Imagine for a moment you are standing on a dense rubber mat in your bare feet, wearing pajama pants and a really short bathrobe. Across from you is another person dressed similarly.

I asked to do this, you remind yourself. You reach out and slap the other man's outstretched hand, make a fist and bump knuckles. You have done this before.

A timer rings, and your opponent shoots in and grabs your leg. Aha you think, A former wrestler. You sprawl, legs far apart, attempting to stop him from getting on top of you.

You fail.

He is now perpendicular to your body, chest to chest, his weight pinning you down, making it hard to breathe, hurting your ribs. You are both dripping with sweat from previous matches. His forearm pushes into your throat. You feel his body shifting. He's about to do something.

He grabs your arm, and you straighten it out, knowing that if you bend it he can crank it one way or another, this story ending with the snap of bone or surrender. Your efforts are in vain, and he manages to bend it, twisting your arm in a way it's not meant to.

But you aren't done, he made a small mistake and shifted too much weight. You twist your wrist, shift your hips and move, freeing one knee, then another and he bucks, and you have your legs wrapped around one of his, a better position for you, but not by much.

And then he reaches his hands around the collar of your bathrobe, behind your neck.

No, you realize, too late, your hands grasping uselessly against his arms. The collar of the robe tightens, and your head feels as if it will pop, like a balloon filled with blood. Stars form and dance in front of your eyes.

You reach out your hand and pat his arm twice in succession. He releases you and the stars fade away. You cough, suddenly able to breathe, though not quite remembering when you lost that ability.

You slap his hand and again bump fists.

"Thanks man," you tell him.