fore!

While in high school, I played for a brief stint on the golf team. The reason was simple: we students were exempted from gym class while actively competing in a school sport, and, having tasted the freedom of a prep period throughout the long wrestling season, I was damn sure I didn’t want to head back to running the mile, cranking out pull-ups and straining through the “sit and reach”.

So, after reviewing the spring season possibilities, I decided to join the golf team. A reasonably sensible idea, except that I didn’t actually know how to play golf. Undaunted by that reality, I picked up a cheap set of used clubs, took two lessons, and spent about a week practicing on the driving range. The first time I set foot on an actual golf course was the qualifying round for the team.

In retrospect, I must either have had excellent potential, or the pity of the coach, as I ended up making the team, despite making a travesty of the game for 18 holes. And while I did improve steadily (a result of playing three or four days a week with the team), I was always far and away the worst player – not surprising, considering that all of my teammates had been playing for eight to twelve years, rather than my eight to twelve weeks.

Following that brief stint, without the specter of gym class for motivation, my game languished for years. In fact, during the six or seven years following, I played no more than five times, and headed to the driving range only a handful of times more. But since arriving here in LA, with the strong sun beating down summer-like through the smog, I’ve been regularly taking advantage of the weather and my small patches of free time by heading over to the Rancho Park Par 3 course.

And, amazingly, I’m playing significantly better than where I left off. Perhaps as the muscle memory atrophied over years of disuse, my swing whittled down to a simpler, more effective version of itself. Or, perhaps, now that I really don’t care how well I play, I’ve reached a Zen state of great efficacy. Whatever the reason, for the first time, I’m hitting greens from the tee, chipping to the pin, and sinking long putts over odd lies.

Granted, I won’t be heading off on the PGA any time soon. Nor will I be stocking up on argyle socks, pleated khakis and wind-resistant polo pullovers. But I am, for perhaps the first time, good enough to legitimately claim I can play golf. Game on.

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January 20, 2003

damaged goods

Several months back, I dislocated my shoulder in a Brazilian Jiu Jitsu match. Then, soon after, I made matters worse by assuming my shoulder was fine and military pressing with too much weight, degenerating into poor form that further impinged the shoulder. I decided to take the ever popular ‘ignore the problem and hope it goes away’ approach, but after several months the shoulder continues to flare up from overhead pressing movements, especially those behind the plane of my upper body. While I’m no physician, I’m pretty sure that I’ve injured my rotator cuff, the infraspinatus in particular.

Technically, I should probably completely lay off the shoulder for the next few months. But I suspect I’ll end up simply taking it a bit easier in the weight room and continuing to work hard in the ring. In the world of kickboxing and no holds barred fighting, people frequently talk about the importance of ‘playing with pain.’ Which is to say, the importance of keeping going, even when you’re hurting; pushing yourself as hard as it takes to win.

You start to learn about yourself when you bump up against your limits; you determine whether you have the willpower to spur yourself on, even when every muscle in your body is tired, sore, begging you to stop. Because if you dicover that you can’t, you might as well hang up the gloves and take up macram

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May 22, 2002

fresh off the vine

With May quickly turning to June, summer fruits have begun to arrive at the local supermarket: cherries, strawberries, plums and apricots. And, of course, the quintessential summer fruit, watermelon.

Indeed, this morning I was lucky enough to pick up my first watermelon of the season, a Crimson Sweet, marbled green and blockily round. In truth, I am a watermelon junky. And while I would normally write off my addiction on the grounds of nutrition (ounce for ounce, watermelon is one of nature’s most healthful fruits, stocked with vitamins [A, C, B6], minerals [thiamin, potassium, magnesium] and antioxidants [carotenoid, lycopene]), those benefits come best in moderation, and I must admit I’m more likely to finish an entire melon in one sitting than to stick with some measly FDA apportioned serving size. One perfect bite, juicy, crunchy, sugar sweet and vibrantly red, and I can’t stop.

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May 21, 2002

namaste

Yoga is big in New York City. Really big. Advertisements for classes are everywhere, and I’ll frequently catch my friends and coworkers – even the ones I’d least suspect of being secret yoga acolytes – toting the tell-tale little mat. Frankly, I’ve been curious. Just last weekend, I had lunch with a college friend – previously one of the bitchier girls I knew – who had been doing yoga for several months and now had purged herself of negativity, would only say kind things about others. Whatever was happening in that yoga class must have been powerful stuff.

Still, I’ve been more than a bit skeptical of the yoga movement. After all, I’ve observed hundreds of classes from the corner of my eye while at the gym, and from what I could tell, yoga consists mainly of awkward, oddly-named stretching movements held while an overly flexible guru repeats the importance of ‘centering ones mind’ in the tone of voice normally found only in the extremely stoned or those suffering from affective disorders.

My father, a sports medicine physician and my erstwhile workout buddy, had apparently been curious as well. Since I’m staying with my parents here in Palo Alto, he decided to take advantage of my presence (sort of a ‘safety in numbers’ deal) to give yoga a test run. He had picked up a Living Arts yoga DVD (as their pilates DVD is one of the best), and last night we took a run through the beginning yoga workout. In short, it was mainly similar to the stretching routine I already do in preparation for kickboxing, the only differences being:

1. They aren’t ‘stretches,’ they’re ‘poses’ or ‘asanas.’

2. They’re not named ‘seated hamstring stretch’ or ‘standing hip flexor stretch’, they’re named ‘corpse pose,’ ‘downward dog pose’ and ‘warrior pose.’ (The final one evidencing why India had never become a world military power, as most other cultures would have seen more of a ‘guy who thinks he’s a warrior but is really just asking for a severe beating pose.’)

3. The routine concluded with a solemn statement of “namaste,” or (roughly translated from sanskrit) “I honor the place in you in which the entire universe dwells. I honor the place in you, which is of light and peace. When you are in that place in you and I am in that place in me, we are one.”

Apparently, I wasn’t in that place in me of light and peace where the entire universe dwells, because the instructor struck me as, basically, a moron. More than once, I also caught myself thinking: “You mean, if I do this for years, I’ll end up looking and acting like this guy? Looks like I’ve done just about enough yoga, thanks.”

It was definitely worthwhile though. Just one hour and my yoga curiosity is fully sated – you’ll never see me in the ‘powerful mountain pose’ again. Namaste.

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April 13, 2002

hit me baby one more time

Special note to any readers intending to dislocate their shoulder: Don’t. It hurts like a bitch.

While training Brazilian Jiu Jitsu (or, as my mother refers to it, “beat ’em up”) last night, I managed to pop my shoulder out of the socket. Not high on my list of life experiences worth repeating. Which brings up a question that several readers (and my mother) have asked on multiple occasions: Why in God’s name do you do full-contact martial arts? What are you, nuts? (Short answer: well, obviously.)

The problem, really, is that most people see mixed martial arts or “no holds barred” competition as much more dangerous / exotic / groundbreaking / whatever than it really is. In truth, it’s essentially just a combination of three popular existing Olympic sports: boxing, judo and wrestling. The phrase “no holds barred” is itself a misnomer, as an extensive set of rules does exist, similar to those of the three constituent sports. In fact, in the sport’s ten year history, the percentage of tournament bouts leading to serious injury has been lower than the percentage in boxing or judo matches.

None the less, I don’t want to sugar coat it. The sport is basically two guys trying to beat the crap out of each other until one gives up. So why would I possibly do it? Two main reasons:

Zen calm. As noted by Nobel laureate Konrad Lorenz, any animal that has friendship also has intraspecies aggression, and the instinctual and insuppressible need to discharge that aggression. While many people ‘vent’ through activities like weight lifting, creative writing, or competitive macram

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March 12, 2002

isn’t that for girls?

While I had known about Pilates for some time, I always mentally grouped the exercise along with Step Aerobics and TaeBo: perhaps appealing to middle-aged suburban women, but not really my thing. Worse, I kept coming across celebrity endorsements of Pilates (Madonna, Uma Thurman, Courtney Cox, etc.), which, given the track record of Scientology, gave me even more serious pause. So it was with great trepidation, and only based upon the strong recommendations of both my father (a sports medicine physician) and my kickboxing coach that I began to investigate Pilates.

Initially, I was relieved to learn that Joseph Pilates was an accomplished boxer himself, and that one of his earliest students, Max Schmeling, won the world heavyweight boxing championship while under Pilates instruction. Still, watching students going through the 34 exercise mat workout, my initial reaction was: this looks really stupid. People lying on little mats, swinging their legs and rolling around. How hard could it be, I thought. Famous last words.

I’ve been doing Pilates for about a month, and by now I can usually sit up without assistance the following morning. In that time, my kickboxing and jiu jitsu have improved noticeably. I find I’m standing taller (and at 5’6″ I need all the height I can get). My waist size has dropped (Pilates tightens the transversus abdominus, yielding a waspishly thin waist) and, combined with decreased body fat (current status: 8%), my abs are the most six-packed they’ve ever been.

Still, I feel a bit unsure of my Pilates allegiance. “What kind of pansy workout is that,” I’m certain people are thinking, and I occasionally catch myself thinking the same thing. But my kickboxing has improved too significantly to give up for such small misgivings. Besides, if anyone gives me a hard time about it, I can always kick them in the head. Which, thanks to Pilates, should really hurt.

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March 4, 2002

skiboarding

A shot from Whistler with my brother

(left) and I putting on our skiboards. For more information

about skiboarding, the best winter sport I’ve tried (more fun than snowboarding, nordic skiing, or telemarking), head to skiboards.com.

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February 17, 2002