Like the majority of you fine gentlemen here, I am no stranger to the gladiatorial way of life. So imagine the look of bewilderment on my face when I settled down to read the latest riveting debate on the merits of various street fighting styles, only to find that nobody had bothered to mention the most deadly one of them all: Capoeira. This underrated martial art is by far the most effective and logical system to be utilised when fighting in the streets, given that most violent confrontations occur when individuals are attempting to socialise with one-another while inebriated by alcohol and exhilarated by the pulsing beats of Hip-Hop’s most talented artists. When one’s movements are already synchronized to the tempo of music, punches and kicks flow like the lyrics of ‘Little Wayne’, art and action unite, and violence manifests itself in the most beautiful of ways. What’s that you cry? ‘Balderdash! You’re selling us a pig in a poke!’ Well, allow me to reminisce about the time I had to put my skills to their greatest test - and almost lost my perfect record.
Rio De Janeiro, 2008. It was carnival season and the streets were now a swarming mass of fraternizing figures. A sense of merriment was in the air. I shuffled my way through the crowds, ignoring the pinches and prods from the various young ladies overcome with youthful exuberance and carnal desires as I approached the vendor. ‘Caipirinha, por favor’, I asked, flashing her a smile. She was middle-aged and well past her best, though her breasts still appeared to be in remarkable condition. To my surprise, she lifted up her top and exposed them to me - giving one a squeeze as she replied with what can be translated as: ‘This one is on the house, donkey dick’. I blushed as I glanced down at the bulge in my trousers, but thanked her for her generosity and turned to make my way back through the crowds. ‘It doesn’t get any better than this’, I thought to myself, as the people danced all around me to the sounds of samba and contemporary Pop.
I decided to join in with the festivities and had been dancing for the past half-hour when an intoxicated and heavy-set mulatto lady slipped and stumbled forward while attempting to perform a ‘twerking’ manoeuvre to Flo Rida’s latest hit. She crashed into me with an alarming amount of force, propelling me forward into the path of a dreadlocked and musclebound local. I attempted to apologise when I realised that my Caipirinha had splashed across his T-shirt and he didn’t appear too happy about it. We continued dancing as we sized each other up. I wasn’t looking for trouble but something told me that it was looking for me. ‘Why’d you disrespect me like that, bro?’ He asked, as he clapped his hands together and flicked his hips back and forth. Both thumbs were in my belt loops as I performed a right-footed coaster step and replied: ‘I didn’t disrespect you, bro. Some fat bitch crashed into me’. He spun around 360 degrees and transitioned up onto his tiptoes as he barked back: ‘It fucking looked like disrespect to me, look at the state of my fucking T-shirt’. Poker-faced, our eyes were now firmly locked on one-another as we simultaneously began to squat down incrementally towards the floor as the music blasted out: ‘Shorty got low, low, low, low, low, low, low’. I knew that this was no ordinary opponent, and as the crowd began to form around us it became apparent that they realised this too, though I doubt any could have predicted the spectacle they were about to witness.
I broke into an esquiva lateral as I attempted to apologise, when out of nowhere he lashed out with a Chapa-de-Frente that caught me high on the temple, causing me to wobble. This was war. I crouched into a Cocorinha in order to compose myself, then retaliated with a blistering Armada that sent him stumbling back into the partisan crowd. They helped him back to his feet and cried out ‘Mais! Mais!’ They wanted a battle and they were getting one. For two hours we danced back and forth in harmony with one another, exchanging the most punishing and spectacular of kicks and arm strikes while the crowd looked on in amazement, sipping their drinks and swaying along to the beat of the drums. This man was a true professional, and I’d never been up against such a worthy adversary in this particular discipline before. The tempo of the music suddenly changed, causing me to stumble, and he immediately took advantage of my mistake with a shocker of an Arpão de Cabeça. I was instantaneously blinded by a flash of white light, and the cacophony of the crowd was drowned out by the overwhelming ringing now in my ears. As I regained my vision I became aware that I had collapsed to my knees, and my opponent was now clicking his fingers and tapping his feet, waiting eagerly for me to rise again so that he could put me down once more.
I was bruised, bloodied, and almost defeated. As a sense of desperation swept over me, I looked up towards the horizon only to be met with a sight that took my breath away: Christ the Redeemer. There it stood on top of the Corcovado mountain; that beautiful statue, as immovable and unwavering as his love for us all. Arms outstretched as if to say: ‘Ask, and it shall be given you; seek, and ye shall find; knock, and it shall be opened unto you: For every one that asketh receiveth; and he that seeketh findeth; and to him that knocketh it shall be opened.’
I bowed my head in humility, humbled by his presence. I took a deep breath and quietly said: ‘Jesus, I know you taught me to turn the other cheek, but right now I need your help. I’ve betrayed you before, and sinned too many times to count. I’ve cussed, skipped church, and fornicated with copious amounts of beautiful women, but I swear to you, my Lord, I am truly sorry. Please, Jesus; take the wheel’. At that moment - and I know many of you will doubt me - but I swear to God the statue winked at me. A bolt of lightning flashed across the night sky and I was immediately struck by an overwhelming sense of love and power; as though a wave of electricity had just shot through my central nervous system and rejuvenated every fibre of my being. I was back in the fight. With a renewed robustness I leapt to my feet, launching into a series of rapid-fire punches that knocked the wind right out of his sails and forced him to take a knee. placing one hand on his back for leverage I exploded up into the air, somersaulting over him while simultaneously scanning the ground for my landing. As my feet hit the floor I knew that this was the end. He looked up at me and waved his hand out as if to say ‘não mais’. He was a defeated man and he knew it. With the adrenaline still flowing through me, I was preparing for the finishing blow when I heard a booming voice inside my head: ‘That will do, my son; that will do. Be merciful’. I dropped to my knees beside him, suddenly as mentally and emotionally drained as he was, and placed my hand on his shoulder. We collapsed into each other, our foreheads touching as we caught our breath and attempted to comprehend what had just occurred. ‘You’re a true warrior’, I said to him, wiping away a trickle of blood from his eye. ‘Did you feel it?’ He asked. ‘You must have felt it?’ He pointed up at the statue. I nodded, overcome with emotion. ‘He was with you. He had your back in that fight’. We both began to weep and I knew at that moment that I had a brother for life. We helped each other to our feet and he raised my hand up into the air. Turning to the crowd he cried out: ‘Behold! This is the best man here! The spirit of God is within him and I am honoured to have lost’. I turned to him and replied with the utmost sincerity: ‘There were no losers in this fight. Today, I met my equal’. The crowd rushed towards us both and lifted us above their heads, venerating us as the warriors we were as they paraded us through the streets for all to see and admire. As more of the public flocked towards us I suddenly felt the familiar sensation of my crotch being fondled. I quickly glanced down and was relieved to find that the offending hand belonged to a young (legal) olive-skinned beauty who was making the universal fellatio sign at me as she jabbed the side of her cheek repeatedly with her tongue. Jesus wasn’t finished with me yet. My faith had carried me through the fight, and now, it was time to enjoy my reward. ‘Put me down just here’, I ordered the crowd. I had work to do...
