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.
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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.
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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.
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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.