Read My Fight / Your Fight for Free Online Page B

are so many little parts and so much thought that goes into every move and technique. I love the problem-solving aspect of fighting. It’s about feeling and understanding and breaking down an opponent. It’s not just “go faster.”
    I had been on a swim team for a couple of years. But after my dad died, I didn’t want to swim anymore. Swimming is very introspective. It makes you think about things, and I didn’t want to be thinking about my life. Judo was the opposite of swimming. One hundred percent of my focus had to be in the present moment. There was no time for introspection.
    We hadn’t even pulled out of the parking lot after that first judo practice before I asked my mom when I could go back.
    My first judo tournament fell on my eleventh birthday. I had been in judo for about a month at this point. I really only knew one throw and one pin, but it was just a little local tournament.
    We walked into the building where the tournament was being held. I followed my mom up to the registration table. The mats set up around the gymnasium seemed so much bigger than they did in practice. My eyes widened. I tugged nervously on the white belt that held my white gi top closed.
    My mom sensed my hesitation. After she finished checking me in, she pulled me aside. I expected a pep talk about how it wasn’t a big deal, about how it was just about doing my best, about how I should just go out and have fun. Instead she looked me straight in the eye and said three life-changing words: “You can win.”
    I won the entire tournament by all ippons (an instant win). I was euphoric. I had never really won anything before. I liked the way winning felt.
    Two weeks later, I lost my second judo tournament. I finished second, losing to a girl named Anastasia. Afterward, her coach congratulated me.
    â€œYou did a great job. Don’t feel bad, Anastasia is a junior national champion.”
    I felt consoled for about a second, until I noticed the look of disgust on Mom’s face. I nodded at the coach and walked away.
    Once we were out of earshot she lit into me: “I hope you know better than to believe what he said. You could have won that match. You had every chance to beat that girl. The fact that she is a junior national champion doesn’t mean anything. That’s why they have tournaments, so you can see who is better. They don’t award medals based on what you won before. If you did your absolute best, if you were capable of doing nothing more, then that’s enough. Then you can be content with the outcome. But if you could have done better, if you could have done more, then you should be disappointed. You should be upset you didn’t win. You should go home and think about what you could have done differently and then next time do it differently. Don’t you ever let anyone tell you that not doing your absolute best is good enough. You are a skinny blonde girl who lives by the beach, and unless you absolutely force them to, no one is ever going to expect anything from you in this sport. You prove them wrong.”
    I was ashamed that I had been so ready to accept losing, to accept as fact that someone else was simply better than me. The remorse lasted only a second before it was replaced by a more intense emotion. What I felt then was a deep desire to win, a motivation to show everyone on the planet that no one should ever doubt my ability to win again.
    From that moment on, I wanted to win every time I stepped onto the mat. I expected to win. I would never accept losing again.



JUST BECAUSE IT’S A RULE DOESN’T MEAN IT’S RIGHT
    In sports, there are rules that keep you safe. In life, there are rules that keep the world from descending into total chaos. In both, there are rules that people make up to hide behind or for their own benefit. You have to be smart enough to know the difference.
    There were four major rules in my house growing up.
    Rule No. 1: No