Curtis Has Returned
I heard whispers about Curtis' return, but didn't think they were true. I was jogging around the mat doing "high knees" last week when I heard it again, and immediately dismissed it.
"Didja hear Curtis is coming back?" My good friend Phillip Eno whispered?
"His visa ran out," I whispered back, "he had to leave the country for six months, and he started an academy in Rio. This has been confirmed. Quit trying to give me nightmares."
"Remember that time Curtis..."
"Shut up! Shut up! Shut up! I'm trying to concentrate on my plyometrics!"
I had begun to doubt that Curtis really existed. Yes, I have distinct memories of a crazed Brazilian Nazi making grown men weep, but these memories don't jibe with how reality generally unfolds, and besides, when "Curtis" was training us, I was going through an unstable time in my life. If I were to believe in Curtis, I would have to believe in Chet, the pink elephant who used to run with Bob Hope back in the day. To believe in Chet and Bob is to risk all the gains I have made over the past six months.
Did I say six months? Could he have renewed his visa? Did the Department of Homeland Security ignore my anonymous tip? Maybe Chet would know something about this...
My horrors were confirmed recently when I walked into the academy and found myself staring at an angry, giant of a man. He was eight feet tall if he was an inch, and his eyes were black windows into hell. I'd been told that the act of oxygenating his blood stream filled him with murderous rage for anything organic. He looked even bigger than I remembered. Legs the girth of manhole covers, and a constant angry sneer on his ugly face. He was already holding his favorite bamboo stick. He was the mythic, Brazilian incarnation of Thor.
"He's not real. He's not real. He's not real. " I repeated to myself over and over again in the locker room. After donning my kimono, I stared down at the mat until I heard him yell something in Portuguese. Nobody knew what he said, but everyone got up and started running around the room. I looked over my shoulder and saw him add 45 minutes to the clock. The mere act of him doing this broke me mentally. We normally do a high intensity "warm up" of 15-20 minutes that involves running, calisthenics, and drills that are more difficult than any other academy I have ever been to. 45 minutes with Curtis was going to be torture, plain and simple. I tried to go to my happy place, and day dreamed about being water boarded by naked, masked US soldiers.
We ran, we were told to drop and and do ten push ups. We were told to continue running. We were told to drop and do twenty push ups. We were told to continue running. We were told to drop and do thirty push ups. We were told to continue running. The ladder went up to fifty, and that's when he got out the stick. To those of us merely pretending to do push ups, but only going down half way, we received the stick banging an inch from our ear and some words in Portuguese that sounded more like the ancient language of Akkadian.
We were told to run and then told to "sprawl" (hit the deck) on his command. We did push ups and sit ups and squats until failure, and "until failure" means something entirely different when an 8 foot Brazilian Nazi is screaming at you. We drilled and drilled and drilled until the entire mat was wet with our sweat. He tapped into our mammalian brains, and our bodies kept going because they believed they were in danger, and they probably were in danger, and when we realized we were mentally in the place where we didn't care anymore, it was a sweet release. Continuing on was like asking your heart to beat. Our eyes were unfocused, our faces no longer twisted in pain.
We ran in circles, our uniforms so thoroughly soaked in sweat that it was an effort to keep our arms up. He plucked us out individually from the peloton and swung a stick at our heads forcing us to sprawl, and then immediately swung it at the floor forcing us to jump.
After 45 minutes, we sparred, and when someone looked like they were stalling, he yelled out their name, but nobody could tell whose name he yelled out because he was speaking in an ancient tongue, so everyone grappling turned it up a few notches. In between sparring, two guys talked quietly to themselves as Curtis walked by. Curtis said,
"Yaddabo bladabah deebadaah," he said in a crude mimick of the English language. "You sound like girls at a pool party. Pathetic."
We finished and clasped each other's hands and pulled each other in for hugs thinking to ourselves, "we made it." We drank from large jugs of water and changed clothes. We left and said good night to Curtis who just sneered at us with disgust.
I heard whispers about Curtis' return, but didn't think they were true. I was jogging around the mat doing "high knees" last week when I heard it again, and immediately dismissed it.
"Didja hear Curtis is coming back?" My good friend Phillip Eno whispered?
"His visa ran out," I whispered back, "he had to leave the country for six months, and he started an academy in Rio. This has been confirmed. Quit trying to give me nightmares."
"Remember that time Curtis..."
"Shut up! Shut up! Shut up! I'm trying to concentrate on my plyometrics!"
I had begun to doubt that Curtis really existed. Yes, I have distinct memories of a crazed Brazilian Nazi making grown men weep, but these memories don't jibe with how reality generally unfolds, and besides, when "Curtis" was training us, I was going through an unstable time in my life. If I were to believe in Curtis, I would have to believe in Chet, the pink elephant who used to run with Bob Hope back in the day. To believe in Chet and Bob is to risk all the gains I have made over the past six months.
Did I say six months? Could he have renewed his visa? Did the Department of Homeland Security ignore my anonymous tip? Maybe Chet would know something about this...
My horrors were confirmed recently when I walked into the academy and found myself staring at an angry, giant of a man. He was eight feet tall if he was an inch, and his eyes were black windows into hell. I'd been told that the act of oxygenating his blood stream filled him with murderous rage for anything organic. He looked even bigger than I remembered. Legs the girth of manhole covers, and a constant angry sneer on his ugly face. He was already holding his favorite bamboo stick. He was the mythic, Brazilian incarnation of Thor.
"He's not real. He's not real. He's not real. " I repeated to myself over and over again in the locker room. After donning my kimono, I stared down at the mat until I heard him yell something in Portuguese. Nobody knew what he said, but everyone got up and started running around the room. I looked over my shoulder and saw him add 45 minutes to the clock. The mere act of him doing this broke me mentally. We normally do a high intensity "warm up" of 15-20 minutes that involves running, calisthenics, and drills that are more difficult than any other academy I have ever been to. 45 minutes with Curtis was going to be torture, plain and simple. I tried to go to my happy place, and day dreamed about being water boarded by naked, masked US soldiers.
We ran, we were told to drop and and do ten push ups. We were told to continue running. We were told to drop and do twenty push ups. We were told to continue running. We were told to drop and do thirty push ups. We were told to continue running. The ladder went up to fifty, and that's when he got out the stick. To those of us merely pretending to do push ups, but only going down half way, we received the stick banging an inch from our ear and some words in Portuguese that sounded more like the ancient language of Akkadian.
We were told to run and then told to "sprawl" (hit the deck) on his command. We did push ups and sit ups and squats until failure, and "until failure" means something entirely different when an 8 foot Brazilian Nazi is screaming at you. We drilled and drilled and drilled until the entire mat was wet with our sweat. He tapped into our mammalian brains, and our bodies kept going because they believed they were in danger, and they probably were in danger, and when we realized we were mentally in the place where we didn't care anymore, it was a sweet release. Continuing on was like asking your heart to beat. Our eyes were unfocused, our faces no longer twisted in pain.
We ran in circles, our uniforms so thoroughly soaked in sweat that it was an effort to keep our arms up. He plucked us out individually from the peloton and swung a stick at our heads forcing us to sprawl, and then immediately swung it at the floor forcing us to jump.
After 45 minutes, we sparred, and when someone looked like they were stalling, he yelled out their name, but nobody could tell whose name he yelled out because he was speaking in an ancient tongue, so everyone grappling turned it up a few notches. In between sparring, two guys talked quietly to themselves as Curtis walked by. Curtis said,
"Yaddabo bladabah deebadaah," he said in a crude mimick of the English language. "You sound like girls at a pool party. Pathetic."
We finished and clasped each other's hands and pulled each other in for hugs thinking to ourselves, "we made it." We drank from large jugs of water and changed clothes. We left and said good night to Curtis who just sneered at us with disgust.
Labels: BJJ
posted by Mezz0 at 10:28 PM
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