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.