At this point in my life (circa 2016), training jiu-jitsu came secondary and probably tertiary (if that) to other aspects of my life. In May 2016, my priorities were something along the lines of wife and dog, a growing career trajectory, and gym fitness. Secondary interests such as food festivals or wine clubs, travel or exploring new cities (especially ones we just moved to), and even exciting TV shoes like Game of Thrones all came before concentrating on martial arts such as jiu-jitsu.
Two days after joining Buckhead Jiu-Jitsu, my wife and I traveled to Europe for the remainder of the month. It was a trip we’d planned for over a year, maybe even years. I know we talked about it since forever, finally taking the leap to wander London, Berlin, Munich, Venice, and Rome (with an accidental stop in Iceland). I worried about finding weights gyms, figuring out hotel room workouts, and generally keeping active as we ingested fish and chips, doughy pretzels, gallons of wine, some gelato, lots of cappuccinos with croissants, and various other European foods. We biked. We hiked. We generally kept moving. One thing definitely didn’t stress me out – taking time away from jiu-jitsu. It wasn’t even a back burner thought.
In fact, as I watched YouTube videos of basic self-defense jiu-jitsu, I started wondering if I made a mistake signing up for jiu-jitsu memberships. Sitting in a mosquito-infested hotel in Florence, I wrote out an email or two – that I never sent – asking to drop my memberships. What was I getting into? Did I really care about jumping into another physical pastime (after my semi-obsessive recreational soccer run)?
I hesitate to write “sport” in reference to jiu-jitsu, as I didn’t see it as a “sporting” venture. I saw it as an option to keep me active outside the weights gym and a possible lifelong hobby. I never planned to compete in jiu-jitsu. I didn’t know there was a “sporting” element to it. Still so new and after attending only a couple of classes prior to departing to Europe, rolling was still a foreign concept. That’s how little I knew about jiu-jitsu.
I knew nothing. Less than nothing. I barely understood that jiu-jitsu didn’t involve striking in any manner. That first month, though, I epitomized “a stupid white belt” by exposing my neck, rolling away and showing my back when someone strolled around/through my guard, flailing around in fruitless attempts at pin escapes, and shoving against shoulders which turned into wrist locks (“Ruth-locks”). The first month served as a brutal introduction to the large mountain I hoped to climb. The journey of a million taps starting with hundreds in the first month.
A couple of weeks in, I rolled with Sam. He flowed and let me move. I knew, even then, he was testing my growth. He was looking to see what moves I’d retained. If I could move around with some sense of awareness. What sort of innate talent – whether a natural born killer or even simply a will to not be dominated by another human – lay inside this small, mid-30s guy? Well…I can tell you…not much.
The first time I rolled with Sam, I froze. I’d grown accustomed to defending attacks from all angles – covering my throat, attaching my elbows to my ribs, tucking my chin, shrimping to escape, clinging to closed guard with all hope, and otherwise becoming a turtle encased in plexi-glass. I didn’t know how to attack, what to attack, why to attack. I learned to be reactive, countering or attempting to counter my rolling partners’ movements. That didn’t work when someone was looking for improvement.
With my inaction, I failed my first stripe test. I knew it as he didn’t call my name after class and instead handed out stripes to others. The same thing happened the next class and the following. Others were promoted, while I stayed without a single stripe on my drooping white belt. I wondered when or even if there would be a next chance. I only knew I would keep showing up and force him to call my name, even if it took months.
Days passed. Sam continued calling others’ names. Others passed me, getting their first stripe or even their second before I even received my first. One evening, Sam finally called my name. This was it, my first step towards my black belt. All the sweat and hard work was worth it. Yet, when I stood up, Sam looked confused. I had misheard. Sam had called someone else’s name. They strolled forward and wrapped another stripe I thought was mine around the end of their white belt.
Red-faced and hoping everyone thought I was stretching out a cramp, I sat down before making the moment more awkward. Now, to be fair to me, their name vaguely sounds like my own. To this day, I still don’t stand for any promotions until Sam or others say my name twice and look directly at me. Then and only then, I’ll hesitantly stand up as I fake a bit of surprise like someone receiving an Oscar or Grammy when they didn’t prepare an acceptance speech.
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After a bit, I stopped expecting that first promotion. I gave up in a way. Yet in my stubborn and possibly stupid ways, I doubled my efforts just to spite a hopeless situation. I kept coming to class and working, grinding, getting devoured by others, and maybe surviving much longer than expected. My routine of attending classes every Tuesday, Thursday and Saturday became…well…a routine and I stopped caring about a piece of tape on my belt. At least I stopped expecting to be called.
Then a couple more weeks passed and Sam rolled with me again. This time, though, I had a plan. It was the same plan as any other roll which is to do things vaguely resembling jiu-jitsu. I didn’t freeze with Sam just because I knew he could easily cast aside my lame attempts at attacks. Which he did, but I kept attacking. I kept surviving. I kept trying.
On July 5th, 2016, Sam called my name. As par, I didn’t stand up right away. He called my name twice and looked right at me. I tried to pretend that first promotion didn’t matter. It did. Sweaty, beat up, and drained, I sauntered across the mat to receive my first promotion. As Sam twisted the strip of tape around the end of my white belt, he whispered words of encouragement about continuing to try new techniques and working hard. He gave me a hug and made his usual speech after class about being patient and putting in the work. I zoned off because I couldn’t stop staring at my single stripe.
That night I hung my belt over the end of our couch Rachelle saw it the next morning and could tell it meant a lot to me. The first stripe is the hardest. It means the most because it means the journey of improvement officially starts.
