Post by Matt Pulver on Sept 10, 2018 14:36:03 GMT -5
After hours of walking a barely trodden path, the thick green of the Japanese forest finally disperse as he reaches a glade. The morning sun greets him like an old friend and shines its guiding light upon an ancient looking wooden house. This must be it.
He knocks on the door and carefully opens it when he doesn’t get a response. The inside is surprisingly neat, thin white fabric covering the walls, a simple square red mat covering the middle of the floor and a shoji lamp in each corner lighting everything up. In the middle of the mat sits Daichi Kusumoto, still, stoic and dressed to fight.
Matt’s mentor Hachirou Yamashita had sent him here, with the explanation that 'a tree can not grow if it only gets water from one source.' Matt didn’t bother to explain to him that they actually can, because he knows that as a wrestler, learning from different sources is essential. And seeing as how different they fight, Kusumoto could indeed be a valuable teacher.
Matt approaches wrestling like a painter approaches his painting; he takes every color at his disposal, mixes them up and, improvising when he has to, ultimately uses all of his learned skills, natural talents and in-the-moment inspiration to bring his vision to life on the canvas.
Kusumoto, on the other hand, is like a hunter; he simply heads into wilderness, draws his weapon and pursues his target until it’s dead.
As Matt puts down his bag, takes of his shoes and steps onto the mat, Kusumoto stands up to face him, his demeanor as frozen in time as the dojo they’re in. Unsure how to proceed, Matt addresses him in passable Japanese.
“I never thanked you for helping me at the Pyramid Grappling League. Thank you.”
Another moment passes, before Matt finds Kusumoto’s elbow in his face and himself on the ground. As he sits up trying to figure out what happened, Kusumoto crashes into his face once again with a Golem Tiger.
Everything is black.
It hurts.
Not just physically either, but emotionally.
He’s tried to ignore it, but losing the KOL World’s Championship didn’t just take a toll on his arm, but his psyche as well. A championship isn’t just a fancy prize, it’s a validation that you’re doing everything right, that you’re on the right path.
As a wrestler you don’t often see the fruits of your labor. A painter can look upon his finished painting, but the closest thing a wrestler can get that visual gratification is championships. And to have that taken away can mess with you.
Matt thought he was ready for that loss, just as he thought he was ready for the burden of a World’s Championship. He did all he could to prepare and his confidence was high, but it wasn’t enough. Now he has to deal with the fall. The doubt. The questions. If winning the championship lets you know that you’re doing everything right, losing it must mean you’re doing everything wrong, right? Or maybe he did everything right, but was just unlucky? Or was it luck that won him the title in the first place?
As much as he wants the answers, he knows it won’t do anything to lie and dwell on them. His spirit is exhausted and his mind filled with doubt, but as a professional fighter, getting up every morning is a chore; every body part hurts and your whole being tries to find reasons for you to stay in bed and give it a well needed rest.
Like the hunter, you have to get up no matter what. Even if you don’t feel like you’re ready until you’ve gotten every color right, you have to fill the canvas. Otherwise someone else will.
No one is ever ready to head into the wilderness to fight for survival, but the hunter doesn’t need to be. He will do it because he has to.
Kusumoto’s redwood-like hand crashes into Matt’s face with a huge slap. He opens his eyes, but is met by Kusumoto’s unrelenting stare, daring him to get up, as the slaps keeps raining down. Before the next one can connect, Matt grabs the veteran’s wrist, wraps his legs around his, tripping him to the floor, and locks in a modified heel hook.
Kusumoto lets out a groan, and for a moment the usually stoic lion looks like a frightened gazelle. Matt smiles. The hunt is on.
He knocks on the door and carefully opens it when he doesn’t get a response. The inside is surprisingly neat, thin white fabric covering the walls, a simple square red mat covering the middle of the floor and a shoji lamp in each corner lighting everything up. In the middle of the mat sits Daichi Kusumoto, still, stoic and dressed to fight.
Matt’s mentor Hachirou Yamashita had sent him here, with the explanation that 'a tree can not grow if it only gets water from one source.' Matt didn’t bother to explain to him that they actually can, because he knows that as a wrestler, learning from different sources is essential. And seeing as how different they fight, Kusumoto could indeed be a valuable teacher.
Matt approaches wrestling like a painter approaches his painting; he takes every color at his disposal, mixes them up and, improvising when he has to, ultimately uses all of his learned skills, natural talents and in-the-moment inspiration to bring his vision to life on the canvas.
Kusumoto, on the other hand, is like a hunter; he simply heads into wilderness, draws his weapon and pursues his target until it’s dead.
As Matt puts down his bag, takes of his shoes and steps onto the mat, Kusumoto stands up to face him, his demeanor as frozen in time as the dojo they’re in. Unsure how to proceed, Matt addresses him in passable Japanese.
“I never thanked you for helping me at the Pyramid Grappling League. Thank you.”
Another moment passes, before Matt finds Kusumoto’s elbow in his face and himself on the ground. As he sits up trying to figure out what happened, Kusumoto crashes into his face once again with a Golem Tiger.
Everything is black.
It hurts.
Not just physically either, but emotionally.
He’s tried to ignore it, but losing the KOL World’s Championship didn’t just take a toll on his arm, but his psyche as well. A championship isn’t just a fancy prize, it’s a validation that you’re doing everything right, that you’re on the right path.
As a wrestler you don’t often see the fruits of your labor. A painter can look upon his finished painting, but the closest thing a wrestler can get that visual gratification is championships. And to have that taken away can mess with you.
Matt thought he was ready for that loss, just as he thought he was ready for the burden of a World’s Championship. He did all he could to prepare and his confidence was high, but it wasn’t enough. Now he has to deal with the fall. The doubt. The questions. If winning the championship lets you know that you’re doing everything right, losing it must mean you’re doing everything wrong, right? Or maybe he did everything right, but was just unlucky? Or was it luck that won him the title in the first place?
As much as he wants the answers, he knows it won’t do anything to lie and dwell on them. His spirit is exhausted and his mind filled with doubt, but as a professional fighter, getting up every morning is a chore; every body part hurts and your whole being tries to find reasons for you to stay in bed and give it a well needed rest.
Like the hunter, you have to get up no matter what. Even if you don’t feel like you’re ready until you’ve gotten every color right, you have to fill the canvas. Otherwise someone else will.
No one is ever ready to head into the wilderness to fight for survival, but the hunter doesn’t need to be. He will do it because he has to.
Kusumoto’s redwood-like hand crashes into Matt’s face with a huge slap. He opens his eyes, but is met by Kusumoto’s unrelenting stare, daring him to get up, as the slaps keeps raining down. Before the next one can connect, Matt grabs the veteran’s wrist, wraps his legs around his, tripping him to the floor, and locks in a modified heel hook.
Kusumoto lets out a groan, and for a moment the usually stoic lion looks like a frightened gazelle. Matt smiles. The hunt is on.