In this reconstructed gladiatorial bout—without sand and bare feet, and minus the asshole with the branding iron and whip prodding us—Damien is fighting as a dimarcharius [double-cleaver-fighter] and I as a myrmillo [fish-man, all around arena victim].

Instinct note: When you hear me [I’m in the green shirt and cutoff jeans] grunt like a hollow dog, that means I’m engaging my thighs—that is a sign of strain. I should be powering my movement with my calves not my thighs. Stressed or inexperienced fighters will not pick up on that nuance. A long distance striker, such as myself, who goes to thigh-powered mobility is getting fatigued and is close to locking his hips or rooting himself in a static position. In the first video I get away with this because I had the better weapon set. In the second video, in which I had exchanged the forestry machete for the shorter and lighter bolo machete, he reads my strain and sinks in the kick to finish it. In combat, as in love, inches count. I was wearing a cup, but when you hit 40, the balls are hanging kind of low and get pinched by the cup as his shin slams it into your pelvis.

Tactics: I’m using a zone shield defense and walking Damien down looking to score a supinated stab or a forehand slash—real basic grunt stuff. Damien’s weapon set requires more dexterity and is helped by his low line kicking ability. Observe his lunge under the roof block as he comes to one knee. Note how he is baiting me with his Yan Can Cook simbrada to get me to spread my legs so that he can kick me in the balls.

My left nut still hurts.