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.
