Talk to an instructor to order!Ode to Friday Night Fight Night
As school’s hold on me slackens at the end of the week,
And my impatience and restlessness rise to their peak,
An excitement is building in the entirety of my frame-
Anticipation and expectancy that refuse to be tamed.
I just can’t wait for my weekend to begin right,
I am incurably pumped for Friday Fight Night!
As the final bell rings at 3:35,
I’m flying out the door- in seconds I’ll arrive
At my front door and from there on out,
Fight Night is all I’ll be thinking about.
In two hours’ time- little less, little more,
I’ll be out there fighting on the dojang floor.
So I pack up my bag that weighs more than me,
Because it contains my heavy Go Too Gi,
And lug it outside to put in my car.
Now I am prepared to grapple and spar,
Except for one more detail that matters a lot,
I’ve got to pick a CD to stick in the slot,
So that when I’m driving to Odana Road,
My music puts me in attack mode.
Arriving there I park and go inside,
By proper protocol I make sure to abide.
After bows are made and greetings exchanged,
After belt knots are cinched and uniforms changed,
After cards are collected and minds are tuned in,
After warm-ups are done- So It Begins.
Clad in white armor bearing the Hwa Rang Do symbol,
All bodies are loose, calm, light, and nimble.
Partners pair off and step back into stances,
And with a cry of “She Jak”, make their advances.
All my effort goes to blocking strikes of every kind,
As the “head back, elbows in” mantra runs through my mind.
Edging back and forth waiting for an opening to appear,
I stall and feint and try to draw them near,
Knowing that if I go to soon, all will amount to nil,
I stay back and bide my time, neutrally, until…
An ossa metatarsalia, with a coil and a release,
Collides with a cranium parietalus, courtesy of Elyse.
If you don’t speak Latin, I’ll put it in English instead,
What I really mean to say is: I kick them in the head.
Victory! Success! All I could have wanted and more!
But secondary to improvement, no one’s keeping score.
We pack the punches, round after round,
At one moment losing, the next gaining ground.
When matches are fought in number not few,
The time is ripe to start Round Two.
Although our muscles can already feel the toll,
Of the prior activity, we still say “Let’s roll!”
So we circle, crouched low, stare meeting stare,
But I must admit that I feel a bit scared,
For though I’ve done this a thousand times plus three,
Everyone there is so much more testosterone-y than me.
Ignoring my gut feeling to turn around and skedaddle,
I swallow my acute terror and prepare to battle.
Observing the balance between size and skill,
I count on position before submission and the mat drill.
A fake! A grab! Then we’re in the clench.
A twist! A pull! Then a sudden wrench.
My feet leave the ground, I don’t know which way is up,
The bright blue mat rushes at me, I hit with a thump.
And it was while I was being forcefully hip thrown,
That I thought to myself, “I should have stayed home.”
For being taken down wasn’t exactly what I had sought,
But I guess it didn’t hurt quite as bad as I thought.
Bouncing back from the shock and surprise,
I get my bearings and familiarize
Myself with my current predicament,
And not wishing to be very acquiescent
Upon finding myself firmly trapped
In-between two arms tightly wrapped
Around my neck, I locate vital pressure points
And push and bend sensitive joints
To escape from this close, unrelenting choke,
Yet try as I might, a release I cannot provoke.
From a far remote distance I hear a rasp,
As I struggle to loosen my opponent’s grasp-
A strange gurgling, sputtering sound of desperation-
A faint wheezing sign of strangulation.
I think to myself as I try to break free,
“Oh my God, is that coming from me?”
And then I realize, yes, it is I,
And I should probably tap before I pass out and die.
Whether I lose or I win in my grappling sessions,
I always find that I learn many lessons.
We finish with a workout of a most thorough style,
Straining every muscle we own, painfully versatile.
Our work having done for the time being,
We bow out by speaking lots of Korean.
The final task is a cleaning chore,
For the mat’s scent is enough to abhor
Even those with the toughest of noses,
So we wet our rags and strike our scrubbing poses.
We go at a super-sonic-ultra-mega-hyper-turbo pace,
For we must clean this nasty floor and must do it as a race.
Sliding to the finish with a kiap,
The action of class comes to a stop.
At long last, my energy store killed,
My longing for fight night momentarily fulfilled,
Goals achieved, opportunities fumbled,
Confidence built up, pride humbled,
I debate with myself and try to decide
If I’ll show up in the morning at the West Side
To put in some more practice and strive for my best,
Or sleep in late and get lots of rest.
My muscles are sore and bruised down to the bone,
But I know I’ll come back tomorrow for this is my home.
A poem by TSD Black Belt Elyse Peirce