Last Strong Place

Sometimes the joy is in the chaos.  That’s probably one of the things that attracted me to combat sports.  There are so many things out of my control but there are many things within my control.  The challenge is learning the difference between the two, and that’s one of the things I love about it.  It’s a microcosm of life in a sort of way.

I find myself pressing for that submission, focused on that arm or on that choke.  I can feel myself getting close—there’s a sense we develop as fighters when we can feel the world closing in on our opponent.  I just need a little bit more to finish the submission, so I extend myself.  I reach a little bit further than I should.  I give up a little too much of my posture or get too loose with my center of gravity.  I find myself reversed, not only losing the dominant position but now in a bad one.  I went from really good to really bad, all because I didn’t know to let go.

But I did know to let go.  I just didn’t do it.  I’m stubborn like that.  I wanted that submission so badly that I wasn’t willing to release it, even if it cost me.

I lost a title fight that way once—it still haunts me a little bit all these years later.  I had absolutely wrecked my opponent for four rounds.  It had been an absolutely dominant performance.  I’ll give my opponent credit for surviving those rounds—he took an absolute beating.  I know how badly I beat him down because the referee (who was always kind of a jerk) slipped the judges’ scorecard into my hand after the fight ended.  The fifth round came and I knew I was way ahead on the scorecard—my corner knew it, his corner knew it, every spectator in the crowd knew it, and he knew it.  All I had to do was move around for the last round and not take any chances…but I’m not built to do the smart thing.

To this day I still don’t know what happened or why I did what I did.  Maybe I got scared.  Maybe my ego really wanted to finish the fight with an actual finish and not rely on a decision.  Maybe I was tired—I’m pretty sure that wasn’t it.  I should have just stayed on my feet (my stand-up was miles superior to his), but I decided I was going to put him on the ground and finish the fight there—give the fans what they want, or something.  I loaded my double-leg and took a shot.  Then I hesitated and that hesitation cost me the fight, ending with him on my back with the choke sunk. 

Fighting is hard. Life is hard.  They are both constant chaos with brief moments of perceived control.  The control is a myth, but it sure feels nice in the moments I feel like I’m in charge.

I was chatting with one of my training partners about this recently.  There is a strange emotionality, sometimes, to sparring.  I find myself progressing—securing the takedown, passing guard, moving into side-control or mount, and hunting for the finishing submission.  Along the way—especially against a skilled opponent—I encounter resistance.  My opponent starts to build a frame or get to hip.  They do the right thing—the thing they’re supposed to do.  They dig out an underhook or find a butterfly hook.  In short, they refuse to surrender to my victory.

Many of my training partners are legitimate threats to me.  If I make even the smallest mistake and one of them can make me pay for it.  But I want to finish the fight—I love finishing fights.  There’s something in the way.  There’s a defensive blockade or an interfering technique that provides resistance.  I know—I just know—if I push too hard, I will lose the submission.  Even worse, I might lose the position.  The hard part is knowing when to pause.

"Stop your fighting—and know that I am God, exalted among the nations, exalted on the earth." (Psalms 46:10) 

It’s hard enough to learn when to pause.  It is even harder, especially for a guy like me, to know when to let go and admit that I’ve lost what I was looking for.  If I hold on too tight—if I want it too much—I run the risk of losing everything that I have worked for.

Sure, I want that armbar, but if I don’t let go I’ll end up on my back fighting for my life.

I find myself on the inside—in the pocket—taking damage.  My stubborn self tells me that I want to get those shots back.  I want to drop a few punches of my own.  But I’m out of position, on the wrong side the throw effectively.  It’s time to back out and reset.

I drop my hips to defend the takedown, turning the corner with the crossface.  I look for the far hip, knowing that I could end this with a takedown of my own.  But I feel him building his base.  His hip is too high.  If I reach for that hip he’ll get under me again, and this time I won’t be able to defend.  The smart play is the get back to my feet and start this engagement again.

Therefore, since we also have such a large cloud of witnesses surrounding us, let us lay aside every weight and the sin that so easily ensnares us. Let us run with endurance the race that lies before us, keeping our eyes on Jesus, the source and perfecter of our faith, who for the joy that lay before Him endured a cross and despised the shame and has sat down at the right hand of God's throne. (Hebrews 12:1-2)

The smartest—the wisest—thing in these moments is to reset myself back to the last place where things were right. 

If I abandon the armbar and stay in side-control I might get another shot at that armbar—or maybe at something better. 

If I stop trying to pass guard when I’m out of balance and reset my posture…well, good things happen with good posture. 

If I stop throwing bad punches from bad places and simply get my hands up then I might survive to keep fighting—I can’t fight if I’m unconscious.

In the midst of the chaos, in the places where things won’t make sense, there are places where I can retreat to my last safe place.  Those are the places where I know I can be strong again.  I can be strong there because those places have proven their strength to me.  They have proven that I can be strong when I abide in them.  They are the places that I run to when I need to reset.  They are my last strong place.

The LORD is good, a stronghold in a day of distress; He cares for those who take refuge in Him. (Nahum 1:7) 

Sometimes I have to be reminded that they’re there.  I forget easily, especially in the hard times.  I forget my family, I forget my friends, I forget that there are people who truly love me and would give anything for my well-being.  I forget the strength of my community.  I have a proclivity for isolating and brooding.  My mind starts to think me into vulnerable places where nothing good can happen.

When that happens I know it is because I’ve forgotten my first strong place.  I’ve forgotten the last strong place that should have been my first strong place.  And that’s when the journey is backward, a reset back to the place where I know I belong.  I journey back to my first and last strong place.

But I have this against you: You have abandoned the love you had at first.  Remember then how far you have fallen; repent, and do the works you did at first. Otherwise, I will come to you and remove your lampstand from its place—unless you repent. (Revelation 2:4-5)