Where the dead lay

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The morning was gray, and a cool that wouldn’t last. Frank Behr steered his Toronado across East Prospect and appreciated the empty streets at 5:45 A.M. His neck still throbbed from a guillotine choke he had barely escaped a day ago, and he was having trouble turning his head to the left, but at this hour the city was his. He had a jump on the world, and that felt good. As he drove, he tried to leave his mind distant and unfocused. Better not to dwell on the soft bed he’d just left, or on the physical challenge that loomed.

Pummeling, clinches, fire feet and sprawl drills, takedowns, guard escapes, and technique work. Topped off by lunge walks with a hundred-pound ground and pound bag on his shoulder. It was enough to cause a replay of last night’s dinner, and that was just for openers, before they began to “roll,” which was what they called sparring at Aurelio Santos’s Brazilian Jiu-jitsu Academy.

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