MEN’S JOURNAL – SHOULD I TRIGGER PREMATURE LABOR hurling this ax, at least I know that Jason Momoa Opens a New Window. ’s catcher’s-mitt hands are here to help deliver the baby.
This is what I’m thinking as I stand next to the hulking 6’4” actor, both of us eyeing his makeshift wooden target. Momoa is explaining the allure of throwing an ax, the sense of satisfaction and catharsis he gets from the thunk of a blade sinking into a wall, the testosterone boost he believes it delivers.
But I’m behind a beat—probably because I am 30 weeks pregnant, with a belly that makes me look like I’m smuggling a watermelon under my shirt. I’m in the final stretch for my firstborn and under doctor’s orders to avoid any new physical activities—“even yoga.” I briefly wonder if Dr. Caldwell would count chucking heavy axes as exercise, but Momoa seems unfazed. “Heyyy, mama,” he’d said by way of greeting when we met, pointing to my gut. “Look at that!”
Now he proceeds to hand me four sharpened tomahawks. He designed them himself, working with a local outfit to source the wood and forge the steel. The ax handle is as long as my arm; the blade is eight inches long. It’s heavy, and it feels awkward and unwieldy as I cock it behind my head and aim at a wooden target about 15 feet away.
“The trick,” Momoa says, “is to throw straight, release early, and don’t bend your wrist. People always bend their wrists, like they’re throwing a football spiral or a baseball.”
My eyes flick down to a bulbous stomach below, and then I let the tomahawk fly. The blade hits the wall flat. The second, third, and fourth tries drive into the dirt—I’m throwing down, releasing late.
“Should I, um, slow it down? Not throw so hard?” I ask.
“Fuck, no!” Momoa answers. “Throw it with all you’ve got.”
He’s patient through more failed attempts, quick with encouragement and tips. Step forward with confidence. Keep hips square to the wall. Throw harder. Yet despite the coaching, I can’t bury a blade into the wood.
Momoa offers to demonstrate. He backs up an additional 15 or 20 feet—“I’m going for the long shot,” he says. In quick succession— thunk, thunk, thunk, thunk—he sinks each ax into the center of a two-foot square on the wall and lets out a triumphant battle cry.
He walks back over to me, grinning. “Isn’t it so fucking fun?”