Lessons

As I enter once again into the Old Testament, various passages have been reminding me of what I consider a central theme of the Bible: God’s concern for the rearing of children and the transmission of good moral values down through the generations. I’m always brought up a little short in my thinking about this because I am not a parent, but I pour as much as I can into the children that I coach.

This past weekend I spent some time ruminating on an incident that happened a few years ago. It may have been before I was diagnosed with cancer; I can’t remember accurately. One of my favorite students was (and is) a young man who is the very definition of “a good kid”. He tries hard, pays attention, and is generally very respectful not just to his coaches but to all adults in the gym.

Boys being boys however, he occasionally does things that don’t make any sense. On the day in question, he was early for class, and was goofing around with a couple of other boys who were also early. Parents tend to drop their kids off and run a quick errand in one of the stores adjacent to the gym, so there may have been one parent in the gallery, possibly none. His parents definitely were not.

He and the other boys bounced around running off some post-school energy. He ran past me and without thinking swung his fist in an arc, making contact squarely with my crotch. In the moment, he probably thought it would be funny, but immediately afterward I think he instantly knew he’d messed up. If not, my shout of surprise and indignation certainly informed him of that fact. For one thing, we don’t teach striking in kids’ Brazilian Jiu Jitsu classes, so the action itself was out of bounds. For another, “surprise attacks” in kids’ class are strictly forbidden as a matter of safety.

As I said, he’s a good kid. He immediately sat himself on the wall, ashamed of his action, and wouldn’t look at or acknowledge me. I could tell he was trying not to cry. I let him sit there until it was time to line up, then told the class to do what we call a “flow roll”, which is a gentle wrestling match without any strength applied. I kept an eye on the other kids and called him out to roll with me, which he did not want to do but eventually did.

He started crying as we rolled around. I didn’t say anything. I let him work as always, but he refused the opportunities for submissions that I offered. I had to make him take the top position. Eventually he calmed down a bit, and I ended the flow roll exercise. As the kids were lining up along the wall for the instruction portion of the class, he asked quietly, “please don’t tell my mom what I did.”

In that moment, I saw an opportunity for a lesson — I’m still not sure exactly what it was that I was about to teach him, but it seemed important. I almost always speak loudly enough so the parents in the gallery can hear what I’m saying. At this point in the class, there were still only a couple of fathers, neither of which was his. I shook my head at him. “I don’t have anything to tell her. This is between you and me, and as far as I’m concerned it’s over.”

By the time class finished and we bowed out, he was back to his usual self. I still think a lot about that day. I hope I taught him something about manhood and forgiveness. I hope he remembers it. I’ve never asked him about it, and I’ve never seen him be anything but respectful toward his instructors and fellow students since. I’ve taught a lot of lessons to a lot of kids since then, but none that have ever had as much impact on me (literally and figuratively) as that one did.