The Terror of Competition, the Pleasure of Predation

A man approaches you on the street with a proposition:  “See that guy over there?”  He indicates a big, strapping fellow, his six-foot-four frame enrobed in 300 pounds of muscle.  “He’s coming over here to wrestle you to the ground and choke you out for a million dollars.  If you can pin him instead, I’ll give you the million.”

“B-but,” you stammer, “I don’t want to wrestle him!”

The man sniffs.  “Doesn’t matter—he wants the million.  Here he comes—best of luck!”

How does it feel to suddenly have this contest thrust upon you?  To have to worry about your performance, and how it will stack up to his experience level?  For all you know, he could be very good at wrestling—and even if you, yourself, are no slouch in the ring, he’s clearly way outside your weight class.  And much, much stronger.  As he begins to sprint toward you, you notice he’s a lot faster, too.

How’s it feel now?

Let’s try a different tack:  Same setup, except the man says, “All you have to do is touch him, and I’ll give you the million instead.”

Feel any different?

How about if we qualify that touch a bit:  “All you have to do is break something inside of him.”  And you’ll get the million.

In the first case, the contest is sprung upon you, you’re not prepared, you’re being asked to compete with the man’s physical size and athletic ability.  You’re being asked to perform at a level most of us can’t reach.  You’re being asked to compete in such a way that is clearly unfair, and puts you at a disadvantage.

We could just as easily set up a scenario where you are suddenly tasked with debating international monetary policy, before an audience, with someone who may or may not be a Nobel laureate in economics.  We’ve all got the basic tools, the components to compete in such a contest—we can speak out loud, we have experience with finances and money in general—and yet, the idea makes me sweat.  Most of us can expect to get hammered and humiliated, everything we say twisted back on us with a sneer and derisive laughter from the audience.

In the second case where “all you have to do is touch him,” there is no performance pressure—we can all reach out and touch the guy, even if he wants to wrestle us.  In fact, there’s really no way you can lose—how can he wrestle you down and choke you out without you touching him at some point?  It’s so simple it’s ridiculous.

And sure, that “touch” can easily be used to break something inside of him, as in the slightly more difficult scenario.  We all know he can’t successfully wrestle you without you crushing his groin or gouging an eye at some point.  Everything he would want to do just pulls you in nice and close to those delicate anatomical features.  Another easy win.

All of the above highlights another distinct difference between competition and violence—that impending competition brings with it performance anxiety as you realize you will be required to pit your skill against unknown thresholds:  What if he’s the better wrestler, or speaker?  It’s the worry that your meager skills will be outclassed.

When we remove the competition and go instead to a win condition that is not dependent on unknown thresholds (i.e., nothing about the man factors into the equation) there is no dread or anxiety.

Now, I know what you’re thinking—what about performance anxiety around getting violence done?  Well, how anxious did you feel about merely touching the guy, really?  Outside of counting coup, did your anxiety increase when it was qualified as causing an injury?  If the answer is yes, then

YOU’RE STILL LOOKING AT VIOLENCE AS COMPETITION.

Violence, as the absence of competition, has no performance anxiety component.  It really is just touching, if we mean it in the same way that we would smash a soda can flat, or slam a car door, or break a stick on the curb.  The physics and biomechanics involved are all the same.  Any considerations beyond that are imaginary.  Hang ups, if you will.

As with pretty much everything in this work, the solution is mat time.  It’s the second-best place to learn that competition has nothing to do with anything in violence, that size, speed, and strength have no bearing on who wins and who dies.  Those who still view violence as a form of competition, a high-stakes one, act hesitantly on the mats; they keep their distance (even when they think they’re penetrating), flinch, hide and otherwise give poor reactions, and rarely employ body weight.  They behave as if they are fundamentally frightened of what’s going on.  Which they are.

Those who have figured it out by physically burning the idea out of their heads with hours of mat time throw themselves into the work with great relish, applying themselves bodily to every problem presented to them.  The physical realization that violence is about a failure to compete, an end-run around competition, is liberating.  Gone is the worry about being big enough, fast enough, or strong enough.  The other person’s skill counts for absolutely nothing.  It’s all about you, and only you.  The other person is prey to be taken, meat to be butchered.  The pressure’s off and you’re free to do as you will.

You’re exercising your legacy as a predator—and by all accounts, predation is pleasurable.

— Chris Ranck-Buhr (from 2008)