Risotto Gari

I’m going to a judo tournament later today. I’m not competing. I’ve been taking judo only for a few months now. I’m going to support a member of my school, another white belt, who will be facing an opponent in a one-minute match. I didn’t know they had matches that short, but maybe they get longer with each level. I can’t imagine all of the matches lasting only one sixty-second round. It takes me longer than that to tie my belt around my waist. Seriously, I had to watch a YouTube video over and over to get it right.

One thing has become clear to me beyond the belt and coarse cotton “gi” that we wear. Judo is all about swollen fingers, at least thus far. Friday night after practice I rushed home and plunged my hand into a bowl of ice. I’m not used to all that grabbing, grasping, tugging, twisting, pulling, pushing, and yanking of lapels and sleeves. I don’t want to sound like a prima donna (really, I don’t), but I’m used to sixteen-ounce sparring gloves with hand wraps. Swollen fingers just won’t do. I mentioned this to the instructor and that it will adversely affect my Flamenco guitar. He was impressed and asked if I played. I told him no. He looked at me.

That same Friday night, I submerged myself into a hot bath to ease my aching elbows from boxing and, keeping my hand out of the tub in that bowl of ice on the floor from judo, I used my other hand to sip a very chilled, very dry martini with a zest of lemon peel plucked minutes before from the tree in my yard. I was in heaven. Had I been able to smoke a cigarette with my toes, I would have done so without shame. It made me realize that yoga just might be good for something after all. I eventually got out of the bath after it turned as cold as the bowl.

It takes me longer to recover than the younger guys–a lot longer–but I know my limits. For instance, I don’t go on runs with the boxing team; running falls into the “been there, done that” category, and I have no intention of going back. I’ve also decided not to compete in master’s level boxing tournaments. Yes, they have them: senior citizens doddering into the ring à la Joe Biden to pound each other in padded headgear and powder-puff gloves. Think Mike Tyson minus the championship belts.

My daughter says it’s ego. I’ll give her that. But am I not allowed to have one, especially at an age when the word “prostate” has taken on new meaning? At least I haven’t made a fool of myself. Of course, there’s still time, and I am more than capable of blowing a lead in the ninth. I have a friend in France who has been practicing judo since boyhood. Apparently, it’s big over there, although you wouldn’t know it from the way they tie their scarves. I wouldn’t dream of even “grip fighting” him, let alone squaring off in a regular match. Actually, given the condition of my fingers, grip fighting is the last thing I’d want to do. He was my partner in the ill-fated macaron venture (see A Mercenary of Macarons). I don’t see any reason to punish him further and create another international incident.

One of the interesting things about judo practices is that they call out commands and the names of throws in Japanese. It’s easier to do a hundred sit-ups in a group, pressed thigh-to-thigh to the next person, when you have no idea what’s going on. You just go with the flow. But it’s harder when the instructor tells you to do something like an “Osoto Gari” on your own, where you sweep your opponent’s legs out from under them.

He asked me to do the throw at our last practice. I thought he said, “Risotto Gari,” so I kept calling it that, thinking of rice. He just stared at me. I’m expecting a t-shirt with that on it the next time we meet. I could be the first Italian judoka at the school.

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Image credits: Nathan Dumlao, Edgard Bortoletto, Natalia Blauth, Getty Images. Want more? Go to Robert Brancatelli. The Brancatelli Blog is a member of The Free Media Alliance, which promotes “alternatives to software, culture, and hardware monopolies.” This post is dedicated to Anthony Brevet, Frenchman extraordinaire.