instinctive. My concentration was focused on the possibilities.
“You will wrestle seventh,” Chudruk said to me quietly.
“Do you know who?” I asked, measuring up the other athletes. There was quite a range, from short, skinny guys to men who qualified for sumo wrestling. Yalta had explained that the matchups weren’t based on fairness but randomness. So a neophyte like me could end up fighting a seasoned champion in my first match.
“Not yet. Does it matter?” my friend answered.
It did to me. I was kind of hoping to wrestle a four-year-old who’d had some cold medicine recently, but figured that was too much to ask. As to their laissezfaire attitude on matchups? That made sense. On the battlefield, you didn’t have the opportunity to pick your opponent or the luck of having to fight someone weaker or the same size as you. Why should that tradition end now just for my comfort?
The very first match was actually between Yalta’s grandson Zerleg and a favorite who had won many competitions and even qualified at the rank of arslan, or “lion.” Zerleg was a tall, thin youth about seventeen years old. His name meant “savage,” and he was anything but. From what he had told me one night, he wanted to be a poet. Wrestling was something he was doing for his grandfather’s approval. Chudruk thought he had talent.
I watched as both young men did the devekh, or “eagle dance.” They each stood at opposite ends of the circle, walking around their coaches, flapping their arms like eagles. It was a very graceful dance, an interesting introduction to a fighting competition.
Both men slapped their thighs, indicating their willingness to begin. I couldn’t take my eyes off them. This was the first time I was seeing this tradition in person. The athletes walked slowly around each other, crouched and ready for grappling. In a split second, Zerleg’s opponent reached forward and the two men were locked, hands on each other’s shoulders, each straining against the other’s strength.
I’m always surprised when people watch matches like this, or Brazilian jujitsu, and think nothing is going on. Action has come to a standstill and the men seem to be holding still. Nothing could be further from the truth. Very small, very important movements are being made, like a chess game of the flesh. You may not be able to make it out, but the grapplers are inching their way, inflicting their will in millimeters of movement. And each flicker, each strain is a physical action that must be countered or one man will be thrown.
The men stand still for so long, sometimes I start to wonder if they’ve frozen this way.
“Sometimes the bukhs will stay this way for hours,” Sansar-Huu whispered in my ear. “Sometimes a match can last all day. It usually isn’t allowed at the national level, but sometimes here…” He shrugged.
I watched, transfixed, as Yalta called out to his grandson. It was obvious he was encouraging him, but I wasn’t sure how. Would I understand what he was saying to me when it was my turn? I hadn’t thought of that. I was quite familiar with the language, but if it wasn’t for Chudruk translating for his father, I would still be doing push-ups in the stream.
The old men sitting on a blanket up front never blinked, as far as I could see. These were the judges, and whatever they said would be final. Their eyes squinted against the summer sun, missing nothing. I suspected they would do better than the controversial computer at the Olympic games.
On the grass, Zerleg and his opponent continued to strain. Sweat drizzled down the side of my face. It was about sixty-five degrees here, and yet I was perspiring in nothing more than briefs and an openchested blouse. Hmmm…maybe I should wear this when I work back home. Hello, ladies!
Zerleg made an aggressive move: He slipped his right shoulder down to his opponent’s hip and made a play to sweep him off his feet. I could feel my shoulders turning rock hard
“You will wrestle seventh,” Chudruk said to me quietly.
“Do you know who?” I asked, measuring up the other athletes. There was quite a range, from short, skinny guys to men who qualified for sumo wrestling. Yalta had explained that the matchups weren’t based on fairness but randomness. So a neophyte like me could end up fighting a seasoned champion in my first match.
“Not yet. Does it matter?” my friend answered.
It did to me. I was kind of hoping to wrestle a four-year-old who’d had some cold medicine recently, but figured that was too much to ask. As to their laissezfaire attitude on matchups? That made sense. On the battlefield, you didn’t have the opportunity to pick your opponent or the luck of having to fight someone weaker or the same size as you. Why should that tradition end now just for my comfort?
The very first match was actually between Yalta’s grandson Zerleg and a favorite who had won many competitions and even qualified at the rank of arslan, or “lion.” Zerleg was a tall, thin youth about seventeen years old. His name meant “savage,” and he was anything but. From what he had told me one night, he wanted to be a poet. Wrestling was something he was doing for his grandfather’s approval. Chudruk thought he had talent.
I watched as both young men did the devekh, or “eagle dance.” They each stood at opposite ends of the circle, walking around their coaches, flapping their arms like eagles. It was a very graceful dance, an interesting introduction to a fighting competition.
Both men slapped their thighs, indicating their willingness to begin. I couldn’t take my eyes off them. This was the first time I was seeing this tradition in person. The athletes walked slowly around each other, crouched and ready for grappling. In a split second, Zerleg’s opponent reached forward and the two men were locked, hands on each other’s shoulders, each straining against the other’s strength.
I’m always surprised when people watch matches like this, or Brazilian jujitsu, and think nothing is going on. Action has come to a standstill and the men seem to be holding still. Nothing could be further from the truth. Very small, very important movements are being made, like a chess game of the flesh. You may not be able to make it out, but the grapplers are inching their way, inflicting their will in millimeters of movement. And each flicker, each strain is a physical action that must be countered or one man will be thrown.
The men stand still for so long, sometimes I start to wonder if they’ve frozen this way.
“Sometimes the bukhs will stay this way for hours,” Sansar-Huu whispered in my ear. “Sometimes a match can last all day. It usually isn’t allowed at the national level, but sometimes here…” He shrugged.
I watched, transfixed, as Yalta called out to his grandson. It was obvious he was encouraging him, but I wasn’t sure how. Would I understand what he was saying to me when it was my turn? I hadn’t thought of that. I was quite familiar with the language, but if it wasn’t for Chudruk translating for his father, I would still be doing push-ups in the stream.
The old men sitting on a blanket up front never blinked, as far as I could see. These were the judges, and whatever they said would be final. Their eyes squinted against the summer sun, missing nothing. I suspected they would do better than the controversial computer at the Olympic games.
On the grass, Zerleg and his opponent continued to strain. Sweat drizzled down the side of my face. It was about sixty-five degrees here, and yet I was perspiring in nothing more than briefs and an openchested blouse. Hmmm…maybe I should wear this when I work back home. Hello, ladies!
Zerleg made an aggressive move: He slipped his right shoulder down to his opponent’s hip and made a play to sweep him off his feet. I could feel my shoulders turning rock hard
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