I have an embarrassing confession to make. But first, a bit of background information:
You may recall I mentioned getting hit during a sparring session a couple of weeks ago. Thanks to everyone for the good wishes; my eye is back to normal now except for a bit of blurriness and a few festive sparkles remaining in my peripheral vision. The doc has assured me it will clear and that my retina is now no more likely to detach than before I got hit, so I’m cleared for takeoff again.
A few days ago, Hubby sent me this:
The soundtrack (excluding Unchained Melody) is from a Canadian comedy troupe called The Frantics*, from their 1987 album titled “Boot To The Head”. The performers are martial artists, and the skit was put on at a martial arts convention in 2008.
Needless to say, I laughed my ass off.
Those guys were just clowning around, but the truth is I can’t approach that level of skill even when I’m trying my best.
Apparently I have some rare learning disability that prevents me from putting on my hand wraps correctly even after being shown repeatedly. My striking and blocking technique could be matched by an inebriated orangutan, but the orangutan would be more graceful. Every minute or two, I have to stop and gasp for breath until my heart rate slows to panicked-gerbil range.
The sad truth is that I punched myself in the eye.
I had my guard up, with my face tucked down safely behind my upraised fists. I was supposed to be sparring with my trainer, which actually meant that he danced around me taunting, “Hit me, go on, hit your trainer!” while he dodged my wild swings, laughing and sticking out his tongue and doing everything but wiggling his ears.
(I’d like to note that he’s a big guy with a much longer reach than me. And he’s an experienced fighter. And about 20 years younger. This disclaimer is just a feeble attempt to retain a few shreds of my tattered dignity. Now back to our regular programming…)
He was tapping my guard approximately as fast as a boxer hitting a speed bag: whap-whap-whap-whap-whap. While he laughed. And dodged. And made faces.
I started to laugh, too. And I didn’t hold my guard strongly enough. And he hit my left hand. And my glove flew back and I punched myself in the eye.
I hardly felt it. I’m so focused when I’m sparring that I don’t feel much pain until afterward anyway, but this didn’t even leave a mark. If it had been anywhere else on my body, I wouldn’t have noticed it at all – that’s how lightly he was hitting.
But apparently the angle was perfect, and the next morning I was off to the eye doctor with floaters and bright flashes and blurry vision.
Just goes to show that I’m unlikely to achieve my life’s ambition, which is to NOT die of my own stupidity.
But “injured in a sparring accident” makes me sound like a badass if you don’t know the inconvenient truth. Maybe that’s why Hubby also sent me this in the same email:
At least I prefer to think that’s why he sent it…
Anybody else suffer klutzy sports moments? Please tell me I’m not the only one.
* * *
I’ve set this up to post automatically since I’m on the road today – another 800-mile marathon across the prairies, woohoo! (No, I’m not being facetious; I love the drive.) But I won’t have time to respond to comments today, so I’ll catch up tomorrow instead. “See” you then…
*The Frantics were best known for their song, “Boot To The Head”, to which they added new and different rants at each live show: