Bulgarian grip

I emerged from the comforts of cafes and kebabs, and entered into the world jf Judo. Lights lit up the sacred training room, and even the air in Judo Club Yonnais smelled rugged; as if the atmosphere had been infused with the aroma of warrior sweat and battle. I am not here to participate. No. Probably never. 

The biggest workout I will get tonight will be from the flexing of my fingers grasping ever so tightly upon my camera. However, while I am clasping cameras, Stoyan, a Bulgarian exchange student, looks to grip his opponents, to throw, twist, and perhaps choke them into submission. He will do all of the work tonight.

For the past two months every Tuesday and Friday was the same. He would enter the university with a smirk as if he had a big secret and always seemed to be in a good mood.

“Why are you smiling?”  I  asked.

“Because man, tonight is judo. Ussssss!”

That smile was enduring. It is as solid as his Judo hardened handshake, which was bizarre because he almost never smiles. Sometimes the sunniest of days, the funniest jokes, barely earned a smirk from him, but judo somehow had his honest joy. 

I had to see  for myself. I had to know why.

“Politeness,courage, friendship, self-control, modesty, honor, and respect” are plastered along the walls. These principles of judo are tattooed on his face as he begins warming up; leaping, ducking, and rolling in preparation for battle. 

 

There are no smiles, not now. Not when he does what he loves. Only focus.

His arm is wrapped around the neck of his opponent who struggles to break free of the Bulgarian grip.

 His legs grapple his adversary, squeezing all oxygen from their body.  

One by one, his opponents tap out, but before and after every match they bow in respect.

 Even after physically humiliating someone, there is always respect. 

Honor seemed even more important when Stoyan battled an Old Judo Man, whose years of training showed in every move. Against him was the only time I thought that he had met his match. 

“Man, he is stronger than all of the younger guys,” said Stoyan.

“Yeah, I wouldn’t mess with that guy.”

Actually, I wouldn’t mess with any of these guys.

 I’m a writer, not a fighter. 

  

The judo instructor calls the class to an end, and everyone sits around catching their breaths. Stoyan sits sweating against the wall. Without a smile, smirk, or hint of emotion. 

 But somehow I know, he had a great night.