“It’s not how many times you get knocked down that count, it’s how many times you get back up.”
George A. Custer (1839-1876);
I’ve been knocked down a bunch. Especially recently.
Last month, I attended a Krav Maga training where I was the only person out of 8 who had any Krav Maga training. As an experienced teacher, I knew as soon as I heard that, it meant I was about to spend a week with a bunch of people who hadn’t yet developed the skill of self control.
I was proven right on the first afternoon, when I was laying on my back on a plywood floor, and got punched in the nose with a bare fist. And then moments later, got solidly elbowed in the temple. By the same person.
Both times, I stood up, wiped blood off with my sleeve, and fist bumped the guy. “Good shot. Let’s go again.” He seemed a bit baffled that, as the smallest person in the room and the only female, I was tolerant of his lack of control. He turned out to be my favorite training partner for the week.
Later that night, I had two conversations…
First, with my girlfriend. She said, “Wow, he hit you that hard? Where’s the pics of the blood?!” And then she continued on with words of encouragement about how it didn’t really matter how tough I was, but that I was willing to be the training partner who could sustain other people’s need for aggression without objecting to their lack of control. (This is a position she and I find ourselves in quite often, even against each other.)
This was in between conversations about what was happening back at the gym, including who was being what kind of asshole and why we would love to scrap it all and start from scratch.
Somewhere in the middle of our conversation, when I wasn’t nursing my broken nose, I sketched a quick note…”get punched and come back ready for more.”
The other conversation I had that night was with my dad. He said “well, give these guys back what they’re dishing out,” and I explained that wasn’t my responsibility here. He said, “wow…you’re better than me.”
Thanks, Dad. Not always.
I’ve had plenty of sparring partners who have tagged me, which has pushed my “kick their f’ing ass” button and I’ve come up from the quick dizzy stagger swinging for the fences. Many coaches and training partners would tell you that I’m a defensive fighter until someone gets that first good shot in. And then I come up growling and putting them on their heels.
And what I sketched in my notebook that night between bloody noses and chats with my girl, was that my experience getting literally punched in the face is not unlike my recent professional experience.
You hit me, either fair and square or cheaply, and I will come at you with a fierceness you may very well have underestimated.
I’ve said this a bunch over the past year…”I don’t need a pat on the back, but I’m tired of getting punched in the gut.” I took a week away from running my business to advance my own training. And I got blasted in the face a ton. I sat down every night after training, resolved to do better the next day. With each passing day, I realized I was ready to fight the fight for my business when I got back.
I’m done getting figuratively punched in the gut. Somehow it took getting actually punched in the face to figure out what that meant.