I don't think I understood a single thing about judo until Saturday night. To me, it seemed akin to a pyjama-clad bar fight that never quite escalated, in the way of all good bar fights, to shouting, punching and threats with a broken pint glass.
However, au fait or not with the sport, I was scheduled to attend the final night of the judo; the night the big boys came out to throw each other about; the judo version of the heavyweight division. I had just left the sevens at Ibrox, where, quite frankly, I knew what I was doing. To now find myself deep inside the SECC halls in a media pen waiting to talk to large judoka was somewhat of a shock. I felt like I had been handed the scheduling equivalent of a hip throw.
Judo has always been a bit like this for me: more a puzzle than a sport. I have tried at various times to follow it when it has ended up on TV, as it does biennially. It is that rare type of sport that looks more surprised to find itself on the telly than the viewer does to be watching it, and I have conceded defeat many a time.
I asked a local cameraman about the rules of engagement. He said he had looked on Wikipedia - the trusted name in sport research - and there was something about no amount of yuko equalling a waza-ari but two waza-ari equalling an ippon. I asked him, what was an ippon? He did not know. There was no point in making further inquiries of the man, he was merely a gun for hire, a Commonwealth Games mercenary, he had no real interest in the gentle way.
I began to panic. Contests were under way. Hall two of the SECC was a cheering, sweaty, humid huddle of humanity and things were happening out on the mat that this crowd knew about. I wanted in on the action. I called in the big gun, New Zealand team manager Graeme Downing, to be my guide. And suddenly, it all made sense.
