I was sparring in my martial arts class yesterday, and something funny happened.
I went up against this guy who surprised the hell out of me. He's around 5'4 and I'm about 6'1. I've seen him fight, he's incredibly serious and dedicated to the sport.
But when we got to this technique called clinching, he dominated me. See, in clinching, you have one guy hold pads at waste level so the opponent can practice jamming his knee into your gut with full force. The opponent also wraps his gloves around your neck to bring you close while he tries to break your ribs.
Well, normally you're partnered up with someone similar to your own height so it's not normally an issue. And I was curious how the height differential would work out.
Turns out this sonofabitch was ruthless. He pulled me down to his level and just held me there while throwing knees. I tried to straighten my back and he just kept at. It was a vice grip. And he threw me across the room.
And besides a few bruised ribs and ego, I realized something very important. He was out to win.
He had to figure out a way to compensate to win against tall guys like me. And his was pure brute strength, stamina and determination. HE HAD to figure it out, or he would be dead.
I never had to. I was comfortable. Complacent. I could go in, kick and punch hard and get out. Maybe get a coconut water when I was done.
I always say comfort is going to be the death of us all. And last night, I was close. I now have a messed up shoulder, swollen foot, and ribs that are a talkin to me. And there is no one to blame but myself.
I take this reminder to Wake The Fuck Up. To enjoy the comfort, yes, but to also remember, it ain't gonna last. It can't. None of us are getting out alive. And as long as I go in with guns a blazin, instead of an almond latte, I have a fighting chance of making it out Alive.
Moral of the story...well, I leave that to you.