhor,” I sighed myself, satisfied with my efforts. We shook hands and pounded again and he clasped my arm, “Jiu Jitsu is beautiful.” I nodded in assent and thanked him, “Obrigado, senhor.” 

I was well worked over by 4 of my 5 opponents but caused a mess of problems for my final fighter and was close to a submission myself when the final whistle was blown. I stood up and looked around; we were essentially using blown out gymnastics pads on a large stairway landing. There were only about 12 of us, including Orlando and myself. Thug life. Truly a Brazilian version of Fight Club.

We shook hands with all the fighters, laced up our shoes, and limped back to the barracks. It was time to shower up, and to let the hot water discover more mat burns than we knew we had. The swelling would go down in a few days, just in time for our next session.