I was a white belt when I sparred in my first tournament. I remember it well. Unfortunately we recorded the entire thing on tape. White belt sparring is ugly sparring—kind of a brawl with the legs and a lot of pushing. This is especially true in the over 35, heavyweight crowd. It may be humorous to those watching (if they can stand the embarrassment of it), but to the white belts in the ring it’s dead serious.
I was 40 years old and about 250 pounds. I was big, but kind of a wimp. Never before had I been in a fight where blows had been exchanged. It didn’t take more than angry words aimed my direction to intimidate me. In spite of all this I found myself on that fateful day geared up sitting on the edge of the ring. I was terrified. I knew that they didn’t allow people to kill each other at these tournaments. I knew generally that injuries didn’t amount to more than bruises. Knowing this just didn’t matter. I was going to get in the ring with a stranger who was going to rain physical blows upon my person . . . and knockouts were allowed. The way I saw things, it all added up to a fight for my life.
When my turn came I went to my side of the ring where my coach met me. I had never met this person before although I would get to know her much better later. I’m not sure how she became to be my coach that day. She sat me down, looked me in the eye, and said, “I know your opponent and he kicks hard.” Those are just the words I wanted to hear. Forfeiting the fight never occurred to me, but passing out was still on the card. My head was spinning and I was already breathing hard. She had sparred my opponent a week before at his dojang and knew personally how hard he kicked. She gave me some advice, none of which got past the wall of fear in my brain, and then the referee called me out on the mat.
My opponent was a mean looking red head. He was shorter than me, but a stocky, strong looking man. As the referee stood in his front stance with his hand between us I transitioned completely into survival mode. This wasn’t a contest to see if I could get through his defenses and score points. No, he was going to attack me and I had to survive somehow. The thought of winning by points never entered my mind. If I could walk out of the ring I would be a winner. When the referee gave the command to “Begin!” the world began to whirl. I can’t remember details, but I know we circled each other exchanging loads of ugly roundhouses, push kicks, and what may have looked like back kicks if you turned your head sideways and squinted. The break came between rounds and my coach sat me down and gave me some advice none of which I could hear over the sound of my heart and my gasps for air.
The second round went much the same as the first round. I fought for my life throwing as many kicks as I could and receiving what seemed like more. Just about the moment I was ready to pass out from exhaustion and let my opponent finish me off the referee jumped in and the match was over. What a feeling. I was still alive. I was still standing. I don’t think you can imagine how surprised I was when the referee raised my arm as the winner. I hadn’t just survived—I had won!
I almost floated out of the ring. My elation didn’t come from winning, but from honorably completing a contest that I had greatly feared. Many people I know have been in fights while growing up. I had never thrown a punch or had one thrown at me my entire life. Being attacked was a nightmare scenario for me. For me, this match wasn’t just a sparring contest--it was me meeting one of my greatest fears. When the match was over I was a different person. The world was just a little bit more manageable. I walked a bit taller wherever I went.
My heart sank a bit when I was told that because I had won this round I had to fight another match for the division championship. It was my first opponent’s big brother. Somehow I came out on top that time too. When I watch the video with my kids they laugh because all during both matches my hands, clenched in fists, are shaking quite visibly. They showed how scared I was. But being afraid doesn’t matter to me. What matters to me was that in spite of my fear I had entered the ring and unflinchingly fought my best
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