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BLIND After losing his sight, Ty Schwab turned to martial arts for protection, and fulfillment.

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STORY KASANDRA EASLEY PHOTOS MAIKO ANDO & COLLIN GOLDEN

ARKNESS HUNG LIKE a cloak in the streets of Eugene, Oregon as Ty Schwab made his way toward the downtown transit station to catch a bus home. Behind him, he heard the smash of a glass bottle hitting the cold, hard sidewalk.

Moments later three people were upon him, attacking him—a kick to the back of his head—a kick to his face. Lying on the concrete, he felt the pressure of a foot on his neck, pinning him down. All he could do was lie still as he listened to the muffled voices of his attackers as they rummaged through his backpack. After what felt like an eternity, the pressure on his neck lifted and the night became still once again. Schwab regained his composure, felt around for his cane, and

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made his way to the station.

He never saw his attackers. He hadn’t seen anything for years. Schwab began losing his vision from complications with diabetes at the age of twenty-one. When he was twenty-two, he lost all sight in his left eye. Then Schwab was diagnosed with glaucoma. By twenty-seven, he was totally blind. When he came out of the hospital, the world he had previously lived in was nowhere to be found, and he knew his life had changed drastically.

“I could see the outlines of people, but if that person was wearing a blue shirt, that blue shirt would be intensified,” Schwab says. “So it just felt like I was looking into a bright light.”

That night seven years ago wasn’t the first or last time the Eugene native was mugged on the streets of his hometown.

Filled with denial and anger, it was hard for him to accept that his sight was forever

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gone. He was left feeling powerless. Schwab developed a deep fear of the world around him, accompanied by intense depression.

“Everything that was inside my parents’ house, from when I was living with them, that I knew when I could see was cast into darkness,” he explains. “It’s not like if you turned and shut your eyes or turned the lights off; it’s not that kind of blackness or darkness—it’s basically like a nothing.”

Schwab’s thin frame stands at fivefoot-nine. The thirty-six-year-old is bald, with dark blond stubble lining his square jaw. His chiseled face reflects an intense concentration on his surroundings, even though he’s not looking at the same things sighted people are. His glassy eyes stay fixed straight ahead and he’s always listening intently.

“I was always a sight person. I looked at everything through my eyes. All my senses were there before, but now you learn to take full advantage of them,” he says, sitting

Ty Schwab and his dog, Laura, sit in the waiting room of Northwest Martial Arts.

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completely still, his hands stacked neatly in his lap. “It’s not that they’ve heightened or got better; it’s just that I’m using them with more frequency now.”

As time progressed, he began to adjust to the change. He learned to use the resources around him to live his life again. He returned to school and graduated from Lane Community College with three degrees: one in computer programming, one in network operations, and one in network support.

He started his own business, Blackhawk Technology Consulting, and through the recession its staff nearly doubled in size.

As the success of his business grew, so did Schwab’s passion to live again. He tried to embrace each new day. But like everyone, he’s susceptible to the occasional off day.

“There are still days where I’ll wake up and open my eyes and go ‘Shit, I can’t see,’” Schwab says. “When I have pity parties, it’s okay, but when they’re done, they’re done.”

He has come to terms with the realization

that he will forever live as a blind man in a sighted world. But, despite everything he has overcome, he still feels he will always have a target on his back.

After he was mugged, for what he decided would be the last time, he took action. “I decided this was enough. I need to find a martial art that I can apply to these situations.”

He joined Northwest Martial Arts, a gym in downtown Eugene. There he found Brazilian jiu-jitsu. An art form that trains fighters in self-defense and ground combat, Brazilian jiu-jitsu requires extreme strength, agility, and balance. All these skills would give Schwab the advantage next time someone attacked him on the streets. Maybe then he wouldn’t be the one who ended up pinned to the cement by his throat.

Tonight, on a cold winter evening, the windows of the gym are covered with condensation. Upon entering Northwest Martial Arts, a wave of hot, humid air erases the numbness that accompanies the wet, cold outside. Schwab is instantly greeted by other gym patrons.

Schwab practices Brazilian jiu-jitsu at this gym five times per week, for six hours each day. Tonight, he trains wearing the traditional uniform called a gi.

His white gi fits him like an extension of his body; the thick canvas-like material moves with him as he sits in the middle of his peers and rocks side to side, listening for clues that class will soon begin. If he continues to train as rigorously as he does now, Schwab will be promoted a rank and receive a blue belt. But for now, he is one of a handful of students with a white belt securing his gi tightly around his waist.

The instructor begins class. He explains a new move before asking students to try it out. A brown-eyed man walks over to Schwab and taps him on the shoulder. There is a mutual understanding communicated with this simple touch. Schwab lays down on one of the cobalt blue mats that line the floor of the gym. Limbs move with precision and the grappling begins.

“Hook them around my back, it’ll keep me in place,” says the brown-eyed man.

Ty Schwab performs a jiu-jitsu move on his instructor during class.

Schwab’s heels pinch together before the sentence is finished. After minutes of grappling, the shrill buzzer sounds and the two men break apart.

Contact is crucial for his success in the art. As a blind competitor, his sense of touch is vital. If he loses contact with his opponent, he’s severely disadvantaged. His ability to feel weight distribution allows him to compete. He can predict what his opponent will do, where they will attack, and what needs to be done to protect himself based on the tension he can feel in their bodies just before they strike.

His instructors have noticed his hard work in the gym. Ryan Clark, an instructor and owner at Northwest Martial Arts, has been training with Schwab since he joined the “family.” Clark has seen Schwab’s confidence, skill, and love of the sport grow.

“I think when you come in, if you’ve never trained before and you start training, you realize that you can attain goals that you might not have thought were possible,” Clark says, taking off his black belt with care. “I think that’s what Ty’s case is.”

Both Clark and Schwab agree that what makes a fighter is not necessarily their skills, but their dedication, heart, and courage.

When Schwab first started training, he

was concerned about his ability to pick up the art. “I thought ‘I don’t have the skill set and I’m not fast enough, not quick enough; my eyesight’s gonna keep me out of it,’” he says. He quickly learned that wasn’t the case, and a few months after joining Northwest Martial Arts, he began competing.

He won his first competition. From there, he was hooked.

“I have a lot of fun doing the tournaments, and of course I do want to win, but that’s not really my focus. It’s getting out there and competing with people,” he says. “And probably excitement—feeling the crowd, you know, because I can’t see the crowd.”

At his most recent competition, Schwab stands confidently on the mat waiting for it to begin. He wears basketball shorts that brush his knees, and his black, shortsleeved rash guard stretches tightly across his muscular chest.

The match begins with the two opponents standing, facing one another.

Schwab’s competitor stares straight into his eyes, and Schwab’s gaze extends just over his opponents shoulder. It starts and there’s an early takedown; the round gets interesting quickly. Extended hands grab.

Bodies rapidly shift.

Not even halfway into the five-minute

round, a set of fingers starts to bob up and down. Schwab’s opponent has decided to tap out; he couldn’t get out of Schwab’s choke hold. It’s all over before the crowd can fully process what just happened before their eyes.

Schwab nods to his opponent then meets with his instructors on the sidelines, who congratulate him on the win. The crowd is still clapping, and for the first time since the match began, he cracks a toothy grin.

Schwab believes Brazilian jiu-jitsu has changed his life—reinvigorating his passion for the world around him. “My weight is down, my mood is up,” he says. He’s healthier than ever, inside and out. His doctors say his diabetes is under control, with both lower blood pressure and cholesterol levels.

For the first time in twenty-one years, he isn’t on anti-depressants.

The sport has made him cognizant of his surroundings, which has helped him feel more comfortable when navigating the world without sight. His demeanor has changed; for the first time since he lost his sight, his confidence now silences the crew of regular downtown hecklers.

“I’ll keep competing in jiu-jitsu until it’s not fun anymore,” he says. “I’ll practice the art forever.”

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