Greg stood a few feet away, his face turning red. His authority was being ignored in his own domain. He marched over, looming over Tom. Hey, are you deaf? Greg barked.
I said no street shoes on the mat. And she's fine. It's Jiu-Jitsu. People get choked. If you don't like it, maybe you guys should take up tennis.
Tom finished checking Rachel's neck. He patted her shoulder once, a solid grounding touch. He stood up slowly, turning to face Greg. She tapped, Tom said. His voice was conversational, pleasant even.
Greg scoffed, crossing his thick arms. I didn't feel it. It happens. Now, get off my mat before I have to throw you out. The gym had grown noticeably quiet.
The buzzing timer on the wall counted down to zero and let out a long obnoxious beep. But nobody moved to switch partners. Everyone was watching the confrontation. Mark, the blue belt, took a step forward as if to intervene, but stopped. There was something radiating off Rachel's husband that made everyone hesitate.
You felt it, Tom said softly. You felt it, and you held it because you were frustrated she caught your knee with a frame. You couldn't pass her guard with technique, so you used pain compliance. When she trapped your leg, your ego couldn't handle it. So you punished her.
Greg's eyes widened slightly. The description was entirely too analytical, too accurate for a civilian sitting on the bleachers reading a book. Look, pal. Greg pointed a thick taped finger at Tom's chest. I'm a black belt.
You're a spectator. You don't know the first thing about what happens on this mat. Tom looked at the finger. Then he looked at Greg's face. You're right.
Tom said gently. I'm just a spectator. Tom reached down and unlaced his left shoe. He kicked it off. He unlaced the right shoe and kicked it off.
He stood in his gray socks. What are you doing? Greg asked, a condescending smirk playing on his lips. You want to try a class? Come back tomorrow for the beginners intro.
I don't want a class. Tom said. He reached down and took hold of the hem of his gray T-shirt, pulling it over his head. He tossed it onto the mat next to his shoes. Beneath the shirt, Tom wasn't massive, but he looked like he was carved out of old knotted wood.
His torso was corded with lean, dense muscle, mapped with a few faded, jagged, silver scars across his ribs and left shoulder. He had the kind of physique that didn't come from lifting symmetrical weights in front of a mirror, but from carrying heavy things up hills for a very long time. I'd like a roll. Tom said. Greg laughed, a loud braying sound designed for the audience.
You want to roll with me? Guy, I will fold your clothes while you're still wearing them. I don't spar with untrained guys. It's a liability. Consider it an open mat.
Tom replied. His breathing hadn't changed. He was entirely relaxed, his hands hanging loosely by his sides. 3 minutes. Just you and me.
Unless you're tired. It was the perfect bait. Greg couldn't back down in front of 15 students. Not from a guy wearing jeans and socks. "Fine. " Greg spat, stepping back and dropping into a wide aggressive wrestling stance.
"Don't say I didn't warn you. I'm not taking it easy on you just because you're mad about your wife. " Rachel was still on her knees clutching her throat. She looked at Tom, panic flaring in her eyes. "Tom. " "Don't. " "He's a black belt. " Tom didn't look back at her, but he spoke clearly. "I know, Rach.
Sit tight for a minute. " Greg slapped his thighs, hyped up on his own adrenaline. "Whenever you're ready, buddy. Slap and bump. " Tom didn't drop into a stance. He didn't bend his knees or bring his hands up to protect his face. He simply walked toward Greg upright, closing the distance with the casual stride of a man walking to his mailbox.
"Slap and bump. " Greg demanded again, extending his hand. Tom didn't raise his hand. He stopped exactly 2 feet in front of Greg, entering the danger zone, the striking range, and just stood there. "I don't play games. " Tom said softly. "You want to go to the ground, take me there. " Greg's face contorted with rage at the utter lack of respect.
With a guttural grunt, he lunged forward, shooting for a double leg takedown. He aimed to blast through Tom's hips, lift him into the air, and slam him onto the unforgiving foam. It was a move designed to end the fight immediately. He moved fast, but Tom wasn't there. As Greg lunged, Tom didn't retreat.
He didn't sprawl to fight the takedown, nor did he drop his weight to sprawl out in a traditional wrestling defense. He simply stepped off the center line. It was a minimal, almost lazy shift of his left foot. He pivoted his hips exactly 45 degrees. Greg's shoulder, meant to bury into Tom's stomach and drive him through the floor caught nothing but empty air.
Before Greg's forward momentum could carry him face-first to the mat, Tom moved. His right hand snapped out. He didn't grip the thick canvas lapel of the GI. He bypassed the fabric entirely, violently cupping the crown of Greg's head. His left hand simultaneously clamped onto the triceps of Greg's leading arm.
Using Greg's own charging weight against him, Tom snapped his upper body downward while simultaneously pulling the triceps forward. It wasn't a recognizable judo throw. It wasn't a clean wrestling snapdown. It was the brutal, unceremonious mechanics of dropping a heavy, clumsy object. Greg's face slammed into the foam mat with a sickening wet smack.
The sound echoed off the cinder block walls. Several students flinched. Mark, the blue belt, took a half step backward, his eyes widening. Greg grunted in shock, his nose instantly leaking a thin line of red onto the blue foam. He scrambled instinctively, his brain trying to categorize what had just happened.
He was a black belt. He knew how to recover. He instantly turtled up on his hands and knees, pulling his elbows tightly to his ribs, burying his chin to defend his neck. He braced himself, waiting for Tom to throw his legs in, sink his hooks, and try to take his back for points. That was the game.
That was how this worked. Tom didn't play points. Instead of grappling, Tom stepped to the side and dropped his full, unmitigated weight directly onto Greg's ribs. He didn't use a flat knee. He didn't distribute his weight.