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.
