Real: Mike Tyson's Intimidating Honesty

Mike Tyson was fucking scary. He would waft through an opponent’s defense like a ghoul, and hit with the wrath of the devil himself. Terrifying. He had an aura about him that was hard to describe. A mixture of ferocity, confidence, insecurity and a love of boxing all melded together to create it. His bellicosity was evident; his love for the sport was too. His confidence filled arenas, but his insecurity drove it all. It’s been said that Tyson was a timid kid. He was said to have hidden from bullies, and found reclusion a better fit. When describing his mental preparation for a fight, Tyson himself said that fear fueled his motivation in camp. He even imagined himself losing and being embarrassed. Mike Tyson was insecure, and he never pretended not to be. His aura of intimidation he had was based on honesty.

Mike Tyson’s honesty was just as scary as his physical prowess. When his anger was on display, it was visceral and real. His confidence was founded on his honest dedication to the art of fucking people up. Even his insecurities laid honest and bare, and his most private moments were under a constant eye of judgement. When under scrutiny, most of us run under the shelter of politeness. He didn’t do that. Mike Tyson’s honesty scared us because it never faltered. You see, Mike Tyson didn’t have our problem. He always told the truth, even when he lied.

This kind of honesty is hard to define. It manifested itself in many ways. His ferocity almost had a tranquility to it because it was so raw. There was nothing to wonder with Mike Tyson. You knew he was a bad guy; you knew he was the best. You knew he was not going to behave the way society expected him to, and you knew he would not bend to those expectations. Society sometimes fears unpredictability, but fear is exciting.

Eventually, time took Tyson’s physical strength, but his strength of character didn’t fade. Character means being truth to self. Tyson has always been true to himself. As he got older, he tamed. His aura changed from intimidating to almost jolly. It was weird. He still stayed true to himself though. People who took his jolly aura for granted were quickly reminded that they were dealing with Mike Tyson.

The best example of his honesty came at the end of his boxing career. It was a miserable finish to notorious career. The image of him asking for help after tumbling to the mat sticks in the minds of those that tuned in. Steve Albet’s words reminded all of us of what we were witnessing. “Kevin McBride, a journeyman, is making Mike Tyson look like a third-tier heavyweight.” It was clear that his love of the game was gone. He knew it. He said it.

“I got the ability to stay in shape, but I don’t got the fighting guts… I just don’t have this in my heart anymore… I’m just fighting to take care of my bills,” he told the world before announcing his retirement.  He went on to say, “I’m not gonna fight and I’m not going to disrespect this sport by losing to this caliber of fighters.” Candid.

There lies his commitment to the truth. If paying his bills was the goal, he could have easily met it by taking freak fights. Bob Sapp has made a living of it, but that is not Tyson. He still loved the sport, and was honest enough to know he was tarnishing it.

That’s the honesty that makes me excited for his return. He looks to have found a joy to train again. He seems excited to return to boxing with a fresh perspective. I believe him, and I want to see where this goes.

Coach Sanderson: American Paragon

Cael Sanderson is a legend. He was once introduced to Wanderlei Silva, as "The Wanserlei Silva of wrestling." I'm not really sure how true that is, but it sounds fucking cool. It was meant with admiration. It was a metaphor that crossed sports, but implied great reverence.

We like to do this as fans. We compare legends and debate the who is the GOAT over forums, comment threads, and in the company of friends. There are many wrestling fans that would argue Cael is the Greatest of All Time, but there are a lot of GOAT's in American wrestling. Where Sanderson stacks against other legends is debatable.

If judging by accomplishments than look no further than his NCAA career. In that sense, he is on a short list of 4x NCAA Champions, but the only one to have done it undefeated. American GOAT?

Dan Gable is a fucking legend, and as a coach, he set the gold standard for success in NCAA wrestling. Is he the GOAT?

Bruce Baumgartner and John Smith are fucking living legends too. Their dominance on the international scene ensured that American wrestling will forever be respected on a World and Olympic level. GOATs?

One can compare Cael's success with any of the aforementioned legends, but Cael is a legend in his own right. His legend tells a unique story, a story that encompasses all the best aspects of this sport- he is the paragon of American wrestling.

So, I offer a different metric. I make the argument that Coach Sanderson stands as the best incarnation of what wrestling has to offer. He is the shining example of the character it can build. A character forged through hardships. Character developed over years of hard work, dedication, fortitude, and honesty.

Coach Brands once wrapped up the essence of the sport when he said, "It's not what you deserve, it's what you earn." This is wrestling. It is brutal, cruel, humbling, honest, and empowering.

Your success and triumph come at the cost of another person's dreams. Brutal. A whole lifetime's work can end in a matter of 6 minutes. Cruel. But if you can see beyond yourself, through humility, and be honest- the sport is as empowering as anything. These are the values all our coaches told us to strive for- the virtues the sport hopefully instills. And I don't think I'm being hyperbolic when I say Cael Sanderson lives up to these better than anyone.

There was a story I once heard through the grapevine in high school wrestling. It was around 2003 and I was hitting the open mats in Southern California. To high school wrestlers across the nation, Cael was God. Omnipotent. The story essentially said that he had a tough match once, and he came back the next time and her beat the shit out of the dude. Cool.

The part that always stood out to me wasn't that he nearly lost once and came back better, it was his initial reaction to having a close match. Legend has it, that he immediately went over to his coach and said, "I never want to have a close match again in my life," (or some shit like that) and then he trained his ass off.

That may or may not have happened, but the impression left on me was obvious. He set an expectation for himself, and was humble enough to recognize he was still not there. He understood that his destiny was in his own hands, and worked hard to earn it. Eventually, Sanderson earned that shit; he earned his NCAA legacy, his Olympic Gold medal, and his status as the greatest wrestling Coach in Penn State history.

I remember watching Real Pro Wrestling and seeing him in a commercial for a wrestling dummy. He did a fuck-load of shots on it, looked exhausted, and did some more. The message being that he works harder than the other guy, but hard work is not unique to Cael Sanderson. American wrestlers work hard. All of the aforementioned GOATs worked hard. Fortitude is not an exception in wrestling; fortitude is the standard.

But that is what makes Coach Cael so unique, it is how much of a cliché he is. It may sound disparaging, but it's not. Coach Cael is a cliché, because he lives up to every ideal of wrestling.

I'm not saying anything new. He told you so here. He tells you exactly why wrestling is more than a sport. He explains that it is an experience that prepares one for life. It lets you know things are going to be unfair. It lets you know you can only control yourself, and that thinking outside the box is a better road to success than complaining. Most importantly, it lets you know that hard work pays off. Cliché.

At its best, America is a place where innovation, fortitude, competitiveness, and altruism flourish. His ankle-pick game was innovative. His wars with Lee Fullhart showed his Fortitude. His Olympic gold exemplified his dominance. The success of his athletes is a testament to his altruism. I guess what I'm saying is that Coach Sanderson is American as Fuck and that's why he's a cliché.

I find Sanderson's best representation of himself (and thus the sport and the country) here. It was after finishing 5th in the world in 2011. There was controversy about fairness, but you never heard him say it. Some calls were questionable, but not to him. He focused on what could be done better. He understood that calls are tough and that sometimes Freestyle scoring can get chaotic.  You can see the disappointment, but not the petty anger of "what could have been?" You see acceptance. He is not shaken by his failure. It clearly hurts, but he accepts it.

But then a kid from Fresno by the name of Jake Varner is brought up. Jake is one of his athletes, and at the time, a future gold medalist. That day, he took 3rd at that same tournament. Suddenly you see a new side to Coach Sanderson. Vulnerability. He can't help it. He's so proud. He is proud that he was a part of his wrestler's story. He was proud of being part of a greater narrative. That's America at its best- a greater narrative than one's self. Wrestling is bigger than any individual glory, even though individual glory drives the spirit of this sport.

There can only be one winner; every time the whistle blows- one person eventually loses. Your job is to make sure it's the other guy with his head down by the end of it. But at the end, we are expected to shake the opponent’s hand regardless. The unwritten rule being that you accept the truth and you don't complain. You just work harder. You go back to your teammates, and you help each other improve for the next one. Hopefully, you win, and your small individual glory is added to the greater glory of your school or your nation. Carry yourself well, or potentially stain the legacy of your team.

Everyone lives up to this spirit as best they can. We all fall short in one way or another, but we tend to aim at its truth. We shake hands to start; we shake hands to end. We work to accomplish our own goals, and in the process help those around us. In this way, Coach Cael represents the best of the American spirit in the sport of wrestling.

There are a lot of ways we can argue who was the best. The metric is always arbitrary, and the conclusions are always delusional. But one thing is for sure- Cael Sanderson was the best the United States had to offer at 84Kg in 2011. He placed 5th in the world that year, and we should all stand taller for it.

The Machine and the Key to Jiu Jitsu

Long Beach is fucking dope. Everywhere. Dope. It feels good to be there. Everything. Like God is smiling at you. Like you figured everything out. I don't mean that figuratively. When the weather is shit in Orange County, Long Beach shines. When LA beaches and cities are cloudy; there is a good chance Long Beach is partying in sunlight. Everyone is happy to be alive.

These are the kinds of places where Jiu Jitsu thrives, and Long Beach is where Eddie Martinez opened a Jiu Jitsu club. I met my wife at his club actually. In the early 2000's. Love at first triangle. It was so awesome. UFC fights at Brian's, and Longo d'arcing the fuck out of everyone. It hurt great. Both the neck and the liver at times, and it is where I learned the key to Jiu Jitsu.

"If you're trying hard; you're doing it wrong."

simple.

That's it. That's the secret. so simple.

But we fight that shit. Through all our training, through all our moments of understanding, we fight that shit. I think it's because of our fear.

Fear makes us panic, and panic leads to disaster. It's almost stupid to point out. We all know it, and we've all felt it. The force and the exhaustion.

It's cliché at this point, we know it's true. Yet how often do we find ourselves forcing things. Making things happen rather than letting them happen?

Be honest. All those moments that you found yourself wondering "What to do next?" Getting yourself from one trap to the next. Fucking up at every step. How often did you follow the logic? Follow the feeling?

There's no answer really. The logic leads to its own problems, and feelings do too. But the key to Jiu Jitsu is not to make things happen. It's to let things happen.

That's what Eddie said, and it made sense to me.

I would say that the Jiu Jitsu journey is defined by the understanding of this principle.

I happened to learn it as a white belt while listening to a purple belt explain the basic butterfly sweep (a move I didn't get until I reached purple belt and started actually doing what he said instead of trying to Ryu-back-throw my opponent).

Jiu Jitsu is creating the situations- where positions happen. Whether by choice or not. It is both  creating and reacting at the same time. It's weird.

The complexity of it is what draws us to it. Those that fail to see what it is- don't last. Those that accept it are put on a fascinating journey.

That day in Long Beach, Eddie explained the whole thing in such simple words. "If you're trying hard; you're doing it wrong." Of course.

That does not mean there are never situations that call for trying hard. Rather, it means that there are situations that we can create through our actions and reactions that call for trying hard to be efficient and beneficial. Afterall, if Eddie ever had the neck of his opponent in his grasp, or an opponent beginning to wilt, he absolutely tried hard to put his man away.

They called him "The Machine" once in the South Bay. One of Bob Bass's boys. He's a proud father now, but still one of Bob Bass's boys. And he taught me the key to Jiu Jitsu, and I am forever grateful.