By Coach M.R.
This article discusses Yoel Romero’s pants pooping, the pants sh*tting problem rampant in combat sports and, more specifically, wrestlers. Thus, this is the most important combat sports article ever written.
The untold story of combat sports competition and training tells a tale of colons filled to capacity, begging unsuccessfully for relief. Nothing makes a man want to poop more than fighting, whether by grappling, punching or kicking. All that shaking, jostling, and straining really makes the doo doo flow through you. Combat athletes endure years of training where the practice of their art sometimes becomes a struggle to withstand their most basic urge: the urge to shit. I’m certain that as a young wrestler in Cuba, Yoel Romero often felt the terrible yearning for gastrointestinal relief while honing his skills.
I’ve seen photos of the bare bones Cero Pelado practice facilities in Havana where Romero trained. When looking at that dilapidated, un-air conditioned mat room, it becomes easy to imagine Romero struggling with his practice partner, sweating profusely in the Caribbean humidity and feeling the pressure of a compacted fecal payload tugging at his entrails.
Few things constitute a bigger pain in the ass (figuratively and literally) than leaving a combat-sports practice to crap. Different disciplines have different doo doo difficulties. Boxers, have to remove their gloves, Judokas must figure out how to remove and then re-tie their belts and taekwondo practitioners need to unfasten their dinosaur-themed buckles and remove their entire red, blue, yellow, pink, black or white/green lycra body suits with matching helmets and boots.
Wrestlers, while lacking most specialized equipment, face peculiar poo-related problems peculiar to their sport, within practice and without. For example, after weigh-ins at large wrestling tournaments, competitors gorge their empty digestive tracts with fibrous foods. Afterward, bathrooms soon become barren of toilet paper, and the floors soak in puddles of dirty commode water, which the wrestlers then walk in. If the unsanitary conditions in the privy were not bad enough, sometimes filthy conditions manifest themselves on the mats.
I have known a couple wrestlers who used laxatives to make weight only to have the fetid wages of their medication froth forth in the middle of a bout. I’ve come face to face with a wrestler who found similar difficulty in restraining his functions. Once, while coaching mat side, a fairly large young man tumbled into my lap, I instantly recognized a distinct pungentness emanating from him, and when he walked back inside the circle, a telltale brown stain painted an isosceles triangle down the center of the rear end on his white singlet. This doesn’t even touch on the complications associated with going number two during practice.
In Romero’s case, he likely had to deal with a culture hostile to bathroom excursions, with coaches and teammates who sneered at prolonged absences from training sessions. While in the act of excretion, he would have had to cope with the dissatisfaction of a rushed movement, and the disgusting sensation of pulling lukewarm, sweat-soaked, and potentially skid-marked, undies back over his backside. Afterward, hopefully someone replaced the soap over the sink, or he would have ended up rubbing stinky and soiled hands all over his teammates.