A Bad Idea I'm About to Do

by Chris Gethard

  The few-and-far-between moments when I got to be the hammer validated all of the time I spent being the nail.

  The mental trauma was actually worse than the physical. People at the gym found me funny, and this made things harder on me. It’s rare for a Jiu Jitsu gym to take on a big-headed sad sack comedian as a student. Most of the dudes who do Jiu Jitsu are well built. Many have tattoos. I have one tattoo. It’s Morrissey’s signature. These guys had real tattoos, like the insignia of their former Marine battalion. There are some other nerdy guys, but the large majority of them are Asian, which gives them way more credibility as martial artists than I ever got. Every now and then you’d get some other weirdo like me, but they almost never stuck around.

  The fact that some of the guys found my perseverance endearing was great, because they subsequently looked out for me. It was bad because the way they showed their affection was through tormenting me with no abandon.

  The funniest guy at the gym was Black Rob. He was also the scariest. He’s over six feet tall and around 250 pounds of pure muscle. When I met him he was a brown belt, right on the verge of getting a black belt (which, in the world of Brazilian Jiu Jitsu, usually takes well over ten years). Before Jiu Jitsu became his life, he’d served in the military and later as a cop. His entire adult life was based around violence. He looked like a badass on sight, and after talking to him for five minutes, I realized he was an even bigger badass than I could possibly imagine. Despite being incredibly intimidated by him, I’d spoken to him a few times in passing and cracked a few jokes that made him laugh. Still, I figured he had no idea who I was.

  My first clue that this wasn’t the case came while I was taking a class one afternoon. I was sparring another guy and we were really going at it. In our scuffle, my belt loosened and my gi jacket opened. My chest and stomach were exposed for the entire gym to see.

  Black Rob had been eyeing my match from the side of the room. A lot of times the more experienced guys watched beginner classes to hand out advice to the novices. I made eye contact with Rob. He cleared his throat. I assumed he was going to drop a pearl of wisdom on me, something that would help me unlock the mysteries of Jiu Jitsu.

  “What the fuck is wrong with your body?” he bellowed. “Are you a man or a boy?”

  He was loud enough to make sure all of my classmates turned to see whom he was speaking about, and when they did, he cackled with glee. From that day forward, if I was training and Rob was around, I was heckled mercilessly for the amusement of others. The bright side was that other people were no longer allowed to fuck with me, but in exchange it meant that Rob could do whatever he wanted. I was, in effect, his prison bitch. Rob and I once sparred and it ended with him undoing my own belt and tying my hands together, laughing the whole time. I’d never felt more helpless in my life. And I was paying hundreds of dollars a month for this privilege.

  Rob also wasn’t the only person to develop a big brother/ little brother system of teaching/torture with me. As I got more experienced, a black belt named Brian took me under his wing. He was a quiet, sort of nerdy guy who, despite being skinny and unassuming, was well known as one of the fiercest dudes in the school. If you were into mugging or murder or whatever and you passed this guy on the street, you wouldn’t think twice about victimizing the shit out of him. But if you’d seen him fight even once for two minutes, you would sprint across the street in fear of his badassery.

  Brian rooted for me as a fellow small guy and sparred with me to practice moves and let the rest of the gym know he was looking out for me.

  Despite his mentorship, he didn’t take it easy on me. One morning, he was working on judo throws and asked me to spar. I agreed. I’d sparred with him a handful of times before, and while it was tough and somewhat terrifying, I always walked away having learned something valuable.

  We squared off and slapped hands as a sign of respect. I took a step forward and reached for his lapel.

  Before my hand could get there, he grabbed my sleeve and twisted his body. I felt my own body leave the ground, and the next thing I knew, I was upside down and completely vertical. My head was even with Brian’s head and my body extended straight out above me, my toes nearly brushing the ceiling. The sickening disorientation of this motion stopped only when I heard a loud thud. It took me a moment to realize that the thud was the sound of my own body slapping flat against the mat. I didn’t reach this conclusion through analytical deduction, but instead via the feeling of sharp pain that washed over me due to the impact. I yelled. Yelling is frowned upon at the gym. It’s a sign of weakness, and makes people skittish. I’d seen people dislocate their elbows and not yell. I promise you, though, this time I had no choice. I’d been thrown on many occasions before, but this happened so fast that I shouted out of instinct. It was the shout of a man who genuinely has no idea what the fuck just happened to him. The shock of hitting the ground was immense. I was still processing the fact that I had even left my feet.

  Before I could fathom what happened, Brian twisted again. I didn’t realize he was still holding his grips on me until I was again in the air, only now I was completely horizontal to the floor. He adjusted his foot positioning to send me downward and I hit the mat with an even more sickening thud. This time I didn’t yell, but instinctively curled up into a tight ball. Brian stepped over me and executed a fierce arm lock that made me submit instantly.

  In addition to the physical pain I was terribly confused. I rolled over and shook my head, clearing the cobwebs and wondering what the hell had just gone down.

  Brian grinned at me. “You wanna talk about it?” he asked. The entire gym, all of whom had been watching his demonstration of skill, burst out laughing.

  My least pleasant injury came when I was about a year into my training.

  There was a tradition at the gym that took place whenever a new guy came to learn. If he was cool, humble, and wanted to jump into lessons, that was fine. No problems, and no questions asked. But not surprisingly, at a gym that teaches fighting you get a lot of testosterone-fueled lunatics who want to come in and kick everyone’s ass right away. Those guys are usually thrown into the fire against someone with a little bit of experience. Guys like that need to be humbled. Once they are, they either turn into normal human beings and take classes, or they remain crazy and are sent on their way. Getting beaten is a litmus test to see just how agro these weirdo meatheads are.

  Despite (and possibly because of) my size, some of the instructors really liked me and knew that I’d put in enough time at the gym to know—ever so slightly—what I was doing. So, on occasion, the teachers liked to use me as the experienced guy who faced off with the wild-eyed newcomers. After all, there is nothing better to prove the effectiveness of a martial art than losing to a dude who looks like me. On top of that, the teachers seemed to find it funny watching muscle-bound dudes with neck tattoos get worked up about not being able to beat me.

  One afternoon, I was pitted against a very aggressive, brooding young man who weighed close to 300 pounds. Not 300 pounds of muscle, either—300 pounds of fat and bad attitude. I had immediate trepidations. Even with a year of experience, I still wasn’t good at all. I was adequate at best. Usually in this situation, the teachers would face me off against some dude just a little bigger than me. I’d put him in some basic move he didn’t know was coming, and he’d calm down. But this kid was different. Not only was he the biggest person I was ever asked to spar, something about his expression made him seem truly unhinged.

  Our instructor matched us up and our grappling began. My opponent flailed all over the place, unable to control his movements. I remained calm, looked for an opening, and after a few minutes placed him in a triangle choke—a move that involved lying on my back and using my legs to cut off the supply of blood to the guy’s brain. I had it locked in very tight.

  Normally, the response to any locked-in submission move is to tap out and signal that you’ve given up. There’s no shame in tapping out. I did it every day I
walked into the gym. But this kid had a lot of ego and a lot of pride, and couldn’t bring himself to admit defeat.

  Before I knew it, the behemoth hoisted me into the air above his head. My instructor yelled, but the kid didn’t pay any attention. He threw me down to the mat, putting his full 300 pounds behind him. I hit hard, and he came barreling down with me. His head hit me in the front tooth and my entire top row of teeth went numb.

  I stood, stared at him furiously, and walked off the mat. My instructor yelled at him some more.

  Fuck, my teeth are gone, I thought. There goes my acting career. My mouth was so numb I couldn’t feel how many teeth I’d actually lost.

  A muscle-bound Brazilian came out of the other training room and looked at me.

  “What happened, my friend?” he asked, gently.

  “Y feeth,” I said. “Got ocked in y feeth, on’t know ow any gone.”

  He placed his finger in my mouth.

  “They’re all there,” he said. He yanked hard on my front tooth. “And they’re still strong. That would have taken them out if they were coming out.”

  That man was Renato “Babalu” Sobral, the former light heavyweight champion of Strikeforce Fighting. Two nights later, he was knocked unconscious while fighting in the Ultimate Fighting Championships. I watched it on live TV and felt really bad about it. I also wondered exactly how my life had gotten to the point where I actually knew an Ultimate Fighter who had stuck his fingers in my mouth to make sure all my teeth were still there.

  After about fourteen months at the gym, something I wasn’t expecting happened: I got my blue belt. This is the second worst belt in Jiu Jitsu, but it was still more than I ever hoped to accomplish. There are few things I’m more proud of in life than that blue belt. The majority of guys who signed up for the gym quit before they got theirs, and every single one of them was more physically able to keep up than I was. The difference was I stubbornly and maybe even foolishly refused to quit, and I was rewarded for it.

  Unfortunately, getting my blue belt also meant I was bumped up to the advanced classes. Now I was sparring the other blue belts, as well as the purples, browns, and blacks. I wasn’t just in over my head. “In over my head” implies I still had a chance at coming up for air. This was more like a state of permanent drowning.

  I once took a class where the other people taking the class included five UFC fighters, among them the legendary Georges St. Pierre. He was preparing to defend the UFC welterweight title later that week. I was preparing to audition for a role as a “guy who gets Cheerios thrown at his face” later that week. We very obviously represented the extreme opposite ends of the skill spectrum of the class.

  Every day, I’d walk into the gym knowing I was going to get my ass beat. I’d get my ass beat. Then I’d leave, knowing that if I decided to come back the next day I would again get my ass beat. I’d come back the next day. And I’d get my ass beat. Repeat.

  Somehow, though, I convinced myself I was getting better in spite of the beatings I took. After all, I was at one of the best gyms in the world, going up against some real monsters, and I kept coming back. While I was thrashed left and right, I rationalized that I had to be improving, and that in a less competitive environment I’d finally see my skills come to life.

  So when I had the chance to sign up for a fight outside of the gym, I took it.

  Once a year, my school holds a tournament. Students at all of the affiliate schools—those whose instructors studied under Renzo himself—are invited. Hundreds of people compete, and even more come to watch. I figured it was time to put my skills to the test.

  Being smart was the only thing that ever helped me in Jiu Jitsu. Other guys could rely on strength and speed, but I had neither to fall back on. Any time I defeated a guy, it was because I was more focused than he was and made smarter choices than he did. So when the tournament was announced, my first attempt at outsmarting people was to cut weight.

  At the time I was walking around at 155 pounds. I was in very good shape, but I knew that the other guys at my natural weight were all stronger than me, so I decided to cut down to the 135-pound weight class. I dieted for months leading up to the competition, eating only breakfast bars and cottage cheese. Within a few weeks, a physical transformation was visibly noticeable. At the same time I also decided to shave my head, telling myself I wanted to “look more like a fighter and less like a comedian.” In reality, what I looked like was someone with a terminal illness.

  Weigh-ins took place the morning before the tournament. The night before, I weighed myself at 147 pounds—still too heavy for my weight class. But this was intentional. The whole point of a weight cut is to drop all the water weight out of your body right before the weigh-ins. Water weight is very easy to put back on, so after the weigh-in you can actually regain a few quick pounds and fight at a weight much greater than the limitations of your weight class. I knew that if I could pull it off, I’d be fighting much smaller guys for once—an advantage I rarely ever held.

  My friend Eugene is also into fighting, though he practices Muay Thai, the style of kickboxing founded in Thailand that involves kicking trees and shit. He offered to help me with the weight cut. The next morning, hours before the weigh-in, he and I went to the Russian baths in New York’s East Village. As an extra measure, I rubbed a lotion called Albolene all over my body. The stuff is water based and opens up your pores, helping you sweat more. Wearing just shorts and covered in this goo, I stepped into one of the saunas.

  The Albolene was a mistake. As soon as the heat hit my skin, my pores exploded and sweat covered me. I was soaking wet within minutes. The strain of the diet coupled with the water-weight expulsion had an immediate effect.

  “You okay?” Eugene asked.

  “Murrr,” I replied.

  “What?” He squinted at me with concern.

  “Mmmmb,” I grunted. I was too weak for words, too exhausted to explain. My eyes drooped, my head got heavy. After twenty minutes, Eugene dragged me back to the locker room.

  I weighed myself. I was still a few pounds off, so we went back into the sauna. My lips were dry, my eyes hurt. I was soaking with sweat I could no longer spare. Mercifully, after just a few more minutes, he dragged me out of the sauna again. This time, my weight came in right at the limit.

  We got dressed and I was too weak to even mumble. Every step I took required massive effort. Every movement of my head caused pain. We left the bathhouse and I recoiled at the sunlight. We walked to the corner so Eugene could get coffee.

  “I’ll be right back out,” he said. “Then we’ll get a cab.”

  I nodded. He stepped inside. I collapsed on the sidewalk. He came back out and hoisted me into a taxi. We headed to the gym.

  At the weigh-in I stood in a long line of men far more physically impressive than I was. I made weight no problem. I’d lost twelve pounds in the twenty-four hours leading up to the fight, nine in the sauna that morning alone. I drank Gatorade, ate real food for the first time in weeks, and felt completely focused. Through my hard work and determination I’d given myself a leg up. That night I slept well, and when I woke up the next morning, my game face was on.

  I showed up for the tournament at a high school gym in Bayonne, New Jersey, with ten of the pounds I’d lost back on my frame. The floor was covered in mats, upon which fights were set to take place all afternoon. It was ten in the morning, so most of the competitors weren’t there yet, but the stands were already packed with spectators. Due to luck of the draw, my weight class and belt level was up first.

  All of my possible opponents stretched in the warm-up area. I sized them up and felt great about it. They were tiny. My plan had worked. I was one of the bigger guys.

  Or so I thought. As I finished stretching, a very confident-looking dude walked into the fenced-off area. He was significantly bigger than me and had a thick soul patch on his chin. I assumed he was there to help one of the competitors.

  Trainers aren’t supposed to come in here, I t
hought to myself. Then the dude sat down and stretched.

  That motherfucker cut weight too! I thought. And he did it way better than I did.

  One of the refs walked up to the entrance of the pen.

  “Who’s Chris?” he said. I stood and nodded. “And Tom.” The big dude rose.

  “You guys are up first.” We looked at each other. I smiled. He did not. His eyes were completely devoid of emotion. I’d spent countless hours during the prior week mentally processing through moves and sequences, visualizing how this fight might go. I’d obsessively and nervously considered all my options. This guy’s eyes demonstrated nothing but the cool confidence of a person who actually knows what he’s doing. My stomach twisted. He walked past me onto the mat. I paused. I wasn’t ready.

  You’re never going to be ready, I reminded myself. I took a breath and followed him.

  Not only was I in the first weight class, I was in the first fight of the day. As I walked to the center mat, a roar broke out from the crowd. They’d been sitting and waiting in the uncomfortable bleachers for too long. Now the violence was finally about to begin and they were excited.

  This monster whose name was apparently Tom stood across from me. His gi hung open and I could see he had a number of tattoos, as well as well-defined abs. I looked at his face and locked in on the most terrifying aspect of all. He. Had. A. Soul. Patch.

  I’m fighting a guy who can grow facial hair, I thought. I can’t grow facial hair. Fuck, fuck, fuck.

  I was psyching myself out at a breakneck pace. The ref told us to walk to the center of the mat, where we shook hands. Then the match started.

  He gripped my gi and I gripped his, and we battled for the takedown. The spectators cheered us on. No other matches had started yet, so their undivided attention was on us. This dude was strong. And confident. He had great posture. His grips were tighter than mine. Also, there was that motherfucking soul patch.

  Still, he couldn’t take me down.