I wasn't exactly backed into coaching the Beit Dany Greco Roman team at the Cup of Israel last weekend. After all, I was planning to go watch anyway, and I knew I'd have to do a little bit of coaching to help out. Still, it was only Thursday night that Boris told me I'd be coaching the team, as he'd be busy reffing. Also, I learned that the tournament would be a team event, a dual meet tournament, rather than an individual contest. "It'll be done by two or three," he told me, sounding a reassuring note. A hollow one, but ne'ertheless reassuring. I received instructions to show up in my team-issued black warmup suit at 10, when the tournament was slated to start.
This blog is about a big difference between Israeli and American wrestling mentalities, but it should first be noted what we share in common. It seems no matter where a wrestling tournament takes place, certain rules will hold in place: 1. The tournament will start late. The greco roman mat did not kick in until 11 am, and considering there were only two mats and twice as many greco teams as freestyle teams, this was a nuisance. On a related note, 2. The bracketing and scheduling will be awkward. Beit Dany was in a pool of five teams, while the other pool had four teams. As such we'd have two extra rounds. Logic dictates that our pool should have been the first to wrestle. Logic was ignored. 3. Wrestlers will be jogging around the mat and half-heartedly warming up with headphones in their cauliflower-inflated ears and a mildly tough look on their face. This was a little toned down here but still refreshing to see. 4. There will be only a few women at the tournament, and they will look disproportionally attractive due to the ratio of males to females. Here they looked more Russian than in America (though obviously not than in Russia), but all the same held true to the rule.
The tournament was officially run in Hebrew, but whenever the announcer really wanted to get a coach's attention, she knew to speak in Russian. Most of the yelling from the stands, the cheering, the berating of referees, and the coaching was done in Russian. Veritably, the wrestling community in Israel is founded on Russian (and some Georgian) immigrants, and as such is bound to certain linguistic and stylistic issues.
Ahh, but the wrestling itself? Just fine. Beit Dany showed off with Assa Beersheeva first. Our lineup was a fortified one - Boris's two sons, former national champs, gave us a guaranteed two wins at 74 and 84 KGs, our 55 KG wrestler Ithiel had his biggest battle with the scale, as he received forfeits in all of our pool matches. That meant we had to win one of the other four weight classes (there are only seven in total). Against Assa, a forfeit at 60 KG was enough, but we had another card to play: our American heavyweight.
Dusty first showed up to our club in the middle of October. On the phone he kind of sounded like a pud, and I wasn't expecting much from him; likely, he was just a kid who made aliyah that had wrestled in high school or something. As I waited for him during that practice, the same day that we had received physicals, I wondered if he would be worth my missing out on warmups.
The first thing that impressed me about Dusty was his size; nearly six feet and quite wide. It's not all sculpted at this point, but at the very least, Dusty wasn't a pipsqueak. Considering that at most practices to date I was the biggest guy in the room, at the least he'd provide a new, big partner for me. At just over 100 KG, he had about 60-70 pounds on me.
He filled out some paperwork and we made small talk. "Did you go to Duke?" he asked, noticing the ubiquitous logo on my shorts (or my t-shirt, and it could have been one of five different pairs or t-shirts - ahh, the perks of college athletics). I answered that I did, and he said he went to UNC, and confirmed that he wrestled there, and all of a sudden I put it together: in the 2002-2003 season, he had a back and forth with a teammate of mine, Tom Cass. Cass, a 5th year senior who I as a true freshman palled around with and to some degree looked up to at the time, scored a memorable 7-3 decision over Dusty at the dual meet. The match was notable for Tom scoring back points off a move we had just worked on in practice that week (a sit-out counter involving a crossface pancake - basically, Tom threw his bicep into Dusty's face and flattened him).
I mentioned this match to Dusty. For some strange reason, his recollection of the match was fuzzy; instead, he first recalled beating Tom 7-1 at the ACC tournament later that year. Funny. Dusty also didn't recall that we beat UNC the next time, our only dual meet win over UNC since 1973 - Dusty left the team earlier that year. (Also, I later remembered that Dusty avenged another loss at the tournament and went on to be the OW of the tournament. So I guess that explains it...)
Anyway, Dusty started coming to practice regularly. It had been five years since he wrestled, but with some Duke-UNC camaraderie (can I mention here that I was 7-2 career against UNC, and both losses were to one kid my 4th year? Or 9-0 against my rivals in high school? And that I'm awesome? Ok, thanks), he learned how to handle greco and worked himself back into shape. Boris realized his opportunity and signed Dusty, an Israeli citizen, up for the oncoming cup. There was a slight problem involving Dusty's plans to go home for the winter, but after some ticket juggling and $175, everything was all set, and the Beit Dany lineup had a trump card.
Now, that digression was a vital one to explain and defend my actions to follow. We sent Dusty out against Assa to make sure he got a match in, and he did well, winning something like 4-0, 2-1. I've gone into detail about the rules in freestyle vs. folkstyle, and greco is even more confusing, but I got a feel for it here. Basically, each period is divided into two: one minute in neutral (i.e. standing) and one minute in par terre (on the mat). The second minute is also divided in two, so that each guy gets a turn on top. There's a set of tiebreakers and rules to ensure that no more time is needed. I had it figured out by the end of the day.
Seeing as I was still learning the specifics of the rules, however, it may not be surprising that my "coaching" duties consisted mostly toweling our wrestler off in between periods. I would yell in Russian or English, pending the wrestler and his command of each language. Probably, I was yelling out foolish or simple terms when I coached in Russian, things like, "Behind, behind!"
Still, we kept winning. Assa Beersheeva was an easy 6-1 triumph in matches won. Hapoel Beersheeva tested us a little bit more, but we clinched a 4-2 win before deciding not to send Dusty out. We were resting him for later, I presumed. Next we romped through a thin Akko team, and when Nazareth decided they'd rather go home than wrestle us, we were all set for an easy berth in the finals against the favored squad from Rehovot.
Nazareth's forfeit and the scheduling quirks meant we had to wait about an hour or two before the finals. It was 3:30, which wasn't so late, but signified a large chunk of our day in anticipating this final. Rehovot was the team to beat, but surely Hapoel Beit Dany (our full name), the little team that could, would offer up a strong fight. Right?
Ithiel wrestled his first match of the day. He had to run all night before to make the weight class, 57 KG (with a +2 KG allowance from 55), and was quite fat, happy, and relaxed by the time this match rolled around. His was a vital match to win, a toss-up that we needed to poach to have a good shot at the dual meet.
So naturally, it didn't go so well. In the first period he went scoreless on his feet but lost in the par terre position handily. The second period didn't even go that well: he gave up points on his feet that limited his chances of making the comeback. And so, we started off the match down 1-0. Surely a base from which to launch that strong fight, right?
Well, except Boris had other ideas. Convinced we had no shot at the dual meet - our 66 and 96 were either not very good or somewhat hurt, 60 was a toss up, and their HVY was considered a monster - Boris decided to forfeit the rest of the way. "Our task was completed," he said before the match, and I only now realized to what degree he meant it.
Now, I've never been confused for a super-intense, win-at-all-costs, winning is all there is type. At least not among wrestling people. I'm competitive, but a lifetime of competing, winning, and losing has shown me that there is more to winning, that winning doesn't solve everything, and that you can't always win. Basically, life has taught me platitudes.
Still, given a chance to wrestle, and a berth in the finals, and the noble duty of fair competition that we were meant to rise to, throwing in the towel would be an atrocious move. Or so I thought. And this time, instead of keeping my thoughts to myself, I started to share my thoughts. With increasing volume.
"Why isn't Jacob wrestling?" I demanded to know of Boris.
"He's injured, his leg hurts," Boris said with a smile, unaware of the fury he was about to unleash.
"Injury? Are you kidding, what injury? He should wrestle!"
Needless to say, my line of persuasion was not very effective. We forfeited at Jacob's weight, and then at the next four weights. Faced with an unresponsive audience, I took the only path I saw left to ensure that at least Dusty, after a great hassle to enter the tournament and rejigger his winter schedule and everything, would get to wrestle a second match. I raised my voice.
"This is cowardly! This is pathetic, this is terrible!" I started yelling.
"Why should he wrestle?" Boris responded. "He'll get hurt, he'll embarrass himself in front of his girlfriend."
"But he's leaving tomorrow, let him wrestle! I'm ashamed to do this!"
"He won't win, why should he wrestle? What shame?"
This dialog went on in the center of the gym, in loud tones. No more wrestling was to be done that day, so around us people started to pick up the mats and wrap up the tournament. And there I was, in black warm up pants and a red shirt the senior director of Israel wrestling had given me, with a fu manchu gracing my face and long hair atop my head, screaming in accented Russian at my coach, calling him a coward. I would have called him worse things too, but I had presence of mind to avoid swearing. Also, I wasn't quite sure how to say, "You're a pussy" in Russian. My curse word knowledge isn't that exact, and I feared I'd hit too high or too low in level.
The argument drew in more than just Boris. His sons explained to me in English that I didn't understand how things worked here. I countered in Russian that Israel was tiny and America huge, and as such our wrestlers are better, and that their mentality was screwy. I started making outlandish claims about how Dusty would win the match. I pulled very few punches.
Our prospective opponent heard our arguing and, being a sportsmen and on the appearance a nice guy, he was more than willing to wrestle Dusty. Their team had no problem with it. A ref had no problem with it. And all of a sudden, over the protests of Boris and that senior director, we started the match.
I've worn egg on my face, proverbially and literally, many times before. It's not a new feeling for me, although that doesn't keep it from being unpleasant. And while I'm sure that my stand was the right one, I wore just a little bit of egg on my face in the corner for that match.
Dusty's opponent appeared legit: a head taller and a good deal wider and stronger, the big man from Rehovot could move, and was a greco guy by specialty, not one month of training. Dusty, meanwhile, brought his American can-do attitude, the frame of a 184 pounder (to translate, 84 KG, and while Dusty weighed around 100 KG, the weight class went up to 120 KG, meaning he was giving up around 40 pounds), and some mildly poofy hair to the proceedings. So while he fought ok on his feet, he conceded points in both periods, meaning he had to go on the bottom in par terre first both times. And both times, par terre involved the following sequence: 1. Dusty goes on hands and knees in a table position. 2. Opponent stands besides Dusty, leans over, and locks his hands around Dusty's waist in a reverse gut wrench lock (such that the two were facing opposite directions). 3. Referee blows whistle as soon as opponent locks. 4. As soon as referee blows whistle, opponent lifts Dusty and throws him over his own head, resulting in five points. 5. Period ends by dual criteria of five point move and six point lead.
So yes, Dusty lost. Quite handily. And on one of those big throws, I worried about him getting hurt, and how maybe he didn't really want to wrestle in this match and I backed him into it, and his girlfriend didn't see why he should wrestle, and I'd just stained my reputation in the Israel wrestling community, and oy-voy-voy, what a balagan! But then he landed, and things were ok.
In fact, while it was a weird and tense situation, no harm ultimately was done (well, maybe to my reputation, but we'll see). We stood on the podium for second proudly, took a bunch of pictures at the next few practices, and made up. Ok, Boris did call me out at the beginning of Sunday's practice, saying, "Ze lo tov, ze balagan," or in translation, "That was no good, that was a mess." When the coach reprimands you in a language you don't really speak, it's not great. But, I argued with him again and we moved on. And Ithiel and another guy agreed that the lesson taught was a bad one. So maybe not all of Israel is lost under this pragmatic mentality, and I've just effected a change that will turn the country around. Or maybe I just looked silly again.
p.s. I should also add that Saturday night, after thinking I had let off all my steam, I attended our school's holiday party. I had a great time, but then we went to an Irish bar* in Herzliya (which I again refer to as possessing the feel of a New England 'burb with San Diego weather), and I got all antsy and pouty** and proceeded to go into the mall where the bar was at and buy two CDs*** from Tower Records****. So some steam still there, until we went to a dance club in Tel Aviv and danced off the anxiety, to video performances of "Hung Up On You," and "Sexy Back", the latter of which prompted my favorite male colleague to remark that, "Say what you want about him; Justin Timberlake gets a lot of good pussy." Fun times.
*Want to know what Israel, America, Moscow, China, Madrid, and just about every other place in the world have in common? They have Irish bars. Wonder why I didn't want to go to one?
** I didn't share any stories from Madrid, mainly because there weren't any great ones: it was mostly a time of resting and catching up with Ben. But for Thanksgiving, Ben and Liz hosted a party Friday night. The party was fine (I worked on my bad Spanish), but notable because I was designated wine bottle opener early on, until I broke the third bottle. How? As I successfully opened it, I tugged with such force that the wine bottle flew out of my hand. It fell on the floor. It broke. Sigh.
But also, this footnote is to mention that some of the time at the party, I went into Ben's room and read essays by Borges from Labyrinths. I got a little tired of the Wii-centered party, especially when it was conducted in Spanish and devolved to creating Wii characters for each person at the party.
Liz was concerned about my behavior and implored Ben to talk to me or entertain me. "Don't worry," he said, recalling perhaps my Great Gatsby reading during grad parties on Long Island, or perhaps my D. H. Lawrence browsing at a New Year's party last year in an uber-ritzy Columbus Circle penthouse apartment. "That's what Dan does at parties."
*** Bjork's Debut, which I know, and Lou Reed's Berlin, which I've only heard about. 90 shekels, which is about $23 these days.
**** Bankrupt in the U.S., still around in pricey suburban Israeli malls and Istanbul's airport.
Showing posts with label Wrestling. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Wrestling. Show all posts
16.11.08
The Main Event, One Way or Another
The following are two tales of combat and cultural intrigue. Or, as our school is big on promoting, different ways to "resolve conflict." And while we're in the intro and conflict resolution, I wrote an article that was published on a real-life news website. So feel free to read that.
Nothing that happened surprised me. Still, I didn't think ahead to expect it, so the events bemused me more than they might normally.
Boris, my coach, set up a workout for me in Ashdod, about 30 miles to the South of Tel Aviv. There was a club there who boasted of the #2 wrestler in Israel at my weight class. As the #1 man is suspended for the year due to shady doings, this guy is the default top man. A pretty good opportunity to test my mettle, no?
We met, Boris and I, at our regular Thursday practice. I laid down as he coached the three small guys who showed up for the greco practice through a 35-minute workout. After their preliminary efforts, we left the basement and walked out to Boris's car. It was time.
I sat in Boris's front seat. Within five minutes, Boris had given me a life prescription - "What you need to do is find a good job, get married, to a Jewish girl, and have a good life" - stopped to buy his dinner of warm pita and yogurt, and showcased some memorably clumsy driving skills that made me question my safety for the next hour. He also discarded his first cup of yogurt by opening the door of the car and dropping it. That was cute.
To clinch the deal, as soon as we got on the highway and done talking, Boris put on a CD. Boris, a 50-year old man from Bukhara, a city in Uzbekistan; Boris, a gym teacher and wrestling coach who moved to Israel in 1992, a time when a lot of other Jews left Bukhara, because as he said it, "There are Arabs there. They don't like Jews, there was anti-Semitism,"; Boris put on a CD of Russian dance music. Music that rode over a fast thumping beat and featured lyrics in Russian and English about hearts pumping, missing you, and the like. It was delicious.
Anyway, after making one wrong turn, we got there just a little late. The Ashdod practice room was a true gym hall, with space for a full mat and some extras, a bike room and a locker room on the left, and space for twenty or so people. There was the slight stench of cigarettes, surely starting from at least one of the four gray-mustachioed coaches until it permeated the room. The room reminded me of the Olympic Village gym where I wrestled in a tournament in Moscow, if a little bit smaller.
Boris briefed me as we arrived. "You're going to get there, greet everybody, change, warm up, and wrestle two matches. You're going to win the first match, to show them your skills."
"What about the second match?"
"You're going to win that too! What did you think?"
That's what we call good coaching.
I was already changed, so after meeting the coaches, I put on my shoes and stretched out. For whatever reason, I didn't really warm up. Considering I had played soccer earlier in the day, and that I had been going on 5 hours of sleep a day for about a week (as for the reason? I'll let you use your imagination), I probably should have prepared myself better, but I figured maybe saving energy wasn't bad either.
So after 15 minutes, I told them I was good to go. There was a live takedown group of older guys on one end of the gym, so I thought I'd just work in with them, especially since little kids were wrestling on the other parts of the mat. But oh no.
"Clear the mats!" the head coach Lyova called, and Boris reminded me I needed to have a singlet. Already familiar with this, I strapped up, realizing that we would be in the center circle, me and No. 2. I was the spectacle, and all wanted to see me and whether I measured up. Or they wanted to see my mutton chops and whether they would affect my wrestling (yes, I've pulled them out again).
No. 2 wore a blue singlet, and I wore my red singlet which formerly boasted the Russian flag and RUS on the front and back, respectively. Now it's just a red singlet; Eastern European quality. I wore headgear, an added oddity. He was a decent bit taller than me, with short light hair. We shook hands in the two-handed congenial Russian wrestling way, and then we began.
He scored the first point offensively, as I just didn't sprawl. It was kind of silly, but maybe that's what warm-ups are for. Anyway, I came back with the next takedown, a defensive one, and then scored a three point offensive takedown to take the first period 4-1.
The second period went closer to my plans, even though it was a closer period. I scored the first two points on a takedown, and then while going for a bad gutwrench, I gave up a reversal and a 1-point turn. Tied, I decided to get the last point just in case and took him down for a 3-2 win.
In freestyle, as I've written somewhere before, you only need to win 2 of 3 periods, kind of like tennis. So if this was an official match, I won 4-1, 3-2 against Israel's top current man, without being in good shape, training form, or a state of readiness. That was nice.
But since it was practice and not the Israeli Championships, I figured there had to be more. I agreed to go a 3rd period, which I'm pretty sure he won 4-3 (a Brands brother would have been very displeased with my efforts). By that point I was quite exhausted. My legs hurt, my breathing was poor, and I felt out of shape again. And the rest of the club wanted a piece of me as well.
They gave me a break for 10 minutes or so to recuperate. I fought with the dueling impulses of wanting to be the bad-ass, in shape, tough American, and wanting to rest because I felt old and out of shape. Nevertheless, after those ten minutes, I returned to the mat for another match.
This match didn't go so well. I gave up a silly three points going for a lat-drop. I didn't do a good job in par terre (on the mat). I felt exhausted. I only lasted two periods, and then begged off.
The rest of the time I walked around or laid down, inside or outside, trying to collect my thoughts. I haven't seriously trained in 18 months. There was the tournament just after Spain where, after my second, far more difficult than it should have been match, I threw up 9 times (as if to make up for never throwing up from wrestling and not throwing up since I was 5 or 7). After that tournament I joked to myself that I was at last old. But of course, that's ridiculous; I'm just really out-of-shape compared to competition form.
At the same time, to get back into shape would take work and time. It requires a level of commitment that I could give in college with no second thoughts. But with a job, in a new country, with social life aspects I want to maintain, and a desire to keep my hand in a bunch of pots, I'm not sure I can dive back into wrestling at that commitment level. The goals aren't as strong, the payout is unclear, and I don't know if it would be all worth it. Especially considering that to this day, wrestling is the only thing that can drive me to the edge of my emotions, to positive or more often to negative ends. Oy.
Anyway, that's what I thought through outside, until a coach told me I'd get sick. So I walked back in and found the four coaches and Boris talking about me. Where I was going to work out, when, could they get around the citizenship requirement to let me wrestle in the Cup of Israel in December, what I needed to do. It almost felt out of my hands. But they all liked me at least.
In the end, we agreed on continuing my 3 days a week practice schedule, just two of them would be at this freestyle club instead of in Tel Aviv. I picked the days such to coincide with the Tel Aviv days, so I wouldn't need to "skip" those if I wanted a break. I'm going to take trains to get there, which is fine because the Israeli train system is quite good (and yet somehow all the teachers who wrote letters to new teachers told us we absolutely had to have a car, and that public transportation in Israel stinks. Hmm...). All and all, everything should be ok. And maybe we'll reach a point where I'm one of the guys and not all that special. Unless I make the national team, of course.
***
That same night I called my man Ido, the Hebrew Hammer himself. I just wanted to check out if I would run a practice this weekend - for various reasons, a cash stimulus would be good for my economic condition.
I did indeed have a practice to run, but he had bigger news to share. "I wanted to call you to invite you to a fight we're having this weekend, it should be really good." He told me I was on the guest list, plus 1, and gave me the details on who's fighting and what styles. Those details meant nothing to me, but I told him I'd come if I could find the appropriate plus 1. And then, to my surprise, the plus 1 I had in mind was quite eager to go see the fighting. So I was all set for a Saturday night at the ring.
I picked up my +1 and we headed out a little after 7. The place was purportedly 15 minutes away, and since google maps has really come a long way in Israel since we've gotten here (from roadless blobs of land to difficult to nail down because of transliteration but rather accurate street addresses), we had directions that should have gotten us there fine.
It should be no surprise, however, that +1 and I found ourselves somewhere in the West Bank. While we weren't sure about that fact on the ride, a map check confirms it now. Although the security checkpoint should have been a big clue.
We backtracked, found the appropriate exit, and then had little trouble finding our street. As soon as we turned on to Menachem Begin Blvd, we saw cars parked on the street and in a lot that looked like it belonged to a high school. "A bunch of dudes are outside, that's got to be a good sign," +1 suggested, and so I pulled in, called the Hebrew Hammer, and confirmed that we had made it.
Once out of the car, our next challenge was to get into the fight. We had to find the guest list and mingle in a crowd that spoke both Hebrew and Russian. There was a genuine energy as we stood in line, with boxing shorts on sale, signs advertising clubs up, and the schedule of the fights available on the table. One tall woman with cropped blonde hair and fur in her clothes stood in front of us in line, and we agreed she looked very Russian. If she made it out to the fight, it must have been a big deal.
Fortunately, the VIP list was in order, and we were given our orange bracelets. We entered to what had to be a high school, judging by the basketball floor whereon the ring was set up, the hall with a concession stand selling hot dogs and other goodies, and the size of the building. It felt like I was going to watch a big wrestling match. Well, except for the signs. This was advertised as Dogfight 3, with signs featuring my main man the Hebrew Hammer, as well as his younger, bigger brother, and some other dude. Now all of a sudden +1 and I were feeling the excitement, the anticipation, the buzz.
We arrived just after 8, and while the fight hadn't started, the doors did open at 7:30, so most of the good seats in the bleachers were taken. We tried to get seats near the center, but an older couple told us, "seat's taken", so we were all ready to take some seats on the right side of the gym, which wouldn't give us a very clear vantage point, but would probably suffice for our less than diehard level of interest.
At that point I saw Moshe from Team Franko Pariente (HH's last name is Pariente, so that's his club). Moshe was the guy who likes how I say, "Bring it in." Anyway, he was on the floor, so I walked down to the end of the bleachers to say hello. Moshe was busy preparing fighters, so we shook hands and he moved on.
That was enough for the security guys on the floor to start talking to us before we turned to our seats. What they were saying I couldn't tell, so I gave them the ol' "anglit o russit", which led to responses in both. Being a jerk, I chose to talk to the Russian, who told me that we could sit on the floor with our VIP passes. "Backstage passes to Alice Cooper? No way!" Or something.
The seats were plain white lawn chairs, and we were in the fifth row behind kids who had a penchant for standing up during parts of the fights.
Wait, that doesn't sound that great. Let's rephrase.
For Dogfight 3, the biggest MMA show in town, my guest and I had floor-level seats, right with all the family members and celebrities that frequent the Israeli MMA scene. Pretty sweet! (Maybe if I take care of the wrestling thing, I'll live up to this sort of "status".)
Our lateness also played into our favor - instead of sitting through about 45 minutes of preliminaries, we had to wait about 5-10 minutes. And then the scene unfolded.
Picture a high school gym, with pentagonal painted areas on the basketball court rather than rectangles. Picture a boxing ring at half court. Picture rows of white chairs to one side of the ring, filled with family members and young kids who are in the respective clubs. Picture tables with wine bottles and other goodies on the other side of the ring. Picture two video screens flanking the back corners of the ring, and an interview area in the back corner of the gym. Picture a high school gym filled with 200 plus people, excited and revved up about hand to hand (or foot to foot) combat. Picture yourself in a boat on a river, with tangerine trees and marmalade skies. That's what we were dealing with, for the most part.
Then the lights dimmed. The music over the loudspeakers switched from general hip-pop to an epic Pink Floyd song that I can't identify. The crowd roared as the Israeli Michael Buffer (I can only assume he's the best around) stepped to the ring. After some waiting and some technical difficulties, he began the intro, welcoming us all to, "DOGFIGHT SHALOSH!!!" (Shalosh=3 in Hebrew). Needless to say, everybody was delighted. +1 and I for slightly different reasons than the rest of the crowd, perhaps.
The actual fight was interesting too. It started off with two Muay Thai fights, which had correspondence to what I know (wrestling) but was also quite different. Both fights had a Franko Pariente fighter, and both times FP won. The first fight featured a Russian by the name of Dima Zuckerman, who earned cheers and plaudits from two Russian gentlemen a row in front of us and to our left. They had suits on and looked very Russian, or at least quite Caucasian, as if from Chechnya or some such place. Actually, one of them looked a little like a Klitschko. Basically, they didn't seem like people worth crossing. And Dima pulled out a win despite backing up all match and looking like the far less classier boxer. At the same time, despite a gut and no muscle definition, Dima was in better shape and wore out his opponent. Maybe he took strength from the ring girl who strutted around the ring, showing the change in periods. +1 and I agreed that her figure was gorgeous, even if her face was a tad mousy. Israel's almost all the way there.
After the second fight, a TKO for FP, we earned an audience with the Hebrew Hammer. He was looking for us to make sure we found the VIP seats on the floor. When I gave him the horizontal, European football thumbs up, he found us and came over to say hello. He told us that two more FP guys were fighting, in matches 7 and 9, and wished us well in enjoying the rest of the fights.
We made it only one more fight, an MMA match featuring two 62 KG fighters, one with bright blue hair styled in almost mohawk form. It was kind of lame. So was the fight. And we hadn't eaten dinner yet. So our time with Dogfight 3 came to an end, a little early but wholly satisfying.
And today there are two things I can recall in the aftermath that are vital bits of info.
1. I procured a poster of Dogfight 3.
2. I confirmed with Ido that when the second FP fighter, Raz, won his match, he called out somebody for revenge (which they adopted into Hebrew for the post-match interview) from Dogfight Echad (that's 1), looking for a showdown in Dogfight Arba (that would be 4).
So in other words, for DOGFIGHT ARBA!!!, you can expect +1 and I to be there, if again invited. Maybe we'll show up early to get front row seats, so we can feel the sweat and heat of the ring. Or maybe that's too much intensity.
Nothing that happened surprised me. Still, I didn't think ahead to expect it, so the events bemused me more than they might normally.
Boris, my coach, set up a workout for me in Ashdod, about 30 miles to the South of Tel Aviv. There was a club there who boasted of the #2 wrestler in Israel at my weight class. As the #1 man is suspended for the year due to shady doings, this guy is the default top man. A pretty good opportunity to test my mettle, no?
We met, Boris and I, at our regular Thursday practice. I laid down as he coached the three small guys who showed up for the greco practice through a 35-minute workout. After their preliminary efforts, we left the basement and walked out to Boris's car. It was time.
I sat in Boris's front seat. Within five minutes, Boris had given me a life prescription - "What you need to do is find a good job, get married, to a Jewish girl, and have a good life" - stopped to buy his dinner of warm pita and yogurt, and showcased some memorably clumsy driving skills that made me question my safety for the next hour. He also discarded his first cup of yogurt by opening the door of the car and dropping it. That was cute.
To clinch the deal, as soon as we got on the highway and done talking, Boris put on a CD. Boris, a 50-year old man from Bukhara, a city in Uzbekistan; Boris, a gym teacher and wrestling coach who moved to Israel in 1992, a time when a lot of other Jews left Bukhara, because as he said it, "There are Arabs there. They don't like Jews, there was anti-Semitism,"; Boris put on a CD of Russian dance music. Music that rode over a fast thumping beat and featured lyrics in Russian and English about hearts pumping, missing you, and the like. It was delicious.
Anyway, after making one wrong turn, we got there just a little late. The Ashdod practice room was a true gym hall, with space for a full mat and some extras, a bike room and a locker room on the left, and space for twenty or so people. There was the slight stench of cigarettes, surely starting from at least one of the four gray-mustachioed coaches until it permeated the room. The room reminded me of the Olympic Village gym where I wrestled in a tournament in Moscow, if a little bit smaller.
Boris briefed me as we arrived. "You're going to get there, greet everybody, change, warm up, and wrestle two matches. You're going to win the first match, to show them your skills."
"What about the second match?"
"You're going to win that too! What did you think?"
That's what we call good coaching.
I was already changed, so after meeting the coaches, I put on my shoes and stretched out. For whatever reason, I didn't really warm up. Considering I had played soccer earlier in the day, and that I had been going on 5 hours of sleep a day for about a week (as for the reason? I'll let you use your imagination), I probably should have prepared myself better, but I figured maybe saving energy wasn't bad either.
So after 15 minutes, I told them I was good to go. There was a live takedown group of older guys on one end of the gym, so I thought I'd just work in with them, especially since little kids were wrestling on the other parts of the mat. But oh no.
"Clear the mats!" the head coach Lyova called, and Boris reminded me I needed to have a singlet. Already familiar with this, I strapped up, realizing that we would be in the center circle, me and No. 2. I was the spectacle, and all wanted to see me and whether I measured up. Or they wanted to see my mutton chops and whether they would affect my wrestling (yes, I've pulled them out again).
No. 2 wore a blue singlet, and I wore my red singlet which formerly boasted the Russian flag and RUS on the front and back, respectively. Now it's just a red singlet; Eastern European quality. I wore headgear, an added oddity. He was a decent bit taller than me, with short light hair. We shook hands in the two-handed congenial Russian wrestling way, and then we began.
He scored the first point offensively, as I just didn't sprawl. It was kind of silly, but maybe that's what warm-ups are for. Anyway, I came back with the next takedown, a defensive one, and then scored a three point offensive takedown to take the first period 4-1.
The second period went closer to my plans, even though it was a closer period. I scored the first two points on a takedown, and then while going for a bad gutwrench, I gave up a reversal and a 1-point turn. Tied, I decided to get the last point just in case and took him down for a 3-2 win.
In freestyle, as I've written somewhere before, you only need to win 2 of 3 periods, kind of like tennis. So if this was an official match, I won 4-1, 3-2 against Israel's top current man, without being in good shape, training form, or a state of readiness. That was nice.
But since it was practice and not the Israeli Championships, I figured there had to be more. I agreed to go a 3rd period, which I'm pretty sure he won 4-3 (a Brands brother would have been very displeased with my efforts). By that point I was quite exhausted. My legs hurt, my breathing was poor, and I felt out of shape again. And the rest of the club wanted a piece of me as well.
They gave me a break for 10 minutes or so to recuperate. I fought with the dueling impulses of wanting to be the bad-ass, in shape, tough American, and wanting to rest because I felt old and out of shape. Nevertheless, after those ten minutes, I returned to the mat for another match.
This match didn't go so well. I gave up a silly three points going for a lat-drop. I didn't do a good job in par terre (on the mat). I felt exhausted. I only lasted two periods, and then begged off.
The rest of the time I walked around or laid down, inside or outside, trying to collect my thoughts. I haven't seriously trained in 18 months. There was the tournament just after Spain where, after my second, far more difficult than it should have been match, I threw up 9 times (as if to make up for never throwing up from wrestling and not throwing up since I was 5 or 7). After that tournament I joked to myself that I was at last old. But of course, that's ridiculous; I'm just really out-of-shape compared to competition form.
At the same time, to get back into shape would take work and time. It requires a level of commitment that I could give in college with no second thoughts. But with a job, in a new country, with social life aspects I want to maintain, and a desire to keep my hand in a bunch of pots, I'm not sure I can dive back into wrestling at that commitment level. The goals aren't as strong, the payout is unclear, and I don't know if it would be all worth it. Especially considering that to this day, wrestling is the only thing that can drive me to the edge of my emotions, to positive or more often to negative ends. Oy.
Anyway, that's what I thought through outside, until a coach told me I'd get sick. So I walked back in and found the four coaches and Boris talking about me. Where I was going to work out, when, could they get around the citizenship requirement to let me wrestle in the Cup of Israel in December, what I needed to do. It almost felt out of my hands. But they all liked me at least.
In the end, we agreed on continuing my 3 days a week practice schedule, just two of them would be at this freestyle club instead of in Tel Aviv. I picked the days such to coincide with the Tel Aviv days, so I wouldn't need to "skip" those if I wanted a break. I'm going to take trains to get there, which is fine because the Israeli train system is quite good (and yet somehow all the teachers who wrote letters to new teachers told us we absolutely had to have a car, and that public transportation in Israel stinks. Hmm...). All and all, everything should be ok. And maybe we'll reach a point where I'm one of the guys and not all that special. Unless I make the national team, of course.
***
That same night I called my man Ido, the Hebrew Hammer himself. I just wanted to check out if I would run a practice this weekend - for various reasons, a cash stimulus would be good for my economic condition.
I did indeed have a practice to run, but he had bigger news to share. "I wanted to call you to invite you to a fight we're having this weekend, it should be really good." He told me I was on the guest list, plus 1, and gave me the details on who's fighting and what styles. Those details meant nothing to me, but I told him I'd come if I could find the appropriate plus 1. And then, to my surprise, the plus 1 I had in mind was quite eager to go see the fighting. So I was all set for a Saturday night at the ring.
I picked up my +1 and we headed out a little after 7. The place was purportedly 15 minutes away, and since google maps has really come a long way in Israel since we've gotten here (from roadless blobs of land to difficult to nail down because of transliteration but rather accurate street addresses), we had directions that should have gotten us there fine.
It should be no surprise, however, that +1 and I found ourselves somewhere in the West Bank. While we weren't sure about that fact on the ride, a map check confirms it now. Although the security checkpoint should have been a big clue.
We backtracked, found the appropriate exit, and then had little trouble finding our street. As soon as we turned on to Menachem Begin Blvd, we saw cars parked on the street and in a lot that looked like it belonged to a high school. "A bunch of dudes are outside, that's got to be a good sign," +1 suggested, and so I pulled in, called the Hebrew Hammer, and confirmed that we had made it.
Once out of the car, our next challenge was to get into the fight. We had to find the guest list and mingle in a crowd that spoke both Hebrew and Russian. There was a genuine energy as we stood in line, with boxing shorts on sale, signs advertising clubs up, and the schedule of the fights available on the table. One tall woman with cropped blonde hair and fur in her clothes stood in front of us in line, and we agreed she looked very Russian. If she made it out to the fight, it must have been a big deal.
Fortunately, the VIP list was in order, and we were given our orange bracelets. We entered to what had to be a high school, judging by the basketball floor whereon the ring was set up, the hall with a concession stand selling hot dogs and other goodies, and the size of the building. It felt like I was going to watch a big wrestling match. Well, except for the signs. This was advertised as Dogfight 3, with signs featuring my main man the Hebrew Hammer, as well as his younger, bigger brother, and some other dude. Now all of a sudden +1 and I were feeling the excitement, the anticipation, the buzz.
We arrived just after 8, and while the fight hadn't started, the doors did open at 7:30, so most of the good seats in the bleachers were taken. We tried to get seats near the center, but an older couple told us, "seat's taken", so we were all ready to take some seats on the right side of the gym, which wouldn't give us a very clear vantage point, but would probably suffice for our less than diehard level of interest.
At that point I saw Moshe from Team Franko Pariente (HH's last name is Pariente, so that's his club). Moshe was the guy who likes how I say, "Bring it in." Anyway, he was on the floor, so I walked down to the end of the bleachers to say hello. Moshe was busy preparing fighters, so we shook hands and he moved on.
That was enough for the security guys on the floor to start talking to us before we turned to our seats. What they were saying I couldn't tell, so I gave them the ol' "anglit o russit", which led to responses in both. Being a jerk, I chose to talk to the Russian, who told me that we could sit on the floor with our VIP passes. "Backstage passes to Alice Cooper? No way!" Or something.
The seats were plain white lawn chairs, and we were in the fifth row behind kids who had a penchant for standing up during parts of the fights.
Wait, that doesn't sound that great. Let's rephrase.
For Dogfight 3, the biggest MMA show in town, my guest and I had floor-level seats, right with all the family members and celebrities that frequent the Israeli MMA scene. Pretty sweet! (Maybe if I take care of the wrestling thing, I'll live up to this sort of "status".)
Our lateness also played into our favor - instead of sitting through about 45 minutes of preliminaries, we had to wait about 5-10 minutes. And then the scene unfolded.
Picture a high school gym, with pentagonal painted areas on the basketball court rather than rectangles. Picture a boxing ring at half court. Picture rows of white chairs to one side of the ring, filled with family members and young kids who are in the respective clubs. Picture tables with wine bottles and other goodies on the other side of the ring. Picture two video screens flanking the back corners of the ring, and an interview area in the back corner of the gym. Picture a high school gym filled with 200 plus people, excited and revved up about hand to hand (or foot to foot) combat. Picture yourself in a boat on a river, with tangerine trees and marmalade skies. That's what we were dealing with, for the most part.
Then the lights dimmed. The music over the loudspeakers switched from general hip-pop to an epic Pink Floyd song that I can't identify. The crowd roared as the Israeli Michael Buffer (I can only assume he's the best around) stepped to the ring. After some waiting and some technical difficulties, he began the intro, welcoming us all to, "DOGFIGHT SHALOSH!!!" (Shalosh=3 in Hebrew). Needless to say, everybody was delighted. +1 and I for slightly different reasons than the rest of the crowd, perhaps.
The actual fight was interesting too. It started off with two Muay Thai fights, which had correspondence to what I know (wrestling) but was also quite different. Both fights had a Franko Pariente fighter, and both times FP won. The first fight featured a Russian by the name of Dima Zuckerman, who earned cheers and plaudits from two Russian gentlemen a row in front of us and to our left. They had suits on and looked very Russian, or at least quite Caucasian, as if from Chechnya or some such place. Actually, one of them looked a little like a Klitschko. Basically, they didn't seem like people worth crossing. And Dima pulled out a win despite backing up all match and looking like the far less classier boxer. At the same time, despite a gut and no muscle definition, Dima was in better shape and wore out his opponent. Maybe he took strength from the ring girl who strutted around the ring, showing the change in periods. +1 and I agreed that her figure was gorgeous, even if her face was a tad mousy. Israel's almost all the way there.
After the second fight, a TKO for FP, we earned an audience with the Hebrew Hammer. He was looking for us to make sure we found the VIP seats on the floor. When I gave him the horizontal, European football thumbs up, he found us and came over to say hello. He told us that two more FP guys were fighting, in matches 7 and 9, and wished us well in enjoying the rest of the fights.
We made it only one more fight, an MMA match featuring two 62 KG fighters, one with bright blue hair styled in almost mohawk form. It was kind of lame. So was the fight. And we hadn't eaten dinner yet. So our time with Dogfight 3 came to an end, a little early but wholly satisfying.
And today there are two things I can recall in the aftermath that are vital bits of info.
1. I procured a poster of Dogfight 3.
2. I confirmed with Ido that when the second FP fighter, Raz, won his match, he called out somebody for revenge (which they adopted into Hebrew for the post-match interview) from Dogfight Echad (that's 1), looking for a showdown in Dogfight Arba (that would be 4).
So in other words, for DOGFIGHT ARBA!!!, you can expect +1 and I to be there, if again invited. Maybe we'll show up early to get front row seats, so we can feel the sweat and heat of the ring. Or maybe that's too much intensity.
13.9.08
Another Basement, Another Neck Bridge
The whole thing started, as just about everything does these days, with a Google search. "Israel Wrestling" was my initial term. Through a little bit of searching and winnowing, I got to the Israeli Wrestling Federation page. There I had to weave my way through English and then Russian options, whilst ignoring all the Hebrew on the right. Eventually, I came away with a phone number, an address, and an email address.
Still mired in the states (this first search was back in June or July), I found only the last item pertinent. I sat on the info until the appropriate time. About two weeks before my arrival in the promised land, I sent an email, written first in Russian. I then translated it into English, leaving in the clunkier phrases for effect, e.g. "I was hoping to know if you could help me find a club to train at," or "I would be most thankful". I received a response in email, we went back in forth, and they gave me the phone number again and told me to call when I arrived.
Again, once I got to Israel I did the wise thing and waited. A little more than a week in, I gave them a call. A woman answered. She was kind, and she gave me two phone numbers. One was to a guy named Leo in Bat Yam, and one to a guy named Sergei (I thought) in Ashdod. I would say Bat Yam:Tel Aviv as Brookline:Boston, right down to the large presence of Russians. Ashdod is a little while away, so I thought I'd leave that on the back burner.
I've talked about Bat Yam already; it was the judo club. My experience wrestling in a bunch of random places - dating to my high school summers when my brother would take me to police stations, barns, and unused factories for workouts - has taught me to be prepared for anything. So when I went to the practice the first time and found out it was a judo practice, I was surprised, but not at all shocked.
I went to one practice. It was fine. Still, between the hassle and traffic in getting there, the other things I had to do, and the lack of interest I have in judo itself, I didn't make it back for a couple of weeks.
Upon my return, I met a game of Russian basketball. Russian basketball is what we called it at Duke anyway: it's basically rugby with basketball hoops. The big variation here was that no one could hold onto the ball, so each step had to be followed by a pass. In a way, this was closer to basketball than the Duke version; dribbling not allowed, tackling and general physicality allowed. Also, we all stunk at basketball.
I went to that second practice to work out, but more so to consult with Lior the coach. He is the fat guy who cusses out his kids and smokes cigarettes. Also the director of the freestyle team in Israel. Me and Lior, gonna be good friends.
All he told me, really, was yes, going to the mafia guy is a bad idea; yes, going to see the federation in person is a good idea; no, if you end up getting Israel citizenship, you won't have to give up the rest of your life to the army. Just a few months. Hmmm.
So this past Sunday I went to the federation. It's located in the concourse of a soccer stadium in a northern district of Tel Aviv, relatively close to where I live. I drove in, parked at the wrong place, drove away to look a little farther down the street, then tried the soccer stadium on the rebound. I asked the first guy I saw inside if he spoke English or Russian, and then if he could show me to the wrestling office. Voila.
There I met Adi and Itsi. Itsi was a bald dude in his late 30s who didn't speak much English, and no Russian. Adi was a slightly younger woman who spoke no Russian but plenty of English. So we had a little chat about me and my prospects with the IWF. The big negative garnered from the discussion was that I can't enter the National Championship without Israeli citizenship; something about wanting your national championship to be for your nationals. I mean, whatever. We're looking to see if my visa will be enough.
The big positive garnered was a confirmation on the club in Ashdod - the dude's name is Firgor, not Sergei, but they're one of the big 4 clubs in freestyle in the country - and a new number for a greco club in Tel Aviv. I thought I'd expand my net of styles I'd be willing to work out in, and the level of greco here is higher than freestyle. As Adi explained, "Our greco program has been going for 25 years, while our freestyle has only been going for 10." And by program, I think she meant acceptance of Russian and Georgian Jews.
So the new greco club coach's name was Berhay they said, though he also went by Boris. "He's a good coach. That's a good club," they told me. They also gave me a location, Bet yanim, which was somewhere in the southern half of Tel Aviv, but closer than Bat Yam. And they told me he spoke Russian, not English.
This time I didn't do as much waiting. I got home, shopped along the way, and then decided to supplement my shopping by walking to the local supermarket. On the way, I gave ol' Boris a call. I explained who I was, asked him about his club, and he said, "Sure, we have a practice today, come on down." Unready for this, I agreed. We hung up. I returned to my shopping. It was 2:20.
At about 3:20, I gave Boris a call again. I couldn't understand what he had been saying about where his club was located, so I figured I'd try again while sitting in front of an Israel emap. He explained it again, but seemed a little surprised I couldn't catch it the first time, as if my knowledge of Russian was to blame for not making out the Hebrew names he hacked off over a shoddy cell phone connection. In any case, we sat there until I figured out that Kabir was spelled with an "i" and not an "e", and that Ha Tikvah was actually a section in Tel Aviv. I pinpointed the place, thanked him, and promised to be at practice by 6.
Back in February when I was at the job fair to find a job teaching for this year, the head of the organization hosting talked about the turning point in an interview when the school you're interviewing with begins to sell you on them, rather than you selling them on you. I didn't really notice that turning point in my interview, but somehow I got the job anyway.
The turning point with Boris came at 4:49, when he called me back. He wanted to make sure I would find my way there and make sure I was coming. "We'll have a good team, you compete with us, don't worry." I'm not going to practice tonight, I told him. "Of course not, no problem! It's good to meet, to talk, just come." So it was settled.
My plans for arrival changed slightly when I received a phone call. Former teammate and still friend Dan Fox, as well as a friend of his had just arrived in Tel Aviv, shockingly ahead of schedule at the Central Bus Station. So I flipped the order of my plans and drove in to find them. Finding the bus station was in itself a mess - not dissimilar to Boston, Tel Aviv has signs directing you towards the bus station but then ceases to give you the details when you get very close. Fortunately, some dude on the street directed me, in Russian, to the station, and when I drove by the corner where Dan and friend waited, I heard the familiar "Hey, Shorty!" call. I pulled into the taxi and buses row and added my companions.
Once we found our way out of the balagan around the bus station, we made our way across the major highway (the Ayalon) and into Ha Tikvah. The club was pretty close to the bus station, so even with a few bad turns we got there in short order.
Walking by the local stadium, we found a sign for a judo club (Boris suggested there would be one) and some dudes sitting outside of a building that could have been our spot. We approached and spoke to them.
"Medeber anglit o russit?"
"English a little."
"We're looking for a wrestling club."
"Wrestling?"
"Boris. We're looking for Boris."
"Oh, Boris! He's right over there," and the guy gave us the directions. It appeared Boris was big around these parts.
We went by a little soccer field, down stairs, and into another building. Turning right down a narrow hallway in the basement, we found our pot of gold at the end of the rainbow; a blue mat and this fellow, sans trophy:
I never know what to expect from phone calls with these coaches. Lior was more your typical hardnosed wrestling coach, though quite soft-bellied. Boris looked like a wrestler - wide shoulders, a slight hunch in his back. When I walked into the room though, he wasted no time in getting to the greetings, giving me an awkward hug. Apparently that's how they treat top recruits; who said Israelis are cold?
For my first practice on a wrestling mat since July, I got the kid-gloves treatment. "Take a rest, don't do this drill," he told me during one of the neck warm-up exercises. "We don't want you waking up tomorrow and hurting everywhere, thinking, "Why should I wrestle?" Not wanting to disagree, and eager to trust the Russian training methods (i.e. being out of shape and lazy), I sat out that exercise.
Once the warm-ups stopped, I began to wrestle with Boris's son, Alex. Alex was an Israel National Team member in Greco, and had about 5 KG on me. Unlike his dad, he spoke English, which led to a mixture of Russian and English instruction as he explained I should step in on the underhook and not sit on my crappy lat-drop. "That's the only move I have!" I explained to him. Ahh, greco.
After 10 minutes of "push-push" (lazy live) with Alex, I was released to get a drink. Then I went with one of the newer wrestlers as they drilled getting off their back. I went live with this new guy too, and threw him around a little bit, if threw him around suggests avoiding his throws and getting many one-point takedowns.
The highlight of the first workout came when Boris himself came over to roll with me. Boris is a 2-time world champion...in the veterans level. He's also 50, I believe. And he was quite impressed with my freestyle wrestling. As he should have been, because when we went freestyle, I took him down six ways to Sunday. It's unclear whether he wasn't trying, wasn't in practice at freestyle anymore, or was just old. But he was impressed, regardless.
And so after practice he told me, "Don't go anywhere else to wrestle, or do judo, or karate, or anything, just work out here." Before I could respond, he added, "I've signed you up for our club anyway." Settled.
He did say that I might be able to practice for free, as long as I can compete for the club. So I'm a signed and pledged member of Bet Yanim. Go BY! Yeah? No? Well, it's good to fit in somewhere.
Postscript: That practice was on Tuesday. By Wednesday I had spotted at least 3 cases of ringworm on my person. Mmm.
Still mired in the states (this first search was back in June or July), I found only the last item pertinent. I sat on the info until the appropriate time. About two weeks before my arrival in the promised land, I sent an email, written first in Russian. I then translated it into English, leaving in the clunkier phrases for effect, e.g. "I was hoping to know if you could help me find a club to train at," or "I would be most thankful". I received a response in email, we went back in forth, and they gave me the phone number again and told me to call when I arrived.
Again, once I got to Israel I did the wise thing and waited. A little more than a week in, I gave them a call. A woman answered. She was kind, and she gave me two phone numbers. One was to a guy named Leo in Bat Yam, and one to a guy named Sergei (I thought) in Ashdod. I would say Bat Yam:Tel Aviv as Brookline:Boston, right down to the large presence of Russians. Ashdod is a little while away, so I thought I'd leave that on the back burner.
I've talked about Bat Yam already; it was the judo club. My experience wrestling in a bunch of random places - dating to my high school summers when my brother would take me to police stations, barns, and unused factories for workouts - has taught me to be prepared for anything. So when I went to the practice the first time and found out it was a judo practice, I was surprised, but not at all shocked.
I went to one practice. It was fine. Still, between the hassle and traffic in getting there, the other things I had to do, and the lack of interest I have in judo itself, I didn't make it back for a couple of weeks.
Upon my return, I met a game of Russian basketball. Russian basketball is what we called it at Duke anyway: it's basically rugby with basketball hoops. The big variation here was that no one could hold onto the ball, so each step had to be followed by a pass. In a way, this was closer to basketball than the Duke version; dribbling not allowed, tackling and general physicality allowed. Also, we all stunk at basketball.
I went to that second practice to work out, but more so to consult with Lior the coach. He is the fat guy who cusses out his kids and smokes cigarettes. Also the director of the freestyle team in Israel. Me and Lior, gonna be good friends.
All he told me, really, was yes, going to the mafia guy is a bad idea; yes, going to see the federation in person is a good idea; no, if you end up getting Israel citizenship, you won't have to give up the rest of your life to the army. Just a few months. Hmmm.
So this past Sunday I went to the federation. It's located in the concourse of a soccer stadium in a northern district of Tel Aviv, relatively close to where I live. I drove in, parked at the wrong place, drove away to look a little farther down the street, then tried the soccer stadium on the rebound. I asked the first guy I saw inside if he spoke English or Russian, and then if he could show me to the wrestling office. Voila.
There I met Adi and Itsi. Itsi was a bald dude in his late 30s who didn't speak much English, and no Russian. Adi was a slightly younger woman who spoke no Russian but plenty of English. So we had a little chat about me and my prospects with the IWF. The big negative garnered from the discussion was that I can't enter the National Championship without Israeli citizenship; something about wanting your national championship to be for your nationals. I mean, whatever. We're looking to see if my visa will be enough.
The big positive garnered was a confirmation on the club in Ashdod - the dude's name is Firgor, not Sergei, but they're one of the big 4 clubs in freestyle in the country - and a new number for a greco club in Tel Aviv. I thought I'd expand my net of styles I'd be willing to work out in, and the level of greco here is higher than freestyle. As Adi explained, "Our greco program has been going for 25 years, while our freestyle has only been going for 10." And by program, I think she meant acceptance of Russian and Georgian Jews.
So the new greco club coach's name was Berhay they said, though he also went by Boris. "He's a good coach. That's a good club," they told me. They also gave me a location, Bet yanim, which was somewhere in the southern half of Tel Aviv, but closer than Bat Yam. And they told me he spoke Russian, not English.
This time I didn't do as much waiting. I got home, shopped along the way, and then decided to supplement my shopping by walking to the local supermarket. On the way, I gave ol' Boris a call. I explained who I was, asked him about his club, and he said, "Sure, we have a practice today, come on down." Unready for this, I agreed. We hung up. I returned to my shopping. It was 2:20.
At about 3:20, I gave Boris a call again. I couldn't understand what he had been saying about where his club was located, so I figured I'd try again while sitting in front of an Israel emap. He explained it again, but seemed a little surprised I couldn't catch it the first time, as if my knowledge of Russian was to blame for not making out the Hebrew names he hacked off over a shoddy cell phone connection. In any case, we sat there until I figured out that Kabir was spelled with an "i" and not an "e", and that Ha Tikvah was actually a section in Tel Aviv. I pinpointed the place, thanked him, and promised to be at practice by 6.
Back in February when I was at the job fair to find a job teaching for this year, the head of the organization hosting talked about the turning point in an interview when the school you're interviewing with begins to sell you on them, rather than you selling them on you. I didn't really notice that turning point in my interview, but somehow I got the job anyway.
The turning point with Boris came at 4:49, when he called me back. He wanted to make sure I would find my way there and make sure I was coming. "We'll have a good team, you compete with us, don't worry." I'm not going to practice tonight, I told him. "Of course not, no problem! It's good to meet, to talk, just come." So it was settled.
My plans for arrival changed slightly when I received a phone call. Former teammate and still friend Dan Fox, as well as a friend of his had just arrived in Tel Aviv, shockingly ahead of schedule at the Central Bus Station. So I flipped the order of my plans and drove in to find them. Finding the bus station was in itself a mess - not dissimilar to Boston, Tel Aviv has signs directing you towards the bus station but then ceases to give you the details when you get very close. Fortunately, some dude on the street directed me, in Russian, to the station, and when I drove by the corner where Dan and friend waited, I heard the familiar "Hey, Shorty!" call. I pulled into the taxi and buses row and added my companions.
Once we found our way out of the balagan around the bus station, we made our way across the major highway (the Ayalon) and into Ha Tikvah. The club was pretty close to the bus station, so even with a few bad turns we got there in short order.
Walking by the local stadium, we found a sign for a judo club (Boris suggested there would be one) and some dudes sitting outside of a building that could have been our spot. We approached and spoke to them.
"Medeber anglit o russit?"
"English a little."
"We're looking for a wrestling club."
"Wrestling?"
"Boris. We're looking for Boris."
"Oh, Boris! He's right over there," and the guy gave us the directions. It appeared Boris was big around these parts.
We went by a little soccer field, down stairs, and into another building. Turning right down a narrow hallway in the basement, we found our pot of gold at the end of the rainbow; a blue mat and this fellow, sans trophy:
I never know what to expect from phone calls with these coaches. Lior was more your typical hardnosed wrestling coach, though quite soft-bellied. Boris looked like a wrestler - wide shoulders, a slight hunch in his back. When I walked into the room though, he wasted no time in getting to the greetings, giving me an awkward hug. Apparently that's how they treat top recruits; who said Israelis are cold?
For my first practice on a wrestling mat since July, I got the kid-gloves treatment. "Take a rest, don't do this drill," he told me during one of the neck warm-up exercises. "We don't want you waking up tomorrow and hurting everywhere, thinking, "Why should I wrestle?" Not wanting to disagree, and eager to trust the Russian training methods (i.e. being out of shape and lazy), I sat out that exercise.
Once the warm-ups stopped, I began to wrestle with Boris's son, Alex. Alex was an Israel National Team member in Greco, and had about 5 KG on me. Unlike his dad, he spoke English, which led to a mixture of Russian and English instruction as he explained I should step in on the underhook and not sit on my crappy lat-drop. "That's the only move I have!" I explained to him. Ahh, greco.
After 10 minutes of "push-push" (lazy live) with Alex, I was released to get a drink. Then I went with one of the newer wrestlers as they drilled getting off their back. I went live with this new guy too, and threw him around a little bit, if threw him around suggests avoiding his throws and getting many one-point takedowns.
The highlight of the first workout came when Boris himself came over to roll with me. Boris is a 2-time world champion...in the veterans level. He's also 50, I believe. And he was quite impressed with my freestyle wrestling. As he should have been, because when we went freestyle, I took him down six ways to Sunday. It's unclear whether he wasn't trying, wasn't in practice at freestyle anymore, or was just old. But he was impressed, regardless.
And so after practice he told me, "Don't go anywhere else to wrestle, or do judo, or karate, or anything, just work out here." Before I could respond, he added, "I've signed you up for our club anyway." Settled.
He did say that I might be able to practice for free, as long as I can compete for the club. So I'm a signed and pledged member of Bet Yanim. Go BY! Yeah? No? Well, it's good to fit in somewhere.
Postscript: That practice was on Tuesday. By Wednesday I had spotted at least 3 cases of ringworm on my person. Mmm.
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