by Jeff"Sir. What is your purpose in Mexico?"

"US. Um...I mean tacos."

The agent raises half his brow and gives me a cockeyed stare.

"Sorry, thought you asked my citizenship. I was having some tacos and beers with my friend." I throw a thumb over to where he and I were standing a minute ago.

He's not there anymore. Makes me look a little nuts, but the agent doesn't even look over so my mistake is lost.

"Citizenship?"

"US." I almost said San Diego. That's the problem with memorizing canned answers. You can mix them up.

"Are you bringing anything with you today?"

I fumble pulling the bottle of scotch out of its Duty Free bag and almost drop it. He gives it a glance and hands my ID back. Waves his hand and looks away from me like I'm the biggest inconvenience in the world, eying the next guy suspiciously and I'm already forgotten.

Outside my tour guide is waiting for me. "See, piece of cake, right."

I grinned. It was. He was right. I'd like to say that I was dreading my return trip in a couple of weeks, but I wasn't. I didn't care. It really was that easy.

I wouldn't start my cycle for another week. The needles I had ordered through a pet supply company took their sweet time arriving. When they eventually did show up I pulled out the vials and pills that had been stowed since my trip. It was quite a little pile. Several tiny vials of oily liquid. A couple bottles of round yellow buttons that looked looked like they were pressed in someone's garage.

Each package was labeled with names that were close to the ones I had written on my shopping list. They were all cognates, Spanish words that varied from their English counterparts by only a couple letters and an accent. If the names of my medication being in Spanish wasn't enough to bother me the fact that they each had a picture of a horse or dog on them was plenty. I had first noticed this detail when I bought them but the novelty had yet to wear off.

So this was it. A pile of vials and pills and needles that would only be the first stage of anabolic steroids being fired into my body. I gave everything one last look and soaked it all in. Then I put it all back into a small nylon bag-- my 'roid bag as I was affectionately calling it-- and stuffed the package into the back of my sock drawer.

Tomorrow would be day one and hopefully within a few months I'd be done with the needles and have a fully functioning shoulder. Hopefully.

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I'm a good pool player. Potentially great (and as always some days better than others), but as it stands pretty good.

Tonight I played in one of the local tournaments. I never expect to win these things, though sometimes I do all right. I play for fun because it's nice to be challenged. I can walk into a bar with seventy-five cents and hold the table for most of the night. This isn't to say I'm amazing, it's to say that most people are drunken idiots. A tournament provides a little more competition.

So I'm in the second round of this tourney and I'm getting my ass handed to me by a guy with maybe fifteen years on me. It's a race to five wins and other than taking the first game I'm not poised to win another. After one of my shots he pulls me aside-- the first time speaking to me other than a handshake and introduction when we began.

"I saw you playing earlier. You've got a real eye for this game."

"Thanks," I say and begin to move toward the table. But he stops me.

"I mean it. You can teach mechanics to anyone, but you've got an eye you can't teach. You've got more natural talent than anyone in here."

"I appreciate you saying that. Thanks." And I took my shot. Ended up losing as expected.

I've heard this before. And I'm smart enough to have figured it out before. I've got a shit ton of yet-to-be-mined potential in my pool game, but that doesn't matter. I guess it would be nice to be a little better, but really I'm as good as I want to be and I'm all right with that.

So, my fight game is about the same level as my pool game. I can win against the average guy all night long, and I can hold my own in regional competition. Any better and other than landing a decent shot or two I'd get smoked. The difference is that I've got a surplus of talent in pool. I've got more than I know what to do with. I'm wasting it but until I decide to go pro (I'm not) I'm totally fine with the level of play I've attained.

But in fighting I've worked very hard to get as good as I am. And getting better does not come easy. Some guys have natural talent oozing out of them. I don't, and that sucks.

If my pool game and my fight game were Lego castles one would have hundreds of pieces left over. I could throw up an extra tower or wall if I only felt like putting in a little time.

The other castle, if I wanted to add cattle pen, I'd have to beg scrape and borrow for the resources and it still wouldn't be the deluxe cattle pen I was striving for.

Like I said, it sucks.

Anyway, I'll finish up the Mexico? entry this week. Promise. Until then all four of you that read this blog can just go do something else.

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by JeffSo it was pretty much exactly how he described it. We walked across the border, go a few blocks passing dozens of pharmacies and hundreds of reasons to never breed with an Indian. Go around a corner and there it is, a pet supply place right across the street from a restaurant. We go to the restaurant first to eat some "beef" tacos. The waiter takes our food order, then asks us if we will be needing any Oxycontin, Viagra, or Vicodin with our meal. I decline, but thank him for the offer.

The tacos are pretty good, but I really wish I hadn't seen the kitchen they came from. The we head over to the pet shop. We circle around the backside of it and when we enter the owner greets us like sons returning from war. Apparently I came in with a very frequent customer.

They chatter on for a while, mostly in English, but not completely. Out comes the shopping list and he starts pulling boxes of the shelves. This is when I realize that this is just a steroid store. Aside from two puppies in a cage and some flea medication the ENTIRE wall of product is steroids-- most with either a picture of a horse or dog them. It takes a while to add it all up. To say that he's buying in bulk is an understatement, not to mention it's all going in his underwear. Thank god this shit is supposed to shrink your balls.

Once my order is put together I go into the bathroom to pack. Duct tape and baggies are there for the taking. No toilet paper.

Everything more or less fits in place. Unfortunately I don't have enough crotch space for the full cycle which means I have to come back. Not happy about it, but I made up my mind to do this thing. As soon as I go to leave the bathroom I realize the problem. I can't walk right. I've got a bowed gait that makes me look like I came down here for a different kind of injection. I'm not the only one who notices. The owner laughs at me and says something in Spanish that makes my companion laugh.

As we walk back I start to sweat profusely. It's warm but that has nothing to do with it. There are cops all over the place, like they just spawned from the ground. They all eye me suspiciously and as we get to the line (there is a line to get into the US, not out of it) I'm sweating more. My palms are clamy so I wipe them on my pants.

"Don't do that," he says.

"What?"

"Wipe your hands. Dude, no one can see your hands are sweaty, but they know they are if you keep wiping them on your pants. Just convince yourself that you're down here for an hour or two to have some tacos and beers. We did have tacos and beers, right?"

"Yeah."

"So when the guy at the desk takes your ID you tell him that and you believe it. And when he asks if you're bringing anything into Mexico you say 'yes.'"

I'm confused by this. "Excuse me?"

"Oh yeah, I forgot. You should always stop by the duty free store. When we're in line we'll pass it. Get some alcohol there for like ten bucks. Some good shit too. It's cheap and give you something to declare so you don't have to lie. Not really anyway."

Makes sense. I end up picking up a bottle of Johnnie Walker Gold Label for nearly half off which makes this almost tolerable. The wait in line is ridiculous. Like an hour.

"I've never seen the line this long. Guess they're taking long to process people."

I thought I couldn't get more uncomfortable. I was wrong.

So we sweat it out in the Tijuana sun with the hundreds in line and I fight the urger to adjust my package every thirty seconds. The air stinks. All of it. Like a cloud that won't leave, the smell follows the crowd. The people are gross. As we crawl along we pass musicians and beggars, all with missing limbs or large swaths of skin removed. They don't have land mines laying around.

Christ, this isn't Yemen, so I can only attribute these mutilations to their stupidity. There is a reason these people are willing to work a field or dig a hole for the same wages we pay our prisoners.

An hour later and we we get to the checkpoints. There are a dozen of them arranged within a large and comfortable air-conditioned building. This is how WE do it. I want to turn back to the beggars out in the sun and start chanting "USA! USA!" I don't, but the thought makes me smile for the first time since I got here.

I get to the front of the line. There is an older looking guy working my booth. His glasses and graying hair make him look wise. Scrutinizing. I should have picked a different booth.

He points to me and motions me over with a slow curve of his finger.

"Sir, what is your purpose in Mexico?"

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by Jeff
"I've got too many orders as is to get your stuff, but if you want you can roll with."

I looked at him, like, well like he just asked me to smuggle drugs across the border.

"I could use the company and it's not as hard as you'd think. Besides, you can buy it down there for cost. I would cost four times that to get it from me."

It took all of a couple minutes for him to go from pretending he had no idea what I was talking about to saying it was "no problem."

"What do you say?"

I say yes.

My shoulder was only getting worse and he had laid out a cycle that sounded pretty tame--"...Something you'd give your girlfriend."

This was the second time I had heard this phrase in two days and I realized I'd stumbled into a subculture I knew nothing of, complete with vernacular and abbreviations that I didn't understand. Similar injuries had been fixed the same way, he told me, and though he wasn't a doctor--rather the guy working behind the counter at Muscle Max-- he sounded damn knowledgeable.

So fuck it. There wasn't much I was against trying at this point. He told me to meet him at his house the next day and we'd drive to the border and hoof it across.

The next day I show up in cargo shorts, sneakers, and a t shirt and I can't get out three words before he points back toward my car.

"Dude, you gotta go home and change."

I look at this guy like he's nuts. I mean, I wore the shorts because they were the best thing I could think of for concealing a bulging crotch and what the hell is wrong with a t shirt?

"No dude, you need to show as much skin as possible to avoid being searched. Like you've got nothing to hide. So flip-slops, shorts, t shirt, you know."

I didn't know. But I did now, I guess.

"But, the baggiest shirt you got. It's better we're together. I mean, it would be better if there was a girl, but a white guy walks across by himself and they know he's packing. Better with two of us-- we say we were getting some beers or whatever. But white guys our age, they know it's either this shit or pills."

"Bigger the shirt, less big you look."

So I went and changed, but I could tell he still didn't totally approve. I had bulked up by twenty pounds the past year and none of my t shirts were all that large. He accepts it though and we head down.

On the way he's explaining the nuances of illicit Tijuana purchases.

"Like I said, better to be with someone. If you have a girl that you can go down with that's the best. There are cops down here who will watch what you're doing. Don't just go down for this shit. Have a taco, a couple beers, you know. Besides, you don't want border patrol to notice you walking in and out in fifteen minutes."

So I'm taking notes in my head. Important stuff, I realize. I really, really don't want to go to fucking jail. I mean, Christ, I don't really want to risk it, no matter how "simple" it is. But this shoulder thing is driving me insane. So I listen, and I take note.

"The way this place is laid out I always like to walk around the building to make sure no cops are following. Maybe have a couple tacos across the street to scope it out."

"I know the guy at this place pretty well. He'll let you use the bathroom, give you tape and baggies."

I'm surprised by this, but only for a second as I remember that Tijuana is basically funded by a gray market economy.

"The bottles all come in boxes. Best to throw them away. Some guys I buy for want them for whatever reason so I flat pack them separate for the walk, but yours, just throw them away."

This is all well and good, but I've got to know, so I ask him, "you ever been caught? Searched?"

His face falls a little. He's not wise and proud anymore.

"A few times in Mexico. Those you can usually bribe your way out of. At the border I've had to empty my pockets a couple times. They didn't see anything so they let me go. Dude I know got popped though. Did some time."

Great.

"It'll be fine though. I'll walk you through it. Piece of cake."

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by JeffIn between busting my shoulder and getting it operated on I was in an emotional rut and grasping at solutions. Without a formal medical diagnosis I was eating up every supplement that claimed to fix what presumably ailed me, experimenting with different training regimens and exercises and picking the brain of every person I met who claimed to know a thing or two about sports injury.

I was at the point that I'd probably rub crystals on the damn thing if I had only found a good crystal guy.

Eventually I came across a guy fresh out of preliminary SEAL training-- BUD/S. I've long known that the training was rough, often inflicting debilitating injuries that could cause a sailor to either wash out of the program or be forced to start over. What I didn't know was that a lot of guys who would go down to Tijuana for steroids in order to work through the injury and make it through the program.

"Some guys will juice to bulk up, but most of these guys are using low dosages of Deca and maybe a couple other things. Equibolon, a little sauce maybe." he told me.

I just sort of nodded along. This was like robbing a bank to pay my bills and I wasn't exactly sure how I felt. Especially since I didn't know anything about those substances, let alone the act of procuring them.

"Dude, if you want I can introduce you to a guy who can get it for you and give you a much better idea of what you could take."

"Probably a small dose, like something you'd give to your girlfriend."

My face was still blank.

"You know, if you want to try it..."

I've never put a syringe into my own body. I've never walked across the Mexican border, my crotch bulging with bottles of horse and dog medications.

Inside of a week I'd be doing both on a regular basis.

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by JeffI suspended my gym membership and left town last week. For the next few months I'm working in Shreveport Louisiana. Not much of an MMA presence here. Not much of anything. Though at the local Super Wal-Mart I did manage to spot the double-disc Dale Earnhardt DVD. According to the cover, "behind the wheel he was a legend. Behind the legend he was one of us." In the same aisle I saw a guy with "Betty Jo" tattooed in script across his calf. I used to only joke that shit like that existed.

According to a guy on our crew there is a new MMA gym on the far side of town. I haven't had time to check it out yet. Obviously I don't expect much, but something is better than nothing. I've been here a week and had the urge to work a bag daily. Frustrating, since I'm in a rental apartment with no gym and none of the sporting goods stores I've called have free-standing bags.

It took me all of 24 hours to throw this up.

I can't imagine the people living below me enjoy it much. But, I did them a favor and replaced it last night. That set up was far to flimsy to kick, even lightly. So I emptied my gym bag and stuffed it with pillows and towels. To weight it down a little I put a core in it of .223 and .40 ammo. A lot of ammo.

It hangs in the same spot and is heavy and dense enough that I can throw some kicks without hurting myself or the wall (sorta). I'll add a picture of it to this when I get around to it.

Improvisation, bitches.

Edit: Here's the revised version.

by Jeff"I like a man who grins when he fights"
-Winston Churchill

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.

Comment and Discuss

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.

Comment and Discuss

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.

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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.

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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.

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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.

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