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.