Maybe it’s when they’re outnumbered ten to one, when the other guy’s holding a bazooka, when children are hostage, or maybe they’re just tired and will pass on this one.

Tonight, I discovered that I won’t fight my husband.

Okay, that’s a bit of an exageration.  I have no problem with the kind of verbal sparring in which we ascertain that I did, indeed, say exactly what I claim I said.  But, apparently, when I’m placed across from him in a sword-fighting ring, the fight goes right out of me.

This was a new and unexpected development.  My competitive streak–especially in any kind of sparring ring–has seen me through thick and thin.  I’ve fought three guys, all fresh, when I’m tired.  I’ve fought guys that were in their prime and of a higher skill level.  I’ve fought in on-going continous matches that went on for almost two hours without break.  And through it all, when faced with an opponent I dig down inside and pull out that competitive instinct to see myself through.

But, not tonight.

Oh, I still went through the motions of sparring, but afterwards my husband wondered if I was sick, or just going easy on him.  I was mildly embarrassed to answer that it was neither.

Who knew?

I’m a Ninja!

Okay, not even a wanna-be.  But I am a fan of Ask a Ninja, and someday I plan to send in a question.  Right after I get my six foot plot of earth picked out and and my life insurance paid off.

He’s got a lot of really funny pods on there, but this one, Ninjalympics, was worthy of snagging over here because it proves that he and I move in the same circles.

The Olympic stuff is funny, and there’re lots of laughs, but the first part, when he talks about the Ninja’s need to stay ready is when he reveals that he was present at one of my (or any of my) martial arts tournaments, years ago.

You stand around, chatting with lots of other people you’ll soon be fighting, and nothing happens.

You’re pumped, and ready to fight, but you can wait.  It’s cool.

…You’re not quite so pumped, but this is good.  Now you’re loose, too, and that’s a good thing.

……Okay, you’re getting a little tired.  But you have endurance.  Deep breath–psych yourself.  Yep.  You’re still pumped.

………Still…pumped.

…………Enough already.  It’s been hours, you’re starving, you’ve watched other fighters carried off on stretchers, and you’re supposed to be home by now.  Talk to the coach, grumble.  Deep breath–whatever.

……………Nope.  Not the least bit pumped.  You’ve even given in and ordered food–but man, it tastes good!  Wow, so delicious, even if it does wiegh you down and–

Oh no!  It’s your turn to fight!

Yeah.  That’s what it’s like.  The ones I attended were universally the most poorly organized events I’ve ever had the misfortune to build my schedule around.  The one redeeming factor?  When you went home, and regardless of the giant 6th place trophy in the back of your car, you knew you were a survivor.  Maybe even a wanna-be Ninja.

Unfortunately, I won’t be able too.  The camp conincides with other commitments, but it was gratifying to hear I was ‘overwhelmingly requested’ by the girls.

Of course, that may be mean I was too easy on them…

Maybe next time I’ll make them do push-ups.

One, two, three, four, five, six . . . she pumped them off quickly, including her counting in the rhythm. 

Thirty-one, thirty-two, thirty-three . . . she could just see Karen, to her left, from the corner of her eye.  Her face twisted in a mask of of pain and determination, a twin to Anna’s.

Fifty-six, fifty-seven, fifty-eight . . . the sinews of her shoulders protested.

Seventy-four, seventy-five . . . she saw Mr. Sol’s feet walking down the line.

“Keep them deep,” he said.  “You don’t want to skimp your black belt.”

Anna made an extra effort to deepen her push-ups, but she was slowing.  The rhythm was broken.

Eighty-six, eighty-seven . . . Simon, to her right, finished his set and sat back.  Anna’s back sagged.  She straightened it, biting down on a groan. 

Eighty-nine. Ninety. Ninety-one.  She was moving with agonizing slowness now. 

“Somebody step in and grab the girls belts, help them finish,” Mr. Sol said.

Anna saw feet aproach, stop beside her.

“I’ve got it–don’t help,” she said.

Ninety-six. Ninety-seven. Ninety-eight.  Her arms kept getting stuck just before the top of the push-up.  She pushed with her will, her strength spent.

Ninety-nine.  She dipped as low as she dared for the last push-up, and almost didn’t make it back up.

One hundred.  She sat back on her heels.  Her arms were shaking, her vision a bit blurred, but this made a total of two hundred push-ups for the night. 

She had done it.

Anyway, this felt kind of exposed and vulnerable to me, as it is a new move.  But I used it, albeit clumsily, during the practice.  Then we started a little light sparring at half speed.  I was feeling warmed up now and doing pretty good, but I noticed my partner wasnit hitting to the head and making me use this new block.

After a bit my partner compliments me that he hasn’t hit me yet. 

So I anwered that he hadn’t used a hook yet, to make me use this new block.

He says, “What do you mean? I’ve thrown some hooks.  You’re blocking with something else.”

And that’s when I realized I’d been blocking with an ‘in-to-out forearm block’, from my old style, and never even knew I was doing it.  Of course I felt like a bit of an idiot, and hoped the instructor hadn’t noticed me ignoring the training he was giving me.  But on the other hand, it was good to know l’d block with something when a fist came at my head.

Elbows get a mention or two on fast facts, and there were lots of sites with info on tennis elbow, plus a few helping the folks with archers elbow.

I never did find the facts I wanted, such as: How many times a day does the average person use their elbow joint, how sensitive is the skin on the elbow, and where does the name ‘elbow’ come from? 

Today I couldn’t decide if I should puke or pass out, but I was ready with a grin even at the end.  Nothing like beating up a dummy to bring out the best in me.