MMA

Last night I went by the Amsterdam branch of my MMA school, thinking that it’d be a great idea to train on tuesday-night, five minutes away from where I live, instead of on wednesday-night, straight after Kung Fu, in Hoorn, an hour away by public transport. I came to the conclusion that I seriously need to rethink my MMA-strategy. This class was filled with real competitors, with more than one professional Pride-veteran, a European BJJ champion, and a two-time Dutch amateur boxing champion. Needless to say, these guys are going to tear me limb from limb. “Oh, don’t worry, we’ll go slow and teach you all you need to!” Yeah, thanks, I know you will, you’ll teach me one punch at a time, one submission at a time. In the meantime, I’ll become hammered shit. I talked it over with the head-instructor, and he said that this class didn’t have too many beginners in it (gee, I wonder why), and that it was more focussed on true MMA than on BJJ. He said that it might be best to stay training in Hoorn for six months to develop a good fundament before I start mixing it up with these guys. I thought it was a good idea because I don’t really feel like getting demolished every tuesday.

So Robin, I’m afraid we’re going to have to figure something out for wednesdays, because I’ll be continuing the adjoining MMA class right after Kung Fu.

The gym that the class was given at yesterday was fun, though. Vos Gym is legendary in the European kickboxing community, cranking out legends like Ernesto Hoost, Gilbert Yvel, Clyde Petres and Remy Bonjasky, all of them successful K1, Pride or kickboxing veterans. The gym looks like Rocky Balboa’s old gym, with a leaking roof, single-glasing windows (which makes it perpetually cold) and dodgy bouncers and bodyguards training there. When I walked in I was approached by two tourists, standing in front of the rather dodgy looking door with a stairway leading up that could’ve easily come out of some dystopian sci-fi/horror film, asking me if this was the Supperclub, a well-known restaurant/club in Amsterdam. I told them that the only thing they’d be eating in there were fists! (Well, that’s what I thought, I didn’t actually have the balls to say that.)