First Practice at the Institut

     So, as some of you may know, the second week into my planned two month training period in France I had to return home to Atlanta due to a family emergency. “Judo will be there,” I was once told by ’76 Olympian, Teimoc Johnston-Ono, and right he was.  I would later return to France some six months after my first training venture abroad. But before I continue with the story, I will do my best to revisit the conclusion of the January trip. It will not be as detailed as my previous entries as I am going by memory and I have some catching up to do. After all, I’m training in Korea now.

…The weekend brought some much needed rest. But it would take more than just a few days to get acclimated to this new intense level of training, especially the wear and tear I was inflicting on my body.

     Monday was my first practice at the Institut du Judo (pictured at the top of the page). Getting to the Institut required me taking one RER (regional train) into the Paris Magenta station. From there I took another RER train south, changed to the line 4 Metro train, and went a few more stops continuing south to my destination of Porte d’Orléans. My first visit to the Institut was by car, so going by train it took a little while of asking people and meandering before I found the training center, which was only about a ten minute walk from the station. Once I charted the proper course, the trip was about an hour and change from Villiers.

     I arrived early so I tried to buy some necessary things from a nearby sporting goods store: sports drinks, energy bars, etc... But thanks to the absolute uselessness of traveler’s checks, this was a no-go. There’s traveling tip for you: if you’re thinking about getting traveler’s checks for an up-coming trip—don’t. If you have to carry a large sum, take the extra time and get an international cashier’s check. Or just use your ATM card. Traveler’s checks might as well be space money.

      Frustrated from not being able to purchase the things that I needed, I went ahead to the Institut and changed my pants in one of the locker rooms downstairs then went up to the main dojo. It came to my attention that a number of the other players weren’t just making eye contact—they were eyeballing me.  I apparently reeked of fresh meat and the sharks were beginning to circle. Putting my gi top on, I suddenly knew what Toto felt like when Dorothy told him that they weren’t in Kansas anymore. Well, time to follow’s Toto’s lead, “just crap yourself and jump in there,” I thought. So, I taped up my fingers and found a spot on the mat to do a little stretching before we got started.

     Strategic grip fighting is the initial part of a judo contest. If you want to throw your opponent, you have to get your hands on them. And obviously they don’t want this and try to break your grip, or keep you from gripping their gi. Naturally, this goes both ways and this process of grip fighting is called “kumikata” in Japanese. And years of it is very brutal on the hands, wrists and especially the fingers. Frequent and prolonged injury such as jamming or dislocating the digits eventually cause osteoarthritis and the other physical badge commonly worn by judoka: the joints at the end of the fingers become knobby and develop what are known as Herberden’s nodes. Quitting judo is the only real and permanent remedy to quell the aching, swelling and pain caused by this. As this is rarely a viable option to the avid judo player, we invest in athletic tape and lots of it. To most judo players, we know the white rolls of adhesive fabric as “judo tape.” And without it, on certain days, some of us would find it difficult to tie our belts, let alone play judo.

     Okay, that brings me to another quick side address: the term “play judo.” There has come a time with every non-judo friend of mine when making plans for later in the evening and I say, “Ok, I’m going to play judo, I’ll call you after…” there is instant befuddlement.  The focus instantly shifts from dinner or going out to the consistent reply of, “Huh, you say “play” judo?” Yes, we say “play” judo, and not “do” judo. And I can’t really give a definitive answer on why that is. Non-judo people usually say, “Well, judo is a martial art and martial artists say “do.” And that tends to be true. I once heard a Shotokan Karate instructor say to his students, “We don’t PLAY karate, we DO karate…” Fair enough. And Shotokan Karate isn’t an Olympic sport— Judo is, so we say “play.” Taekwondo is also an Olympic sport, but I don’t know what they say; I don’t speak Korean.   

     The British national team along with a Swiss team and some players from Azerbaijan were joining the multitudes of French judoka and myself at the Institut this particular week. Mondays, Tuesdays and Thursdays the top guys from Sucy Judo also took part in the fun. There were easily around two hundred players on the mat, possibly more. I neglected to take pictures until the following week when there were far less people on the mat. But from that picture I was able to make a solid estimate of around one hundred and fifty players in one of the training sessions. This is somewhat standard from some of the major training centers in the world, but it rarely happens in the US— especially with such a high concentration of quality players.

     The time came for the masses of students and athletes to line up opposite of the instructors and international visiting coaches and bow in. I have found that everywhere does the bowing in ritual a little differently. In France, the instructors and coaches kneel first sitting in the traditional “seza” position with legs folded directly underneath the body (god help you if you kneel or get up before the instructors move—thankfully, I was always following everyone else’s move, due to not speaking the language, and never jumped first). Then, once everyone was kneeling, the head instructor gives a nod to the head student who gives the command loudly in Japanese, “Re!” (pronounced “ray”) and everyone places their hands on the mat in front of them and lowers their heads to the mat out of mutual respect; student and teacher alike. The instructors and coaches rise first, then we get up and start running in a massive circle around the mat. Because of the numerous visitors this week the warm-ups are a little more formal and gradual. The following week they weren’t as slow-going.

     We began by doing a hundred or so uchikomis. These are generally done as a warm-up or for conditioning. It is a repetition of the first two parts of a throw (the off balancing or “kuzushi” and entry or “tsukuri”) without doing the actual finishing part; the throw (or “kake” [pronounced “kah-kay”]). These fit-ins are usually done in sets of ten to twenty back and forth with a partner (or rubber tubing attached to a fixed point) until at least one to several hundred uchikomis have been completed. The Japanese are known for doing many hundreds to even a thousand or more uchikomis per practice. Sometimes these are performed more with speed in mind, sometimes power, but technique is always important as this is when the crucial entry for the throws is being recorded into the body’s muscle memory. There is little speculation as to why the Japanese are known for having perfect technique and consistently the most gold medals of nearly every competition they enter.

     Then we move on to nagekomi, which means “throwing.” This can be a brutal way to warm up. You and your partner take turns throwing each other back and forth, generally with some light movement to set up the throw (throwing is not meant to be done statically; your opponent’s energy or movement is necessary to most efficiently be able to throw them). The mats of the Institut are set directly on the gym type floor, making any fall a rough one. Especially when your partner is throwing you as hard as he can. Learning how to fall correctly is the first step in judo. Without that knowledge injury is certain, and permanent injury or death could result. Even with having known how for fall for fifteen years, this was harsh. My body was not used to this kind of repetitive hard impact (I am especially spoiled as the mats of my dojo are set upon spring-loaded sub-flooring). The only recourse at the time was to get back up each time and try to slam my partner as hard as he was slamming me and maybe he would let up. Usually this was just taken as encouragement. Sometimes there were players who were focused on technique and fluidity more than power, and wouldn’t try to slam you. Of course, these were always the best guys to work with. They weren’t trying to prove anything, just get in quality training.

     After about five to ten minutes of throwing we would move to newaza randori (ground work free practice: you are trying to pin, choke or armbar your opponent). Generally we would do five minute rounds for at least half an hour or more, changing partners with the end of each round. Again, I can’t stress how difficult this duration was. Keeping in mind it wasn’t just the clock that I was trying to outlast. Nearly every match was fought with the intensity of a competition confrontation. And these guys are more than good and incredibly strong. And a good many of the French players like to play dirty; grinding away at your ears with their knuckles, or thumping your head against the mat. For the next week, by the end of the first hour of every session I was beyond ready to be finished with practice. Too damn bad for me. Every practice lasted the better part of two hours.

     Then would come the tachiwaza randori (stand up free practice: you are trying to throw your opponent with speed force and control flat on their back). This is where I need the most improvement, especially offensively. Going back to grip fighting; for the entire first week of training I rarely got past this stage before being slammed to the ground. These guys played so much judo their grip strength was unbelievable. You would swear they were giving hand jobs to Superman in their off time. I found it nearly impossible to break most of their grips, and when I tried they were almost always two steps ahead and I was left staring at what became the all too familiar ceiling of the Institut. And it really is a nice ceiling.

     That night I was awoken at about 3:40 in the a.m. by a screaming pain in my left knee. I jerked back the covers to find the joint resembling a cantaloupe. It had completely inflated so that the usual contours and shape of the thing were no longer. And trying to bend it was nauseating. My mind was racing and I was in the middle of a steady cold sweat. “Shit! This is not how this is going to end,” I said aloud. After a steady flowing stream of expletives, I calmed down and thought about the situation. I had heard enough of other people's knees go out to guess that I hadn’t sustained a major injury; you know when someone blows their knee out— there is either a loud “pop!” or a loud yell or both. And I had neither of these. Okay. And I remembered when I was training in Boston and my knee wouldn’t bend for a couple days, one of the players had said that it was probably scar tissue breaking loose and it soon regained functionality. That had to be it; scar tissue from all those years of running was breaking free again from the impact of hitting the mat. I had brought a few Hydrocodone pain killers with me just in case of such a situation. I ate half of one of the white 750mg horse-sized pills, got some ice from the mini-fridge and put it into a plastic bag and put it on my knee and waited. More than an hour later and it hadn’t touched the pain, so I took the other half of the pill and eventually passed out. I don’t like taking pain meds if I don’t need to. But the next day was my second practice at the Institut, and I needed some rest.     

        

Getting to It

     Practice was at 7:00 P.M. that evening.   I was told before I left for France that Wednesdays would be the designated day for Stéphane to coach and work with me directly, so I timed my arrival accordingly.   On the way to practice, Stéphane talked about some upcoming training camps that he had scoped out for me.  It seemed as though as I was about to be getting my money’s worth.

   The club was about ten to twelve minutes away from the Traineaus’ home, in a town called Sucy-En-Brie (pronounced; SOO – see on bree). The club took the same name as the town; Sucy Judo.  Stéphane mentioned, as did Beatrice earlier, that they were working on getting another car so that I could make this trip on my own; their sons are getting to the driving age, anyway— so, it made sense.  Driving in even suburban France seemed rather daunting.  I had piloted a scooter and driven my then girlfriend’s car when I lived in Ibiza, Spain some seven years prior, but the sheer volume of traffic here was increased exponentially.  Road signs seemed more like suggestions, than actual law. Jumping into the melee would certainly be an adventure in and of itself.

     Stéphane was getting excited about potentially working out— as he hadn’t been able to do so for some seven months or so due to an automobile accident that resulted in some new hardware being installed in his wrist.  He told me that the metal plate and half a dozen or so screws were supposed to have been removed by now, but due to his busy work schedule and the holidays, it was still in there.  At stop lights he would work the articulation of his wrist back and forth, seeing if it was going to be up for some action.

     We found our way into the club, and the little kids class was still in progress. The front doors of the school entered into a narrow hall way with doors to the office, restrooms, and locker room-type changing rooms.  The dojo (school) itself was average in size for a martial arts studio—the training area was 12 meters by 22, and jutting right up against padded walls. There were a single section of bleachers for family and girlfriends to be able to spectate, and the exposed heavy wooden beams gave the feeling that we were in a dojo somewhere in Japan instead of France. Both forward and aft of the tops of the walls of the school were lined with what I estimated to be some 400 team trophies. 

     I was introduced to the competitive training coordinator whose name was also Stéphane. He was maybe eight inches shorter than Sensei Traineau and I.  His darker complexion makes him look of coastal Mediterranean descent (and perhaps he is..)  and the heavy cauliflowering of his ears let me know that this man has spent his share of rough hours on the mat. 

     Cauliflower ear is not something that all grapplers get.  And it can generally be drained before it calcifies (if you have the stomach for it, You Tube; draining cauliflower ear— but I’m warning you, this is some pretty gross stuff.. or entertaining, depending on your disposition).  But many players wear it as a badge of honor. My ears are certainly starting to show some wear, but mostly in the form of the cartilage itself beginning to break down and harden.  They pretty much look normal except where there were fine lines, now they look somewhat swollen.  I can’t do anything about that (other than wear headgear like a wrestler—which is generally frowned upon in the judo world) but if they do start to fill with fluid I will definitely find a doctor to drain them.  I am just vain enough to want to avoid that look. Though, even still, a recent ex-girlfriend of mine (this happened while we were together) pointed out that upon examining some damage done to my ears in the bathroom, I was unaware that I was smiling and seemed to be taking some kind of twisted pleasure in my disfigurement. Judo players, quite simply, are not quite right in the head.

         I was pointed in the direction of the changing room, and I walked on down the hall-- and I came to a door... ( those lines of course courtesy of Jim Morrison) There were about eight or so players changing and talking to one another. I greeted the ones that looked up upon my entering the room with a slight nod and possibly a, “Bonjour,” but I did not make an effort to greet everyone. I wasn't sure of the greeting custom here, and decided that less was best as to not seem like an over eager goof, as this was a judo locker room and not a social brunch.  This was maybe not the best approach as everyone who entered after me made a circle around the room shaking hands and greeting all— lesson learned. As I have come to observe, socially speaking, the French are exceptionally polite. And even most of the men and boys still retain the double-cheek kiss greeting to one another. Being an American, I am not really expected to go so far, except when meeting women. And even then it is not always necessarily expected of foreigners.

     When I put on my gi pants I believe I caught a negative remark about the fact that my name was embroidered on my pants. Mostly top players have this done to their gi kimonos and pants, but these pants were part of a gi that was a gift from my father and not something that I chose to have done. Getting ribbed was just something that I was going to have to get used to. As an outsider to their group, there is only one way to earn respect, and that was on the mat.

     Wednesday night was one of their competitor training nights. About twenty or so black belts lined up and bowed in. We warmed up by doing very familiar exercises: army crawl, forward rolls, shrimp, and partner turnovers. Stéphane (the club instructor—when the two are together I’ll refer him as such and Sensei Traineau as such as to differentiate the two) demonstrated a progression of Newaza (ground work) turn overs, and then a Nagekomi (throwing) technique and added the two together for a transition movement. We worked that for a few minutes and then began Newaza Randori  (ground work free practice). 

     Let me go back to the first few minutes of class for a moment. It didn’t take long at all before I was sweating like a bandit on the run, and every bit as red as the stripe on the French flag.  Jet lag, combined with dehydration and my sinus infection was taking far more of a toll on my body that I had anticipated. I suppose this is the difference between being eighteen and twenty eight…

     My first training partner, I shall call him Hussein (his last name on the back of his gi resembles this nickname, but it is not—and he has a dark complexion and a beard… so, it kind of fits when taking into account the prevalent "Me vs. Them" mentality-- nothing personal, of course) was working the turnover at medium strength and speed, and seemed to be having a little trouble executing the maneuver on the opposite side (the French generally practice techniques on both sides as opposed to doing them exclusively on one side or the other). We took turns, each of us gaining more proficiency as we progressed. Then the instructor said, “Randori!” Which, again for those of you that are uninitiated, it basically means: Have at it!

     And “randori” is broken down into either standing work (Tachiwaza Randori), which means that you are trying to throw your opponent with speed force and control flatly on his back, or ground work (Newaza Randor) in which you are trying to pin your opponent for twenty five seconds on his back, or choke or arm bar your opponent until they either pass out, their arm breaks, respectively. Or they submit by tapping out or saying, “Mate” (pronounced Ma-tay) And, if you’ve ever seen Blood Sport with that terrific actor Jean Claude Van Damme, then you know that “Mate” means “Stop.”

     When Hussein and I began to randori, I really didn’t seem to have much difficulty getting whatever technique that I aimed for. Having a wrestling background, I tend to enjoy working on the mat, and was really settling myself into a wonderfully false sense of security. Little did I know, he was letting me go through my favorite techniques for all of his other teammates to watch. This was to be my easiest match of the night.

     My next round was with Mon Ami. Mon Ami had a razor-close shaved head, close-set beady eyes, and cauliflower that protruded from his ears. And he usually had the facial expression of someone who enjoyed biting the heads off of small tree-dwelling rodents. He managed to get out in broken English that he was 81 kilos—the weight class below me. Though, I know that I couldn’t have outweighed him by much, if at all.  I call him Mon Ami because whenever I would run into him in the locker room or in the hallway before practice he would always, and with that demented smile (though I believe he was actually being quite genuine and cordial) greet me with, “Hello, my friend.”  Mon Ami managed to choke me in about every position that we took. His hands were like vice grips, and I felt as near to helpless as I can ever remember as he performed a coup de grâce on me as many times as he wished. He strangled me in positions that I would have yelled at my own students for being choked in—very defend-able positions. I felt like a small child. I began praying to my new lord and master: the clock timer. “Please, oh, please—this sucks so very bad… Please run out of time… and soon…” Eventually, my silent cries of mercy were heard and we changed partners. I began having some serious problems with muscle cramps and would occasionally have to bow out of a session. This was actually much, much worse at my second practice.

     We eventually went to doing standup work. If you have ever been to a country bar that has a mechanical bull— hold that mental image. When the bull operator has finally had enough, and he cranks up the speed to sling the boozed-up rider off— yes, that was me. Unfortunately, I was without the aid of the booze... or the nice inflatable crash pad. Every landing further disorientated me. And my physical conditioning was nowhere near what it needed to be to last five minute rounds, with even mediocre players, let alone with what Sensei Traineau informed me after practice were, “almost professional” judo players.  Sensei Traineau kept watch, and constantly inquired, “C’est va?” And, ”You think you need to rest, maybe?” To which I would stick my tongue out of the side of my mouth and smile and wink as if to say, ”Oh, no—this is just starting to be fun.” Sometimes I would give a thumbs up. At this point I merely trying not to let more blood in the water than necessary.  I knew that walking into a dojo with one of France’s top champions as my own personal coach, they would want to test me. But if I gave up, they would absolutely rip me apart given the next opportunity. I had to make it to the end of practice, and I did. 

     The next day was supposed to begin practice at the Institut du Judo in Paris. But, thankfully, that did not happen. If it did, I might have sustained a serious injury. Stéphane had a meeting with his lawyer in Paris regarding his conflict with the French Federation that took longer than expected, which left me to wonder the Champs-Elysée for an hour under the overcast skies of Paris in drizzling rain. I window shopped some concept cars that were on display on giant turntables, and walked in a couple of clothing stores with no real intention of buying anything. I bought a couple things here once some years ago-- French retailers are allowed to have sales two months out of the year—but aside from those two months, normal people have no business shopping on the Champs-Elysée. It is consistently one of the most expensive shopping districts in the world. So, I wondered around and reminisced about my first visit to Paris, and indeed to Europe, when I was sixteen, and kissing a girl that shall remain nameless under the Arch de Triumph… "Was it on that bench, or that one?" I wondered… I think it is difficult to come to France and not make memories that last forever and burn brighter just because they sparked in France.

      Stéphane decided that we should stop by the Institut du Judo so that he could at least show me around and introduce me to the head instructors. It’s always good to know people that know people. From the outside, the Institut looks as though it is part of a college campus. It has its own underground parking deck, with a store, a hotel and very decent looking Italian restaurant just opposite of the entrance. The main dojo is quite impressive; nothing like it exists in the States— even the Judo gym of the Olympic Training Center in Colorado Springs fails to compare.  There is only one other facility in France that surpasses the Intitut du Judo, and that is INSEP: the French Olympic Training Centre. And even it apparently only is barely more important that the Institut, as many of the same players train at both: including the French National Judo Team. 

      The main dojo gives every impression of being in a professional sporting arena back in the States. My guess is that capacity is somewhere around ten thousand spectators—so, it is actually somewhat smaller, but hardly if you consider the size of the playing field (the competition mat area of Olympic mats are usually eight meters by eight meters with three meters of safety area on all sides, so you could fit around six to eight of these areas comfortably in the Institut). The ceiling is a beautiful huge wood and steel beam crescendo. The stands form somewhat of a horseshoe around the ground floor, with a large catwalk at what would be the open end of the horseshoe. A massive French Judo Federation banner hangs in front of the catwalk from the ceiling to nearly above the players heads. The following week the British team would come in to train with the French Team and any other takers. And I would be one of those punters, to borrow a British-ism (though, perhaps “punted” would be more fitting).

     The next day was Friday and I was back at Sucy. This practice seemed to go worse than my first. Again, dehydration and fatigue had completely taken over my body. My abs would cramp so I would have to say “mate” and stretch, which would in turn cause my back to cramp. And these weren’t little stiches—you could see the muscles bulging out freakishly beneath the skin. Several times I had to end a randori match due to being unable to cease the cramping. Sensei Traineau eventually said, “That’s enough, stretch and you’re finished.” Thankfully, the class just happened to finish at the same time, so I didn’t technically quit before everyone else (there is no clock in the Sucy dojo, only the digital timer, so it’s anyone’s guess as to how long until the end of class—and really it’s up to the instructor and not the clock). That night in bed I caught myself moaning aloud, and unable to even lie still without involuntarily contorting due to the cramps. And yes, I had been drinking nearly the equivalent of my body mass in water. But flying East and loosing time, takes more of a toll on the body that it does flying West and gaining time. Also, I had spent the past month resting my injured shoulders and training very little, so jumping into two hour intensive workouts was bound to be less than joyful. But I didn’t expect this level of physical rejection from my body. It was not happy with me, or the shock that I was putting it through-- and nor was it finished with its revolt.           

My Arrival

   I arrived in France with a bit of a sinus infection. Which I'm sure had nothing to do with the two consecutive weekends of birthday and New Year's/send off celebrations... Stéphane's wife (I know that my first post lacked the accent in Stéphane's name, and I apologize-- the normal methods for applying this don't work in the Blog Spot format-- I had to figure out how to sneak in in there) commented within a few minutes of picking me up from the airport, "You are a little bit sick. You must have been very busy partying with your friends before you left?" Yet another layer of meaning to why we self-apply the name "Wrecking Crew" to our dance-aholic group of friends. So, I smiled and replied, "Ah, yes-- we did... Just a little bit."

     It wasn't long into our short drive that we found ourselves discussing the sad state of international judo politics.  Stéphane is some six years in the midst of his battle against the French Judo Federation for removing him from his position from the federation, as my father has just begun his own war against the rampant misappropriation of funds by USA Judo (the two organizations are affiliated only through the larger governing body; the International Judo Federation-- whose leader(s) are also of questionable moral and ethical standing...). The conversation then turned to more getting-to-know-you type talk, which was much more relaxing. A phone call disabled the car's radio and Beatrice politely apologized, and took the call over speaker phone without ever taking her hands off of the wheel (Hmm, Europe beat us to that much better implementation of Bluetooth technology-- or can US cars do that now?..) The change in language was a jolt to my brain: that's not French, I thought.  The sweet, meek voice on the other end was obviously the Traineaus' youngest child, their eleven year old daughter. 

The conversation finished, and I inquired, "So, I noticed you were speaking German?"

"Yeah, I am German. I always speak it to the kids in the home," she replied informatively.

"Ah, very cool." (Second to the ability to fly, I always wished that I could just immediately pick up any language-- especially due to my occasional laziness when it comes to studying subjects properly)  I told Beatrice that my father was born in Munich, and the conversation continued pleasantly. 

     

     The Traineau family lives in Villiers sur Marne. A relatively small town (relative to Paris, that is) of about 29,000 people, Villiers is probably a quite typical French suburb. The houses in the town have that very traditional French sort of look: white or eggshell in color, stucco or stack stone outer, with red or brown earthen tile roofs.

     Beatrice showed me to my quarters, which are separate from the main house and just through the office of Stéphane's and his wife's communication agency. The one bedroom studio flat has everything a judo player needs; a bed, full bathroom, half kitchen, and sufficient solitude. I put my bags down and was invited to lunch in the main house. My first meal of oven roasted potatoes, green beans and homemade pâté, was to set the standard for meals to come in the Traineau abode-- delicious, and proportional enough to jam a diesel powered commercial wood chipper. I think I shall have little trouble gaining the weight that I need to become a proper 90 kilo competitor.

     You see, the current and relatively new weight classes are an issue for me. At 81 kilos (that's about 178lbs for you Americans-- just multiply by 2.2 to get from kilos to lbs) which is the next weight class down, I am way too light. I start straining muscles and have little control over my 6'3.5" frame. Once I really begin to train for tournaments, and get my cardio level up, then my mother's fantastic furnace genes kick in. And if I could manage to get it down, I could consume an entire school bus and it wouldn't show. The old weight class of 86 kilos would have been perfect for me, but c'est la vie, non? There are certainly worst problems to have, and worst places to have them in.

     I took my lunch with the Traineaus' youngest son, and two gals that work for their agency. The ladies were very cordial and one of them asked me in English if I speak French. I replied, "Some Spanish, but no French." They both smiled politely, and continued their conversation in French. 

     After beginning the diligent but happy work of tackling my lunch, I realized that I was going to need something to wash it down with. So, I managed to get several gobs full of potatoes only half way down my gullet (it's no secret that I tend to inhale food, never mind the fact the fact that I was really, really hungry) before eyeballing the kitchen for a glass and probably looking much like a choking victim in the process... I managed to swallow at least enough to try and speak. "Um, (I think I might have even said, "un vaso"-- I suppose when one doesn't know the correct word in a particular foreign language, like French, yet they know it in another foreign language, like Spanish-- then the latter is the one they go for..) where are your glasses?" I had asked their son.  He looked puzzled, and I needed to be able to breathe pretty soon. So, I simplified the request, "Glass?" Thankfully, he understood and fixed me a glass of water. I almost choked myself out before I even made it on the mat. Nice one.

     After finishing my mound of lunch, I excused myself to take a much needed nap. I knew that Stéphane would be in Paris for at least a few more hours on business, so now was the time. So, nap I did. For at least two solid hours. I didn't sleep more than a couple hours on my red eye flight across the pond-- which is strange because I fly often for work and am generally out before the plane finishes taxiing for takeoff.

     I awoke to a sound that would become my new alarm-- fingers clacking hard and fast on keyboards and business being conducted by what sounded like dozens of people (though, there are actually less than half of that) in a slew of different languages (and, they generally only speak French and German).  I sorted myself out before heading into the bustle.  I opened my door and at the opposite end of the office there was a large man with a giant smile that said, "Mat-THEW!" 

     Stéphane and I are probably almost an exact match in height.  But that is it as far as the comparison goes.  His back is much wider, his forearms are almost double mine in thickness, so too are his his hands and fingers: a champion judo player born.

     After greeting one another and talking for a minute, it was agreed that we would go to practice that evening, but Stéphane mandated that I should take it easy as not to injure myself from being jet lagged. Of course, I agreed. And, in that moment, I did so sincerely. However, this is something that judo players ALWAYS do. Their coach says to "Take it easy!" for whatever reason (usually due to rehabbing an injury) the player says "OK" and again, for whatever reason, once on the mat the player takes it as a personal challenge and pushes themselves twice as hard like a complete fool. Or, like a judo player. Call it as you wish.  

     

    

    

  

    

    

Pre-Trip

     Ok, so, if you have come to this blog site, then there is a good chance that you know me.  And, that I am leaving January 4th to go and train under Stephane Traineau in France for two months. (If not, then; hello, my name is Matt Scheib) And if you are a judo player with any interest in Olympic or World Championship level judo, then you have heard of Stephane Traineau. If you are just begining your judo career or don't play judo and haven't heard of him, then take a moment to check out his Wikipedia page and some clips on YouTube.

     The first question that I am generally asked when people find out that I am going to France is, "Are you going to try and make the Olympic Team?" And, well, quite frankly-- I'm not that caliber of player. Not naturally, anyway. I am not a gifted athlete. And no amount of training could ever make me a Jimmy Pedro, or Nicolas Gill. So, the question still remains: "Why am I going to France?" Just to learn how to teach and coach? Well, that's part of it, too. But, I'm not ready to hang up my competitive aspirations just yet. (And yes, I realize that I have not yet fully divulged exactly what those aspirations are...)

     I'm twenty eight years old (well past what most consider to be prime Olympic material: eight-teen to twenty six) and my knees don't much care for running, anymore. This is despite the fact that my entire non-physical being has always craved and needed the psyche-centering nourishment provided by miles and miles of Georgia trails. I am an ex-smoker (this lapse in judgement occurred after my running career ended in high school and before I began to take judo seriously again). I all but quit judo for the better part of half a decade after receiving my shodan (first degree black belt) when I was nineteen. So, basically, once college rolled around I traded a very well-balanced regiment of running and playing judo, for a very different sort of regiment. One that, unfortunately or otherwise (it's hard to have many regrets while knowing that every decision, good or ill has brought me to this point in my life) I was just as dedicated in maintaining.

     So, what happened? Why the sea change, yet again? One day I had a pal and co-worker ask me to help him with with some throwing techniques. He had entered a grappling tournament and got tossed firmly on his back by a judo player. It had been so long since I had put on a gi. And I was in no way to teach anyone. But, always wanting to help a buddy if I can, I decided to knock the dust off of my father's aged copy of Kodokan Judo and get back to the basics. In short: I fell in love with the sport like I never had before. Soon after, I decided to begin competing again. My father and coach, Dennis Scheib, said."OK, you want to compete again? Time to train. Let's see how you do through this workout..." upon finishing the workout, I quickly scurried around the corner of the dojo and heaved my guts up from the depths of my toes-- I promptly quit smoking. And like so many others before and after me; I was saved by judo, and in more ways than I currently care to discuss.  I was baptized by sweat, blood, jammed digits and swollen ears. Granted, it is a different sort of baptism than most care to endure, but generally the only kind that will do for those of us who are creatures of the sport.

    I lost my first match back on the mat. Which only furthered my resolve to train harder. Which I did. I then went through cycles of winning and loosing. Then, I began to compete in the US Nationals (winning my first match by foot sweep), and my first international tournament. And I spent some ten days training with the US national team in Boston, Mass. It did not take long to realize that if I wanted to improve significantly, then I would have to expand my exposure to players not only outside of my dojo and state, but outside of the country. In other words, I would have to travel to get my butt kicked. So, if you were one of the people who asked me, "So, are you excited about your trip?" and you thought my response somber-- this is why.

     If you want to really improve in judo, you have to find a dojo filled with players much better than you are. And if you are American, that generally means travel outside the US. So, immediately, you are a foreigner: an outsider. Regardless of how welcoming the dojo may be initially, and there's a good chance that they may not be if it is a dojo that trains competitors, their attitude will simply not be,"Oh, so you want to improve your judo? That's wonderful! Well, here's what you need to do..." No, sir. It's more like,"Oh, you want to improve your judo? That's great, because we could really use some fresh imported meat to pound the ever-loving crap out of. Please, get in line."

     So, yes; I am truly grateful for this amazing opportunity: the judo gods have surely smiled upon me. But, there is some trepidation on my part. Can I manage to keep those smiles from turning into laughter? We shall soon see.