STRIP GIRL VOL. 2

She's not a black belt. She's a black hole.

MAD MAT

When it's too soft. When it's too hard. When it's too new. When it's too old. When it's too high. When it's too dirty. When it's too slippery. When it's consumed. When it's got holes in. When it's too little. When it's not aligned with the judges. When you run out of excuses.

HAUNTED

Many of us were told that Poomsae are fights against an imaginary opponent, or a shadow. I've been practicing this discipline for almost 20 years and I can easily say this. 1. That opponent is bloody real. 2. He leads a whole army.
I wrote it in one of my frist posts on this blog; fighting is harder, Poomsae are crueler. If you mess it up, there is no second round, no second chance, no 3 points headshot to aim for. Moreover, this event forces you to cope with your most unsettling dark sides. When you approach the competition area, your unconscious starts to hunt you down in every possible way. The fear of losing. The fear of trembling on the first stance. The fear of losing your balance on those decisive side kicks. The fear to disappoint your teacher. The fear to disappoint your students. The fear to feel bad when you do something you're supposed to enjoy. The fear of being too old to compete at a high level. The fear of being too sick to compete at all. The fear of the fear. The fear, the fear.
Damn.We're getting screwed, my friends. Yeah, this is supposed to be our passion, but not in the Christ's sense. You know, I'm 32 and I'm realizing I don't give a damn about winning anymore. I don't need to beat anyone to feel I'm someone. I just want to be the best person I can be and I still think kicking in front of a crowd can make you a stronger person when it'll be life to kick you hard in the face. I want to dominate the competition, not win it. Fuck the podium. Fuck those ugly medals. Fuck the ephimeral glory of an instant. Now I want my peace of mind. I want my sport to make me smile. It took me 10 full years to come back competitive after the 3 years stop I was forced to in my 20s. I remember long winters training alone in a grey gym so far from home. I remember my ex-girlfriend telling me to quit, because my mind and body could not take it any more. I don't rememember her at all when my disease reached its peak.
I remember my kind master's last days. I remember his taekwondo school being taken up by a bunch of fools who could not stand their shadow, let alone fight it. I remember being kicked out. <<Because your teachings harm the gym>>. Yes, and donkeys have wings.
They have names. They all have names. You see, it's not some obscure evil coming out of the blue only to devour a generation for fun's sake. It's not "the crisis". It's people with names and surnames. The night before my last tournament I did not dream of victory. Nor defeat. I dreamt I was kicked out of my gym. Once again. How many ghosts for me on that mat the following day.
You see, I tend to remember a lot. And I know what I'll remember of this last sunday. That my first student rocked so hard she made my heart pound. That the last thing I did before stepping on the mat was telling a joke to the most ridiculously sweet girl you could hope to have in your team. That my kicks did not tremble, and that I had a blast with them.

I AM ALWAYS WATCHING YOUR BACK

'Cause it's worth it. 'Cause you deserve it. 'Cause no ungrateful villain can undo what we can do together.