I came to the Sambo section by chance. In the 1960s, every student had to pass the GTO (Ready to Work and Defense) standards. Each exercise in this complex was evaluated by points, and for the norm of GTO it was necessary to score a certain number of points. One of these exercises was toughening on the tournament. My weight was 50 kilograms. So I didn’t make the impression of a “Powerful Man.” Of course, then, when my stomach grew and my mouth spread wide, everything stood in its place, and then on.
I didn’t pull the man.

At the first class in physical culture, I passed the entire norm of GTO, pulling in.
100 times. Then our coach advised me to go to the Sambo section instead of physical training. I decided to try and stay there.

At the end of the first course within the institute there were sambo competitions among the first-class students, and I took the first place in the lightest weight. Later, I was invited to the team of the Sambo Institute, where in this weight was already a master of sports. I was practically taken into the collection as a beating bag.
Master of Sport is also a master in Africa.

True, if the first time he just beat me, then in a year I learned to oppose him, although I still always lost. I was a bag to beat for a whole year, and then the situation changed drastically. My Master became ill with polio, and I became the only fighter in the lightest weight (in the common language, a mucha, or a fighter in the weight of a fly).

I, a novice, began to be put out for competition, and I quickly began to win. I don’t think it’s just that I’ve been holding on.
Master, and also in the fact that my opponents did not respect me. When the reporter pronounces, "The First Division and the Novichok are fighting," then, in addition to the spectators, this First Division also hears these words.

Quite quickly I won the third division, then the second. But the first failed, as the number of wins in the first category is much higher than in the second and all wins must be raised in a certain time. During the time between sessions, I didn’t have time to do this, and in the session I generally threw the sambo, and the wins were burned.

I did not perceive Sambo as a fight, but as a game that requires a certain strategy and tactics. In addition, Sambo instilled me quite useful skills. For example, our coach taught us to sleep exactly one minute. Now I learned to do this, but then, after the heating, before the fight, I could sleep exactly a minute and go out on the carpet with completely fresh forces and heated muscles. But the practical application of sambo in my home has always been unsuccessful.

Imagine yourself. I go from the last movie session, after spending my passion, to her home. I naturally cut off the road and walk through the dark courtyard. So in this dark courtyard right in the middle is the only lamp and illuminates a circle of about five meters in diameter. There is a pair in this circle of light. A drunk man, grabbing a woman for her hair, beats her in the face with a free hand. In the light of the lamp in all directions fly splashes of blood from a broken nose.

Everything for a minute. I jump to the man, attracting his attention with a blow to his nose. Then I make the back leg, and here he is already lying on his back, knocking with his head on the asphalt. At this point, I naturally miss a woman. But literally a second later, I hear over my ear:
“Aaa... They were killed!!” An angry woman with a broken cheek is now thirsty for my blood. Of course, in short distances, she didn’t compete with me, but I still felt scattered.

One day I went home with my future wife. It was summer, so everyone was walking around in white shirts and dark pants. Upon leaving the subway "AutoZavodskaya" on my shoulder was whose palm: "A man to smoke will not be found?" I, without turning, cried out, “No!” and rushed forward.

But my hand turned me face to face. And I saw a healthy verse with a red hairi in the circle of the same friends and a hand raised to strike. I abruptly, as they taught, grabbed him for the sleeve and collar, then a sharp rush, but Versilia remained standing, with his sleeve in one hand and a shirt collar in the other.

From such a hassle, the whole company shrugged for a moment. I took advantage of this and went on a run through the Car Factory Street.
Literally in a few seconds, the entire output of the veril followed us. The one without a sleeve was the first. I also ran well on long distances. So, after running about a mile, I found that I still hold a shirt in my hands, which stimulates the runners to continue the pursuit.

I stopped, waited for the offended Versailles to run closer, threw off the shirt pieces and continued to run. All this time next to me ran my future wife - the first class of skiing. After this run.
She said, “Well, what are you doing with your sambo? Running is the solution to all problems.” We still argue on this subject, but for myself I decided clearly that Sambo is not so much a struggle, but a competition of intellectuals. True, this is impossible to explain to all the verses you encounter on your way.