Frankfurt
The worst part is the weigh-in. Hundreds of heavily muscled, cauliflower-eared, tattooed, menacing-looking, sweaty men — from Mongolia, Korea, Japan, Uzbekistan, Azerbaijan, Poland, Russia, Ukraine, Turkey, Greece, Germany, Brazil, Canada, France, Hungary, the US, you name it — wait patiently and silently to step on the scales. Everyone holds his passport, which he is required to show once on the scales. It is a funny sort of scene. Naked men holding a passport. It could be out of the Gulag, as most fighters from eastern Europe have shaven heads and broad Slavic peasant faces. (The purpose of this is to stop ex-communist countries from sending in thinner men to pose as the heavies who later on do the fighting, a not unheard of custom by our friends the Russkies.)
By the time my turn came, I was sick and tired of the way the International Judo Federation treats us athletes. No transport, only three hours to weigh in close to 1,200 competitors, no chits for a meal afterwards, especially for those who haven’t eaten in days trying to make weight. I was competing at 90 kilos but weighed 82 after three days of puking my guts out because of gastroenteritis. I was the only one wearing a blazer and tie, as I had just got off an aeroplane, and I stepped on to the scales fully dressed and looking as bored and supercilious as I could. ‘What are you doing?’ said the screw, sorry, the official. ‘Weighing in, what do you think I’m doing, attending a cocktail party,’ I spat back. He looked at the scales, checked my passport, then looked at the division I was competing in, and shrugged his shoulders. I was eight kilos under and fully dressed, and there was nothing he could do about it but check me in. I stepped off in my best Lady Bracknell manner while the rest of the Mongoloids stared uncomprehendingly.
Then comes the hard part. One sits in a lousy hotel room in a part of town where most people look Turkish, Arab or African. One tries to read but the mind keeps wandering off towards the Sportscentrum a couple of miles away. Who has entered and where are they from? Are the menacing-looking Russkies as good as advertised? What about the shaven-headed Jap that beat me last time? And those tough, tough Germans, are they back? The answer to such questions turns out to be yes. This was the toughest and deepest field ever.
What bothers me at times about sportswriting is that no matter how knowledgable the hack might be, no one — and I mean no one — knows what it’s really like until they’re on the mat facing the foe with an uninterested ref in the middle trying to act official. There is no goalkeeper behind you, no defenceman, no attacker up front. Only you and that beastly looking subhuman across from you. Do that for 50 years or so, mano a mano every time, and then pick up the quill and write about it. But watching from the sidelines you do not really know. You think you do, but you know squat.
Well, I’d better let this one go. The polite way of putting it is that fighting in judo, karate or boxing tournaments is character-building. It tests one’s strength, but more so one’s character. Judo is one of the most tiring sports around. You’re at it non-stop and always full out, no coasting or resting in between attacks. One’s at the limit almost from the start and the temptation to quit is ever-present. And the latter is very easy to do. You try a complicated throw, it doesn’t work, and your problems are over. No, you gotta stay in the trenches, grunt it out, fight for every inch in a war of attrition.
There are no poseurs in martial arts competitions. There is also no room for self-pitying, inadequate, spoilt little rich boys or girls. I know a few rich men who practise martial arts, but all they’re doing is fooling themselves. Unless one competes one is not a martial artist. Punto, basta, as they say in the land of pasta. Taking private lessons, or even a class, does not begin to tell the real story. One has to lay it on the line. The irony is that nasty, violent thugs are too cowardly to fight on an equal level. They simply haven’t got the bottle, unless drunk, or five against one, and with a shiv in their hand to boot. Hence the peaceful demeanour of most tough guy judokas or karatekas.
The other thing I noticed was that the oligarchs are not the only pigs around. Athletes from the old Soviet Union stick out on account of their dour looks and absolute lack of any charm or good manners. Most of them grunt in place of speech. They remind me of Lord Sugar and Philip Green, only slightly better-looking. Lady Bracknell would be appalled. Except, of course, for the Poles. They smile and are polite and are the best people of Europe, according to the great anthropologist Taki.
So how did it go? you might ask. I don’t always keep my promises, but I had promised Speccie readers a medal and I got one. It was only a bronze, which makes me the third toughest 74-year-old in the world. I’m not one for excuses, but I fought the best I ever have, losing only in overtime and by decision. My coach Teimoc won gold and told me that he was never more proud to see me fight the way I did. Alas, as it was my last fight ever, I blubbed a bit on the podium, but no one saw it.
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