White Wolf BJJ

I mostly walk around at 135-137 lbs. “Mostly” is the operative word. There was a time when I lived with an ex-girlfriend whose definition of nutrition meant a 16 oz. bottle of Dr. Pepper and a mini-microwave pizza and that’s it. For the day. I ballooned up to 155 lbs. That’s not terrible. I understand that. On my frame, though, my face looked round. If I clenched enough to give most people a hernia, I could see the outline of some abs. Again, not terrible and yet not where I wanted to be in my 20s.

When we broke up, I worked out more and by “more” I mean incorporated more cardio (interval sprints, steady state biking, walking because she was my source of wheels, etc.) into my weight lifting routine. The pounds melted away until I hovered around 145 lbs. I thought this was good.

I stayed at this weight for quite some time, maybe a decade or so. I ate chicken breasts and broccoli for dinner, oatmeal for breakfast, and otherwise tried to “eat clean.” I steadily worked out and went from clearly a bit overweight to subtly overweight. I still wore 30-inch waist pants and size small or medium tops, but a little bit of love handles poured over my belt. Not much, mind you, but enough that the inevitable caloric orgy during the holidays forced me to buy a couple of 31-inch waistbands.

I still appeared thin with some muscle mass in my arms, chest, and shoulders. I clenched a little bit less to find a semblance of abs. This wasn’t enough as I crept towards 30 and saw my friends, family, and peers start their slow decline to what people call “dad-bods.”

I hired a personal trainer to design my workouts. I researched nutrition and started cutting various foods from my diet – sugary protein bars, soda or any drinks with calories (non-alcoholic ones) and processed carbs . The biggest change was this last one, where my previous lunch of PB&J sandwiches sat atop white bread then multi-grain and finally whole wheat. It made no difference until I cut breads entirely from my day-to-day meals. I stopped drinking beers and other carbonated beverages (alcoholic or not). That’s when my body vastly changed. Muscles bubbled to the surface. My abs became self-apparent. I didn’t have to clench to see a six-pack.

I walked around at 140 lbs. Maybe I drifted close to 145 around the holidays, but knew I could get back down once a switch flipped in January. I had no reason to push it further. I looked good, felt good, and my diet already felt restrictive enough. I couldn’t imagine cutting anything else. At least not without eating salads every single day while dreaming about pizza and cheesecake. But what sort of life was that?

Then competing at IBJJF events happened.

At NAGA, I weighed in the night before without my Gi and stripping down to a pair of swim trunks and a t-shirt. The cut off at 139.9 meant skipping a protein bar sometime during the week and fasting a little during the day of weigh-in. No dehydration or running laps while wearing plastic bags. Very doable. Almost too easy.

Only smaller humans could make that weight (sub-140). Albeit at that first tournament it meant facing 20-somethings while my 40s loomed on the horizon. It didn’t matter. As I won anyway.

At New Breed, the lower cut off for over-30 competitors was 149.9. I could make that weight while wearing jeans with a George Costanza wallet shoved into the back pocket, a hoodie, and a backpack with my Gi and water bottle slung over my shoulders. I hadn’t weighed 149.9 (or higher) in years.

This higher weight did intimidate me a bit. Yet with the age limit being 30+, that meant opponent(s) worried more about their 401K contributions than finding a Gi sponsorship. Same as me. We all had work on Monday, so let’s just put away the flying armbars and make sure we all make that meeting next week.

For the IBJJF, and part of its appeal to me, lay in the delineation of weight classes. I had a choice in matters. If I refused to cut weight, I easily made Feather. No worries leading up to the event, simply concentrate on preparation. My worries stemmed from the Feathers in our gym. They felt strong…stronger than me. They stood taller, using longer limbs and leverage to pin me down or keep me off them. I felt every one of those 14 lbs. between us. This was Featherweight.

Or I could cut about 2-3 (4 at the most) lbs. or the weight of my Gi, belt, and grappling shorts. I’d have to walk around at 136-138 lbs. to avoid joining those guys jogging in the parking lot while wearing trash bags and hoodies or grunting one out on the toilet in hopes of losing a couple more ounces. If I woke up around that weight, I could have a breakfast and some water and be set for the day. I could do this.

I changed my diet again. In came the salads. Out went almost anything resembling dairy or carbs. I drank a berry smoothie and ate one apple a day for fruit carbs. Otherwise, I embraced avocados and fats for energy. Every morning, I stepped on the scale to monitor trends. By Wednesday morning, after hard sessions on Monday and Tuesday nights, my weight hovered the lowest. It rose a little after easing back on Wednesday before plummeting again after Thursday and Friday sessions. The issue here, though, lay in taking Friday off before a competition. So I pushed my weight until my morning weigh-ins hit 134 lbs.

I could deal with 134 lbs. in the morning. Even after full meals and mild rest, I gained about 3-5 lbs. in the course of the day. If I competed earlier than 8 pm or fasted that day, I’d be fine.

The changes I saw encompassed more than the mirror. It became mental. I’d cut all foods and drinks – lifestyle choices – that I previously enjoyed. I ceased a weekly stop for burgers after Friday training. Bottles of wine collected dust. My wife stopped looking forward to weekend tacos. By focusing on the end goal of making weight, I changed.

The physical changes were largely negligible. Maybe I looked a bit more cut. Maybe my energy levels dipped during my morning workouts. Maybe my cheekbones jutted out more prominently after a night of hard training. Really though, the 3-4 pounds could be nothing more than a hydration issue. I was learning, though, how to hit and maintain this competitive weight.

This became a new me. I ate salads for dinner. I monitored my weight throughout the week, sometimes obsessively. I drank water and only water. I learned which protein bars contained no sugar and didn’t upset my stomach. I curtailed dairy as much as I could. Fats and proteins became my fuel. I lived the life of an obsessive athlete.

Was it worth it, though, this disciplined and restrictive life?

I can’t answer that. Especially in context of then. At 35 years old, I wasn’t dropping to Rooster. Feathers seemed too big, too strong. That much I knew. I embraced Light-Feather. This was/is my weight class.

I missed cheesecakes and burgers and pizza. I missed splitting a bottle of wine with my wife or sipping a cocktail or two on the weekend. I missed a lot of things associated with “unclean” living. So I made it worth it. I had to earn the cheats. Then it became a celebration of sorts, not just another day, another weekend, another meal. This was my life after converting to IBJJF competition.

BJJ Journey Buckhead BJJ White Belt

January 3, 2017: The Fourth Stripe (Living on the Edge)

by Thomas

Officially, I started my jiu-jitsu journey at Buckhead Jiu-Jitsu. Unofficially, I took a couple of classes in Seattle. It was during a trial period at an academy that offered a variety of martial arts – Muay Thai, Kali, Jeet Kune Do, and (obviously) Brazilian Jiu-Jitsu. Bouncing between classes and arts, I ended up taking about three or four classes of each. I didn’t even own a Gi at that time or my own belt. Instead I wore baggy scrub pants and a borrowed academy jacket and belt. The strange part, quite a few students mirrored this haphazard approach. I thought this was par for the course for newbies – unready to commit or weren’t taking the journey seriously. They wandered in for the hour class and then wandered out. Maybe they earned a stripe after a few months, but more likely they faded away. Heck, you can argue I faded away from that academy.

Those serious students, the ones who owned their own Gis, wore maybe a stripe or two on their white belts. Three seemed as rare as a snow leopard sighting. In fact, the only guy with three stripes walked around the mat as if he owned the place. His Gi, a dark black with red accents, looked as intimidating as his stripes (and a big reason I didn’t wear a black Gi for years and years). Rumor has it, he even competed and medaled at some unnamed local tournament. Three stripes and a medal was serious business. The top of the heap. An shark in a sea of floundering and clueless white belts.

One time a couple of blue belts wandered in to roll with the purple belt instructors (and the highest ranked people in the academy at the time). The blue belts seemed bored, wasting time until the open mat after class. They whipped through their reps and stroked their stubbly beards as if contemplating the deeper waters of jiu-jitsu. The only purple belts I knew were the instructors. They seemed confident, relaxed, and infinitely more knowledgeable than me (and maybe they were). I didn’t even know brown belts existed. I assumed black belts lived in some other dimension, only appearing via a cloud of smoke and chokes.

So a white belt with four stripes? I didn’t know what that meant until I moved to Atlanta and saw my first one. His belt hung loose from the waist, as if the dingy stripes dragged one end down. The belt’s color faded to some hue reserved for hospital walls and rental properties – not quite white and not disgustingly cream colored. The shoulders and arms of his Gi were worn and crinkled like a smoking jacket or robe. He warmed up via an extravagant set of stretches and hip movements. I imagined he was made of metal and grit, surviving the weeks and months it took to be beaten over and over again by higher belts, only to survive long enough to stand at the edge of being promoted to a colored belt. There’s something intimidating by survivors. There was something intimidating about him. Especially when I learned he received his blue belt not much after that first sighting. I never rolled with him while he was a white belt.

(Writing this years later, it’s funny how we see people through the lens of the moment. This white belt was Kennith Jackson. He’ll pop up in later entries. I promise.)

With time, I witnessed others accumulate stripes on their belts. One, two, three, and finally the fourth. To me, I knew these people – my training partners, teammates, and friends. I saw the time they spent on the mats – drilling, sweating, and working. So to me, they never really “appeared” as a fourth stripe (or further). Instead, I witnessed how they earned each one. To me, they were simply Matt or Hannah or Cedric. I stopped seeing people by their rank because I stopped caring about my own. Until on the precipice of a color change.

The first of my white belt comrades to earn a blue belt was Matt. He won the local competition triple-crown – gold at Copa, New Breed, and an IBJJF open. Sam promoted him on the IBJJF podium. At that time, I hadn’t even competed yet. Yet I was warming to the idea.

After earning my fourth stripe, I started adding up the months and days and medals. I’d won double gold at NAGA and New Breed. An IBJJF (International Brazilian Jiu-Jitsu Federation and widely considered the most prestigious Gi jiu-jitsu tournament circuit) loomed in February. I knew the score. I knew the precedence. I knew my time before blue belt ticked away. Other white belts earmarked me as “next.” I was giving blue belts a good roll (not beating them, per se, but at least making them sweat a little) while white belts felt easier and easier. No matter what, unlike others, I felt ready. I didn’t dread the belt upgrade. Instead, I looked forward to it, even if to simply join my friends on the “other side.”

That’s the thing about four stripes, you’re stuck in this “in between” state. You’re half scared of the next step – what it means, the impending challenge, the weight of the color change. Yet you’re also half ready – the same belts aren’t challenging you, you start planning blue or purple or brown or black accessories, the next challenge excites you. It’s a bit like being 17 or 18 years old. Not quite an adult, but not quite a kid anymore. In between two stages and unsure when the next step will happen.

Days and weeks pass. You start forgetting how many stripes you have until pulling your belt out of the washer. It dawns on you that a color change looms. This seems so arbitrary and frankly silly, but I see it over and over and over again how people get really weird (including myself) when standing at the precipice between belts. They start doubting themselves or play down their abilities, dreading that next step. Or they start puffing out their chests, hinting to everyone within earshot about how they’re ready and have been tapping upper belts, and generally coming across as entitled. Either way, something rots inside people when they stay at four stripes too long.

For me, I’m goal oriented. So I want to check off goals at each belt. I wanted to move up to the “big leagues” of the IBJJF. To feel what an IBJJF white belt feels like. Would they be full of flying triangles and cartwheel passes? Would they demolish me in ten seconds and send me back to a life puttering around the local competition scene? Or, as I predicted, would I be more like Matt (albeit he won all his matches in decidedly more exciting and dominating fashion compared to me, but wins are wins), walking home with a new belt and a gold medal?

Living on the edge of blue belt, all I thought about was that next tournament – the IBJJF Open in Atlanta – and being like Matt. I wanted that blue belt podium promotion, dammit.

Years later, I think about returning to Seattle and the place where I – technically – started my jiu-jitsu journey. I want to know whether those instructors are black belts now or if that snow leopard of a four stripe white belt still trains. I want to thank them for being a good environment to start and possibly be a (spoiler alert) good example of what can happen if you don’t quit and just keep rolling. Of course I also want to roll with all of them, to see where I stack up and the trajectory my training took after my handful of classes there.

BJJ Journey Buckhead BJJ White Belt

December 3, 2016: My second tournament (New Breed)

by Thomas

If I have yet to mention this, physically I am not an ideal Jiu-Jitsu athlete. I wear size small shirts and not because I want them to stretch across my bony torso like body paint. I started Jiu-Jitsu in my mid-30s. An age where the faint scent of a midlife crises lingers in the air if the wind blows just right, but not so far from my 20s that I can’t function without a bottle of Ibuprofen and a fistful of Tiger Balm. I won’t linger on what I lack as an athlete, but want it known that my niche as a competitor is limited. You have to be over the age of 30, less than 150 lbs. (ideally less than 140 lbs., but now we’re asking a lot), and a white belt (in 2016). Otherwise I’m giving up significant attributes.

So let’s put yourself in my flip-flops. This means you started a mentally and physically difficult sport that is time and financially consuming if you want to progress at a steady and relatively rapid rate. You likely have a career, a wife or otherwise significant relationship(s), and probably have a kid or kids and a mortgage, retirement considerations, and a million other reasons NOT to spend your free time rolling around with strange sweaty men (or women) in a gymnasium for the chance to “win” a cheap medal made of gold paint slathered over something resembling metal. In other words, what the fuck are you doing?

Oh, and you have to be on the lower end of the demographic spectrum, especially by American male standards. Which means every single day you’re conceding either size or age or both to everybody you train with. That’s without even considering the fact that you’re too far removed from high school or college to rely on being an ex-wrestler. You aren’t swooping in as a black belt in Judo or other grappling arts to start as a blue belt or higher. You are starting from the ground up – a white belt – while scraping and clawing your way through your jiu-jitsu journey. In other words, what the fuck are you doing?

I never realized the demographics of my opponents (or myself) would be so limited. (I’d say “small,” but that is self-evident.) I figured dozens of self-deluded, idiotic, and possibly insane 30-somethings would be pursuing Jiu-Jitsu in such a fashion they want to compete as often as possible. In that, I wasn’t wrong. In the words of Tobias Funke, “There are dozens of us! Dozens!” It’s just that in the world there are dozens of us in this specific demographic. If we start parsing out those numbers by geography, it becomes more and more limited until focusing on Georgia in December of 2016 and being a white belt with enough gumption to compete at a local tournament. So how many were in my bracket? One other person. Which is an improvement from my previous tournament of zero, where I bumped down to the adult division.

When this happens, where you encounter another like yourself, there are two reactions. I have only felt the first reaction. It’s like meeting another member of a rare species of animal. For me, I get excited. I’m not totally crazy if I can point to another person and show that I’m not the only one in existence. “Look honey, someone else like me. There are dozens of us! Dozens!” and “Oh good. I get to compete today!” The second reaction, we’ll hold for another time because I might be a biased sample for that as well. For now, though, I had an age and size appropriate opponent for both No Gi and Gi.

A few Buckhead Jiu-Jitsu competitors competed that day. Earlier two women – Ruth and Hannah – each took home double gold medals. In Hannah’s first match, she nailed a double leg takedown. Impressed, I asked how she harnessed the confidence to go for it. She shrugged her shoulders. “Why not?”

Yes indeed. Why not?

I stood in front of my competitor. He wore knee and elbow braces and maybe even headgear. I wore Christmas spats and my Warriors (the movie) “lucky” rash guard. I wondered if I should’ve been wearing elbow pads and wrist protectors and knee braces. It made my opponent appear like a hypochondriac or a well-worn veteran. I assumed the later as we shook hand and bumped fists.

In my first tournament, my shot failed because I leaped forward in a general downward trajectory from a million miles away as if sprinting and cannonballing into an ocean. I hoped my limited arms would snake out and snag an ankle, a knee, or even some leg hair. Of course keeping my eyes open would’ve helped as well. For my second competition, I learned my lesson and crept closer to my opponent. I still dove forward without smoothly changing levels. This time, though, my eyes stayed open and my hands found skinny calves. My opponent sprawled, but I kept driving forward. I chased him a few feet around the mat before he sat down. 2 points!!

Yes indeed. Why not?

As we settled on the mat, his arms whipped around my head. His hands never neared my throat, but he still held on. I walked to the side of his body and hugged his head. My left shoulder squeezed against his jugular, but I forgot to tripod up to shove my weight further into his neck. We sat there, mutually hugging each other’s necks for quite some time. In fact, we might have had a moment there where romantic music played and some soft candles placed around us. My hands and forearms burned. I couldn’t hear much except the sound of faint yelling of time and score. Finally, I heard Sam remind me to bring my hips up. I did.

His coach replied, telling him to release the headlock. My opponent let go as I did too. 3 points for the pass!!! Up 5-0 with stalling warnings still echoing in my head from last tournament, I cycled through various submission options. I remembered a North South Choke we reviewed earlier that week and started moving up his body. I didn’t expect, though, for him to bridge up and shove me away. I sat back. We came to a kneeling neutral. He pushed me over. This counted as a sweep or take down. The score changed 5-2 as I floundered to find a guard before he stumbled to my side.

Instinct took over as I found half guard. He leaned back. I took advantage and knee-tapped him. He fell back and I came on top. 7-2. I swam my legs back and away from his half guard. Pushing my knees up into his shins and trapping them into his butt, I started walking around his legs when time was called. Another gold medal in No Gi.

Between changing brackets, the coordinators allowed us to rest and switch to Gi attire. I watched my teammate (Kennith) across the mat go to work. He won a scrappy match in Gi after losing to the same guy in No Gi. I wondered if that would happen to me, losing after winning. Maybe my opponent was a Gi specialist, full of berimbolos (which I didn’t even know what these were) and loop chokes. Maybe he loved worm guard (another unknown), or simply needed a warm up in No Gi to hit his stride. Either way, time moved way too fast as my next match loomed.

Before the match, I stood on the edge of the mat. I didn’t know what to do. Should I stretch? Should I pretend to be working on something complex and intimidating? Should I just stand there and let my body stiffen and my nerves settle into my body? I guess I’ll go with the last option. That seemed to make the most sense when you’re a white belt.

As the ring coordinators started gathering us again, I overhead my opponent chatting with his coach.

“How many in the division?”

“Just me and that guy. The guy who just beat me.”

With regret and apprehension lingering in his words, I already had an advantage on the board. I shook off my rust as the coordinators called us forward. We shook hands and went at it again.

In Gi, it’s easier to establish grips and stiff-arm your opponent away from you. This makes changing levels for a takedown more difficult as a fist keeps shoving into your collar bone or neck – either way, blocking a clear route to the legs. My opponent whipped his hand out and grabbed my collar. His knuckles turned white as his nails dug through the material. I counter gripped and pulled my hips back to sit into guard. We both started committing to this exact same motion, like some sort of synchronized chair sit. I stopped and let him drop to the floor. I hoped to brace one knee forward, but he shot his legs to my waist and clamped me inside his closed guard. I took a breath.

My mind cycled through closed guard options. It kept cycling. Then it returned to the beginning and started again. I knew of one and only one: the Sao Paulo Pass. Which I’m going to put in a petition to rename the “Sao Tomas Pass.” As my opponent’s ankles popped apart, I swam for an under hook and a cross face. I squeezed him to the mat and started dislodging my right knee from his half guard. It wasn’t a tight half guard, enough that I started improvising. My body crept up his body and my center of gravity sent me toppling to my right. He bridged and I went over. I was down 0-2.

As I flipped, I gathered my hips under me and pulled him to my full guard. At least here, down two points, allowed me to take a breath. My coach’s voice, my teammates’ voices, and my own internal dialogue yelled instructions. “Bump sweep.” “Open up and scissor sweep.” “Do more stuff.” I did a combination of all three and didn’t sweep him at all. Instead, he ducked away and left me to scramble back to full guard. In that time, pushing and pulling against each other, his hand touched the mat. I arched to my right, slapped on a Kimura grip and switched my hips to start extending his arm behind his back. I waited for a tap and started counting another gold medal.

Instead my opponent rolled away from the shoulder pressure. I spun with him and came on top to mount. 2 for the sweep and 4 for the mount. Patience paid off. My coach yelled to slide off him to side control and finish the Kimura. I did, but the grip slipped, leaving me floundering on his side as he framed to bring his legs back into the equation.

I avoided full guard by shoving his feet back towards his butt. I figured it started working in No-Gi, so I should start where I left off. I pinned his knees and hips down with my shoulders and head, anchored my hands to his left foot, and walked around his knee. I sank in a cross-face and hugged him tight. 9-2. I heard my teammates yelling the time, maybe 10 seconds or less. I clasped my shaking hands and waited for time to expire. Double gold again.

After 20 or so tournaments, I started writing a defining moment from each of them. What memory imprinted on me from each competition? A lot of them rely on teammates’ performances or something about others being there, smiling, cheering, etc. This one contained a few: watching Kennith win against someone he just lost to, giving Matt a hug because this was supposed to be the first tournament we competed at together, Hannah’s domination to double gold. The defining moment, though, was the clanging medals as one-by-one we started winning our respective divisions. Seven of us competed that day. Most of us won gold, some won silver. With seven competitors, we earned the 3rd place team trophy. Not bad for a one-off tournament before Christmas.

BJJ Journey Buckhead BJJ White Belt

November 2016: When the academy became a home

by Thomas

After winning double gold at NAGA, I started training 5-6 days a week. Maybe the (mild) success motivated me. Maybe I didn’t want the wins to be a fluke. Maybe I (finally) found something with a clear correlation between effort and success. Whatever stoked the fires in me, I consistently started attending evening classes on Tuesday through Saturday, usually for two hours at a time. I also convinced myself to drive 30-minutes to class during my lunches on Monday and Wednesday to attend noon classes, before driving 30 minutes back to work. Sitting in my cubicle, sweating and red-faced, I calculated and recalculated how to manage my employment hours.

This led to a nice training groove while accumulating about 10 hours a week of class attendance. In retrospect, this doesn’t sound like much. At the time, though, with three stripes dangling from my white belt, it felt like a lot. For a freshly minted 36 year old, the hours started adding up on my body. Leaving me feeling as if I were burning a candle from both ends. Maybe one or two others (blue belts like Matt and Ruth) attended more classes, many times doing two per day. Some others attended about as many classes (give or take). I couldn’t imagine somehow fitting in even more jiu-jitsu. Yet major holidays loomed and open mats started popping up almost every other week. With that, my hours crept up and up and up as my body somehow didn’t implode. In short, life moved pretty fast as my days blurred together in one sweaty, grappling mess.

Wake, work, train, sleep, repeat.

2016 was our first winter in Georgia. After living in Alaska for most of my life, “Georgia winters” sounded like an oxymoron. In Georgia, I never needed more than a sweater to keep me warm. I surely never needed the Sorel boots I bought in Alaska or even a hat to cover my burgeoning cauliflower ear. The extent of this first winter amounted to turning the A/C in my Mini Cooper to the red area rather than the blue. I’m not even sure if I should call it a winter. So maybe the “holiday season” is more apt.

During this time, another part of my life (besides training) found a groove – socially. Rachelle and I started making friends. This was new to us. In Alaska, we spent a lot of time bouncing between family obligations and me playing soccer. On occasion, we’d hang with friends from high school or college. Otherwise, I bonded with work friends while on trips or conferences. In Seattle, we spent a lot of time together exploring Seattle through festivals, concerts, and the like. Finding adult friends was a bit new to us and we jumped in with both feet.

In Atlanta, I worked for a federal agency. Every single person in my section was approximately the same age (give or take 5 years). It felt natural to bond over shared 80s-baby histories or 90s nostalgia, a seeming passion for what we do for a living, and general proximity to each other. For these work friends, we decided to connect through No Shave November. Throughout the month, we grew mustaches and didn’t shave until the month ended. With a flip of the calendar, we brought our wives out for a group date in celebration of our horrible facial hair. In retrospect, I find this bonding hilarious. Years later, we barely (don’t) talk to each other, much less entertain the idea of growing anything together or gallivanting around Atlanta with hideous fuzzy worms growing on our upper lips. It’s funny how the world works.

In stark contrast, the friendships developed through jiu-jitsu grew from stronger roots. There’s something special about bonding through tribulations. There’s something magical about chasing something difficult together. There’s something amazing about finding like-minded and strong-willed people that are willing to voluntarily seek improvement in their lives. Which, frankly, jiu-jitsu does better than many, many work situations. Or maybe it’s just sweating on each other that did the trick. Either way, years later, I still have the BJJ friends I made in 2016 and don’t really talk to the work friends I made at the same time.

It’s funny how the world works.

At Buckhead Jiu-Jitsu, I started training consistently with Matt Shand. If I was at an evening class, he was there. When I started attending noon classes, he was there. His dedication corresponded to amazing competition results. I remember a moment while warming up at a Monday noon class with maybe a handful of other students in attendance. Our eyes met across the mat and he nodded. A nod of understanding, of approval. We found another like ourselves – some breed of crazy, dedicated, and focused.

Grinding away day-after-day and jamming as many hours on the mat as possible, we discussed positions and techniques. We talked about competitions. He’d just ran through every white belt in every tournament he’d competed in and earning his blue belt on the podium at an IBJJF Open. To me, this was just about the pinnacle of what you can ask for as a white belt.

For my own accolades, I’d become only the third Buckhead Jiu-Jitsu student to win a double gold (surprising just about everyone…or by now we can admit everyone). Our friendship started growing as we sought each other out to drill moves between classes, sharing memes and videos on social media, and overall putting aside our introverted tendencies to become one of the few people I’d call a “best friend” (Nick and Ryan holding previous iterations of this title; Rachelle withstanding). Or maybe more apt would be BJJBFF.

After colluding to buy Christmas-themed spats and rash guards, we sported them in noon No-Gi class. After rolling, Matt hefted me on his shoulders and started our (now) traditional pose. I’ll admit, this first iteration left me unsure and a bit wobbly as I imagined toppling forward and face planting or else falling backwards and tumbling into a pile of broken limbs and concussions. Over time, though, I learned to relax and trust the Sloth’s crazy strong legs and after even more reps, slipping in a smile or two instead of nervous smirks. The whole pose originated from a spur of the moment thought (“Hey, jump on my shoulders and we’ll get a pic”), but mirrored robots from Pacific Rim with an amalgamation of two fighters breeding a stronger, more formidable entity (the Jaeger). The same essence can be seen in such animations as Transformers’ Combiners or Voltron. Thus we created the MegaSlothWolf.

At Thanksgiving, when most people trek home to family, Rachelle and I glanced at the map of the United States and counted at least a hundred states between us and Alaska. The cost, time, and will to fly “home” to sit around a table of food, discussing nothing pertaining to our lives, and surrounded by the white noise of way too many voices and not enough ears didn’t exactly tease out our wallets. Instead, we decided to stay in Atlanta and enjoy the lack of traffic and the four days away from work.

A few jiu-jitsu friends also stayed in Atlanta. One couple didn’t have a trustworthy vehicle to drive through two states and into Illinois. The other couple didn’t understand the importance of celebrating Caucasian and Native American relations via gorging on turkey, gravy, and mashed potatoes, all the while watching parades and football games. The six of us decided to meet at my place and spend a day together for an “American Thanksgiving.”

Rachelle, strangely, seemed thrilled to “cook” for six hungry tummies (8 if you count two dogs). The catch, though, hinged on purchasing most of the food through a local restaurant known for catering Thanksgiving dinners. It felt like some sitcom where Rachelle entrusted me to keep the secret of purchasing the food rather than slaving away in the kitchen, standing for hours on end in front of the stove and oven. As her accomplice, I shuffled the empty boxes into the laundry room while she warmed the food and arranged the living room. Our two dogs hovered near the oven or staring up with wide eyes and sucked in bellies.

Our guests arrived around noon. Cast aside footwear filled our tiny entryway while unopened bottles of wine covered our kitchen counters. We played music in the background and at one point the parade. No one paid much attention to the TV as we chatted about life, food, traditions, and of course jiu-jitsu. Once in a while, we discussed my still growing mustache, but I tried to shuffle that topic to the side. We filled plates. We emptied plates. We warmed up more food. We whipped up new dishes. Bottles of wine found their way into the recycling bin. We lounged on the couch with distended bellies that the dogs walked on with heavy paws.

The day grew short and I didn’t want it to end. These were the type of friends I always imagined making. Ones that weren’t a matter of convenience, but ones curious about each other and the world. Ones whose hearts grow from a similar place and see the potential for living. We promised to do it all over again, although it didn’t matter if we did. We enjoyed that day, making it special and perfect in our memories. To finish the quote again, “If you don’t stop and look around once in a while, you could miss it.”

BJJ Journey Buckhead BJJ White Belt

November 4, 2016: Stripe the Third. When I officially stopped caring about stripes.

by Thomas

What’s in a stripe?

If you’re reading this, you probably know what it is. It’s a thin piece of athletic tape wrapped around a strip of colored (usually black) cotton. There may be a few, lined up like tiny soldiers, or maybe just the one. Maybe they’ve fallen off or grown frayed and stained with sweat and grime. Nonetheless, a stripe doesn’t pay the rent or make any car payments. It doesn’t walk your dog or check the mail. It doesn’t guarantee anything or mean something specific.

Still, though, what’s in a stripe?

It’s not why I competed. It’s not why I compete. Having more doesn’t mean I’ll win and having less doesn’t mean I’ll lose. I’ve beaten people with more and struggled against ones with less.

So what’s in a stripe?

It’s not why I train. Not anymore. It’s not why I show up to class, hoping to get my name called before I awkwardly walk to the front of the room. It’s not the reason for mat burn and endless bruises and bloody noses and sprained fingers and black eyes. It’s now why I create training plans, trying new game plans while knowing I’ll get smashed until I improve. It’s not why I watch videos and obsess over details. It’s not why I ask my drilling partner what I can learn from them. It’s not why I stay for extra rolls against people that will destroy me. It’s not why I drill. All the time. It’s not why I compliment people when I see them improving. After the first stripe, it’s not even something I’ve thought much about.

What’s in a stripe?

It’s the time on the mat, huddled around the instructor and watching where his hands and feet and balance are placed. It’s the soreness the next morning after rolls that leave you exhausted. It’s the little pieces of the puzzle you figured out, just before you realize there’s always infinitely more pieces to link. It’s the details that finally click, understanding why something works and why something didn’t work before. It’s understanding why your guard is getting passed and why you’re getting swept. It’s adapting your tactics. It’s adopting the unknown. It’s your coach recognizing all of that.

What’s in a stripe?

Only you know what it took to earn it – if you gave enough of if you can give more. Only you know where you want this journey to take you and how much each stripe is worth. Time will pass anyway. Did you earn that day? What about the next? Can you keep earning it at this pace or can you find a pace that better suits you? Time is ticking. Stripes are accumulating. You’re closer to the next step. So have you earned it? Have you, really?

What’s in a stripe?

Everything. Nothing. Who cares. Train harder. Train smarter.

I wrote this around the time I received the third stripe on my white belt. I accumulated six more stripes in my journey (we’ll get to that), but I continued to feel exactly this way. Stripes meant nothing except acknowledgment of my efforts and attendance and maybe improvement. Like a door prize at a conference or the “free” toy in a Happy Meal. It’s appreciated, but not exactly why I was working so hard.

I’m not against stripes, but my ambivalence towards them signaled an important shift in my mentality when it came to jiu-jitsu. I stopped caring about extrinsic rewards (like promotions, stripes, and so forth). Instead an intrinsic fire took hold. One that is hard to extinguish.

Don’t get me wrong, I’ll still obsess about belt promotions (as we all do), but mostly in the sense of focusing on and working towards goals that align with being a certain belt color. Or more practically, which belt color or division to sign up for.

Further, I stopped looking outwardly towards others’ acknowledgment of my improvement. A large part of that is realizing being smaller and older (and still a white belt) put me in a limited demographic. I didn’t have a lot of people to reasonably compare myself to. Of course I’ll get smashed by Sam (a black belt). Of course I’ll struggle with the 20 year-old new guy (for now). Of course I’ll get arm barred repeatedly by the purple belt female. But how do I compare to myself or proxies of myself (competition opponents)? That was the question that started lingering in my head or the metric in which I started measuring myself against.

With that, this early in my training, I started focusing on improvement more than winning every roll. Setting daily, weekly, and monthly goals. Evaluating my progress in reference to those. Of course, ideally, I won every roll as I moved towards those goals. Yet that’s not a reasonable expectation now or then. Instead, it’s the micro-“wins” that mattered more.

Did I stop letting Matt DeLeon cross face me? Did I stop letting Greg Z grab my pants to start a roll? Did I stop letting Ruth wrist lock me because I framed on her a certain way? Was I able to make all the classes I wanted to this week? Did I eat cleanly and hit the gym throughout the week? Was I able to get to DLR and maintain the position? Was I able to get their hands to the mat? Was I able to come up on a sit up sweep? Could I do it again? Could I do that against someone else? What about against a blue belt? A purple?

So my odd relationship with progress…real progress…started. I didn’t and don’t win every roll all the time by doing the same tried-and-true techniques. Like a scientist (see: day job) I started testing hypotheses, collecting data, adjusting variables, thinking about trends, hovering near some conclusions, being okay with minor victories if it meant building from that insight, and more (most) importantly not worrying so much about outcome or looking good in front of my professor(s).

There are two thoughts that came from all that.

Time passes anyway. I was at the academy all the time. I will get better just by showing up. That’s a given. The idea of doing the same thing every single day for years on end bored me (foreshadowing). So why not tinker? Why not try a new variation or position or style? Besides injury, the worst thing that will happen is a hit to my ego or look crappy in front of my professor. So what? Just means a little slower to get promoted. And slower just means a day or week or month. Pennies on the dollar in the grand scheme of things. So why not work on a variety of positions and be open minded and find my own insights about the endlessness of jiu-jitsu? Winning isn’t everything, but improvement is.
How did this translate to competing – now and into the future? Was I getting the results I wanted against others approximately my size, age, and experience?

Hence it didn’t matter if I got Americana-ed by the 200+ lb blue belt that just uses size against my 140 lbs. It didn’t matter if I played defensively against the 20 year-old ex-wrestler who went HAM, but was injured half the time. What mattered was how we did against others like us and would my style of training pay off or would theirs? Time would tell.

Buckhead BJJ White Belt

What’s in a nickname: the birth of a warrior and wolf

by Thomas

To receive a nickname at Buckhead Jiu-Jitsu was like being knighted by Sam (“I anoint thee, Lord of the Half Guard”). It also served as a way to differentiate ourselves from the growing membership where many (inevitably) shared a first name and there’s only so many ways to use modifiers for a Matt or a Shane or a Ryan.

“Blue belt Michael?”

“No, white belt Michael.”

“White belt Michael that has the weird girlfriend or white belt Michael with the cool girlfriend?”

“No. The white belt Michael that just joined.”

“There’s another Michael? I think we hit our quota for Michaels. No more Michaels. We’ll at least have to call one ‘Mike.’”

Hence students became “Ruthless,” “Hannibal,” or the “Lion Killer” – a play on their real names, but also befitting their jiu-jitsu. There was also “Dr. Sleep” and the “Lebanese Hammer” – names earned through impressive competition performances. But there was also “Rich.com” and “Cindy Mancini” – names quickly forgotten and probably a surprise anyone remembered these. To say some were better than others was an understatement.

On occasion a few of us ended up with a couple of nicknames. For example, Matt Shand’s official nickname was “Mattress” which had a decent story attached to it, but far from intimidating or “cool.” It would be better if the tale involved putting people to sleep or double legging opponents through the floor, but alas that would be disingenuous. So the official Sam-generated nickname faded from memory until Matt Shand became “Slothguard” or simply “Sloth.” Although being sloth-like did not reflect his jiu-jitsu, but irony trumps (slightly) embarrassing stories.

I went months and months without a Buckhead Jiu-Jitsu nickname. My real name (Tom) carried tons of potential and I’ve burned through a number of nicknames throughout my life (pre-BJJ). Some long-forgotten and some that still pop up when around the right (or wrong) group, but otherwise each chapter of my life bred new forms of addressing me. Which, as an aside, is interesting to watch my wife adapt to hearing or using these various names depending on who’s around.

Yet, thus far, I’d avoided any significant moments to define my jiu-jitsu journey at Buckhead. I was simply “Tom” and it could be worse. I was half scared that Matt (The Lion Killer) De Leon’s not-so-subtle attempts at nicknaming me “Thomas the Tank Engine” would catch on or someone would chime in with “Tom Thumb” or “Peeping Tom” or any other common Tom-centric sobriquets.

Then one Saturday it happened, I received my first jiu-jitsu moniker.

Prophetically, we were talking about nicknames right before class. Sitting in a huddle of white and blue belts, we went around the room pointing out all the good nicknames and some of the bad ones. I admitted to being fine without one. I’d rather have none than a bad one.

Generally, I kept my head down and my lips sealed, hoping to snake my way through my jiu-jitsu journey without becoming the dude that sharted from a body triangle or the guy rumored to be on TRT. I didn’t want to be the rage machine who called out other white belts on Facebook or the “competitor” that found every excuse not to compete. Quite simply, I was okay with just being “Tom.” With fears percolating in my head, class started.

Not ten minutes later, while we drilled standing guard openings, Sam yelled out, “Tom Sawyer, Modern Day Warrior.” A few of us glanced at each other with confusion. Then Sam repeated it even louder as he rushed to his iPhone. With a blur of thumbs, he called up distorted guitars and drums. With a big grin, Sam repeated, “Tom Sawyer, Modern Day Warrior.” He looked right at me.

The Rush song continued playing. The group of us, the ones chatting before class, started laughing and almost dropped our partners. There it was, I became “Tom Sawyer, Modern Day Warrior.” Not that I’m a Rush fan, but it could’ve been a lot worse. I took it in stride and embraced the nickname as it included a built-in theme song.

A month or so passed. I’d leaned into “Tom Sawyer, Modern Day Warrior” so much so that I (and as all “jiu-jitsu is life” white belts do) started a BJJ-focused Instagram account under the handle “@tsmoderndaywarrior.” I mostly reposted memes, rudimentary insights about training, and overall didn’t know shit about both jiu-jitsu and using Instagram effectively (still don’t). But there I was, planting my flag in the growing world of BJJ internet content.

Yet it felt…not really “me.” There was no real flavor to the account. No real personality. I was simply another random white belt in a sea of delusional white belts on the internet. The chances of me getting a blue belt were probably pretty slim. The chances of me making it to black belt were probably nil. Hence, this Instagram would probably collect dust, be repurposed to something else, or simply deleted entirely once I grew bored.

Then a month or so passed. For some reason (which I forget), I had to call Sam’s cellphone. My cellphone number popped up as he answered.

“What zip code is that,” is a common question I hear and Sam also asked.

My semi-Rumpelstiltskin secret came to light. It’s not that I hide where I’m from, but I also don’t flaunt it by wearing a t-shirt emblazoned with “Made in Alaska” on the front (which is a hot seller in Alaska, especially for baby clothing). And really, you have to dig pretty far into my personality to find some nuggets that are influenced by my time in Alaska.

I don’t prefer dog sledding over driving a car. I’m not the greatest skier or snowboarder. In fact I’m not good at any winter sports. Maybe that is a slightly exaggerating, as I know how to ice skate, ski, snowboard, snowshoe, snow (fill-in-blank), etc. I generally know how to protect myself from or avoid big wildlife such as bears and moose. I have been known to fish and successfully shoot an animal with a rifle. So compared to someone that say grew up in Florida, I’m probably (very operative word there) a fraction more competent at winter sports. Yet compared to most people that grew up with legit winters, I’m fairly incompetent at the vast majority of winter activities.

While writing this I really struggled to find one outside winter-specific activity I enjoy and therefore thrive at. Honestly there are none. There are a laundry list of outdoor winter-specific activities I’m accidentally competent at – shoveling, driving, defrosting a windshield, walk-shuffling across ice, etc.

So, yes…I was born and “raised” in Alaska. It’s just a factoid about me. A trivia question with trivial value beyond my friends and family. When this came to light, though, Sam was still deep into his Game of Thrones fandom.

“If I’d known you were from Alaska, I would’ve called you White Wolf.”

And there it was…White Wolf.

There it was, finally a nickname not predicated on my first name (and thankfully not my last name either). This was something new, even manifesting a spirit animal – The White Wolf. The more I thought about this new name, the more I warmed to it; as if all this time I was waiting for something like this to gravitate towards. It fit too well to ignore, allowing various wrinkles and usages and symbolism. Hence the birth of my second jiu-jitsu nickname came to pass and why I name all my social media White Wolf BJJ.

Art of Jiu-Jitsu BJJ Journey Buckhead BJJ White Belt

Now what? Just keep swimming.

by Thomas

This image has an empty alt attribute; its file name is artificial-intelligence-3706562_1280.jpg

As an adult, I became obsessed with soccer. I started watching YouTube highlights of current stars. Guys like Beckham or (Brazilian) Ronaldo played in their waning years, yet I still enjoyed watching their ability to manipulate the ball in differing ways. Being semi-new to a soccer obsession, I only knew the names in the zeitgeist. As I dug further, I appreciated the classics like Cruyff and of course Pele and Maradona. Then I came across Ronaldinho and two up-and-comers named Messi and Christiano Ronaldo, but I was aware of my own limitations. I appreciated their flare and touch, but knew emulating them wasn’t in my cards. I kept digging, searching for my veritable soccer spirit animal.

That was when I found a French midfielder who went on an elegant run through the 2006 World Cup. Of course I mean Zinedine Zidane. The way he harnessed nonchalant magic from the ether is what drew my eye. He didn’t rely on pace, physicality, or youthful vigor. He simply stayed composed and technical. He also did cool spinning shit. So that helped.

I spent countless hours trying to emulate Zidane’s touch and roulette. At first, I thought the move was bullshit. Quite simply, it didn’t work except for him. Yet I kept drilling it. And drilling it. And drilling it. Then one day I hit it in a Sunday league game. With time, the cool spinning shit became part of how I played soccer. Yet the obsession started even when I could barely run up and down the potholed pitches in Alaska without turning an ankle or pulling a hamstring. Yet the seeds were planted for a standard to reach for, knowing there was no way I could become as good as Zidane. Yet I could try in my own, small way.

How the F does this relate to jiu-jitsu? Well…I went through the same early obsessive phase. I started looking up stars of the time. As I searched the internet for the reigning champions in 2016, my eyes wandered from the largest champions down the ranks until I found the weight classes about my size (140-145 lbs). In other words, who were the reigning black belt champions at featherweight and light-featherweight in the fall of 2016? What did they have in common? What were their styles? How could I find out more about these two? Did they have academies? Did they sell instructionals? Where did they train?

In 2016, the reigning light-feather champion was Paulo Miyao. In 2016, the reigning feather champion was Rafael Mendes. What did they have in common? They were both known for something called the “berimbolo” and playing De La Riva (DLR) guard. I didn’t know what either of those terms meant. As I dove deeper, I figured out a berimbolo was some…well…cool spinning shit. While DLR guard looked way better than clinging to closed guard with all my thigh strength or getting passed from half guard because I’m a small, 30-something white belt at a pressure passing academy. Watching Paulo’s and Rafa’s matches on YouTube was like being handed some secret scrolls. This was the style that I could see myself playing.

I kept digging. I found out they both had brothers, who were also successful black belt competitors. I learned they all (both sets of brothers) trained in the US.

At the time, the Miyao brothers trained at Unity. Located in New York City, ran by Murilo Santana, and featuring some other names like Leandro Lo and Mayssa Bastos and of course the Miyaos. Being new to these deep dives, I didn’t know who these other people were…at all. Just like Unity, every academy lists their black belts/instructors with some biographical information and record of achievements. I didn’t know one black belt from another. I didn’t know one type of world championship from another. I didn’t know if lineage mattered or not. So, who was to say John or Jane Doe black belt were any better or worse than Murilo or Leandro or Mayssa? I sure didn’t know the differences at this point and the Miyaos didn’t seem to teach any of the classes.

Moving onto Rafael Mendes, that’s when I learned about Art of Jiu-Jitsu (AOJ) in Costa Mesa, California. Rafael and his brother (Gui) owned the academy, taught classes there, and for a monthly fee you could sign up to watch their (recorded) classes online. Having access to instruction by the Mendes brothers, even while living across the country, blew my mind. It was like downloading instruction from Zidane on how to play soccer like him. I couldn’t pull out my credit card fast enough.

This isn’t an AOJ advertisement. I promise.

When I tuned into their videos, I was transported to southern California on a crisp coastal morning. Everything was bathed in white – the uniforms, the mats, the walls. Everything looked clean – from the instructors to the academy to the techniques. Even the scratchy half and full circle artwork on the far wall complimented the swirling and spiraling movements. It wasn’t smash and stall. It wasn’t grit and grind. Instead the drills and rolls resembled a dance. There were more brains than brawn in any singular exchange.

This was how I imagined martial arts. This was how I wanted my jiu-jitsu to look. This was art.

I’m realistic about combat sports. What’s effective may not be pretty. What is pretty may not be effective. To “fight” another human, it’s not meant to be pretty. Combat is gritty, intense, ugly, and pragmatic.

Yet there I was at 35 years old and 140 lbs. trying to jump in with both feet. My size and age didn’t allow me to make it ugly and hope to grind it out against people younger, bigger, stronger. With each birthday, I give up a little more hope that I’ll hit a secondary puberty. With each donut craving, I fight the midlife spread. I don’t much like the idea of steroids or other PEDs. So where does that leave me?

It leaves me relying on two things that have seen me through life successes outside the mat – my mind and work ethic. Well, those two things along with not having kids/other time commitments that interfere with spending inordinate time on other hobbies (see: soccer and now jiu-jitsu). In other words, I had the resources to be obsessive.

After discovering AOJ Online, I sketched out a study schedule. I started my work day sipping a latte and reviewing a previous AOJ class or two (usually a 5-7 minute video) while scribbling notes. Throughout the da yI’d mentally review the move until carving out time before or after class that evening to drill.

Mind you, I was still a white belt in about every way imaginable for jiu-jitsu. My attempts at AOJ-derived moves were raw, confused, and sloppy. People passed my guard. People swept me. I tapped and tapped again. Yet that’s the life of a white belt. I thought of it as tossing seeds in fertile soil, continuing to water and tend to the crop and wait until roots took hold (ominous foreshadowing).

Yet in the moment, it seemed as if nothing worked at all. Were they posting bullshit moves? Did they breathe special air in Costa Mesa to help them hit these moves in training? Were people at AOJ just genetic wizards like in Harry Potter?

Every time I messed up and inevitably got smashed flat in bottom half guard while someone cross faced me until my lips bled and my thighs burned as I stared at the round timer, I thought of Zidane and my ability to do the roulette. Even now, I can find a soccer ball and do the roulette. Yet the first time I tried, I fell on my butt. The second time I tried, I fell on my butt. Maybe the 100^th time I tried, I didn’t fall and the ball squirted away before my other foot came into play. Yet somehow at some point, I stopped messing up. “Practice until you can’t fail.”

As I sighed in frustration trying to figure out this “AOJ Style,” I remembered all the times I hit the roulette in a match.

“Keep trying,” I sighed to myself.

Even if I had no clue what I was doing or what these moves (leg weave, crazy dog, berimbolo, crab ride, kiss of the dragon, etc.) meant, I kept watching AOJ Online, drilling, and most importantly…trying.

BJJ Journey Buckhead BJJ White Belt

First Competition Aftermath: What’s wrong with me and what’s in the drawer?

by Thomas

There’s a video floating around the internet where I’m pumping out push-ups while the two NAGA gold medals hang from my neck. My dogs wander in and out of frame, giving me a sniff and cocking their heads at the clanging medals. This is the extent of me ever relishing my victories in any visible form. Maybe later in my journey I fist pump (one time), hit the mat (one time), and offer a hint of a smile (once or twice). Really, though, I never again visibly celebrate with my medals after the day I compete.

Why? Maybe because something is broken inside me, where I always question my success or immediately look for the next mountain to climb. There’s been plenty of times (spoiler alert) I get my medal, pose on top of the podium or maybe a few pics with friends, and then shove my medal into my backpack. I’m not one to strut around the venue hours after competing with a medal draped around my neck. Not that there’s anything wrong with that, but it’s just not me. So why do I do this? I wish I had a legitimate and deep reason. Instead, really, I don’t know.

After returning to training, Sam informed me that only three Buckhead Jiu-Jitsu students had so far won double gold in a tournament – me, Chris Mather, and Luis Mercado (of “To Catch a Cheater” fame). Staring at that list and writing this later in my journey, one of those three seem out of place. That person being…well…me. No one ever walks into class and sees me and thinks, “Oh, that guy is a killer.” They do that with Chris and maybe they get sucked in by Luis’ Hollywood looks, but I seem the odd man out of that group. Yet there I was.

As Buckhead Jiu-Jitsu grew, lots more students won double gold in some capacity. Maybe, like me, they win a Gi and No Gi gold on the same day/weekend. Or maybe they win their division and then open class (probably never in my cards). I thought of writing the order of distinction for this accomplishment, but my memory grows hazy. I know Hannah did it, multiple times, including a rare triple gold. Ruth won double gold at IBJJF Pans (twice) which may be a pinnacle of this accomplishment. Then there’re crazy semi-naturals like Matt, Joey, and Connor. And the list continues to grow. Yet I still feel out of place, like I slipped in as some trivia question to throw most contestants off from the obvious answers.

Something else happened when I won. Prior to the competition, I mentally prepared for the slow grind to win a gold medal. Maybe I’d win bronze or silver, but would learn from my mistakes and return to the next competition looking to move up the podium. I didn’t expect to win gold right away, much less go undefeated for the day.

The need to win gold diminished a teeny-tiny bit. I reached that hurdle, hung them around my neck as I gazed toward the next mountain to climb. That next mountain, though, still stood hazy on the horizon. I didn’t know what it was or how to define it. I wanted to train more and work on my mistakes – dealing with spider guard, not get stuck in guillotines, what to do after I pass someone’s guard. Even now, I really don’t recall what I did well except be smart and scrappy. I did well passing via a basic butterfly guard pass. I did get a submission (baseball bat choke from knee on belly). I was aware of score and position. I did listen to Sam. Otherwise, I’m not sure what highlights I would hang my hat on. Wins are wins.

I thought about hanging my medals, making a box or plaque for them. I thought about displaying them somewhere in our apartment. Yet that weird voice in my head started laughing. This was a NAGA. I’m a white belt. I’m in my mid-30s. This didn’t mean shit. It was another weekend, really, as far as anyone was concerned. It would be like hanging a trophy from a local 5K or a weekend softball league.

With that, I took off my medals and placed them in a desk drawer. I imagined opening this drawer on occasion, staring down at their glistening color. Maybe I’d wipe fingerprints or dust off them and refold the ribbons. Maybe I’d heft them in my hand and remember the day I won both. Really, though, they stayed in that drawer. The drawer stayed close as I pulled out my credit card to sign up for the next tournament. Here. We. Go.

There’s this quote for my day job. It goes something like this, “I’m unique, just like everyone else.” This is how I feel in BJJ. Yes, I may have won a gold medal, but so did many other people that day – kids, men, women, older guys like me, younger proteges, and so on. Others will win some next week and many, many others won gold medals in the past. It all doesn’t matter except in that first flush afterwards. After that fades – and it fades fast – you’re left grasping for something tangible to push you to the next level or at least outside your comfort zone.

I used to think this problem was unique to me. Again, “I’m unique, just like everyone else.” Yet as I meet more people in this art, as I meet more people in life, this quirk – looking forward while diminishing the present – isn’t unique. It may be uncommon, but it’s far from unique. We work hard for something – focusing, plotting, training, reevaluating, and steadily moving forward – and once reaching it, we’re relieved to move on. It’s all just a checkpoint, a pit stop, a goal to reach before moving onto the next rung in the ladder. Done. Next.

BJJ Journey Buckhead BJJ White Belt

First Competition, Part 2: Gi

by Thomas

As I waited for my bracket to be called, a couple of teammates and Sam showed up. I played back my first match while Sam smiled with pride. The match wasn’t pretty. It wasn’t exciting. I still won. Before I had time to fully cool down and create a new game plan, the mat coordinators called my name for the Gi bracket.

I knew I’d face the young man (Daniel) I just beat, but wasn’t sure if there’d be a fleet of other small guys as well. Hanging near the mat, Daniel told me there was at least one other guy. This other competitor won silver at a recent IBJJF tournament via triangle choking most of the bracket. I didn’t look forward to having my head shoved between a guy’s legs as he yanked down on my neck, blocking off the blood to my brain. But hey…here I was and might as well see what happens.

The other competitor arrived. Glancing around the gymnasium in the early afternoon of late October, I realized this had to be it. NAGA staff rolled up unused mats, took down scoreboards, and folded up tables. Only a few mats still hosted brackets and the only people in gis were much bigger and/or not white belts. This was it, just the three of us.

By winning the earlier bracket I received a bye in the first round, leaving the other two to roll around for a spot in the finals. From Daniel’s assessment of the other competitor, I expected a quick decision (via triangle choke). What unfolded, though, was an epic match between two white belts with a modicum of jiu-jitsu. They moved up and down, back and forth, and across the mat like two squirrels fighting over an acorn.

I can’t remember the play-by-play of this first match, but regulation ended 2-2 without an obvious winner. The ref decided to allow a bonus round that ended still tied, forcing a ref’s decision in favor of the guy who won silver at the recent IBJJF. I started figuring possible scenarios. Whoever lost would be tired when they faced me (despite the age gap). Meanwhile, I had the chance to win more decisively in front of the finals opponent to at least gain a mental advantage. Yes, this is how I think and strategize.

I felt confident going into the semi-finals against Daniel. Yet questions creeped into the back of my mind, hatching those butterflies in my stomach again. Maybe he’d come roaring back and would throw the proverbial kitchen sink of techniques at me. Maybe he’d go for broke and send a flying triangle my way or judo toss me into oblivion. Maybe…maybe…maybe…

We bumped fists. He grabbed my sleeve and collar. I didn’t know to make counter grips and instead just stood there as he attempted a Seoi-otoshi (thanks Google). My hips swung back on pure instinct. At that point in time, I don’t recall learning any judo techniques and didn’t know much stand up beyond shooting for a single or double leg. So when I say “pure instinct,” I really do mean that.

With Daniel’s back exposed after the failed attempt, Sam instructed me to take his back. As a white belt, I had no clue about hooks or seatbelt grips or really anything to do with “taking the back.” Surprising no one, Daniel and I scrambled around a bit until he sat back into butterfly guard.

Recognizing this position from our earlier match, my knees pushed forward and trapped his feet against his butt. I wiggled to my left and kept hugging Daniel’s hips as if they were a life preserver. I hopped over his knee line and landed in side control for 3 points. He bumped and bridged, but this time grips stifled his escape attempts.

Somehow remembering a random class, I yanked out Daniel’s far lapel before swinging it around the back of his neck. Walking my left fist tight against his throat, I popped up to knee on belly position. While he pushed against my knee, my right hand snaked to the left side of his head and snatched at the other end of the lapel. I cut my right knee down and around his near shoulder for a baseball choke. With a tap, I was in the finals after logging my first tournament submission.

Looking back, this next thought still haunts me and creeps back here and there in subsequent tournaments (spoiler alert). For this first tournament and while standing around waiting for the finals, the day’s events started sinking in. I’d won gold in No Gi. I’d hit a submission. With the finish line right around the corner, I could cruise to the end and still have a successful outing. In other words, I started to believe silver was enough. For a fleeting moment, the whispers of some other person needled their way into my thoughts. They would accept second. They would accept “good enough.” They could accept defeat.

Staring across the three feet of space between myself and my opponent, another voice entered the chat. It said, “Fuck it, let’s get gold.”

I dove forward, reaching for his collar. I threw my feet at his waist, hoping to pull him into closed guard. I missed entirely, but was able to salvage half guard. Sam yelled at me to dig for an under hook and bridge to my left. I did as he said and came on top for two points and the lead. I hugged my opponent’s legs as he tried to shove me away. Remembering the earlier pass I hit against Daniel, I shoved my opponent’s foot near his butt. I could almost taste a decisive lead.

Nope.

My opponent pulled his knees back and created a wall of limbs. His hands found my sleeves as his feet found my biceps. I was caught in spider guard. Yet I didn’t quite know what that was, only recognizing it was hard to move and impossible to pressure forward.

If we were better white belts, the day could’ve been over for either of us. Instead we locked horns in his spider guard for an eternity. I couldn’t pass (mostly because I didn’t know what to do) and he couldn’t sweep me (probably because he didn’t know what to do beyond maybe one or two options I wasn’t giving him). We danced around the mat in some untraditional waltz. I remember pushing hard against his hooks, my belt line way over his, as we locked eyes in mutual confusion and stubbornness.

I stepped back, mostly because leaning forward felt wrong. The hooks loosened just a bit and he jumped back to his feet. Back at neutral, I threw myself at his body again and missed the closed guard pull. Again I found myself in half guard. This time, though, he kept his body leaning away. The earlier sweep wouldn’t work. Sam instructed me to push against him. I came up on top. With time winding down, up 4-0, I could feel another gold medal slipping around my neck.

My opponent forced his foot through my right elbow and knee space. Without an anchor, I never had a chance to prevent his legs from slipping around my neck and shoulders. I stood and looked upwards while wrapping my arm around his leg to alleviate the pressure on my jugular.

Sam yelled something I couldn’t hear. His coach yelled something I couldn’t hear. My opponent slid an under hook on my right ankle and I started falling. I calculated points if he landed on top. There would be at least two for the sweep and maybe four more for the mount, much less gravity helping him finish the triangle.

As we fell, I rolled with the momentum and came back on top. My teammates and coach started counting down. I could hold on for 15 seconds. 10 seconds. 5 seconds. His coach yelled out details for an arm bar or even an omoplata. I didn’t even know what that second one was, but I held on and kept deep breathing.

The buzzer sounded. I won double gold in my first tournament.

I learned a lot of jiu-jitsu lessons that day, probably more than any day on the mats. I knew I had limited knowledge of what to do after passing someone’s guard. I found out I’m a pressure passer. I needed to practice pulling guard safely. I needed to protect myself from triangles. I really had to learn how to deal with spider guard. Finally, I found out about my potential.

Now, looking back, I needed to remember the thought I had before the finals. Even with doubt creeping across my bones like cancer, I shook it away and believed in myself. I told myself, “Fuck it, let’s get gold.” That needs to be my motto.

BJJ Journey Buckhead BJJ White Belt

First Competition, Part 1: No Gi

by Thomas

I didn’t want to go in. While parked at a high school about an hour’s drive south of Atlanta, I watched as children wandered across the parking lot while hoisting plastic swords. Their parents carried a pile of dirty Gis and maybe a few medals or half-eaten sandwiches. Athletic adults streamed from pick-up trucks, minivans, SUVs, and muscle cars. They carried gym bags and cell phones. A few of these would be my opponent, if I could just surmount the courage to get out of the car.

I wasn’t ready. Nerves and anxiety ran through my body like an iceberg. Dread and neuroses whispered in the back of my head, sowing seeds of self-doubt and imposter syndrome. A chorus of questions and “what if” scenarios and slow-motion car crashes. These were what I needed to collar choke into submission before I could get the fuck out of this CRV.

Across the parking lot and inside a high school gym in McDonough, GA, hundreds of competitors lounged on metal bleachers as they waited to compete at NAGA (North American Grappling Association). Some were blue belts or higher. Others were simply bigger, older, or younger than me. The percentage of people I’d be facing had to be relatively small, but that didn’t matter. Inside my head lurked the unknown – full of ex-wrestlers and hyper-coordinated 30-year olds waiting to embarrass me. It was that, the potential embarrassment, was what froze me.

I’d been training steadily for a few months, earned a couple of stripes on my white belt, and felt okay about my growth. Not that I was tapping anybody or holding my own against many others, but I wasn’t absolutely sucking. I wasn’t just a doormat anymore. Now I hoped all the hard work was worth it and I wouldn’t be shamed into an early retirement. I imagined being so horrible that I’d be a lost cause in jiu-jitsu. I needed to overcome this mental hurdle. I had to trust the process.

To calm myself, I grasped at advantages I have over other competitors – my brain and wife. With my wife sitting in the driver’s seat, me in the passenger side, I puked out all my self-doubt and concerns in a blur of manic words. She assured me I could do this. This wasn’t much different than a soccer game or going to class or a million other moments I’d faced in life. I continued talking, trying to sort out a game plan, to verbalize what I wanted to do, and visualize a positive outcome from the day. This was my way of controlling the moment, not losing control of myself, my feelings, my thoughts. It was the start of my pre-competition prep – having a game plan. I could do this.

And so we jumped out of the car.

My name rang across the loud speaker. This was it. It was go time. Oh shit, it’s now…like now-now? My heart surged in my chest as I started deep breathing. I can do this. I can do this. Jump in and get it over with.

It was a slightly false alarm. No one signed up in my division. What a shocker. Apparently not a lot of 35 year-old, smaller men suddenly enjoy rolling around with strangers in small town gymnasiums. The match coordinator offered two options – give up 40 lbs. and experience or move down to the adult division and possibly give up 15 years or more of aches, pains, and overall mileage. I decided if I were to lose, I’d better lose to someone my size. I could handle a flying arm bar, but I didn’t want to handle cracked ribs or a popped shoulder. Bring on the kiddo(s).

Another name rang across the loud speaker. A minute or two later a teenager trotted forward as he pulled his dark hair in a ponytail/man-bun hybrid. Standing about my height and looking like a brisk wind gives him problems when trying to cross a street, this was definitely my opponent. I recognized my own kind.

This was to be my only opponent in No-Gi. As we walked towards the mats, I learned Daniel trained at a local MMA gym (Creighton MMA, a Renzo Gracie affiliate) that was friendly with my academy. Well, at least maybe he’d take it easy on me. Daniel looked about 16, but was around 19 or 20. Such as is at the lower weights. You look as old as Yoda or you look pubescent. No in between. We discussed how long we’ve been training, how many tournaments we’ve competed in, and general sizing each other up through friendly questions. He definitely had more experience in regards to training time and competitions, but he admitted to not even winning a match yet. With my luck, I would be his first win. We were both signed up for Gi as well, meaning we’d see each other a few minutes after our No Gi match. I imagined losing that as well.

They called us onto the mat. I wore obnoxious Halloween spats while he wore a coordinated shorts and rash guard combo denoting his school and rank. One of us was clearly taking this more seriously, at least in regards to attire.

We bumped fists and started.

I planned to shoot for a double leg, slamming Daniel to the mat and already up two points. Hence, in my perfect preparation, I completed a handful or reps in class when my coach (Sam) taught takedowns…which probably made me an equivalent to Jordan Burroughs. I dove forward, head down, and probably with my eyes closed. I didn’t throw a feint, move around to find an opening, or really change levels. Instead I leaped forward much like someone diving off a cliff and really, really, really hoping they didn’t careen off of sharp rocks or slam into the ocean floor. Shocking absolutely no one, I failed my first takedown attempt.

Daniel sprawled back, slithered his hands around my head, and slapped on a guillotine. His legs whipped around me, leaving me contemplating my very existence, my place in life, and what the hell I was doing stuck in the armpit of some 20 year-old kid. I figured if I tapped, at least it would be painless. No shoulder pop or arm break or ankle lock. I mean, at least I beat the guys on the couch. At least I faced my fears. At least I showed up.

Then something happened. Something that ends up happening in every one of my matches to this day. Something wakes up inside of me. I can dread being there. I can wish to be anywhere else. I can question all my life choices. Yet for some reason an F-it vibe surges through my body. Fuck it, let’s make this a fight.

I stood up in tripod and grabbed his elbow. I pulled and yanked until my head popped loose. He switched my head to the other side, but I shrugged. The guillotine slid on, but not as tight as the other side. If I could escape once, I could escape again. I did.

I couldn’t afford a third guillotine and avoided it by sliding my hips back and out of reach of his arms and improvised a Sao Paulo pass – the last technique I remembered learning for this situation. His legs popped open. I was in half guard. Another chunk of muscle memory flexed. I slid my leg loose and cross-faced him. Three points for the pass. He shrimped and bridged, but couldn’t break my clasped hands. I’d nailed him into the mat.

The ref warned me about stalling. I didn’t feel I was stalling, per se. I simply didn’t know what to do next. I was up a few points, had plenty of time on the clock, and didn’t want to choke away the match. So what do I do next?

Sam was still fighting traffic and couldn’t remind me of dozens of side control attacks we’d covered in class. So I relaxed my death grip, allowing Daniel to put me back into his half guard. I passed again after he switched to butterfly and I hopped around his legs back to side control. Three more points. Again, I had no clue what to do next. So I held him with all I had in me, my biceps grinding into his face. The muscles in my forearms burning. I was warned for stalling, again.

I relaxed again and Daniel slithered free. My wife called out the time, close enough that gold started glistening in the distance. My opponent dove for a guillotine again. I fought off his hands and pushed him to the ground. He whipped his legs around me to closed guard as time ended. I won my first gold medal.