The Art of Learning: An Inner Journey to Optimal Performance

Buma Ye, faster and faster. I need to go buck wild now, need one point, gotta let it all
hang out. The ref said “Go!” and I hit him like a truck, he gave a little, then
held his ground, trying to hold on for the bell. I cranked and we started
spinning, my back to the edge, then his, then mine again, total chaos. I
screamed as I pulled hard and reversed him. He was on the edge but had the
underhooks, was okay, incredible root, and then all I can say is that I reached
deeper than I knew I had and won the most dramatic point of my life. With
one second left I drove him out of the ring, launching through him and over
him, landing him on his back, my shoulder into his and my head over him
straight into the ground. The bell rang, the crowd went totally wild, even the
Taiwanese; 2–2.
I had sixty seconds and was a dead man. I lay panting on my back for almost
all of that time. On the video, Buffalo looks physically strong but upset. Max
rubbed my shoulders, I slowed down my breathing, thought I’d be okay by the
bell. Hoped. Wasn’t so sure.
Round two. He entered the ring like an enraged beast and the bleachers
erupted in chants. I remember getting to my feet and walking slowly to the
center, hoping I could reach it without falling over. He attacked immediately
and the force went through me, into the ground. It felt like an electric current
and I bounced him off, awake now, ready to roll. No more pain. He came at me
again and cranked hard into a throw while sweeping out my right foot, but I
felt it coming, stepped up with my left, and neutralized it while crimping his
arms. I knew I had to watch that footwork, very dangerous. We went back into
the clinch. I gave him the left underhook and clamped down on the arm. He
probed for a hole and I held him off, waiting, listening; the game had grown
smaller now, everything slowing down. He switched his weight into his front
leg to attack and I caught it, fired into a throw in that flash that he was stuck,
his foot entering the ground, no way to move, and he went down with me right

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on top, my shoulder into his left side. Up 1–0. He came right back at me,
shaking off the last moment with a bull rush, but I felt it coming and went
with the force, pulled him a little farther and he hit the ground. Up 2–0. Then
I pulled off another throw, catching the same hole in his footwork, perfect
timing, inner reap, we both went up and I landed on him hard. I’m up 3–0!
Now I made my only real mistake of the tournament. I had him totally
defeated, he came at me, and I popped him to the side, his left foot landing
inches from the edge. Then I should have backed off or gone in slow, but I
smelled the finish line and charged, overextended, and he put me down. Two
points, 3–2, he’s back in it. My mistake. Not much time left. I’m spent, so is
he. Here things really started to go out of control. He surged right at me. I
used the force and almost put him down but he barely saved himself. We flew
all over the place, him attacking, me neutralizing, counterattacking, him
saving. I heard Max scream “Josh! Fifteen seconds!” I put a huge effort into a
throw that he barely stopped. He charged, I warded it off, and I was exhausted;
it felt like the fifteen seconds were over. Now, two years later, I see on the video
—Max is waving at the timekeeper, the woman is standing holding the bell.
What happened here was surreal. There were many witnesses, all with the same
story. The clock hit 2:00 and the woman went to hit the bell but an official
motioned for her not to ring it. Clock went to 2:04, :05, :06, we were
scrambling in the ring, in total mayhem. I’d paced myself to last fifteen
seconds and now I was way past blown out. I was up 3–2 and they were
holding the bell. Everyone was screaming. I was dead on my feet, and the
Buffalo put his heart, soul, blood, and guts into one more throw. I couldn’t
hold it off and started to go; he piled down on top of me, won the point, and
they rang the bell, 3–3.
Officially the first two rounds were tied. I was on my back, slowing down
my breathing, far beyond the most exhausted I’d ever been. Max and Dan
rubbed my arms and shoulders. The bell rang. Round three, it all comes down
to this. I had the tie-break if we were even. At this point it is pure guts.
Survival. You operate on another plane of reality, second to second, relying on
your training to keep you standing. The round began and I held him off, then
gave up the double underhooks and launched into a throw I’ve been working
on for years and hadn’t shown yet at the tournament. I trapped his right arm
under my left elbow, pulsed forward to provoke a reaction, and then turned
left, rolling over my right shoulder and his trapped right arm, all my weight

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pulling down and away from his root. He flew over me in a big circle and we
went down hard, my shoulder into his ribs. Perfectly executed, but the judges
didn’t give it to me. I was too tired to be angry about it. They said we touched
the floor at the same time. His ribs wouldn’t agree. No score. I didn’t have
much left. We felt each other out for ten seconds, then he attacked, forced a
lean, and spun me on the mat, lovely throw. I’m down 2–0. Trouble. Gotta dig