Competition is a large part of jiu-jitsu. Scratch that. It’s a huge part of jiu-jitsu. By the time you’re a colored belt, inevitably people ask whether you compete, have competed, thought about competing, are related to someone that competes, and so on. With the volume of available tournaments, rule sets, team trophies, individual medals, semi-pro or pro fight promotions, sponsorship opportunities, YouTube clips, Instagram highlights, streaming events, and the list keeps growing – for better or worse (and no matter your opinion on this matter) competition is entwined with the jiu-jitsu culture. That’s not to say competing is necessary in one’s journey, but the chances are high that either you, your buddy, or someone in your academy will get bit by the competition bug or (at the least) decide to throw their Gi or spats in the ring and shoot for a gold medal.
For me, I wanted to leave my competition days behind me. I grew tired of coming home sweaty, bruised, and either aggravated or mildly discontent from a soccer game. I’d hung up my cleats, tossed my shin guards, and donated all my remaining soccer equipment to Goodwill. I was done with trying to outscore, outclass, or outperform anybody else. I wanted something more “zen” and intrinsic. I wanted a good workout that kept my mind and body engaged. Hence…a martial art and not soccer or dodgeball or darts or even ping-pong.
Little did I know how integral competition was woven into the sweaty fabric of our sport. We measure ourselves constantly. Whether in a more literal sense – “That dude is big…he’ll probably smash me” – or more individually when we roll with each other and try to outscore, outclass, and outperform our partners. It provides a focus for improvement. We compete – positioning, timing, reactions – to craft our abilities on the mat. Without that feedback, and much like the more traditional martial arts we poke fun at, we’re just rolling around the mat by ourselves. Hence competition can be good.
Yet competition is scary. In tournaments, we rarely know our competitor or what they have in store for us (as they rub their hands together like some telenovela villain). Everyone is watching and judging and maybe about to post something crazy on YouTube because of you. There might be a horrible injury (worst way to lose) or a bullshit call that sways an important match (relatively less crappy way to lose). Yet you may win it all, outperforming your own expectations. Maybe you finally hit that move you’ve been drilling for months. Or maybe you simply make new friends over a pizza binge eating contest. No matter what, though, it’s nice to know (at the minimum) what competing is all about.
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My first jiu-jitsu tournament experience was when a number of my teammates competed at a local event in Georgia (New Breed). Just a couple of months after I joined, I went to support them while having zero plans on competing then or in the future. I forget all the people who competed that day, but it was around eight teammates. Yet way more than eight went to cheer them on, film their matches, coach them, and be there for all the ups and downs. A few won. A few lost. The results really don’t matter, despite that sounding disingenuous when you tell a friend/teammate. It’s more about being there for each other, riding the rollercoaster of emotions together. Yelling and cheering, hugging and comforting. No matter what happens, there’s tomorrow and there’s the memories being made.
As I rode the euphoria surrounding that whole event, I realized the difference from my experiences in soccer where the match ends and everyone shuffles off the pitch as another team trots in. You yank off your sweaty shin guards, toss your cleats in your bag, and head home or maybe to another pitch if you play on multiple teams (which I did). If you won, maybe you stayed excited for a goal you scored or a particular move or assist you hit. Otherwise wins and losses largely didn’t matter and no one handed out medals or trophies at the end of the day (or even at the end of the season). There was certainly no podium pics to post on Instagram.
I spent the whole day standing in a small town rec center, power walking from one mat to another, trying to shoulder my way through the crowds to watch my teammates, and kinda-sorta understanding what was going on. I remember watching a big purple belt demolish the open No-Gi division. People talked about him like he was some sort of god. In a way, or at least on that day, he reminded me of some Greek hero. Honestly, I felt overwhelmed, a little intimidated by all these tough looking guys and gals. They jumped around as they warmed up or paced the edges of the gym like stalking tigers. They ran out onto the mats or performed some hand gestures before stepping forward when the refs called them. It was all so…impressive. Even people that didn’t do as well impressed me. They fought hard and gave everything they had, coming off the mat red-faced and sweating and mostly smiling even if they lost.
As the day ended, or at least for me and my teammates, my back and feet hurt from standing, my voice just about disappeared from yelling so much, and my heart couldn’t take watching another bracket. It was then that the emotions of the day swept me up in a promise I probably shouldn’t have made. It was to either Matt or Matt who I made my promise. Either it was Matt (Shand) who demolished everyone at white belt or Matt (DeLeon) who slammed his head into his opponents’ chests as he folded them in half and passed their guard via a vicious and now notorious double-under pass. Either way, fateful words flowed from my lips. “Count me in for the next one.”
Let’s think about this for a second. There was exactly one stripe on my white belt at the time. One. Not four or three or even two. One. It was a white belt. I was 35 at the time and still 137-139 lbs. I had been training for about two or three months total. In other words, I was clearly a future world class competitor. No doubt about it.
Once the promise sank into my conscious and I realized I couldn’t back down, butterflies hatched in my stomach. What the hell was I thinking? What did my mouth get me into? What had I just committed to?
Because I was scared, I promptly signed up and paid for both Gi and No Gi divisions at an upcoming NAGA. I was locked in now. Sure, I could request a refund. Yet I knew if I backed out, squirmed my way around the commitment, made some excuse…I would be one of those guys. The guys who always have a reason to duck a competition (“I haven’t been sleeping well.” “Something vague came up at work.” “This hangnail has been really bothering me.”). The guy that talks a big game, but never backs it up (“Dude, I could totally dominate my division, I just hate the ruleset”). The guy who thinks he’s a black belt, but really he doesn’t know shit (“I would do XYZ to that guy”). The sort of guy I grew to loathe as I continued my jiu-jitsu journey. In short, I knew if I ran from this, I’d continue running from the challenge. So I didn’t run.
Instead I did what I always do. I created a plan of action. I cannonballed into jiu-jitsu. As my wife likes to say, “You’re either all the way in or all the way out. There is no gray with you.” It was this moment I jumped into the deep end. At least for this tournament.
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So what was my plan of action? I trained as much as I could, attending classes 4-5 times a week (up from 2-3). I worked on learning how to jiu-jitsu at all. Let’s not forget I was a one stripe white belt and had no “game” to speak of. At the least, I would go down swinging. My plan was, quite simply, to “suck less” (to paraphrase one T Driskell). With any of my plans of action, this provided focus.
This also meant, of course, buying more Gis and especially an awesome competition Gi. At the very least, on game day, I would look the part.