So Bad But So Good! Why We Come Back for More…
When it doesn’t go quite to plan
Got myself in a bit of a pickle yesterday. A judo throw went wrong, and I disentangled myself from under 85 kilos of sweaty boy mass with intense elbow pain rating a good 6–7 on that little card with the agony emojis they like to show you in the Emergency Room. (Where 10 presumably equals childbirth or man flu.)
Not wanting to be that girl (god, I would NEVER cry on the mat) I smiled through gritted teeth, said I’d call it a day and go in search of ice, and fled to the Ladies. Where my attempts to struggle into my clothes one-armed turned my mirror reflection into a frustrated blurry mess of unintentional slapstick, pain and heartfelt curse words.
Victoriously hugging a baggy of ice (having profusely thanked the little café for the plastic cup of ice chips initially proffered… before charades-ing my way to something more useful — my Thai not stretching to the words ‘mortifyingly squished’) I taxied off to an appointment at the MMA gym, on autopilot.
If you could swallow me up anytime now, thanks ground
However. I quickly realised that nothing makes you feel more of a pathetic delicate flower than sitting with a giant ice pack and forlorn face surrounded by ACTUAL UFC fighters (who would rather lose teeth/limbs/anything resembling a normal human ear shape etc. than show pain), one of whom cheerfully greeted me ‘ARITE MAN?’ and joked about a morphine drip. Yargh.
In need of a hug and a spot of kindness — preferably in the form of something sugary/caffeiney, or at a STRETCH, someone hunting down some painkillers for you? Well, don’t hang with ultra-alphas ladies! It was one of those (actually very rare) days when I regretted being the female minority in what is very much deepest, darkest testosterone land.
Anyway. As I sat clutching my flaccid ice bag, a puddle of cold water growing under my chair (a really fantastic look for me), and glared down at my foot which is currently held together by tape from a minor fracture a few weeks ago, I started thinking about the big WHY, and whether it’s all worth it. Why do we do these silly sports that ask so much of the body?
‘Fun’ was my instinctive response. Obviously we do them because it’s FUN! ‘Is it really though?’ My foot piped up.
Ask the audience!
I’ve been finding solace and resonance with like-minded souls in online writing a lot recently (newly working abroad can be lonely!). I turned to the Google. “Why do we train [stupid bloody] martial arts when they [fucking] hurt?” I s-l-o-w-l-y jabbed into my phone, with one hand. (Parenthesis merely for my own angry amusement, not for Google.)
Answers abounded.
Injured athletes the world over clearly got my conundrum.
Quora naturally had some gems, which I’ve summarised below:
- ‘Building physical and mental steel’ one Quora dude wrote. Essentially toughening up the body and mind, for applying sporting lessons to life lessons. Being able to say “Yep, day in the life!” when you get knocked back and knowing that you’ve been through worse and are capable of bouncing back, ideally even stronger. [Interesting! I’d never seen it this way. I 100% agree that discipline in training and not being put off by the many tougher days does teach you resilience. I quite like the idea that years of training helps us build a thick armadillo skin!]
- ‘Sparring is the best physical activity you can do with your clothes on,’ Bob (named changed) from Texas shared, describing the adrenaline rush, and sense of ‘exhilaration and exultation’ he gets from competing. [Ooh-er! Food for thought Bob! The adrenaline and dopamine rush is addictive for sure — it can feel BLOODY AMAZING. When I think about it, it’s always played a huge role in drawing me back for more, despite multiple self-breakages. His description made me laugh, but I get it!!]
- ‘Fighting is our genetic heritage,’ wrote another, not fully elaborating on this point, but again citing the adrenaline rush, and a way to vent stress and struggles within. [I suppose men — usually men — sorry guys — have historically resorted to fisticuffs to settle disputes, but I can’t say that plays any part in my interest in the sports. I like words for that kind of thing! The cathartic release of stress is a cracking reason though — there’re few things as satisfying and oddly elating as an hour of hitting pads after a blue day.]
- I really liked this one (thanks Nate W): ‘I don’t fight, but I do take part in sports that have led me to the Emergency Room on a few occasions (skateboarding, skiing, snowboarding, mountain biking), and I do them knowing that I’ll probably be back in the ER a few more times. […] I don’t enjoy getting hurt at all. I’d be delighted to never be injured again. But I enjoy going fast, hitting jumps and flying through the air, and getting hurt is just something that happens from time to time when you do that stuff. […] I have zero interest in fighting, but I can see how it could really get your endorphins flowing even more than the stuff I do, and injuries are going to happen in that sport too. [...] I once met a hiker who was horrified by the blood running down my arm while I was raking and shoveling on a section of trail where I’d just had a hard fall. To me, that was just an inconvenience — I didn’t need a doctor, I just needed a rest. But the look on her face said that to her it was something else entirely. [...] I hate it when that happens, but a sore arm for a few days is a totally fair price to pay for what I get to experience on a mountain bike. I try not to fall, but I don’t want to give up the sport. [I feel Nate and I are on the same wavelength. Minor(ish) inconveniences for being in your absolute element more often than not!]
I felt much better after reading about everyone else’s highest highs from sport — the ample flipside to the occasional maiming. (I ended up in a reading rabbit hole — some quite amusing/surprisingly dirty reasons out there — I hope I don’t meet these people on the mat!) I also get that not everyone gets it. I think my family sometimes think I’m quite mad, and that’s ok! Maybe having a slight screw loose is also part of it. Passion isn’t logical.
I loaded myself up like a one-sided packhorse and the remains of my dignity and I trundled off to sort myself out, feeling much calmer and self-assured. Not unaware of the irony that being able to bounce back like this probably comes from the very thing that floored me. Ah life!
