One week to go...

I am having total knee replacement next week.  I've gone through all the pre-op meetings and prep.  I am not at peace with the idea but I am determined to go through with it.  I have thought about cancelling the surgery.  But I have also gone five years now, maybe more, thinking that I need this done.

I worry about the recovery and the time to full function, or what they define as full function following the surgery.  I worry less about pain management; apparently pain management is the most worrisome factor for most who undergo the surgery.  I handle strong medication well and we have "prepared" the house as much as needed.

I don't look forward to the "end" of  recovery as much as I thought I would.  In the past, looking forward through both of my ACL reconstructions, I fervently anticipated the end-result of surgery as it meant a return to pre-injury activities.  The surgery I am about to undergo is different from ACL reconstruction.  The end-state is freedom to undertake a certain level of activity that might be dramatically different from that from which I am presently limited, but only by my pain tolerance.

In other words, I can go out and run 10K today if I desire but I typically do not because I do not enjoy the day of pain that would surely follow even if I treated myself acutely beforehand.  After knee replacement, I will never run another ten feet.  Ever again.  Even though the point of joint replacement is to gain freedom from osteoarthritic pain.  The replacement prosthetic, even in these modern times, is still not considered a lifetime device.  And so patients are strongly cautioned from certain activities that could damage the device, cause the need for surgical revision of the altered joint, or both of these things!

And so I rationalize where once I looked forward.  I hate the walk up the beach from the water's edge after a surf.  Walking in the sand is too trying with my arthritic knee.  The surgery, after recovery, will spare me that agony.  Walking in the woods is hardly pleasant when you have to watch every step and the focus takes away from larger enjoyment of the outdoors.  The surgery, after recovery, will enable me to get into the beautiful mountains that define this region of the country, and spend a day walking uphill without the prospect of a post-hike cocktail of ibuprofen and ice.

As so continues the countdown.

Seattle is so dang groovy

Look. I'm a 50 year old white guy. Should I like this stuff? Well I don't like it. I love it.


Mash Hall Hi Fivin My Cousin



Brothers from Another Molly Moons



SOTA ExtraHellaDope

Baseball 2012: The Most Valuable Player

I am a sopping wet fan of Mike Trout.  To me he's the picture of everything good in a baseball player.

Dirty and hungry for more
In baseball, the dirty uniform can say more about a player's character than any of the old or new performance statistics.  That uniform speaks to hard play, determination, and competitive desire; and not every player is willing to get dirty.  These palpable factors go beyond reflecting on individual performance as they influence and even lift the play of the team.  And there is no doubt that Trout lifted his team from a strikingly moribund start, liberating several superstar veterans from self-imposed, self-pressurized slow starts.  As a result, his team was a viable contender for much of the season.


There is no doubt that my feelings about Trout are prejudiced by my love for my son and the way he too plays baseball.  Although I am loathe to actually compare Jacob to Mike, the general tell-tales are present.  The dirty uniform.  The ever-present smile, even when he's pitching; despite telling him it might benefit him to be a bit more intimidating on the mound, his smile never undermines his performance.  The happy-go-lucky bounce on the practice field, even in the face of the tough-love coaching he gets in his travel program.  The hustle on the field and the discipline to put in the work to improve one's game when off the field. 

Jacob getting dirty at Shortstop at 11U

In Jacob, these are natural behaviors that come unforced.  He's played this way since he insisted I let him join a YMCA t-ball team before his 4th birthday.  His passion and dedication took him from being an unknown 9U player in a new league, to making his first of several all-star teams, to getting selected by his present program and improving each year therein.  He's not a kid that has ever made anyone say "wow" walking onto the field.  But he's always made informed observers and kind parents alike say "wow" when coming off the field.

And so you have my utterly personal, daddy-ball rationale for loving Mike Trout.  The young man is no surprising high achiever as he was drafted in the first round of MLB's annual amateur player draft.  But it's notable that this 21 year old kid was drafted behind 26 other players, none of whom provided anywhere near the same value to their team this year.

There are all manner of more technical arguments that are and will be levied in the next few days and weeks both for and against Trout as MVP.  Unfortunately, those arguments will break down along simplistic lines depending whether the arguer is adherent to so-called "old" or "new" baseball statistics.  The conversation will miss the point but the media will perpetuate it because the adherents are passionate and the discussion drives page-views and cable TV watchers.

But those that really "observe" baseball when they watch it will know.  I count myself in that group.  The folks arguing against Trout will resort to what I believe is an utterly intellectually lazy assertion that attaining the Triple Crown of baseball is so rare that it makes the Triple Crown winner the MVP by default.  In trying to start a discussion on the topic after hearing a local talk radio host predictably take that stance, I wrote the following on Facebook:

The Triple Crown of baseball is based on high achievement in three statistical categories, one of which is as reliant on the performance of other teammates as it is the hitter himself. It does not measure defensive ability and in fact ignores how many runs the hitter gave back to the other team while playing in the field. Both of these facts, while not diminishing the accomplishment of winning the Triple Crown, completely undermine it as an element to be considered (let alone a determinative factor) when deciding on MLB's most valuable player. The fact that this year a Triple Crown winner will also be voted the MVP demonstrates yet again the utter laziness of those in the 4th Estate that cover the sport (and thus vote on the matter). Mike Trout is so clearly the MVP this year that I think we're going to have to redefine the criteria for the award if he doesn't win it. There, I said it.

The Triple Crown is rare but is a simple matter of assembling three old counting statistics to indicate supremacy: batting average, total home runs, and total runs batted-in.  Rarity here does not automatically connote value the way it might in a market.  But romantic linkage to a baseball era in which Carl Yastzremski last won the honor 45 years ago appears to have overwhelmed the logical reasoning abilities of most of the commentators who sputter they just cannot believe anyone could see it any other way.

Not content to leave well enough alone, I added the following on Facebook:

Not sure why this Triple Crown stuff matters to me so much. Probably because my son's game is (dare I say it) far more like Mike Trout's than Miguel Cabrera's. Hustle, dirty uniforms, good defense, and lifting your teammates will always be more valuable traits than individual counting statistics to me. That and the folks arguing the opposite are so freaking intellectually lazy. Then again, sports talking heads have never been a bastion of critical thinking.

There's not much more to say at this point.  My point of view is a minority one.  Not many will even read this and fewer still will be interested enough to engage the conversation.  But it's nice to have the opportunity in this day and age to put this out there.  And if you happen to be a college baseball recruiter, my son just might be ready for you in a couple of years.  That is, if you value a smiling, hard working kid in a dirty uniform.

ExtraHellaDope

Seattle hip hop has plenty of flavor, including Fresh Espresso.  The question for these guys is dope or not dope?  I've heard this group derided as "hipster hop."  I'm no hipster but I kinda like it.

Ready to fly on the streets...

You know you wouldn't have heard it if you hadn't come here first!

The Lows of Joyous Chaos

Yesterday, I tried to summarize a few observations following my son's first month of high school.  That he chose to apply to an all-boys high school in downtown Seattle certainly added a major wrinkle to this step in his education.  I think had he simply ascended to the public school serving our neighborhood, as did his friends from middle school, we might be seeing fewer of the sorts of challenges he grapples with now at his new school.

I already mentioned a few of the structural challenges presented by attending his school; commuting, lack of familiarity of place, and a general lack of familiarity with the student body.  He is also challenged in class, mostly by his need for better time management, and from a general lack of familiarity with the stylistic demands of writing real papers and handing-in clean homework.  Notice that I do not believe he has much actual difficulty with the subject matter.  Nevertheless, his present challenges and his behavioral responses to them give him enough with which to contend.

But what of my role in the lows of having a freshman boy?  My main weakness as a dad resides in modelling poor responses to tough moments he experiences.  So when he reacts to unfamiliar demands in school work, he tends to hide his weakness either by seeking out mom, or by blustering his way through work with poor effort just to "get it done."  I am certain he wants to avoid generating my usual, overtly dismissive response to any display of inadequacy on his part.

He knows I can't stand even casual statements like, "this doesn't make sense."  Because of course it makes sense so what's the problem?   My responses are strong and quick and no doubt affect my son like so many bites from a snake.  These reactions reflect my most contemptuous personality trait.  Although I care not to psychoanalyze myself in these musings, I'm sure I could use some counseling and personality work.  More on that some other time perhaps.

As you might imagine, under the load of several honors classes, a really foreign language, playing in the school band and drumline, a new sport (to go with the old one), new classmates, and a commute, the kid has a lot to manage.  He doesn't need my crap.  And although I can help on any of his school subjects (including Japanese), he needs more than my help.  He needs me to respond in an appropriately fatherly way, with abundant patience, and toughness in reserve.  When he gets stupid while working with us on an assignment, I need to offer him pathways through problems rather than remonstrating in response.  "But this is so easy!" I'll whine.  Maybe for him it's not.

This is one of the primary roles of a boy's parents according to therapist and gender-learning expert, Michael Gurian.  Gurian is the author of several fine books on boy-learning including the influential volume, The Wonder of Boys which I bought when Jacob was only a year or two.  I never finished the book until the end of last year, having learned during our due diligence that Jacob's high school is a Gurian Model school integrating an intentional (rather than default) boy-centered curriculum and classroom.  In fact, our learning about Gurian and his theories on boy-learning was a central motivator for allowing Jacob to apply there.

One of the central tenets in The Wonder of Boys is that boys are better taught (and thus raised) as members of overlapping, sequentially larger communities starting with the nuclear family, but surrounded by larger elements including classrooms, sports teams, and eventually the community in which the family resides.  By extension, modelling poor behavior at the most familiar level, can undermine the overall structure on which the boy should otherwise rely.  Think, "if my dad's a dick, why should I listen to my coach/teacher/spiritual leader?"  Or for that matter, other authoritative figures including community leaders and police.

So last night, while expressing displeasure at the hasty and lackadaisical attention my bright boy gave what should have been a quick but thoughtful essay, I acted up only to reinforce poor response to a moment of difficulty.  I've done this before and hate myself for it. I ruined a teachable moment overcome and angered unecessarily by what appeared to me to be his indifference to the assignment.  Not only did he not learn, but he did not reengage, and the rest of his workload was hindered.

It's almost funny, in re-reading my thoughts here now, that the problems I focus on are mine and not his.  Fortunately, my (far-more-well-grounded-than-I) wife knew enough to say that this was just a weak moment for each of us.  There will be such moments.  There will also be great ones.  Which I hope to write about next.

The Perfection of Joyous Chaos

Jacob's now experienced his first full month of high school.  Academics, athletics, social activities, commuting...the whole nine.  And mom and I have been riding shotgun like a hilarious posse trying keep our robust, little gun-slinger on mission.  There have already been a series of highs and lows in every regard.  As one of my Facebook acquaintances said, himself a recent high school grad and now a freshman collegiate baseball player, "Tell him to buckle up; it's a heckuva ride."

 Jacob's school is a private, boys-only high school located in downtown Seattle.  The school's academic and athletic reputations attract student-athletes from around Puget Sound.  The school's location means almost the entire student body commutes.  Jacob commutes with mom, whose professional office is located in Seattle's Central Business District (the "CBD") about eight or nine long blocks from the school.  While he's lucky he's spared a long ride in on Metro or Light Rail, his participation in band requires his presence during zero period starting at 7:05.  Surprisingly, the early hour has not proven as difficult as I expected.

What has taken some getting used to is his self-management.  Or lack thereof.  He has no extraordinary problem in this regard, but as I am growing to understand, 14 year-old boys cannot be expected to fully manage themselves.  Said another way, only an extraordinary kid could remember to assemble and pack the car with his full football kit on Monday mornings, remember and complete every piece of homework assigned from three honors courses and Japanese language (itself something of an "honors" class), prepare and study for every test, practice drums 30 minutes a day, continue little bits of his arm rehab from this summer, attend football practice three days a week, play a game on Thursday, play in the drum line on Friday for the Varsity games, and practice with his high-commitment travel baseball program on Saturday and Sunday.

Yes, he loses track of things here and there.  Yes, he was stressed out when having been a bit too choosy (as his friends said), he did not have a homecoming date until it was too late.  And yes, he probably harbors some small bit of resentment that he can't just take the skateboard outside when he wants and kick off a few ollies with the neighborhood kids.  But holy crap if he isn't proud as heck of how he's integrating into this school, with it's burgeoning brotherhood and forward-looking approach to giving these boys an opportunity to become young men while preparing them for college and life thereafter.

Although identifying life lessons in a kid's experience can run toward the cliche, he knows he has to be more attentive to the manner in which teachers assign outside work.  Mom and I have the benefit of the school's online resources such as "Powerschool" and individual teacher websites which track class work and student individual progress.  And with his own "office" and computer now available to him at home, he can always log on himself.

But knowing that he is in transition has given me, the dad, the room to recognize that the pressure of instant high achievement is unrealistic and pronouncements of unrealistic expectations are counterproductive. He's got a lot on his plate and I do not need to make what for him could be joyous imperfection into a source of serious personal stress. He's not performing perfectly.  But he's doing great.  He's growing up differently than I did; not better or worse.  Just differently.  And so far, I am growing to understand that's perfectly fine .

Ideas as Ships in the Night

I awoke last night, at a time both late and early, but neither morning nor evening.  The nether period between 2:30 and 3:30; it's too early to rise and workout, but yet late enough that if sleep does not quickly return, the night can be lost.  My night's sleep was indeed lost to the thought train barreling through the tunnels of my frontal lobe.

Last night that train resembled a Shinkansen (bullet train).  I could not stop the stream of ideas and sentiments. I remembered Angela's birthday.  I remembered the first girl I ever kissed.  I tried to connect the dots.  But I couldn't.

I remembered some advice I read in a book on writing, authored I think by Woody Allen.  That advice, keep a notebook by the bed as the creative thoughts that flow on awakening are rich but fleeting.  Seemed like good advice once upon a time, but lack of any real writing skill or creativity lead me to immediately abandon my notebook.  I never started another one.

Somehow, last night's thoughts seemed lush and connected.  I thought I might be able to prepare a blog post expressing the joy and pain of knowing certain people to whom I no longer speak.  Perhaps add a youtube video of a song we shared from an era long gone by.  Maybe an image or three.

Then actual morning arrived and I slogged through a coffee preparing lunch for Jacob before heading to the shower.  The clearer my mind grew as the day wore on, the more I realized it was all a shit mash-up.  My past before my present barely reaches me anymore no matter how sentimental I am.  And sentimentality is after all the beginning and end of that anyways, so what's the point?

I really don't know, but here's a classic to take the edge off.

Opinions from Fitness Land

This post might seem a bit off-topic.  But I am a self-admitted fitness nut with 40 years of organized sports experience behind me, and a new life of activity coming after my knee replacement next month.  So I devour fitness information and love plying the webs for blogs linked by writers I already enjoy.

Recently, I commented to my Facebook community after reading an article on a fitness blog.  The blog was linked by another writer I am really enjoying right now,  so I thought the take on fitness and training might be interesting. The author is, as am I, an adherent of lifting heavy things and then mixing it up a bit.

Unfortunately, it turned out she was a Crossfit devotee and typical of that community, mind-limited on training.  Her article was framed by views that are apparently mainstream in the Crossfit community: "we are superior," "others are average (or to be completely disdained for not sporting Crossfit-ideal physiques)", "this is not for you", and "Crossfit is a SPORT for ELITE ATHLETES." And it was that last comment, a direct quote, that led me to comment on FB and then write this.

Don't get me wrong: I admire those committed to randomized, blackbox, metabolic work that includes a mix of moderate to heavy lifting and other exercise intended to tap multiple, even competing energy systems. Those workouts, even the short ones, are ass-kickers and I understand the smug satisfaction that accompanies completing such work. It might even be beneficial as an adjunct to less randomized, authentically structured training for a certain, very limited field of actual sports. But make no mistake it's preparation, not sport and they should be satisfied by that alone.

Despite my admiration for the concepts, I find Crossfit hard to support.  I'm bugged by it's childish elitism, the weird fetishism, and the bizarre, atavistic, political ravings of its founder (who apparently isn't much of an adherent himself). I could write an entire column on it in my blog, but appropriate, professional critiques have already been written by trainers that actually understand how to manage the strength and conditioning of high performance athletes (cf Eric Cressey among others).

As for the difference between training and sport, I choose to ignore dictionary definitions because as several of my friends noted, there is competition in things we wouldn't call sport, and there is training in things that demand exertion but are not competitive. Further complicating the issue, there is competition in things that some would consider training begging the question "Then why not Crossfit?" I'm thinking about Olympic Lifting and Powerlifting, both of which are sports unto themselves, but remain training modalities for far more athletes competing in other sports.

To me the difference is a philosophical one and not just a matter of definition. If you want to compete in seeing who can finish 3 sets of 10 chins followed by weighted sled pushes followed by 3 sets of handstand push-ups, followed by 400 meter runs, have at it. For me, I admire the athletes that do those things in training while also refining specific fine and coarse motor activities, i.e. skills, demanded by the sports they compete in, whether individual or team. Because that's elite.  

I re-read the article trying to discern a knowledgeable vein of information, perhaps something deeper in the post that I might have missed for the apparent narcissism of the writer.  A redeeming point of information marshalled to support the idea she claimed inspired her post; that not all workouts are appropriate for all people (I think she used the term "cookie cutter" but now that I think of it, she did that incorrectly too).  Nope.  She was bragging.  I do this; I'm special; look at me and my physique.  Definitely not elite.

Dad, Son, and His First Week of School

Make no mistake, I still worry about my son's workload. But after his first week of high school, the facts are indisputable. Jacob loves his school.

Jacob's new school is a small, all boys high school in downtown Seattle with about the best college preparatory record of any school in the Puget Sound region.  Every boy in last year's graduating class went on to further education beyond high school; most to four year colleges.  Free from the distractions of girls in school, classrooms are organized on the Gurian Model designed specifically for boys.  I'll write more about that in a future post.

As I wrote last week, Jacob commutes with mom every morning, arriving at around 7AM for Zero Period -- band practice.  The band does everything.  From jazz to symphony; from liturgy to percussion ensemble and drum line.  They play concerts, mass, and football games.  And he seems to have gotten off to a fine start.  He's enjoying Japanese, a language I studied for a couple of years as an adult just for my interest in Japan.  The class process has been slow to wind up so he's getting a suitable "dipping in" without an assload of homework yet.

Speaking of which, his homework so far has been appropriate but he's busy.  However, he's showing signs of better time management, even if he needs a bit of sideboarding from me or mom here and there.  Last night after football practice, he managed to complete his interval throwing workouts and flow to an honors World History assignment (completed while he shoveled down a couple of tacos and a tall glass of milk).  Then some Japanese, a core workout meant to accompany his throwing work, and style guide study for a quiz today in honors World Lit.

I found some release from my worry in several moments scattered throughout the evening.  First, his arm is strong.  Not related to school (yet), but he is coming back from his first real baseball injury and appears to be much stronger now.  Every ball he threw from beyond 60 feet was heavy and hurt my hand to catch.  Second, he did his work at a proper desk with only some music playing on the PC in the background.  This is new; in the past he'd study on the couch at a coffee table with the TV on (which Mom and I disagree on).  Third, he accepted the idea of doing something productive as a break from homework.  In the past, a break meant playing some xbox or watching a couple of youtube videos.  Last night he did some core work, stuff that makes him a better ball player.

These were all good signs.  We'll see how well things go as his baseball team starts Fall practice this weekend, anticipating the Fall Classic Baseball Tournament in Las Vegas at the end of October.  His coach will not pitch him this Fall or next spring so that's an element of his game from which he can relax.  But he needs to hit and take a lot of fielding before he's game speed again.  All while keeping his grades respectably high.

It's a lot.  I worry.  But I know he wants to show me he's "got this."  That's exactly the correct place to start.

Get Free--Major Lazer

Best track I've heard since Disparate Youth--Santigold. Might as well get that one up here too:


Oh yeah, they're both from Philly as I am. Pretty good music summer, 2012.

Dad, Son, and His First Day of High School

Yesterday, my son went to high school.  While not racked with emotion, the thought train in my head barreled down the tracks all day.  I was at once proud and apprehensive for many things that could themselves be fodder for this space.

The beaming smile, crisp white shirt, and simple dark tie portray his happy pride and robust enthusiasm at the embarking moment.  But I couldn't help worry.  And as mentioned before on this blog, I am home to worry.

But I did not worry about context.  The school may be in downtown Seattle, but I have always wanted my son to believe he's an urban kid.  He's cool with that.  Nor do I worry about the environment.  This school teaches a crisp and coherent code of ethics embraced by every boy who attends.  The students refer to elements of that code as supporting a "brotherhood" amongst the boys there.

That brotherhood is what leads the majority of new students there, athlete or not, to turn out for the football team.  Playing Frosh football gives the boys an opportunity to bond as a class before the school year even begins.  For that matter, between football practices and band practices held the two weeks before school started, this first day almost seemed a mere formality!

No, my apprehension is more basic than that.  This boy has great aspirations for academics and athletics and he's taking quite a load.  He has three honors classes (language arts, algebra 2, and world history).  He opted for Japanese, the most difficult of the foreign language courses offered (IMHO). He's drumming in the band which meets during the dreaded "Zero" Period, an hour before school starts.  He turned out for football and somehow, he's apparently good at it.  And his travel baseball commitments ramp up the weekend after Labor Day.  It's a schedule that would break down even an apex, alpha personality.  Perhaps it's fortunate that this kid's just a happy-go-lucky little pinball, capable of going with the flow, absorbing the blows, and still winning on the judges cards.

Despite the worry, I believe that although this school is known for its competitive sports programs (and thus competitive student body), it's also known for the support shown these boys once admitted.  The few teachers we met so far are well-aware that these kids put themselves to huge demands through their team, music, and other commitments.  And the teachers are reticent to leave anyone behind (apologies for the errant educational reference).

So although I spent every minute yesterday thinking about my boy, tracking his schedule as I traversed mine, I was also very excited for him and only hope that if he needs my help for anything, he will ask. That could be he subject of another column itself since despite my competencies, I have not yet proven to be a patient mentor to him.  But I am so happy to keep trying.  Go Irish!

What Am I Going to Do About My F@cking Left Knee, Part 2

In contrast to the incident in 1983, I suffered the injury to my right knee playing a "C" side match playing for the Seattle Rugby Club in Portland, Oregon in 1997.  While I can still tap the emotional pain I felt sitting on the sideline waiting for an endorphin wash to take away the physical pain, the injury has had no legacy physical effect.  I still curse the cockiness that led me to ask-in for the last match of the day, after already had a magnificent run with the Second XV, and 40 minutes in the First XV match that day.  120 minutes is a lot of rugby.  200 is nuts.  But, I was playing the best rugby of my 30's, and was as fit as I'd been since joining the Seattle club.

So I still regret wanting an extra run that day. The only reason I was playing with the 3rd XV was to gain some extra work for the national club championships in Hartford that Spring. I could easily have done extra training on any of the six other days of the week besides Saturday.

The experience of my first injury and the degradation I suffered from 1983 to 1991 lead me to seek medical care for the right knee immediately.  I was diagnosed and under the knife for right knee ACL autograft within a few months of the injury. It hasn't bothered me since.

Which brings us to the present. Earlier in August, I celebrated my 50th birthday. I was lucky to have the company of friends and plenty to drink. My friends include a couple who are both physicians and a brother-in-law who recently replaced his hip. These three, lubricated by interest in the constant knee pain I suffer (and more than a few really good drinks) formed a critical mass of opinion that stirred me to consider total knee replacement in my left leg.

I've been considering total knee replacement for almost five years now, consulting the same surgeon that repaired my right ACL. Five years ago, having already treated me for over a decade, and therefore knowing me quite well, my surgeon suggested I was not "ready" for knee replacement. The conventional wisdom as recently as five years ago was to identify total joint candidates and put their surgery off until as late in life as possible so as to avoid the need to ever re-treat the replacement. Joint prosthetics were thought to "wear out" over time and needed to last the rest of patients' lives. Furthermore, my doctor looked me straight in the eye and said he knew that if he replaced my knee then, I would look on this new-found, pain-free existence and an opportunity to extend my athletic career.

He was right of course. I was still running as much as the pain allowed, and playing moderately competitive mens league ice hockey. The knee pain, even more than the crappy ice time hours, lead me to leave the game within the year after that first consultation. My doctor said come back and talk to me when you're willing to adjust your lifestyle and here I'd made the first step; giving up hockey which was my first sport and one that I still dream I'm playing. A few months after I stopped playing hockey, I quit running and although I started swimming intensely, I managed to put on a few pounds after that. Despite the added weight, that's when my doctor started taking my questions about total joint replacement seriously.

To be continued.

What Am I Going to Do About My F@cking Left Knee

This blog is young enough for readers to head back to those early posts in which I attempted to qualify my fourth (or was it my fifth?) tentative venture back into fight sports training. I urge you to read those early posts in which I described the events in 1983 which ruined the anterior cruciate ligament in my left knee (and again in my right knee in 1997). In 1983, I was a sophomore in college playing rugby in Ohio.  In 1997, I was a serviceable and aggressive (if undersized) old-boy helping the Seattle Rugby Club qualify for the national club championships in Hartford, Connecticut.

Both times I left my heart, guts, and ACL out on the field. The injuries were physically painful, but the deeper hurt was emotional devastation from the expectation that each injury would profoundly change my life.

In 1983, an ACL tear was the end of the line for most athletes as the graft-repair surgeries that are now commonplace, were far from perfected. Furthermore, the conventional wisdom on recovery and rehabilitation was in the dark ages. So although I went (arthoscopically) under the knife to get the joint cleaned a bit, I resisted a complete reconstruction, accepted conservative treatment, and thereafter proceeded to do extensive damage in the joint while just trying to remain an active 20-something.

Eventually, in 1991, I sought ACL autograft reconstruction in San Diego, and got back into the business of smashing into people for fun. After a year or so of rehabilitation, newfound stability enabled me to surf, swim, run, and play rugby again (finally). Unfortunately, restored stability couldn't make up for the loss of the articular cartilage (so important to joint health) accrued during those eight "unstable" years. 20 years later, I consulted the orthopedic surgeon who fixed my right knee in 1997, and he called me a young but ready candidate for knee replacement.

That injury suffered in 1983 is one of the prominent watershed moments in my life. The injury and issues that resulted have done as much to influence my personality as any other external thing in my life. The results are mixed having given me both a faith in my physical self; that injuries are obstacles that can be overcome through personal intensity, hard work, and in some cases, a surgeon's knife. Unfortunately, I also believe that prolonged periods of limited ability (or disability when I'm really feeling sorry for myself), have contributed to a moodiness that is the bane of my existence. Frankly, I'd be really surprised if researchers haven't studied the connection between injury, disability, and mood.

To be continued.

Getting Old, Cool

First there was this:



From which came this:



To which I respond: I gotta be me...hit or miss...

“At 50, everyone has the face he deserves.”

“At 50, everyone has the face he deserves.”

George Orwell, Extracts From A Manuscript Notebook, from The Collected Essays, Journalism and Letters Vol. 4. (1946-50).




George Orwell wrote that line in a letter to Albert Camus in response to Camus' assertion that "...at a certain age, every man is responsible for his own face."  It's a brilliant trifle reflecting the belief that how one lives should be reflected in his face.

This past weekend I celebrated my 50th birthday (exclusive of the original one) with my wife and son, and a small klatch of our friends and family.  I spent the morning of my birthday surfing by myself in excellent conditions on the western coast of Washington State.  Later in the day, we enjoyed grilled rib-eye steaks and spot prawns, with Dungeness Crab mac and cheese, a salad, and too much to drink.  The men toasted me with Maker's Mark and I smoked a Montecristo.  There was no need for dessert, except that Jacob gave me a nice hug and that put me over the moon.

Having spent six really happy days at the beach, I thought I'd capture my face to preserve the memory as our summer will wind down very quickly up here in the next few weeks.  I'm glad I did too, because this photo will continue to force me to ask whether indeed I earned this face.  I believe so.  Perhaps over the next 50 years, I can do a little better while I am at it.

Gentleman, Gentle, Man

I'm working on an idea here.  Stay with me. 

Last night, I watched the Tom Hanks movie, "Larry Crowne."  Not a big film but it made an impression on me.  One of several sub-texts to the film is the simple concept of behaving as a gentleman.  The issue caught me as I struggle with the familiarity that developed between my wife and I in what will be 20 years of marriage as of August this year.  Once I thought that familiarity would be an expression of intimacy, closeness, and sense of invulnerability in our union.  But it's also bred poor behavior in me, behaviors my wife sometimes mirrors as a defense mechanism.  Worse yet, these behaviors aren't lost on my observant son who expresses them himself in moments where he feels the need to establish his independence.

These are crucial issues of manhood and fatherhood that I need to think through before I write on them more fully.  Before this gets real in a hurry.  Please stay tuned.

Worry

Worry isn't manly.  I am a lifetime worrier. I am not manly.

Of course the logical fallacy in the statement above is obvious; or at least it's not true for me.  I've made a lifetime study of manliness and at some point in my son's early life, I concluded that the manner in which I was expressing fatherhood was about as manly as it gets.  Not action-seeking in wartime manly.  Not notches in the bedpost manly.  Just plain old bringing up mine with the best possible foundation for his own manhood, manly.

And the whole time I worried.  I used a certain amount of strictness and set high bars for behavior and contribution to the household in tending to my son (he's a very good kid with little tenable sass).  I tried to set the proper example by overtly engaging in needed tending of the castle; tending I expected my son to gravitate toward as he aged (he mostly hasn't, although at 14 he's getting better and I usually only have to ask three times now).  But I also worried that I demanded more of him than any kid of his age would ever realistically provide.  And that lead to the worry that from time to time he would feel as though he could not please me or that I had broken his own independent spirit.  I still worry about the former but fortunately appear not to have accomplished the latter (phew!).

And now I am worried about his arm.  That arm that has brought him so much positive attention and from which he's accrued so much self-esteem.  The arm with which he was striking out 10-year olds on the small diamond, only months after he turned 7.  The arm that we have nurtured, protected, developed according to methods recommended and overseen by experts.  The arm he injured pitching in a 13U travel baseball tournament two weekend ago.

He's a well-rounded baseball player and doesn't need to pitch to make appropriate contributions to his team.  But when he does, he has been very successful, and he's very taken by the process of developing his pitcher-self.  I derive no small measure of relief from my worry through his spirit demonstrated since right after the game in which he was hurt.  His gameness for a diagnosis.  His gameness to attack the physical therapy prescribed after obtaining that diagnosis.  His determination to get past this moment (he certainly views it as "momentary") and begin preparing for his first season as a high school player during the course of the coming off-season.

But having sustained serious ligament injuries in both my knees playing rugby through the years, I understand all too well the repercussions of potential under-diagnosis or under-treatment in this situation.  And so I worry that he won't get better with physical therapy, that his injury is too severe, and that he won't pitch again.  I worry because I care.  Whether or not it's manly to care.  Because this boy is a piece of me and the only authentic legacy of my wife and I.  And he deserves the greatest possible opportunity at self-actualization we can provide him.

Things I did before my son got good at baseball

Walking out the nose on a perfect longboard day on the Washington Coast.  I surfed very regularly until my son made his first all star team at 9 years old.  That same year, we broke ground on a house built in the dunes near my favorite sandbar.  And yet, I have surfed less each year since.  Ironic.  But then sacrifice is an surprising ingredient in the well-lived life of a parent.  Besides, I still manage to paddle out a few times a year and have yet to lose my groove.  With the boy hurt now, I might find a couple of extra days in the waves this summer.  The thought leaves me content.

Right Elbow

Something in there isn't working quite right at the moment.  Well it might be working, but it's a bit uncomfortable in certain positions.  So my little pitcher won't be throwing for the next couple of months while whatever is wrong has a chance to heal.  He's handling that news much better than I have.  But he's still itching to get back in and help his team win any way he can.  You want to understand competitiveness.  That's it.

Dilettante

Back with a new post for the first time in three months.  I regret the interruption and hope that what few readers actually pause here to inspect my muse understand why I've been where I've been.

One day I was certain I was on course to stick with my interest in grappling through the welcoming community at Foster Brazilian Jiu Jitsu, and finally progress in this esoteric sport that I find both captivating and maddening as a practitioner.  The next day, I found myself foreclosed from class attendance, an essential ingredient in the recipe for success in the pursuit of grappling skill and promotion in the discipline of Brazilian Jiu Jitsu.  My problem was, I was perfectly content in knowing I couldn't make classes this spring, being the father of a talented 13 year old baseball player working hard to pursue his own dreams of sporting achievement.  I didn't care that I couldn't play anymore.

Although I didn't mind sacrificing my practice to be my son's taxi service and personal athletic butler, I needed and found solace, as I always have, in a renewed effort in the gym, attending to my own physical fitness, alone.  I also looked after my son's fitness as the season wore on, and his new-found adolescent physicality wonderfully lifted his baseball performance this year, both at the plate and on the mound.  In a single week in June, he both hit a homerun and pitched a shutout, the latter against one of the strongest hitting teams in his very competitive select league.

And then on Father's Day, he hurt his pitching arm in bracket play at a travel tournament in another part of our state, his team crumbled behind him, and we slunk back to Seattle wondering what had just happened to his baseball dream.  The event of his injury forced me to consider, misty-eyed, his utter dedication to baseball, his dual crafts pitching and hitting, and compare his commitment to mine.  In that consideration, I came to realize that I was a mere physical dilettante; having tried so many activities in a lifetime indulgence in physical culture and having been only sorta good at each but master of none.  Including Brazilian Jiu Jitsu.  Especially Brazilian Jiu Jitsu.

So what the fuck am I really good at now?  I'll tell you what.  I may be a red-assed, jewish-atheist, city-lovin' goof draped in a superhero cape disguised as a physical culturist.  But I am also a fucking great father.  I know what I like and what I like doing, and I know what my midlife physical limitations will prevent me form ever doing again.  And knowing that stuff, I am happy to commit, fully, to being myself.  A dad.

With that, I plan to discontinue the 50-year old white belt blog in favor of a more full journal of my life as a dad.  Cliche blog maybe, but I don't do this for anyone but me.  No more linkies to blogs I like. Or fuck-all blog ads that don't pay shit unless the writer loads his grist with search words and such.  Just me, my family, and our modern life.

If you came here for the fighting, thanks.  I hope you'll stay.  If you don't, good travels and fare well.  Thanks for having read this crap.

Early Thoughts on Hiatus

On March 9, I determined I could no longer train, even at my hobbyist intervals, and still support my son's participation in travel baseball to the extent I desire.  His already demanding schedule grew even more robust following the switch from off-season to pre-season. 

And then we went to Arizona for his first tournament of the year; one in which his team coalesced and he played quite well.  Although the team was out of the winners' bracket after Day 1, they competed well, played some decent team baseball, and my boy pitched, hit, and defended with a robust competitive vigor that made me very proud.

Knowing this trip was on the horizon, as are tuition payments for the high school he'll begin attending next fall, I called James and asked him to suspend my membership agreement until the baseball schedule wanes this summer.  Now, almost three weeks later, I am detrained and I miss the mat.   I miss the new and old friends in class.  I miss getting punched in the face.

I knew I would, but I also knew that I would start beating myself up about missing classes if I couldn't maintain a sort of dual motivations (to train and to be there for my son).  So I temporarily sacrificed one for the other. 

In the mean time, I've found short intervals of time in which I can train on my own.  I lift and stretch.  I do some BJJ drilling.  The latter is almost essential to maintaining some kind of tangential attachment to the mat and the movements that can be so demanding to novice grapplers, but which come so naturally with constant training.

Flipping a switch and then...?

I've been training a little bit less than my already spare typical three classes a week.  The reasons for this are documented in previous posts; my son's baseball year has shifted from off-season to preseason.  His practice schedule shifted from indoors to outside (when our Seattle end-of-winter weather permitted), and the baseball schedule has been hard to reconcile with class schedule. 

Despite training less, my last few classes were progressively better.  As of the last class, my rolls with higher belts and the toughest fellow-white belts have dramatically improved.  The most prominent personal win was in my perception of pressure exerted by the big kids and dealing with it.  I'm still getting dominated, making the same mistakes, and getting tapped readily.  But my survival skill is very improved and I am actually rolling.  Most importantly, I am beginning to feel like I can handle working from underneath without panic and I am tapping exclusively to authentic finishes (many of which seem advanced or even exotic to me).

Overcoming claustrophobia is an essential survival attribute for new grapplers (or even experienced ones uncomfortable working while underneath).  Hip and shoulder angles, bridging, and creating decent frames are skills I've been developing with James and my partners, and I couldn't be more excited about my progress, hobbyist though I may be.

Which brings me back to the open of this post.  My son is now working on HIS game seven days a week including his cage work, bullpens, strength and conditioning, and team practices.  All the while, he is gearing up for the start of his season which begins next week with five days in Arizona for tournament play.  Once we get our game schedule for league season, I'll know how to structure my BJJ training for the next four months.  (I already know which weekends I can't train because of the six other travel tournaments we'll be attending through July.)

So for the next few months, that's my focus; his game and his sports lifestyle.  My training takes a back seat.  But BJJ will not go away completely; I've come too far and really enjoy our school community too much to leave it completely yet again.  But I will take a hiatus from this blog except to chime in now and then on my son's exploits.  And to report on whether I've really broken through my personal BJJ block.  Thanks for sticking with this blog.

"It's not the winning...

...it's the taking apart." That was the theme of a 1990's era Nike Rugby campaign featuring England international Brian Moore. Rugby, like the fighting sports, demands an internal ferocity of some players, so I understood the idea at the time. I just didn't care for it much because I never needed to fabricate my internal desire to compete at my limit when I played the game (some 400+ times over 19 years).

                                         Brian Moore

Fast forward to last Saturday afternoon where I was utterly taken apart during full contact sparring in MMA class. Make no mistake, I love boxing, kickboxing, and full MMA work. But I worked with a guy who just had my number. It got so bad, I made the ultimate sparring mistake and starting closing my eyes every time I threw. I made little or no contact while getting jab-countered relentlessly. I even tried feinting my jab to draw his left so I could counter-straight over his left, then hook.  I got kicked in the head for my effort  because he didn't bite on my fake. Changed angles, stayed away from the power, changed levels. I had no answer. I just sucked.

I chalked it up to not having a good MMA class for several weeks and doing no bag work on my own outside of class. Valid reasons, but it didn't stop me from feeling sorry for myself after class. Ugh, I hate that! Bottom line: there's only two classes a week and I have to make both. I need to do bag work on my own. And for chrissakes, keep your fucking eyes open.

Couldn't Make Class Last Night

For reasons I pointed out in a couple of previous posts, I can't train in the dojo more than a couple times a week. It won't always be that way, but for now, I am responsible to my son and his pursuit of excellence. So how do I deal with that? Well. Right now it's Four O'clock in the Morning. I'm training. I'm 49. What's your excuse?

Quiet Confidence

My son is a baseball player.  He starts high school next fall and should very much be a leader there and beyond.  And I want very much for him to play in college.  So videos like this, well, I eat them up.  Because in them I see grown versions of my son, even while I still get to have him as a kid.  While this may seem off-topic (and so far I have yet to meet a grappler who gives a crap about baseball), listen to the themes here and tell me they don't apply to your training.

TCU Baseball 2011: Quiet Confidence from Red Productions on Vimeo.

The Hobbyist

I attended an extremely fun and valuable training session a couple of weekends ago. Our school vacated a saturday class schedule and welcomed BJJ players from 5 Rings Jiu Jitsu for a three hour school exchange and mega-roll. Coaches Foster (FBJJ) and Oberhue (5 Rings) taught and drilled the big room on a small suite of techniques focusing on separate "game" areas. Foster taught side control/bottom techniques and Oberhue some interesting standing guard pass concepts. And after drilling we rolled and rolled and rolled.

The vibe was super positive and tracked with a theme Oberhue spoke to: breaking down tribalism in BJJ teaching. Sharing was a key theme and so was the value of rolling with unfamiliar opponents. There was a lot of experience in the room, and many of our upper belts were visibly game for the opportunity. So much so that it took work as a white belt looking to get back-to-back rolls. In one case, one of my own schoolmates (a skilled purple belt with really sweet flexibility attributes), basically blew me off.

Now I know better than to have taken this situation personally, but I did. He reluctantly agreed to go only after I basically pursued him (he's bigger than me, and his flexibility poses an interesting challenge so why not?). But he went through me in an instant, tapped me as though to shed me and get on with 'real' training with an unfamiliar upper belt.

Again, I understand the zeal to train with guys from the other school; but the moment made me uncomfortable. That moment put me in my place in the school. I am hapless, unfit, a hobbyist. There is nothing I can offer such a partner in training, especially in the context of so many other unfamiliar partners available.

But overall it was a great experience, and I was able to meet Dan, another blogger who is now looking to turn his writing into something more serious (as has his BJJ now become). His story is dramatic to me, and his demeanor in view of his experience was so positive and inspiring. And not too ironically, Dan's blog has been known as "My Life as a White Belt. My life indeed.

Why I Don't Train Every Day

Thinking Bad Thoughts

Why do I suck?  Why did I go in for MMA class last night and not expect it was going to suck with only two other, completely new students in the class?  How did I get owned in posture and control drills by a guy who claims never to have wrestled or played any other grappling sport before?  Why the complete technique brain fart, dumbass?  Since when does everyone else feel so much stronger than me; I thought I was one of the "strong guys?"  Why do I feel so down on myself after making two classes and a private this week, and it's not even the end of week yet?

Going Private

As I've written here before, while I am every bit a white belt, I am no beginner.  I've been at the practice of Brazilian jiu jitsu for as much as a year or so at time, four times since 1996.  If I'd just stayed with it (and really, I couldn't have), I'd be giving private lessons now.  As opposed to taking them; as I did this past Sunday for the first time.

In the past, I was a roll-happy jock, just looking to wrestle and learn a few techniques while getting fit for other pursuits.  I was mostly disinterested in belt promotion which was helped along by the fact that I attended only two seminars since 1996 (Bob Bass and Juliano Prado).  And I never took a private lesson with a black belt.

This time around, I changed my mindset.  I want to experience the process of really becoming a grappler.  I have no ego in it, and don't see myself as ever being "good," just growing experienced and competent.  And promoted when appropriate.

To that end, I do keep a training journal and log the techniques we learn in class along with general notes on conditioning and experiences rolling.  And I signed on for a relatively valuable "one private per month" add-on to the membership fees at our gym.

The funny thing about my first private was that there was nothing private about it!  Coach had me out on the floor with another full class under way.  He retained the services of Elena, a wonderful blue belt, to help out as part grapple dummy, and part instructor.  A really great pedagogical ideal allowing Coach to instruct and demonstrate in ways that I would always be free to observe completely, or he free to observe me executing the few drills we worked.

And he left me with a single thought that I exercised last night.  We worked on preventing head control in side mount.  He taught me some framing I hadn't already learned innately.  To ingrain the teaching, he instructed me to start under side control in every roll I have this week.  I did so last night, and although I got thrashed by some skilled players, I gained a measure of comfort on bottom that I'd been lacking so far.

And so I add the experience of occasional private instruction.  Looking forward to more.

Don't you just hate it when

Is there anything worse for the intelligent BJJ student than not being able to execute the skills you drill in the first part of class when rolling in the second part of class? Tonight, we worked on sweep variants in side control. They made sense and drilling the primary technique close to 50 times really allowed me to pick apart my nascent flaws and memorize the tidy, valuable tidbits about positioning and grip. But when it came to rolling, the relict effects of my two-week lay off interfered with my earnest attempts to use the technique when I was under side control. I chose to roll with the big boys since I sort of am one. The guys with good pressure just eliminated my breathing despite my conscious relaxation and shallow rapid breaths under the squeeze. I just couldn't get enough air. Sucks. But I can't imagine how much worse I'd feel if I actually cared about getting tooled so hard.

You pay for your mistakes

First training in two weeks tonight.  First we had weather.  Then I got sick.  And stayed sick.  And got lazy when I was less sick.  Sometimes you just have to get off the dime.  Laying around is a mistake.  Tonight I paid.  Tomorrow I head back in and rectify.  Because I don't make the same mistake twice.

Training Beats RIP edition

Miss you, Nujabes.

Working today so I can fight tonight...

MMA 101; hopefully with time to box five rounds after all that dang fitness work.

Whoops there goes ANOTHER week...

Not happy about it.  First we had a week of winter weather that did it's usual, paralyzing the greater Seattle area and closing shop at the gym for most of last week.  Then I got sick.  With my outsized sense of caring about my fellow grapplers, I stayed out of the gym when it did open back up.  But it's now been over a week since I last trained and I hate these sorts of discontinuities.  Best not to dwell on them when they come up; gotta just get back in and start training again.

Snowed Out

Seattle and the Greater Puget Sound region express a paroxysm of paralysis at the mere mention of snow.  Idiot reporters for the local television news get breathless with hype stories beginning sometimes a week in advance of predicted "snow in the low lands" (meaning anywhere in the general metropolitan area where we're mostly less than 500 feet above sea level). 

The stories get worse as the snow actually falls.  Those same reporters excitedly puff out their accumulation stories.  "Here, take a look at this..." they implore as wander on-camera to some parked car and try to make two inches of snow look like it's meaningful.  It's some of the most juvenile reportage you'll ever witness in a genre that has long since abandoned actual newscasting.

Just this morning, one poor reporter tried to suggest that wet snow was dangerous (as opposed to dry snow which is actually far more difficult to drive in).  She reached down, grabbed a handful, and described it as "oily" in an effort to embellish her suggestion of slippery danger.  I was so taken aback, I had to look up her bio.  Yup.  Born and raised and went to college in Hawaii.  The news director that sent her out for live work ought to be docked pay.

And so the region has rolled over on it back and pissed all over itself in its irrational fear of what is really very moderate weather.  There's nowhere to go.  Even the hardcore BJJ gym is closed today.  Guess I'll black-box some workout or other and post you the details here later after I finish work for the day.

This Man Should be a Legend

A 78 year old Gracie Barra student was just awarded his black belt. Rumble young man, Rumble!

Training Beats Question

Does your school play music during training?  Mine does.  Sure helps you get through three rounds of five-exercise Tabatas.  And four rounds of focus mitt combos with crunches in between.  And four rounds of submission-rolling with MMA gloves followed by four rounds of boxing.  Finishing up with three minutes of burpees. Saturday MMA class is no joke. I think I'm going to watch a little football today, do some long, easy cardio in the family room, and wait to train again until tomorrow!

I'm Going to Make a Grappling Dummy

Like all things homemade these days, there are hundreds of recipes and plans on the internet.  My internet search for grappling dummy plans led me to this site.  When I looked through his pictures the first time, I laughed my ass off.  Read to the end to figure out why.  I know; real mature Mr. Gnarly.

Drills and Good Training Partners Make Good BJJ Classes

Had another good class last night thanks to a series of drills, a new asthma medication, and some strategic rest during rolling.  Instruction was great with the usual protracted warm-up (running and calisthenics) modified to add a protracted set of drills.  I read that nowadays there are some schools that really focus on drilling and its my belief as a lifelong athlete and participant in many sports, that drilling increases competence more sharply than any other form of practice.

I'm not dismissing the value of the "skills" portion of any class, or the live sparring we all look forward to at the end of every session.  But the process of drilling in brazilian jiu jitsu conforms to ideals about competence and  learning described in such diverse works as Josh Waitkin's The Art of Learning and Daniel Coyle's The Talent Code.

My school has a weekly class devoted to just drilling.  The one time I attended, I thought it was both brilliant and unfortunately, beyond my physical capacity.  I still can't do a wall drill.  But the more I work it, the better it gets.  I recently bought Andre Galvao's Drill to Win hoping that reading the book might give me some insight.  I also expect that working some solo drilling at home will help improve my BJJ movement and sensitivity.  Hopefully at some point I'll do enough work through the book to give it a review here on this blog.

At any rate, last night's drilling gave me a proper warm-up and when it came time to roll, I was able to work a half-guard sweep we learned in the skills part of class.  By resting after one or two rounds, and by figuring out how to grab some recovery in the midst of a round, I was able to stay relaxed enough to feel comfortable underneath, even under some pretty good pressure/coverage.  Might I have crested that hill of claustrophobia that's plagued my return to BJJ?  Could be.  Nice to have cool upper belts in class, egos in check, willing to "present" openings for skill taught during drills or to provide enough space to enable me to avoid the panic tap.  I am so happy to be back at Foster Brazilian Jiu Jitsu.

Training Beats, Again

"I have... become pure water."

 

I loved this song in 1999 and love it now. If you don't start bobbing your head or skanking in your office, I can't help you.

Music and BJJ

Really I could have left the "and BJJ" off the title and been a little more transparent.  This post has little to do with BJJ other than I was reading Tangled Triangle, one of several BJJ blogs I really enjoy right now, and came across this post.  The post contains a video montage of dramatic BJJ and submission competition footage ranging from high level gi competition to MMA.  But what makes the video SO dramatic is the use of Moby's "Flower" as the soundtrack.

I was curious about the song but couldn't place it.  Tangled Triangle's author Megan uses Moby's name in the title to her post, a cue as to where the music came from.  But instead of trying to wend my way through 100's of Moby songs in search of this one, I googled the lyric "old miss lucy's dead and gone" and found several links to Huddie Leadbetter, better known as legendary blues master Leadbelly.  A little more digging lead me to this post on cocojams.net, providing a neat anthropological look at the underlying folk-rhyming that Moby samples in Flower.  The stomp and clap beat Moby uses gives the song a field spiritual element and while I love it, the connected connotations of exploitation make me wince.

And it doesn't end there.  A quick youtube search reveals the song's use in the film soundtrack for Nicholas Cage's barely bearable "Gone in 60 Seconds" among myriad other reuses, with or without permission, none of which seem to credit the original Leadbelly piece.  Here are a few examples:

Moby "Flower" (nevermind the misnomer or malapropist use of "Bring Sally Up")


Three Six Mafia


One of dozens of remixes


Thanks to Megan for posting the original BJJ vid, which I like too.  Inspiration for a little lunchtime anthropological excursion thanks to google and youtube!

"You're Not Old, Dude..."

I attended the most intimidating BJJ class ever on Thursday AM.  Clearly this is the class the school studs attend.  Several of the heavy- and ultras- giving face time.  Two browns, several purples and blue.  Two white belts out of 19 men.  Me and another guy with biker facial hair, full sleeve tats and four stripes on his belt.  I was nervous the whole time;  reminiscent of those moments before the kickoff or the first puck drop back when I played rugby and hockey.

I drilled with the other white belt, a really cool guy about my size, but with way more facility in the sport.  Then we rolled, six rings, changing every three minutes.  While waiting for a ring, one of the guys introduced himself and we recognized eachother from the last time I was enrolled with James at his Auburn school.  A third party I've been training with and therefore already knew from this time around joined the conversation.  He's 20 and trains six days a week, sometimes doubling up. 

I congratulated him on his schedule and progress saying get it now before marriage, family, career, age become reasons for less frequent training.  That last one lead he and the first guy to ask about age and I mentioned I was 49 and have been thinking that's an impediment to progress in BJJ, finally after years of being very athletic.  20-year-old's response was, "You're not old, dude."

It was the best compliment I've gotten in years.

A Little More on Fitness and Aging

If you want to understand this blog better, you need to read two of my first three posts here.  I couldn't figure out how to add an "about me" button to the top of the page like so many of my favorite BJJ blogs have.  So I wrote these posts to explain my relationship with BJJ and physical culture in general:

Gnarly Old Guy 1

I followed it up with this to complete the tale:

Gnarly Old Guy 2

If my posts over the past couple of months haven't made it perfectly clear, I live in my self-deprecation.  I own it.  I think that honest humility is endearing, and training in max effort combat sports after one's 30's is very humbling (unless you're Randy Couture, who happens to be one my favorite sports icons).

I got here because I lived a lifetime as a physical person.  I have probably outcompeted my own ability to letter in multiple sports in high school, play two sports in college, and suffered through two nasty injuries, the first of which is actually one of the defining elements of my being (left knee injury in college).  And don't get me started on how asthma defines the asthma-suffering athlete!

I believe that now, I have chosen to train in a very difficult discipline, one that requires peak conditioning to accomplished fine motor techniques against a backdrop of max effort at anaerobic and just sub-anaerobic energy expenditures.  This shit is hard for me, and I am old for it.

In addition to the fitness attributes of a BJJ'er, BJJ requires a melding of the seemingly competing attributes of well-above average flexibility with strength in the core, hips, and hands.  To illustrate this irony, I recently saw an interview in which grappling whiz and MMA coach Ricky Lundell stated jokingly that "flexibility is weakness entering the body;" a play on the old saw that "pain is weakness leaving the body."

In my 30's, I was exceptionally strong, moderately flexible, and could put down 18 scrummages and 18 tackles while running 8 miles during the course of an 80 minute rugby match.  I was not bad for a high level club game, but not select team caliber.  I my 40's, I could put down max effort 50 second shifts on a pretty good senior league hockey team.  As of last September (2011), I was swimming 5000 yards in just over 90 minutes.  I've done the hard and was competitive at it.

And now, I want to progress in a discipline I have already tried and dropped 3 times since my 30's.  One that requires me to be able to thread a fucking sewing needle while meeting or exceeding the gross motor output of any of the sports I have tried before!  Repeatedly.  While my opponent tries to break my arms off or choke me to sleep, or step inside my jab with a wicked left hook to my ridiculous old guy head.

And I hope you keep reading my travail.