They told me the driver would be out in front of the hotel at 4:30. I was warned not to be late; to wear work boots and long pants. I was about to begin the toughest training camp of my career, I was going to learn how to make Mezcal.

Oaxaca is about a mile above sea level, it was dark and chilly when I stumbled out the front door. The driver had an Oxxo coffee waiting for me, no milk, but there were a few dozen sugar packets. He didn’t talk much and we picked our way up the mountainside in the misty darkness. Ninety minutes later we arrived.

Unlike the fancy Tequila distilleries in Jalisco, with their private trains and opulent hotels, Palanques are small, bareboned workspaces; at least the ones not owned by large spirit conglomerates.

Mine was in a small clearing, hidden in a canyon, a few picnic tables, a dozen donkeys and two small adobe buildings. The sun wasn’t quite up, but the sky was brightening. The second building was where the action was. The maestro stood beside the bubbling clay still; a trickle of clear hot liquid poured out of the drip arm into a large dried gourd. The maestro filled a smaller gourd with some of the liquid and handed it over. Smokey, hot, unfiltered, overproofed goodness filled my soul. He refilled my gourd and I regretted leaving the rest of the coffee in the truck. The Mezcal hit me just as the sun cracked the horizon, warmups were over it was time to get into the game.

My donkey seemed to be goodnatured, which I appreciated. Donkey riding is last on my list of skills. As an added bonus I was carrying a lethally sharp and comically large machete. All of the men were drunker than I was, singing bawdy songs and exchanging highly profane insults, everyone’s mother was fucked at least a dozen times.

We spotted our Agaves about 50 feet up the side of the hill. This was Madrecuixe; it makes a delightfully herbal Mezcal and takes over 30 years to mature. We parked the donkeys and hiked up the deceptively steep hillside. There were three large plants a few yards apart and we took turns hacking the pencas, or leaves off the piña. I was easily the worst swordsman, every time I took my turn cutting everybody stopped to laugh. One by one, the agaves were finished off, sent rolling down the hill towards our faithful steeds. When the last agave was ready to be dispatched I was invited to deliver the ultimate cut. This was my time, I was being called in off the bench to lead the final drive to victory. I raised my machete over my head and dealt the decisive blow.

I had not accounted for the size and weight of the piña, the steepness of the hill or where I was standing in relation to where the piña would travel.

It hit me square in the chest and we both tumbled down the hill. For some reason I hung on tight to the machete, that proved to be a mistake.

The ribs weren’t broken, but still hurt like hell. I had a pretty good slice in my calf and my donkey was spooked. The men tried hard not to laugh. They tore a piece off my sweatshirt tied off my leg, forced some Mezcal down my throat and put me on my mount.

Back at the Palanque the maestro cut off my pant’s leg, doused the wound in Mezcal and bandaged me up. We had coffee and sugar, much more Mezcal and finally the men couldn’t hold it in anymore and started hilariously recreating my majestic fall, each retelling provoked increasingly inebriated hysterics.

The driver showed up, laid me in the back of the pickup and headed back to Oaxaca. Two hours later I was being wheeled from the emergency room into surgery.

Not a sport for the faint of heart, but you can learn a lot even in a loss.