asconian's blog

 The worst rolls are the ones that feel “fair” A year ago I walked into my first Nogi class as a complete beginner. I was full of excitement, a fair amount of fear, and the usual overconfidence of someone who has never been humbled yet. Every time the instructor said “roll,” I dropped my eyes and avoided looking at anyone. The room was full of special forces guys, cops, disco doormen, construction workers and absolute monsters. It felt like the wrong place for a soft beginner. 

My first big mistake was choosing another white belt who looked roughly my size and strength. I thought it would be safe and even. What we actually had was a dogfight. Two insecure people, both terrified of losing, both convinced they could still win if they just pushed a little harder. We scrambled backwards, forced every grip, and refused to give an inch. Halfway through he took a rib shot and we stopped. Nothing serious, but enough to make the point clear: there is nothing worse than two people of similar ability who are both trying to prove something. 

The coach saw it and immediately paired me with Marcelo. 1.90 m, heavy, muscle everywhere, the kind of guy who looks like he could fold you without trying. He just smiled. That smile told me everything. Someone who isn’t threatened doesn’t need to prove anything. He doesn’t have to take you to the edge to feel good about himself. He can play, he can demand, and he can still keep you completely safe. It was the hardest roll of my life and, at the same time, the best. 

He was demanding without being dangerous. He respected every limit while still making me work. He felt like a predator gently playing with its food. Since that night I stopped choosing people who look like me. In a gym full of real hard men, I look for the ones who already know what they are doing. The ones who don’t need to win against a beginner to feel strong. The difference between two equals fighting for their ego and one experienced person who has nothing to prove is night and day.

AND THEN

Miguel. Seventy years old, black belt, and off the mat the sweetest man you will ever meet. On the mat he turns into a small, devilish and cheerful hurricane that has apparently decided safety is optional. He will use every dirty tactic known to man (and a few that should probably stay unknown), and he will do it with the pure, uncomplicated joy of someone who has nothing left to prove, and still intends to prove it anyway. I come home with the usual souvenirs: scrapes, bruises, the occasional black eye, a tender nose, a rib that complains for a week. 

I keep saying yes when he asks because the alternative — watching that kind face fall when I say no — feels worse than the bruises. I tell myself maybe he was bullied as a kid, or that his daughter trains in the same room and he needs to show her something every night. Both explanations are probably nonsense. The truth is simpler and more ridiculous: a seventy-year-old black belt is gently murdering me, and I don’t have the heart to stop him. So if anyone has a polite, non-soul-crushing way to decline a roll with a man who looks like your favorite uncle, and fights like he still has something to settle, I’m all ears.

I pay well to teach him a lesson. Any volunteer?.