Free My Fight / Your Fight by Ronda Rousey

at my coaches, my teammates, their parents, their siblings. I was struck by the realization that soon I would walk out of the club doors for the final time and probably never see many of them ever again. I started to cry. The fact that no one asked me why I was crying made it even worse, not because I wanted someone to ask, but because it showed that these people really knew me. I cried all the time—when I got thrown, when I got frustrated at practice, when I opened my judo bag and realized I’d forgotten my belt, when I got cut in front of while in line for the water fountain. Now I was off to a new place where they wouldn’t know that I cried all the time and would ask me why I was crying. I would feel pressured to stop crying, which only makes me cry more.
    On the way out to the car, I paused in front of our club trophy case. Several of my medals and trophies were on display. I looked at the Player of the Year trophy awarded to the top athlete from the club. I had won it four years straight. Suddenly, the idea that I would never win it again seemed overwhelming. Everything was going to change. While I knew it was the right decision, while I had my coach’s blessing, while it was the inevitable next step I had been preparing for, it was still hard.
    The next morning, my mom showed me an email that Trace had written to the Pedros. He told them he was entrusting me to their care, that I had tremendous potential, and that they should let him know if I ever needed anything.
    That’s a person who actually cares about you.
    My mom knew about what it took to become a world-class athlete; she knew I needed a new coach who could take me to the next level as an elite international competitor; and she knew that meant I had to leave home, but she left the choice up to me.
    â€œThere isn’t a best coach, there’s a best coach for you,” my mom told me. “You’re not picking your coach to suit your mom or your friends or the people who run USA Judo, you need to pick the coach who is going to be the best person to coach you.” (USA Judo is the sport’s national governing body.)
    She had started sending me to the top clubs around the country for camps and clinics when I was thirteen, so I could check clubs and coaches out with an eye toward the future.
    I ended up with new friends around the country, but none of the clubs I had visited had felt right. I didn’t get that inexplicable, you-know-it-when-you-feel-it feeling.
    In January 2004, I boarded a plane to Boston.
    Beyond our brief meeting at the senior nationals, I didn’t know much about Big Jim. He was known for his expertise when it came to groundwork. In addition to coaching Little Jimmy to a world championship, he had trained half a dozen Olympians and close to one hundred junior and senior national champions. Moreover, my mom approved of him, and my mom’s seal of approval is harder to earn than a Nobel Prize.
    Big Jim is tough. He might be as hairy as a teddy bear, but that’s where any comparisons between him and something cuddly end. He has a booming voice and a furious intensity. He will tell you in no uncertain terms when he thinks you’re doing a shit job. He openly admitted to having slapped a referee. His personality made him a polarizing figure within judo, but no one ever questioned his knowledge and ability as a coach.
    I went out to the Pedros’ club on a trial basis. Walking off the airplane at Logan Airport, I felt a wave of nervous excitement. Big Jim had left an impression on me.
    I was also going to be training with Jimmy Pedro. A month or so after I had met Big Jim, Jimmy came to L.A. to do a clinic. I was coming off my knee surgery, but determined to attend. Jimmy Pedro was one of the most decorated American athletes in judo history and the guy I looked up to as a kid in the sport. I could not wait to meet Jimmy, but was disappointed that my injury limited my ability to participate.
    I