Monday night, judo class. Ishaan is on top of me, struggling with his grip. Though sensei Frank just demonstrated the choke for us, slowly, thoroughly, Ishaan’s already forgotten the hand work. His thin fingers grasp and re-grasp on my lapels, his knuckles grazing my face.

“Ishii,” I say, using my nickname for him.

“What?”

“Take it easy.” When class began I explained my big toe was hurt. I had cracked it two weeks ago sparring with Bouquin. As he had gone for a foot sweep, I tried to bring my own foot around to knock him over. Unfortunately neither of us are that athletic: Bouqin only swept halfway, and I didn’t bring my leg around far enough. Everyone groaned when they heard the crack.

Ishii pulls away for a second, puts his hand on his hips. “I want to get this right.”

He says this pleadingly, as though my intention is to make him look like a fool. He’s young, younger than me; sometimes I think his voice hasn’t cracked yet. We became friends soon after I joined the class. He could probably tell I was nervous because he took time after class those first few weeks to walk me through moves I struggled with.

It was weird being taught by someone so young. Yes, he knew a lot, and was kind and patient, but also looked like he should have been in braces. When he asked about my day, the law office I worked at, my writing, his eyes would widen. “What’s it like to go on a work trip?” he’d ask. “Do you make a lot of money publishing short stories?”

I tried to answer the best I could, though he never seemed satisfied. Unlike judo—or maybe just like it—it was probably hard to take anything from my stories without having experienced it himself. Ishii would just smile and nod after I finished talking—“cool, cool,” —and then sit to my side, staring off into space, until our teachers called us back from water break.

I feel bad—perhaps now I was failing him?

I turn and tap Mark, a yellow belt working beside us, on the shoulder. “Mark,” I say. “Would you mind giving us a hand over here?”

“You alright?”

“Ishii and I need your expertise.”

“Say no more!”  Mark mutters a quick apology to his partner, an intense, stringy Russian girl whose name eludes me, and rolls over to us.  I like Mark: he is muscular and boisterous, like a Dragon Ball Z character. But most of all, like Ishii, he is nice.

“Alright,” Mark says. “You ready?” As soon as I nod I’m lifted off the ground, half-laughing, half-gasping as Mark falls on top of me, driving the sharp edge of his hand into my windpipe.

He’s done the move perfect. Ishii looks stricken. He kneels there pouting as Mark lies on top of me, explaining how to finish the hold. “You want to make sure you’re not squeezing too hard—this will give your partner a chance to tap if they need to.”

I zone out for a second, dizzy from the smell of Mark’s hair product (and lack of air.) There is something comforting about this, the feeling of Mark pressed on top of me. Every so often he pokes me in the ribs to check if I’m listening, then suggests I demonstrate on Ishii.

As he crawls beneath me, I can tell Ishii’s upset that he didn’t get it on the first try. More upset that I asked Mark for help. Yet even if I couldn’t walk him through the move, there was still something I could teach him.

Ishii gasps as I pick him up above my head and spin him to the floor. “Don’t squirm!” Mark says, as I tighten my grip around Ishii’s neck. I smile to let him know this is all practice, for sport. So often we’re taught to scramble out of a choke or a fall, that we forget we need to learn what it feels like first. If he tapped I would let him go in an instant; if he started to choke, I’d run and get him water.

Then we’ll get back down and run the move again and again, until we don’t need to think about how to do it.