Elbow
“Man, you know what I hate,” I say. “When those fighters hit the guy when he’s already knocked out. Like when they can see—they can clearly see the guy’s out and they go for more. Just so cowardly, y’know? How can they do that?”
Below the blueish black November night sky, in the close-quarter cubicle we call our dining area, a rare silence falls over the table. Me, my dad, and my little brother were catching up during my Thanksgiving visit. We’d started talking about UFC martial arts, so, naturally, my mom hightailed it out of there. She’s normal; she doesn’t like watching people fight. It was always my dad who watched me. Mom never witnessed me fight—I wonder what she’d think. Anyway, that rare silence continues to linger. My younger brother turns his head to my dad, who looks like he’s about to burst out laughing.
“Well…” he says.
It doesn’t take me long to realize what he means.
“Woah, woah…that was only one time!”
—
When I was in sixth grade, and when my brother was in first grade, my dad signed us up for this martial art called Jiu Jitsu. He told us that we needed to defend ourselves should the need arise. The brazilian-based art is an anti-bully method; Jiu-Jitsu is visually similar to wrestling, but it’s advertised as a way for the small guy to beat the big guy. Using principles of momentum, Jiu-Jitsu can help someone make up for a large physical disadvantage. Now, Jiu-Jitsu can’t outright beat raw strength—or a gun—but that idea of giving the little guy a chance got me excited. I was the youngest, scrawniest kid at school, or at most in the bottom 3. And on top of that, I had bad allergies. I ought to stop saying “allergies”; adding “bad” doesn’t get the point across. Anaphylaxis is the scarier, more accurate word. Anaphylaxis is the medical way of saying if I drink milk, my throat swells until it shuts. Point is, I felt vulnerable. Milk isn’t a bully, but I wanted the antidote should an actual bully come my way. So I went in, ready to learn how to kick ass.
And then I got my ass kicked. A lot. Jiu-Jitsu is a bit like inactivated vaccines: they give you the virus to beat the virus. Classes begin with warm-ups and stretches, followed by lessons about technique. Then comes “rolling” which is their term for sparring. You shake your opponent’s hand and then, for two or three minutes, you and your opponent compete to land the most submissions. A submission, or a “tap” is when a competitor literally taps their opponent’s body after they’re put in an untenable position. Usually, this means a chokehold, but a submission can be anything. If an opponent sits on your chest for too long or if their breath smells unbearably bad, you can raise your metaphorical white flag and tap. So in Jiu-Jitsu—at least when it comes to rolling—your opponent doesn’t win, you just give up.
In my defense, some of the kids I rolled with crawled out of hell. They all had a gimmick. In sixth grade, when I was starting out, this one stocky kid and I would roll. By “stocky” I mean rotund; he had a circular build. And compared to my skinny noodle build, we made an ironic pair. My dad described our matches as a “snake trapped underneath a boulder” (I was losing). In seventh grade there was another kid with my same build, but half a foot taller, and nothing but muscle. What he lacked in technique he made up for in brute strength; he was steel wires, and I was spaghetti. His favorite takedown against me was to grab my arm, sling it over his shoulder, and throw me upside down.
Those guys were demons in their own right, but there was one kid who was Satan’s right-hand man. My first impression of him: a kid my age, sitting in the corner of the room before class, reading a book thicker than the bible. He had fluffy, light brown hair, a face full of freckles, and a goofy smile—he was a nerd. A goober, even. I wondered how he’d gotten an orange belt, the second-highest youth rank. Our first roll: the timer starts, the room goes dark, and Nathaniel descends upon me from the ceiling like a spider. My dad and I still can’t decide which nickname is more apt: “the spider” or “the octopus”. Either way, it seemed like he had twice as many limbs; I trap one arm, I trap the second arm, holy shit I’m winning, I’m really wi—then he pulls out a third arm. And with his other five limbs he’d tie me up like a shoelace. Or maybe he’d spare one limb to read that big-ass book of his. I wouldn’t know, I was too busy losing. He was stronger, faster, more flexible, more intelligent, and worst of all, had a sick sense of humor. I ended up tapping five times in two minutes.
Despite getting my ass kicked most of the time, I hung in there until high school. I had an underdog mentality. I used the boulder guy’s rotundity to roll him over. When the wiry guy would throw me over his shoulder, I countered by jumping, so I’d end up doing a front flip so I’d land on my feet. I even weathered the storm of Nathaniel. One day, when Nathaniel was feeling extra sadistic, he grabbed me by my sleeve, somersaulted four times until my hand turned blue, and made me tap. I was humiliated but not vanquished. Can’t go out like that again—dad’s watching. When he went for it a second time I somersaulted myself to undo the tightness. He rolled again. Then I rolled again. He rolled, I rolled back, he rolled the other way to juke me out, but I rolled again. Then he stopped. I glanced at him. He smiled at me. I had earned the spider’s respect. Nathaniel ended up becoming my best friend in the academy. Despite all the talk of hellspawn, none of them were out and out bullies; mostly, they were just strong competitors that ended up making me stronger. I’d firmly established my identity on the mat and in my head. I wasn’t unbeatable, but I convinced myself I was unbreakable.
There was a problem, though. I was a defender, not an attacker. By eighth grade, I’d outlasted most of the other kids my age. Frequently, I’d end up rolling with newer, often younger students. Some of the coaches and parents actually requested that I roll with some of their students, for practice. In hindsight, I think they knew it was because I was a challenge, but one that wouldn’t completely eviscerate them (like Nathaniel). They also must have noticed I didn’t go for submissions. And why would I? They were just kids. I mean, what would my mom think? Because of the aforementioned foes, I had a background in defending and surviving, not attacking. I lacked the ruthlessness to go for submissions. A kid named Taub noticed that about me.
Taub—that’s an actual name, apparently—was about two years younger than me. He had short blonde hair, pale skin, and was athletic for his age. Taub and I had rolled in the past before, but never consistently. He was in sixth grade and I was in eighth-grade; and although he actually outranked me, our gap in strength and experience meant those matches weren’t especially challenging for me. I didn’t take it easy on him, but I never went for submissions on him. I was a survivor, not a bully. I could never tell if Taub was the quiet type or if he just didn’t know how to speak with a mouthguard in. I could never tell what he was thinking. If I had to guess, knowing what I know now, I’d say this: Taub smelled blood in the water. He must have thought to himself, “I bet I could beat this guy.”
—
Taub and I paired together for a roll. This particular match started like any other: we walked to an open space, tightened our belts, the timer started, and I went for the handshake to start the match. Taub took advantage. Taub faked the handshake, grabbed my arm, pulled it away, then shot under me, and went for my legs. I couldn’t react in time, Taub bear hugged my legs together and drove his shoulders into my knees. I landed on the mat with a splat—floored in both senses. Taub was attacking with a speed I’d never seen before. But this was fine; I could defend. He’d crawled to my side and pressed his chest against mine. I remembered the basic escape technique my coaches taught me and went to push away his knees with my hands and legs. Taub was a step ahead. He swung his right leg over and mounted me: I was in one of the worst positions a Jiu-Jitsu competitor can find themselves in. Either he had predicted my movements or reacted to the situation, but one thing’s for certain: I was dangerously unfocused. Then Taub does something I’ll never forget. From on top, he pulled out the lapel of my gi from underneath my belt and smothered me with it. Taub was essentially pulling a bag over my head, like some mafia-style assassination. I tried to break free, but the strength advantage had been trumped by Taub’s new ally: gravity. The rough fabric started to print patterns onto my reddening face. My hands tried to push him away, my now-useless legs sprawled around, and I couldn’t even see anything. I felt powerless. Beep. I could hear Taub grunting, pushing my lapel harder and harder onto my face. He was fighting dirty. Beep. Each breath became more and more shallow. I could feel myself drowning into my own clothes. Beep. He’s not letting up. He wants me dead. Beep. My dad’s watching. Beep. I sank deeper. Beep. And deeper. Beep. And deeper. Beep. So deep that I became ten years old again sitting in the emergency room.
– – – ^v – – – ^v – – – ^v – – –
My throat’s closing. When I swallow, I feel both the sides of my esophagus touch each other. There’s a saloon door swinging back there, threatening to close. The harsh white light shines over me. I feel cold. The paper beneath me itches. My orange shirt is pulled up to expose my chest. There’s two pads attached to me, one on the right side of my chest and one just above my stomach. Attached to the pads are cords—beep—hooked up to the loud heart monitor. I hear screams of pain coming from behind the curtain to my right, in the other emergency room cubicle. My dad’s standing close beside me. I tilt my head down and curl my toes, waiting for the next needle to come. This is what anaphylaxis is like.
I ate a piece of salami. That’s all it takes. At the end of the ingredients list, it reads: Contains: MILK. You’d think it’d be obvious, but neither me or my dad checked it that night. At first, my mouth runs cold. Then my tongue gets pins and needles. Then the throat starts to swell. An imaginary timer appears beneath me. 03:00:00, 02:59:59, 02:59:58… I become a ticking time bomb. To defuse the bomb, there’s this magical thing called epinephrine, or an EpiPen. You take off the caps of these auto-injectors, remember it’s “blue to the sky, orange to the thigh” so you don’t stab your thumb or piss away your life, then you press it against your left thigh, wait ten seconds (I always wait eleven seconds, just to be sure) and hopefully that 99.9% success rate kicks in.
This time, though, the epinephrine wasn’t working as fast as the doctors wanted it to. My throat was still swollen, so to speed up the process they gave me steroids. Prednisone, to be precise. But they were having trouble finding the vein in my arm and couldn’t get enough of the medicine in me. First shot—ow—didn’t work—go again. Second shot—ow—didn’t work—go again. By the third time of asking they skip my arm entirely. A doctor brings out a pencil-sized needle. The doctor tells me to keep calm. I’m juiced up on epinephrine, with a dash of steroids, and a boatload of anxiety—calm is a tough ask. The doctor says “sorry” and then stabs me with a needle like a killer uses a knife. I tense up, which makes it hurt more. The doctors said they needed to do it like this because I had thick skin. I don’t feel like I have thick skin. I don’t feel unbreakable. I feel afraid. I’d been holding back the tears the entire time—my dad’s watching. By this fifth and final injection, I just couldn’t help it. My screams only came out as whispers.
– – – ^v – – ^v – – ^v – ^v – ^v – ^v –
Taub now began to press his elbow into my face. Upon recalling that memory, my blood runs hot. It felt like I’d gotten another injection. And I wanted him dead. Tossing aside all technique, I grab his collars and throw him to the side. He tries to maintain his position above me, but I’d already chewed away my cage. I drive my head into him like an animal. He falls to his back and hits the back of his head against the mat. Turns out, the other name for epinephrine is adrenaline. I’d just overdosed. I keep going, pouncing on him. Then I swing my leg over and get into mount. I see him groaning from pain—I respond by illegally drilling my elbow into his face. Us skinny guys have sharp elbows, so I knew it’d hurt him. I watch his pale skin turn red from the impact as I smash his face against the mat. He tries to push me away with his hands. Got him. I grab his right arm, twist to my left, step over his head, lean back, armbar. He taps. Taub breathes deeply, taking a moment’s rest. He gets up, ties his belt, fixes his mouthguard, and then meets my gaze. I haven’t even blinked since I popped up. I glare at him and offer my hand as if to say: I’m not done with you yet. He averts his eyes, stalls by re-tying his belt, and then reluctantly shakes my hand so we begin again. This time he doesn’t pull any of that sneaky handshake shit. He’s a sitting duck. I grab him and throw him over my leg, because I can. And then I eventually get him into a chokehold, because I can. He taps again. We stand up. He looks like he’s about to cry. Then the rage wears off. I hear my conscience say: “Congratulations, you beat up a sixth-grader.” Jesus, what would my mom think?
—
Class ends shortly after that. Taub never fucked with me again. From then on, he;d sheepishly avoided eye contact with me and gave me weak handshakes. We only rolled two or three times after that. I went easy on him because I felt bad, and he went easy on me because (see above). Well, no—I felt somewhere between terrible and terrific. What I will say is that I’ve never felt like that before.
Anyway, I silently got off the mat, bowed towards the center of the mat as is tradition, put on my socks, then my shoes, and then I noticed a strange silence. I glanced up at my dad. I can’t read his expression. The walk was quiet and long. He waited until we got in the car. I started to wonder if he’s mad at me for bullying that kid. Nope. Dad was ecstatic.
“Butch! (that’s my nickname) Holy shit, man! That was crazy! He was smothering you and then elbowing you and then you gave it right back to him! It was hilarious! I’m so proud—hey, are you ok?”
“Yeah,” I sniffled.
“Well, how come you’re crying?” He asked, his intonation implying: what’s wrong? You won.
I wiped my eyes and cleared my throat.
“I don’t know,” I replied, sobbing and giggling.