Grappling Hooked

By Cory Bickmore

I began taking jujitsu lessons a while ago, which means I pay a man to kick the crap out of me every Tuesday and Thursday night.

Learning a martial art has always been a goal of mine, though I did little about it, if by “little” I mean “nothing.” That attitude changed last year when, in a disconcerting development, I discovered I could no longer traverse the distance from the television to the fridge without collapsing in a heap of quivering flesh. It seemed my heart suddenly decided it was, in fact, the Starship Enterprise, and needed to reach Warp Factor 9 right now to make up for all that lost time being an ordinary heart. As I lay weeping face down on the carpet, sweat pouring like waterfalls from my scalp, it dawned upon me: I am one handsome man in need of love. I went on to consider whether it was time to take up exercising.
 
Being at once both easy and free, jogging was far and away the clearest choice for me. Accordingly, I signed up for several thousand dollars worth of jujitsu lessons. Jujitsu would be my new hobby. New hobbies are good, I reasoned. Everyone should get one. They say precious few find new hobbies after age 21, to which I respond: Who are these “they” people? Why do “they” seem to know so much? Are “they” on a secret government payroll? Are “they” salaried at six figures? Do “they” accept resumes?
 
To explain, jujitsu is the ancient art of Japanese combat grappling. This differs from the regular variety of wrestling practiced by sweaty high schoolers and U.S. senators. In ordinary wrestling, one wins by pinning the opponent’s shoulders to the mat. On the other hand, one prevails in jujitsu through techniques designed to inflict bodily damage. This goes on until someone “taps out,” essentially hoping your opponent says uncle before you snap his tibia. Another difference: wrestlers compete against others of the same weight class, while jujitsu permits giant others to crush smaller others (me) beneath them. My sensei (Japanese for “cruel laughing one”) says grappling with bigger people is good for me. As you can imagine, I hate him.
 
Don’t mistake jujitsu for karate, either. A person trained in karate will put a fist through your face, whereas the student of jujitsu will simply hug you to death.
 
Currently, I hold the rank of yellow belt, the Patron Belt of Sissies. Yellow ranks one step above the beginner white. This means if an attacker jumped me in an alley, I would last 0.43 seconds longer than most of you. Once I assume the fighting stance, my mugger would no doubt flee for his life—or have his buddies kill me. One of the two.
 
“I observe you possess a knowledge of the martial arts,” my assailant would say. “Brilliant! Allow me, then, to introduce ten of my Dark Alley associates. In fact, here come twenty of their fists now.”
 
I wonder how my sensei (Japanese for “inflictor of creative torments”) would react to my flubbing of such an encounter. Perhaps he would strip me of my white and yellow belts, forcing me to wear instead lowly pink, jujitsu’s Belt of Total Wimphood. He might relegate me to sweeping clots of woman-hair from the mats (seriously ladies, do you just rip the stuff out?), and licking the sweat of my betters. And deserve it I would, having stained the dojo with deep dishonor. Then again, my sensei (Japanese for “man of smiling death”) might show mercy, especially if I brought jelly donuts to next week’s lesson.
 
If this jujitsu hobby does not pan out, I intend to develop my own martial arts style called Hah Noi Yu. This style will teach the learner to achieve victory through exasperation, hassling opponents through carefully practiced antics until they run away.
 
Say somebody attacks me. Using Ha Noi Yu techniques, I would run clockwise around my adversary screaming “whoop-whoop” at the top of my lungs. “Whoop-whoop nikky wit, nikky wit!” I would say. “Freenoodle!” I might add. The enemy may feel the wrath of a Three Stooges eye poke, followed by flurries of nose tweaks and cheek slaps until his annoyance boils over, forcing grave missteps that leaves his face open to an onslaught from my plastic squirting flower. Please note this new discipline is still in the planning stages.
 
Until that day, I will slog away at this jujitsu thing. My sensei (Japanese for “warm hands, cold heart”) claims I am improving, but this is the same person who, as we wrestle, regularly ties me up with his uniform belt, or even worse, my own belt. Nothing says “beginner” like being trussed up like a rodeo calf. All I can do in these situations is take comfort in the fact my belt isn’t pink, at least, not yet.

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