The Wrestling Season Part 1

[5/2/2002 4:56:20 AM..............
I received a phone call in the afternoon. A man with an apparently young voice, expressing himself at ease, informally, but with great confidence in the tone of voice, in a self-secure, direct way. He introduced himself as the director of a wrestling association. He said he was looking for a professional with a certain profile that happened to be like many things I have lived through. I felt somehow it suited me. We talked and exchanged addresses. At about eight p.m. he parked his car in front of my house and rang the doorbell. He was really young, not above 30. He introduced himself as Lúcio Costa, reminding me of the architect of Brasília. Had him sit down on the sofa and asked what a director of a wrestling association would want from me. I was live and direct then; ele looked at me, considering me for a moment, my broken rib cage. I explained it was an accident, upon noticing his interest. I hid the fact it had been a fight too. He made a movement with his hand that could be read in many, many, different ways.
"I know you work with kids and teenagers, I saw it somewhere on the Internet..."
I waited for what he would add to what he had already said, but nothing followed. Silence I ended up breaking lest we got even more embarrassed.
"What's going on with your wrestlers?", I said, taking a short-cut.
He took a while to answer.
"Some have had some inadequate attitudes", he then said. "Some allow themselves too much, while others fall into self-criticism all the time; I've had difficulty trying to balance all this in a coherent way."
"What does their training consist of?"
"What you can see in any other association."
"Sorry, Mr. Costa, but I haven't gone to wrestling associations much for the last forty years."
He frowned slightly at me and explained.
"Well, it's grappling techniques what they learn. How to hold te opponent, the points on the body that can be used as fulcra for immobilization, how to immobilize... That's it."
He had a pause and went on talking, "we need a psychologist that can work with us. We need to cheer the kids up, you know what competition is about, don't you?"
"Is it all you need?"
"Well, there are those attitudes I was just talking about..."
"How many wrestlers at that age?"
"They're five."
"Have you got any idea, Mr. Costa, when these inadequate attitude problems started?"
He said he had not the slightest idea. The impression I got was that, if he really knew the wrestlers in his own association, he was trying to hide something from me.


[5/3/2002 5:45:02 AM..............
I woke up and was looking for some time at the card left by Mr. Costa. Corporal was the name of the association. A name that did the association's purposes justice. Physical contact at its finest, people stuck to the mat as snakes rolling entwined in a fight. Kids trying to nail one another to the mat for as long as they could. I started searching for sites to see a bit more of the tribal profile of the players. Honest, brave people, children that would walk out of school at the end of the classes, do homework and run to the associations to practice. There's very little about Brazilian kids and teens, but it's some institution in the States. Strong, pinkish, well-nourished children, sometimes with an insane look on their faces during the wrestle, what I regard as being natural, considering stress and the energy that is spent in such submission rites. The rituals of everyone of us.
I told Mr. Costa I need some more time until I recover from my rib cage injuries. He agreed, but said he wouldn't wait for a long time. As if there were norms making the presence of a psychologist in such associations mandatory from some moment in time on for assistance to child steamrollers.


[5/4/2002 10:24:59 PM..............
Well, I decided to go to Corporal. The association has its own premises, tidy, in quiet colors, on Conselheiro Nébias avenue. The place is busy. Wrestlers in all colors, ages, shapes e sizes. Playful, serious, all kinds of mood you can imagine. Young, older ones, children. I ask about Mr. Costa and the answer takes me through the training room, among wrestlers training their locks and armbars, end up in a reasonably large room, with an only desk. On the wall, portraits of wrestlers in action. I noticed at the knots the opponents fell prey of. Across from the portraits, the computer, the fax, the telephone and the window with cups, trophies, prizes won in competitions as an association. And, of course, Mr. Costa, smiling upon my arrival.
"Well, I see you have recovered fast", he said, still smiling, asking me to sit down.
"I haven't recovered yet, Mr. Costa."
Not even the reply could fade his smile away, something I found to be positive. I told him I found the description of the young wrestlers' problems rather vague and obscure. Said it was normal that the children had episodes of excessive self-demand and self-indulgence; however it depended a lot on the ambient created and expectations we have on their performances.
"When I asked you about how the training happened, I was less than sure whether I made myself clear. I was asking you about these expectations on their performances in competitions."
He has another long pause, like the ones I've almost gotten used to seeing. And said the expectations were not very different from the ones found in any other wrestling association.
"What is expected from them, Miss Grisam, is that they do their best. Winning is important. No one goes about any activity to fail, that's clear. But there are things that are beyond our control, so, in such circumstances what remains for the wrestlers is the feeling of having done their best, independent of any result. Courage is not only winning, it is looking at both adversary and adversity without any fear."
I said I considered this point of view rather positive. Asked him if he had any idea what interpretation the young wrestlers had from these expectations. He said it was a very personal and intimate subject. I replied it was this very subject what had dragged him to my house. And that it was what we had to find. Something was telling me I wouldn't take long to find out anyway. I asked Mr. Costa to introduce me to the wrestlers. He said he would, but only after the practice. He wouldn't disturb their concentration on the practice, besides it wouldn't take long to finish. It was alright with me, we stayed there some more time, talking about wrestling, politics, economy, whatever occurred to us. During the conversation, many times it seemed to me Mr. Costa had something more to say than just politics or who'd win the elections for the presidency this year. Then I paused, waiting to see if anything else was coming, to see that he could use the moment to speak freely, but there was nothing. He was looking at me, I was looking at him. I decided to break the spell. This is how I am. I read the pauses and elbow people to see if they talk. No one gives me anything for free. No one opens archives to me. I've got to delve alone into what I want to know.
"Do you want to tell me anything you still didn't tell me, Mr. Costa? Because this is the impression you have made since you first came to visit me at home to talk about your wrestlers."
He then paused again. As a 14k modem, slowly bringing information. Then, at last, after a pause that seemed to never reach the end, talked.
"Miss Grisam, the boys are trying hard, that's the least I can say about them. But I've been thinking about discontinuing this young team. Been thinking of keeping only the older fighters."
He must have read my expression very quickly, because he soon started to justify his position, "I think they've got a great, great potential, but so far I haven't seen any collective prize they managed to bring to this association."
"Oh, yes, here we go, back - how could I forget about it - to the opposing contrasts, victory versus defeat."
I tried to shock, managed to make him embarrassed for a while. He was looking at me, kind of astonished. For some time he couldn't think of anything interesting to say. At last, he said he was not getting any more sponsoring from any store if the kids remained only as individual talents in championships and tournaments.
"As a matter of fact, no sporting goods store is willing to sponsor a team that hasn't become a team; that still hasn't produced any convincing colective results in tournaments."
I didn't say a word. I understand nothing about this sponsoring stuff and the expectation the shoppers would have for the teams they sponsored. But I found the demand for a colective trophy was a bit too specific to be true. I asked myself if this was how sponsoring deals were made. And asked Mr. Costa too.
"Well, who knows what's on these people's minds anyway?", he said after one of his notorious long pauses. Besides the usual pause, the impression the question disturbed him more than what I'd consider normal.

Five sharp. I can tell by the noise in the practice hall the pratice was over now. Mr. Costa got out for some seconds, returned and sat back at his desk.
"I told them to come here", he said and smiled. I took advantage of one more pause to ask him if the kids already knew about his intentions to discontinue the young team. He said they didn't. I asked him not to tell them anything about it for the time being. A creaking noise from the door opening and the wrestlers walked in. Eager to know what it was. What kind of woman I was, strange, in a cast, sitting in that room. They were four, not five and they were strong, very strong. No excess from side to side, the muscles seemed to be well-defined, symmetric. Eyes wide open, measuring me from my head down to my toes, scanning all details. Mr. Costa rose from the desk and came closer to the kids to introduce them to me by the surname. Galhardo, 12 years old. Figueira, 13. Zangrandi, 12. Morales, 14. I was shaking their hands and collecting their fixed stare into me. They seemed to be the kind of kids who'd look you straight in the eye, a visual contact they seemed to be unwilling to lose track of. As though the stare was a part of the wrestle already.
"But it really is", said Galhardo when heard me talking about it, "to show your opponent you're not afraid is something valuable."
I told them there are fish which have techniques to inflate their small bodies to become bigger and therefore more threatening to their enemies and the four had a seizure of laughter. They found the image of the fish very funny. Two of them found there was a good relation between these things. Galhardo and Zangrandi didn't, they seemed, for a moment, ashamed to be compared to fish, though they had fun on the comparison. The mild and friendly atmosphere of the meeting reigned until Mr. Costa told them I was hired to work their psychological aspects as wrestlers. Morales was the first to react:
"Anybody nuts here?", he frowned.
"There's no need to be nuts to see a psychologist once in a while, Morales. There's more, much more to our minds than just madness. I'm sure you have no idea."
Morales stood looking at me, in disbelief. The other too. They had difficulty accepting the idea, both for the assumption you must be crazy to depend on a psychologist and for the change in their practice routine it would incur. No one told me it would be easy, apart from the fact of a possible extinction of their team, something they don't even suspect of yet.
"You told me they were five, Mr. Costa."
"Yes, the youngest, Panotti, hasn't been coming lately. He has had a health problem but will soon be back here for practice, this was what I got from his parents."


[5/5/2002 10:34:30 PM..............
It's six in the morning and the association opens at eight. The four kids are all around me, sleepy, slow, eyes full of sleep, mentally cursing me. I think I must offer them something and it must be quick, before they turn on me. Zangrandi has one eye open and the other shut.
"Does it really have to be on Sunday, Miss Grisam?"
"It could be any day, but Mr. Costa wouldn't like it to interfere with your practice."
I had them lie down on the mat. Every time one tried to sleep and started snoring he would receive a tap. I went on to talk to them. Far from Mr. Costa's influence, get to know what they thought about the practice. Figueira was the first to talk. He said it was good, a very good practice. "You need to watch a tournament to see the results. If I tell you, it's not the same." He laughed in a weak tone. Morales stared fixedly at me. He said it was more or less what Figueira said. Zangrandi didn't add very much to what had already been said and Galhardo didn't say a word; I took another shortcut. "What does he expect from you?"
Zangrandi laughed.
"He expects us to win, of course."
"Is it all?"
An "is it all" can overthrown governments, overwhelm empires, but not mine. Though it can open some bottles, I hope. Galhardo resolves to join the talk.
"He's been saying we need more union; we've never brought in a prize as a team. No wonder we haven't, Figueira and Zangrandi can't seem to help much... It's never overwhelming but they do never bring prizes nor win."
I didn't need to look at the two to see the beams of rage, hitting Galhardo, who moved his body sideways, apparently intimidated by their look.
"You're the know-all, aren't you, Galhardo? You think you're the best?"
"Let the fool speak. He thinks he's Rickson Gracie."
Close your eyes. Imagine this dialog when all are lying on a mat. It's something bizarre, but nothing I haven't gotten used to. I saw Figueira closing his fist, ready to turn on Galhardo. Slowly I started moving toward him, unsure if I was going to have time. His body started moving up slowly and I threw my hand just in time to hold back the movement. Galhardo opened his eyes, frightened, feeling the sudden dislocation of air. Figueira jumped on me, in a fit of rage. We rolled on the mat, I had my arm locked tightly. Could foresee the moment my arm would be torn off my body. I was in such a ridiculous position, on fours, with the kid locking my arm. The pain was just unbearable. The others didn't move, curious about was going to happen next. "Take good care, mind your own business. I hate it when people interfere. Just hate it.", Figueira said, eyes beaming rage all over.
"Are you gonna break my arm, Figueira?" I panted, bound by the lock. I have hardly begun to work with them and here's their first show of force.
"Say uncle." Figueira really meant it.
"Figueira, let her go, it's me who you want; we can solve the problem right here, if you want", said Galhardo, coming closer to the spaghetti dish we turned out to be. Figueira took no notice, busy with me.
"Say uncle."
"Break my arm, Figueira. You know you can."
He didn't seem to believe it.
"Are you nuts? I can really break it, don't you believe me???"
"Break it. Come on, break it."
I was staring into his eyes. More and more fixedly. I saw his eyes turn away for a moment, return to the position, turn away again. Galhardo didn't need to interfere; Figueira let me go. Apparently frightened with my decision of having him break my arm. Galhardo, Zangrandi, Morales and Figueira now looked at me a different way. Wide awake, the suddenness of the action interrupted the works. I had hardly stood up, my arm ground by the battle when Figueira and Galhardo started grappling on the mat; Figueira, red with rage, Galhardo trying to cope with the situation and the others trying to separate them. I couldn't. My arm didn't obey the brain commands. I don't even know if it still belongs to me.
"Figueira, let go. I don't wanna hurt you, pal."
"I'll break you, son of a gun. So you think you're the king of the jungle, don't you?"
The two like snakes, entwined. Galhardo buried his right arm under Figueira's, locking the moviments. His left arm came under one of his legs, which Galhardo pulled until his knee was almost crushing Figueira's nose.
"Won't you stop? Stop while you still have the choice. Please, Figueira. Don't wanna hurt you, please..."
It seemed weird to me that Galhardo was begging for something when he controlled the situation. At least I thought he was in control. Figueira looked at him, tense, with the pain of being turned into a packet. Transfigured by the pain, if it's possible. Six thirty and this whole lot of psychodrama to solve.
When the most bizarre happened. Figueira.
Extremely slowly, he was getting out of the lock Galhardo tried to keep tight. Not even Galhardo figured out how he did it. Hands firmly together, tightening the moviments, Galhardo didn't believe it when Figueira started sliding free from the lock as though he was made of butter. He did it so slowly he came unseen by everyone of us, Galhardo included. He started catching the opponent by the back, Galhardo still had time enough to react and return to the lock postion.
"Enough, pal! It's enough. Enough.", shouted Zangrandi, frankly shocked at this reaction, trying to pull them apart. Galhardo clearly signalled he couldn't stand it any longer.
"Somebody take him away! For heaven's sake! Take him away! Do something!"
I put my left foot on Figueira's belly and pulled Galhardo the strongest I could. The other two helped me. What impressed me most was the way Figueira's eyes glittered. I had seen that before. Didn't know what it was, but it was no good thing, for sure. Galhardo came out of the trap, the other two were supposed to hold the beast. And holding him was no fun at all. Figueira panted, breathless, insane, eyes aiming at his goal: human flesh. Galhardo's, preferentially. "Congratulations, Galhardo. You know well how to arouse the beast in others"; Zangrandi seemed to have some feeling of revenge fullfilled when he said this. Figueira started to sob. And cry.
"Let me go, motherfuckers!", he slid free from them and went down the recption hall. He sat down there, humiliated, hurt. Seven o'clock. I still have an hour for today's "treatment". I held Galhardo by the arm, though I knew he could do me the same or worse damage than Figueira.
"Apologize."
Figueira lifted his head in disbelief we had, after all we had done, invaded his improvised sanctuary.
"Fuck, I can't believe you are..."
"Apologize to Figueira, Galhardo."
"Leave me alone!"
Galhardo stuttered a lot, but ended up apologizing. Naturally he didn't mean it or want to. He thought he was right putting things on Figueira's face as he did. The result showed clearly to be a kickback. I found he hadn't expected it to be like this; otherwise he'd never bother to apologize. They destroy the whole session together, leading me to conclude it's a long way. It's difficult to united such unprepared minds. Figueira stayed back there. While I talked to the others on the mat.
"Tomorrow he'll have already forgotten it", said Morales, looking at Zangrandi and me, "he'll forget it."
"It would be easier for him to forget it if you didn't remind him all the time. Because I think it's not the first time, is it?"
Galhardo and Morales went dumb. Dumbfounded. When they talked was to obviously ask me how I knew about it. Zangrandi didn't say a word, but looked me, curious about it too.
"Well, it was a typical reaction of someone that has been continuously charged. Don't find it difficult to analyze it and come to this conclusion."
They stood still, looking at me. All of a sudden, from the hall, the sound of a thunderclap: Figueira, slamming the outside door on his way home.


[5/6/2002 6:42:44 AM..............
The treatment started without Figueira today. To be perfectly honest, I didn't even expect him to come. I would take advantage of his absence to talk a little about him. I felt Zangrandi was here in isolation. Without the key, standing like a sucker at the gates of Paradise. Galhardo and Morales were quiet, waiting until I started talking. I was looking at them for a while. If I questioned Galhardo as I wanted, the kid would be likely to close himself instead of opening. I couldn't be very direct, but I was. I would get emotionally involved, making the same old mistake again. Mistake I now feel is part of me.
"How long have you known each other?"
"Two years", said Zangrandi.
"Has the varsity existed that long too?"
"Yes... why?", Morales looked at me, curious, wanting to find out what my intention was.
"Do you meet apart from wrestling?"
"Yes, once in a while. Figueira and I go skating at Palmares square", informed Zangrandi, "don't know about them."
Us and them. No greater union could they experience. If it's ever existed. The young varsity seems to be made up of two, one that works and another that fails, to use the raw and pure reasoning of coaches. Isn't there anything to settle the score?
"I, Panotti and Galhardo usually stay at Praiamar", said Morales, refering to the newest shopping mall in Santos, the masterpiece and monolith of consumerism of Portuguese builder Armênio Mendes.
"Tell me what you know about Panotti", I had only heard his name, mentioned by Mr. Costa.
"He's been a bit sick these days. His dad says he'll soon be back for the practice."
"How old?"
"Eleven, I think", replied Zangrandi.
"Oh, he's the youngest..."
"Yes, but what he knows...", Morales said, all of a sudden.
I got curious about it. I mean, even more.
"What does he know?"
Galhardo was the one who explained, "he fights sooo very well; if he does what he does now, ain't no telling what he might do in the future".
I decided to touch him and test his pride as a wrestler.
"Does he fight better than you?"
Galhardo was silent. What does this silence mean? That the answer is affirmative?
"He fights better than anyone of us", said Zangrandi, looking at the other two.
"Try to speak by yourself, Zangrandi", Galhardo said in a slightly annoyed tone, "he might be the big shot but not always can he overcome me."
Morales seemed to support Galhardo's statement. Zangrandi then affirmed he said that because Panotti was not there. I felt another turmoil brewing, urged them to describe the other wrestler in not such a passionate fashion. They did. At five to eight, I called it a day and wished them a good practice. Zangrandi told me he wasn't staying for the practice today, he had an appointment with the dentist at ten. On the avenue, asked him for Figueira's address, so Zangrandi took me there; I said I had something to say to them both. The gap was evident, plain for all to see; Mr. Costa didn't have a young varsity, had two, one first-class, the other second-rate, on the verge of exterminating each other. Zangrandi seemed to be the only one who could talk some sense into the others.
Finding Figueira was not at all difficult. He was at the gates of his building. Didn't like to see us, but didn't hide when he saw it was only me and Zangrandi. My idea begins to develop. I'm unsure if it's the best way to encourage or discourage them for good, but I'll have to tell them about the threat of end of the varsity.
"So? Came to dance on my grave? Came to laugh at the dead wood?"
"Easy, pal. I and Miss Grisam came only to talk to you."
We were to sit down on the curb. Figueira suggested a small square across from his building, in fact, a vacant lot bought by the municipality to be turned into a square. We sat at a table with four concrete stools all around it with a permanent chessboard painted on. The two waited what I had to say. And I wouldn't beat around the bush.
"Mr. Costa wants to discontinue the young varsity."
Dropped the bomb and waited. Silence. Figueira seemed to be thinking back to something. Heating Sunday's rage to eat it again. And he didn't take long to give his veredict.
"He wants to see us out, me and Zangrandi", he said with unexpected tranquility, "he finishes the varsity, holds Panotti, Morales and Galhardo and what's best, gets rid of the losers."
"Now that we've come to a conclusion what are we going to do with it?"
"I'm giving up, don't know about Zangrandi."
"We could be training a little more, Figueira. You know we don't practice as much as we should, so..."
Figueira was silent. Street background noise all around us. It was the only sound we could hear.
"I think the best answer would be training harder and make some good results for a change.", I said.
And I looked at Zangrandi. We looked at Figueira. The whole of him seemed a well of despair, dug in something he put his highest hopes upon, hopes whose intensity I could never suspect of. If only I could stop this castle from collapsing to the ground, I would do it at the drop of a hat. But I think only the kids can show me a way out of the maze. Working out someone's self-esteem can be a real quagmire. Mine, for example, seems to be worn out after all is said and done. Figueira said he'd think it over; he and Zangrandi stayed there, talking some more. I went home. Message and signature of someone different on the tagboard my psychowebmaster installed here in his endless sea of cut and paste Java and HTML: Anatômico an uplifting message that's just more than nice, that for a moment gets me out this depression some days can mean to me, a feeling of a secret world, of being alone in the world. I follow the link in his name and find a beige background blog, with elegant finishing, named after the owner. In one of posts, praises the creativity of some blog's names. In my case, nothing sooo creative, but in the desert Internet is, a kind word can be a real oasis.


[5/8/2002 5:16:05 AM..............
Yesterday was nix. Ended up in hospital again with severe pain in my rib cage. The doctor was the same and felt like hitting me. I don't dare to tell him why I'm back but Figueira has definitely altered my framework. Imagine me telling the doctor that, in spite of eight broken rib cage bones, I grappled with a wrestler on a mat at a wrestling association. He prescribed me the drugs they always do and sent me back to bed. I could tell by his expression he would even pay me a cab ride, just to get rid of me. On no account am I stepping out today. I called Mr. Costa - he asked me to talk to him as soon as I returned to the association - and called the kids too, calling off today's treatment meeting afraid lest they arrived too early at Corporal. No one at Figueira's, so I couldn't let him know. If he went there, must've found closed doors. The kid, as far as I can tell by his reaction on Monday, is close to the edge. He's getting needled by the others and their intention - though apparently obvious - really puzzles me. Morales didn't help Galhardo on Monday, but not because he didn't agree with Galhardo's attitude, this I can feel in my bones. He watched everything unmoved and I could sense it without looking into his eyes all the time. And the other wrestler, Panotti? Would he be the one to settle the score? I doubt it. He's built a reputation in the community, won't take trouble for anyone down in the depths. I turned to the Internet (I should be in my bed instead) to see the news, dropped by Anatômico and the guy happens to be really passionate: the post I saw at the header, with a Bradesco connection dialog box screenshot, one day after is almost in the middle of the page. At the house of Luigi e Milena lots of football (the way the kid likes it), stories about old tennis shoes All Star and a poll, asking whether Romário should be summoned by Scolari. By the still small sample percentage, he's staying in Rio. I decide to laugh a little with Brazilian football nonsense, when my webmaster calls me just to say he's made up a battle cry for Ronaldinho at the World Cup 2002: "Au! Au! Au! Don't forget your Luminal!"


[5/9/2002 6:09:35 AM..............
Figueira came to the meeting today. The talk was open, but didn't go past acceptable limits of common decency. Zangrandi seemed a bit more talkative, but also more willing to comply with what Galhardo had said on Monday; not exactly that he and Figueira didn't help, but that they should dedicate more to practice, repeating terms he had used before. Today it was Morales who was silent. Figueira only watched and listened, though he was the target for most of the talk at the moment, still more because of his discharge of hate on Monday. He seemed tranquil, as if he didn't care, as if he knew everything was pre-decided. That's precisely the kind of notion I must combat. Wrestle with a wrestler. Show him to be a wrestler is fighting not only against other wrestlers, but against the wrestler he's refused to be. It won't be easy, but nobody told me it would.
After the talk, when the kids had already gone to the locker room, I went to Mr. Costa's room, to wait for him, remembering the phone call I made to him yesterday.
I glanced at the clock and it was eight five. Looked away from the clock and stared, from where I was, at the collection of prizes and trophies of the association. It was not small, maybe showing the great tradition and reputation of Corporal in that universe. How many human universes and nations can one get to know? How many, with their gods, their rites, their legends, their villains and traitors, their everything? What amazes me is the amplitude of human doing, the multiplicity of activities that make human beings so magnificent and at the same time so divided into fragments that end up turning them into the dimension of what they really are: a grain of cosmic dust set adrift in the vastness of the universal ocean. A particle of dust lost in the sea of their own self-importance and impossible magnificence. These prizes and trophies and medals speak to me of all those who have passed by this place; those who have been turned into legends, who forged in the hearts and minds of today's disciples the footsteps to be followed, where not even the sky could be the limit, to disappear forever in infinity once accomplished their mission. This Olympus where not everyone will have access. Had everyone access to it, it would be no Olympus anyway. And what about those who lost everything? I don't even mention those who came here seeking to balance body and mind, trying to keep the moving parts moving in order not to lose them; I mean those who somehow sought something that could be at least an enhanced self-esteem, for the thrill of a new challenge at every step taken, only to get to know nothing but the bitter taste of defeat and humiliation, going back to the hole they should never have left. These ones, swept under the carpet of eternal glory are those who fascinate me the most, not so docile lambs, but immolated in honor to the glory of winners. What good would it be telling each and every winner in this world they would never win without a counterpart to overcome? They'd sit aside and laugh at how obvious my idea could be, without seeing any farther than the obvious cover it shows, afraid of facing the reality that, bound there by the chains of common sense, would never get to their hearts and minds so engaged with the role models directly imported from their own gods. I wish I could see in the winners something before the superhuman grace that makes them inaccessible. What the hell is it that can only make humans out of us when it makes us suffer, stumble, fall and cry? I saw humanity in Figueira's crying at the recption hall at Corporal. I almost saw humanity in the moment Galhardo practically cried for help, even having overwhelmed the beast he had just made out of Figueira. I saw it in Zangrandi's dismay, who preferred to turn it into a positive attitude. But I couldn't find it in Morales' impassible face, watching everything without ever being moved by it. It's just not possible that we have to go down so deep to become human that the only way we have left can be the way up. This is just not what I want to believe in. But it seems to me it is what has been following me, tracking me down for so long.
I wake up from my reflections and glance at the clock again. I can't believe it, it's ten five; I'm still the only one in this room, now that the sound of practice in the hall brings me completely into Corporal. So the door opens, bringing Mr. Costa into the room. Though he's asked me to stay and wait, he looks surprised to see me in his room, trying hard not to let his surprise show.
"Good morning, Miss Grisam", he says, shaking my hand with a smile, "I heard some of the kids have given you a real hard time, is it true?"
"I've seen worse people", I said, what is no rhetoric, considering everything I've seen and lived through.
"Well, it was Figueira, wasn't it?"
"Would it make any difference for you if I said it was not? Is there anything between him and Galhardo you haven't told me yet?"
"Galhardo expresses his opinions much too often; he is much more open-hearted, straightforward, as Panotti. Morales doesn't open his heart as much, he is silent most of the time, what is one of his characteristics. It doesn't mean he hides so much we can't know what is in his mind and I find it good. I just can't trust anyone who puts a padlock around themselves, that refuses to be explained; maybe it's the same reason why I still keep Figueira at Corporal. Maybe it's the only reason."
He paused as usual, as if he was scanning me. "Is it all?", I inquired, thinking I hadn't heard it all.
"No", said Mr. Costa at last, "Galhardo will train Figueira from now on. They will work together, because if Figueira wants to stay with us, he'll have to show what he's here for. I don't want him here paying yearly but going to and coming from tournaments with empty hands. Figueira is to change mentality or is to change associations and that's what it boils down to."
"Am I the one who will announce the news to him?"
"No, you needn't take the trouble, because he already knows; after yesterday's training we sat down to discuss the future of the varsity and decided Galhardo will train him and Morales will train Zangrandi. I want them to be proud of themselves and of Corporal and I want Corporal to be proud of them. There is no room here for losers; it's about time they learned this lesson."
"Don't you think joining him and Galhardo can..."
"I don't want fighters hiding and avoiding each other, Miss Grisam. Either they work as one, as a brotherhood or they'll work no more. I'll keep my champions here and if the two insist on being the rest, they are heading to the nearest dustbin, if their ambitions are leading them there. Here, as in life, each one will get what he desires. Nothing more, nothing less."
"Have you finished?"
"Not yet, Miss Grisam, but I don't intend to take much of your time. I know you are sorry for Figueira and what happened to him, and I want to warn you not to feel sorry for him. Compassion hurts a wrestler much more than the worst of the locks he would ever receive in a bout. If it gets to my knowledge you're doing something for him because of compassion, I'll see that you're not working here any longer. Save your compassion for the meek, the underprivileged, the needy. Figueira is strong, but needs stimuli; your compassion will bury the last chance we are giving him. Don't destroy this work. If you really like Figueira, don't you ever feel sorry for him."
Another huge pause after which he said:
"Well, that's all, Miss Grisam", he looked at a pile of documents waiting for a signature of him on the desk, "sorry for not being able to give you more attention, but I've got lots of things here that need to be dealt with, as you can see by yourself."
"Would you permit me at least one question? I don't intend to take your time either."
"Yes, of course. What's the question?"
"Do you have any idea how long I've been here waiting for you?"
He looked at me, amazed it was the only question I had to ask at everything he had said.
"Miss Grisam, don't you think the issue is relevant enough to justify the waiting?"
"Not at all. Mainly considering my health problem which you already knew when you hired me. Next time you need to pour your stockpile of protopsychological conceptions about victory and defeat on me, use the phone. At least, I won't need to get out of my bed to listen to all this."


[5/10/2002 2:49:44 AM..............
Now at dusk, I miss my wallet. It's no good going shopping without money, is it? I search the whole house for it and find nothing. I imagine where it can be. Half an hour thinking about it and the thought I might have left it at Corporal hits me. The last place I was before I came home. I phoned Corporal and there was nothing but a busy signal. After twenty minutes trying to phone, I give up. I think it's easier to go there.
It's six sharp. The association looks emptier at this time; few fighters training in the practice room. I go straight past the practice room to Mr. Costa's room to find the door ajar. Mr. Costa is talking to two kids on the back. I don't need to look for long to know they are Morales and Galhardo. And Galhardo seems uptight. Something keeps me from stepping in, maybe the curiosity of hearing what they say. I have the clear impression the talk won't be the same if they see me here. But I can't hear anything from where I am for some reason I can't work out. He speaks moving his hands nervously, tense, while Mr. Costa listens patiently. Galhardo is nervous, it can't be denied even where I'm from. I constantly look behind me lest someone sees me trying to eavesdrop and look through the door, I miss details of the scene, try to read the lips, all shook up, nothing occurs to me when Galhardo turns to the door. This sends shivers up and down my spine; I start moving slowly away from the door while seeing his silhouette coming fast, growing phantasmagorically through the gap of the door ajar. I don't go very far: I stumble and fall, while the door opens and the shadow, enveloped in the darkness of the space between the practice hall and Mr. Costa's room, jumps over me. "What the heck are you doing here at this time?", Galhardo shouts, breathless. I close my eyes, petrified, without knowing what to do, what would become of me and, all of a sudden, all is quiet. Slowly I open my eyes. And look around.
And I'm alone in my bedroom. Breathless, I see it was just a bad dream. Bad, but just a dream. Just a dream? Maybe. Maybe created by the talk I had with Mr. Costa, maybe. All of it is a great big maybe. I phone Galhardo almost immediately. His mother tells me he's not in. I ask her where he is. She tells me what I already imagined: that he is at Corporal. I ask her if he usually stays there until late, and I know I risk hearing something as "mind your own business", but she tells me he doesn't, but he had been called by Mr. Costa on the phone to talk at Corporal. I phoned Figueira and he himself answered. He said he turned back on his way to the door halfway there, heading to Palmares square with his skateboard. Asked him how it felt during the training with Galhardo and heard his profanity. Then hung up, thinking of it all could mean.


[5/11/2002 3:44:20 PM..............
Still the darkness of dawn, before the first light outside. Galhardo and Zangrandi are the first to arrive. They lied down on the mat and stayed there, quietly breathing. Eyes shut. I warned them not to sleep. Galhardo smiled a little smile and Zangrandi didn't make any move. I mean, didn't make any move until he started to snore. He woke up elbowed by Galhardo and I told Galhardo not to do it. Zangrandi groaned softly and resumed relaxation. Then he woke up again with the sound of the iron door opening. Morales. He lied down almost automatically besides the two others. I was sitting, looking at the silence in the practice hall. Ten minutes later, Figueira. Of course he also lied down. Once relaxed, I had the four sit down.
We started talking. They asked in what the therapy could help them. Said they had been coming for days and still didn't understand what it could do for them.
"when I was called to work with you. The subject I and Mr. Costa talked about was union. He said there was no union among you, what doesn't happen within the older teams. Is it right?"
"Yes.", whispered Zangrandi.
"We argue and fight sometimes, but it doesn't mean we have no union", protested Galhardo, casting a furious look on Zangrandi, "everybody argues and fights sometimes."
"Do you trust Figueira, Galhardo?"
"Of course", he said in a decided way. Galhardo looked at Morales. The former looked away at me, uneasy. As if preparing for a half-truth.
"What about you, Figueira, do you trust Galhardo?"
"Yes", he said with ill will in his eyes.
Well, I asked the other two the same question and there was unanimity when they said they trusted each other. I asked them to rise to their feet. They obeyed, exchanging looks, without understanding. I drew a handkerchief from my purse and blindfolded Figueira. I told Galhardo to stand before him, one step far from his body in such a way one stood facing the other. They stood there in suspense, until I told Figueira to fall down forward. He did it before I finished explaining and his right foot stepped forward to stop him from falling. The others laughed at the strange procedure they regarded as a joke. I then told Figueira to fall without any fear, giving himself away to the fall.
"But I'll fall down to the floor and smash my nose and my teeth", said he, mystified.
"No, because Galhardo is going to prop you up before you completely fall down."
"Galhardo?" and Figueira laughed.
"Yes, him. And he's going to do it because you'll do the same for him when your time comes."
Figueira then concentrated. His body started coming forward slowly. The others caught their breath, especially Galhardo. But Figueira couldn't let his body go. His foot would always prop his body up before Galhardo had the chance to do it. The same happened to all of them. None of them managed to have enough confidence on the other to let him catch them from falling. I decide to finish the exercise and call it a day.
"And now what? Do you still think you trust each other?"
They stood there, dumbfounded, exchanging looks. Nobody said a word. I told them we were going to repeat the exercise until they gave themselves away to the other's support without fear.
Well, I stayed for the training today. I went with Galhardo and Figueira to a room at the back of Corporal, to see them train. Galhardo seems to be a very good teacher. But on the other side, there is a rudeness in the treatment he gives Figueira that would make a sergeant blush. He starts showing Figueira the points for strangling. Immobilization dynamics. The techniques. They practice real hard, "come on chicken try to escape, let me see if you can escape now, your motherfucking piece of shit", Figueira tries to move, breathless, out of the mass of muscles of Galhardo, the two sweat like waterfalls under the hellish heat that's been consuming this city for long, bloodshot eyes, while Galhardo laughs, satisfied. He lets Figueira go and they resume. He's already immobilized Figueira six different possible ways and at each immobilization, counts to eight, stops and explains the technique. Figueira listens, asks some questions Galhardo never answers without a cutting ironic tone in his voice and the two resume. Now Galhardo puts him on his knees, binds his head, arm and neck with an arm, lets Figueira's other arm free and useless, while stops, with his right leg any movement Figueira could make forward. I notice Galhardo can manage him very easily playing by the rules, what would never happen once the rulebook was torn; in other words, Galhardo would never overcome him in a street fight. I notice many times the fight only by the rules can make the fighter defenseless in an ambient rules like this are not complied with. Fighting like this is too aesthetic and noble for the Babylon you now see on the streets. Noel Rosa, as early as in the 30's, said the martial arts had lost a lot of their sense as self-defense after firearms started being used; they ended up restricted to gyms and competitions, since anyone can shoot a fighter dead from a distance just making use of a single finger. Brandon Lee ended up finding it out the worst possible way, shot dead during the making of The Crow, a film that was by design shady and ominous. I go into the other room and Zangrandi doesn't seem to be in better situation, being trained by Morales. The two young coaches explain with the best of their patience, but, strange as it might seem, vexing and humiliating the two in a soft and calculated fashion. The strangeness of it leaps to my eyes. They're working the kids' pride in a softly negative way, as far as I can see.