Tag: competition

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.

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.

##

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.

##

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.

##

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.

As I waited for my bracket to be called, a couple of teammates and Sam showed up.  I played back my first match while Sam smiled with pride.  The match wasn’t pretty.  It wasn’t exciting.  I still won.  Before I had time to fully cool down and create a new game plan, the mat coordinators called my name for the Gi bracket.

I knew I’d face the young man (Daniel) I just beat, but wasn’t sure if there’d be a fleet of other small guys as well.  Hanging near the mat, Daniel told me there was at least one other guy.  This other competitor won silver at a recent IBJJF tournament via triangle choking most of the bracket.  I didn’t look forward to having my head shoved between a guy’s legs as he yanked down on my neck, blocking off the blood to my brain.  But hey…here I was and might as well see what happens.

The other competitor arrived.  Glancing around the gymnasium in the early afternoon of late October, I realized this had to be it.  NAGA staff rolled up unused mats, took down scoreboards, and folded up tables.  Only a few mats still hosted brackets and the only people in gis were much bigger and/or not white belts.  This was it, just the three of us. 

By winning the earlier bracket I received a bye in the first round, leaving the other two to roll around for a spot in the finals.  From Daniel’s assessment of the other competitor, I expected a quick decision (via triangle choke).   What unfolded, though, was an epic match between two white belts with a modicum of jiu-jitsu.  They moved up and down, back and forth, and across the mat like two squirrels fighting over an acorn. 

I can’t remember the play-by-play of this first match, but regulation ended 2-2 without an obvious winner.  The ref decided to allow a bonus round that ended still tied, forcing a ref’s decision in favor of the guy who won silver at the recent IBJJF.  I started figuring possible scenarios.  Whoever lost would be tired when they faced me (despite the age gap).  Meanwhile, I had the chance to win more decisively in front of the finals opponent to at least gain a mental advantage.  Yes, this is how I think and strategize. 

I felt confident going into the semi-finals against Daniel.  Yet questions creeped into the back of my mind, hatching those butterflies in my stomach again.  Maybe he’d come roaring back and would throw the proverbial kitchen sink of techniques at me.  Maybe he’d go for broke and send a flying triangle my way or judo toss me into oblivion.  Maybe…maybe…maybe…

We bumped fists.  He grabbed my sleeve and collar.  I didn’t know to make counter grips and instead just stood there as he attempted a Seoi-otoshi (thanks Google).  My hips swung back on pure instinct.  At that point in time, I don’t recall learning any judo techniques and didn’t know much stand up beyond shooting for a single or double leg.  So when I say “pure instinct,” I really do mean that.

With Daniel’s back exposed after the failed attempt, Sam instructed me to take his back.  As a white belt, I had no clue about hooks or seatbelt grips or really anything to do with “taking the back.”  Surprising no one, Daniel and I scrambled around a bit until he sat back into butterfly guard.

Recognizing this position from our earlier match, my knees pushed forward and trapped his feet against his butt.  I wiggled to my left and kept hugging Daniel’s hips as if they were a life preserver.  I hopped over his knee line and landed in side control for 3 points.  He bumped and bridged, but this time grips stifled his escape attempts.

Somehow remembering a random class, I yanked out Daniel’s far lapel before swinging it around the back of his neck.  Walking my left fist tight against his throat, I popped up to knee on belly position.  While he pushed against my knee, my right hand snaked to the left side of his head and snatched at the other end of the lapel.  I cut my right knee down and around his near shoulder for a baseball choke.  With a tap, I was in the finals after logging my first tournament submission.

##

Looking back, this next thought still haunts me and creeps back here and there in subsequent tournaments (spoiler alert).  For this first tournament and while standing around waiting for the finals, the day’s events started sinking in.  I’d won gold in No Gi.  I’d hit a submission.  With the finish line right around the corner, I could cruise to the end and still have a successful outing.  In other words, I started to believe silver was enough.  For a fleeting moment, the whispers of some other person needled their way into my thoughts.  They would accept second.  They would accept “good enough.”  They could accept defeat.  

Staring across the three feet of space between myself and my opponent, another voice entered the chat.  It said, “Fuck it, let’s get gold.”

I dove forward, reaching for his collar.  I threw my feet at his waist, hoping to pull him into closed guard.  I missed entirely, but was able to salvage half guard.  Sam yelled at me to dig for an under hook and bridge to my left.  I did as he said and came on top for two points and the lead.  I hugged my opponent’s legs as he tried to shove me away. Remembering the earlier pass I hit against Daniel, I shoved my opponent’s foot near his butt.  I could almost taste a decisive lead. 

Nope.

My opponent pulled his knees back and created a wall of limbs.  His hands found my sleeves as his feet found my biceps.  I was caught in spider guard.  Yet I didn’t quite know what that was, only recognizing it was hard to move and impossible to pressure forward.

If we were better white belts, the day could’ve been over for either of us.  Instead we locked horns in his spider guard for an eternity.  I couldn’t pass (mostly because I didn’t know what to do) and he couldn’t sweep me (probably because he didn’t know what to do beyond maybe one or two options I wasn’t giving him).  We danced around the mat in some untraditional waltz.  I remember pushing hard against his hooks, my belt line way over his, as we locked eyes in mutual confusion and stubbornness.

I stepped back, mostly because leaning forward felt wrong.  The hooks loosened just a bit and he jumped back to his feet.  Back at neutral, I threw myself at his body again and missed the closed guard pull.  Again I found myself in half guard.  This time, though, he kept his body leaning away.  The earlier sweep wouldn’t work.  Sam instructed me to push against him.  I came up on top.  With time winding down, up 4-0, I could feel another gold medal slipping around my neck.

My opponent forced his foot through my right elbow and knee space. Without an anchor, I never had a chance to prevent his legs from slipping around my neck and shoulders.  I stood and looked upwards while wrapping my arm around his leg to alleviate the pressure on my jugular. 

Sam yelled something I couldn’t hear.  His coach yelled something I couldn’t hear.  My opponent slid an under hook on my right ankle and I started falling.  I calculated points if he landed on top.  There would be at least two for the sweep and maybe four more for the mount, much less gravity helping him finish the triangle.

As we fell, I rolled with the momentum and came back on top.  My teammates and coach started counting down.  I could hold on for 15 seconds.  10 seconds.  5 seconds.  His coach yelled out details for an arm bar or even an omoplata.  I didn’t even know what that second one was, but I held on and kept deep breathing.

The buzzer sounded.  I won double gold in my first tournament.

I learned a lot of jiu-jitsu lessons that day, probably more than any day on the mats.  I knew I had limited knowledge of what to do after passing someone’s guard.  I found out I’m a pressure passer.  I needed to practice pulling guard safely.  I needed to protect myself from triangles.  I really had to learn how to deal with spider guard.  Finally, I found out about my potential.

Now, looking back, I needed to remember the thought I had before the finals.  Even with doubt creeping across my bones like cancer, I shook it away and believed in myself.  I told myself, “Fuck it, let’s get gold.”  That needs to be my motto.

I didn’t want to go in.  While parked at a high school about an hour’s drive south of Atlanta, I watched as children wandered across the parking lot while hoisting plastic swords.  Their parents carried a pile of dirty Gis and maybe a few medals or half-eaten sandwiches.  Athletic adults streamed from pick-up trucks, minivans, SUVs, and muscle cars.  They carried gym bags and cell phones.  A few of these would be my opponent, if I could just surmount the courage to get out of the car.

I wasn’t ready.  Nerves and anxiety ran through my body like an iceberg.  Dread and neuroses whispered in the back of my head, sowing seeds of self-doubt and imposter syndrome.  A chorus of questions and “what if” scenarios and slow-motion car crashes.  These were what I needed to collar choke into submission before I could get the fuck out of this CRV.

Across the parking lot and inside a high school gym in McDonough, GA, hundreds of competitors lounged on metal bleachers as they waited to compete at NAGA (North American Grappling Association).  Some were blue belts or higher.  Others were simply bigger, older, or younger than me.  The percentage of people I’d be facing had to be relatively small, but that didn’t matter.  Inside my head lurked the unknown – full of ex-wrestlers and hyper-coordinated 30-year olds waiting to embarrass me.  It was that, the potential embarrassment, was what froze me.

I’d been training steadily for a few months, earned a couple of stripes on my white belt, and felt okay about my growth.  Not that I was tapping anybody or holding my own against many others, but I wasn’t absolutely sucking.  I wasn’t just a doormat anymore.  Now I hoped all the hard work was worth it and I wouldn’t be shamed into an early retirement.  I imagined being so horrible that I’d be a lost cause in jiu-jitsu.  I needed to overcome this mental hurdle.  I had to trust the process.

To calm myself, I grasped at advantages I have over other competitors – my brain and wife.   With my wife sitting in the driver’s seat, me in the passenger side, I puked out all my self-doubt and concerns in a blur of manic words.  She assured me I could do this.  This wasn’t much different than a soccer game or going to class or a million other moments I’d faced in life.  I continued talking, trying to sort out a game plan, to verbalize what I wanted to do, and visualize a positive outcome from the day.  This was my way of controlling the moment, not losing control of myself, my feelings, my thoughts.  It was the start of my pre-competition prep – having a game plan.  I could do this. 

And so we jumped out of the car.

##

My name rang across the loud speaker.  This was it.  It was go time.  Oh shit, it’s now…like now-now?  My heart surged in my chest as I started deep breathing.  I can do this.  I can do this.  Jump in and get it over with.

It was a slightly false alarm.  No one signed up in my division.  What a shocker.  Apparently not a lot of 35 year-old, smaller men suddenly enjoy rolling around with strangers in small town gymnasiums.  The match coordinator offered two options – give up 40 lbs. and experience or move down to the adult division and possibly give up 15 years or more of aches, pains, and overall mileage.  I decided if I were to lose, I’d better lose to someone my size.  I could handle a flying arm bar, but I didn’t want to handle cracked ribs or a popped shoulder.  Bring on the kiddo(s).

Another name rang across the loud speaker.  A minute or two later a teenager trotted forward as he pulled his dark hair in a ponytail/man-bun hybrid.  Standing about my height and looking like a brisk wind gives him problems when trying to cross a street, this was definitely my opponent.  I recognized my own kind.

This was to be my only opponent in No-Gi.  As we walked towards the mats, I learned Daniel trained at a local MMA gym (Creighton MMA, a Renzo Gracie affiliate) that was friendly with my academy.  Well, at least maybe he’d take it easy on me.  Daniel looked about 16, but was around 19 or 20.  Such as is at the lower weights.  You look as old as Yoda or you look pubescent.  No in between.  We discussed  how long we’ve been training, how many tournaments we’ve competed in, and general sizing each other up through friendly questions.  He definitely had more experience in regards to training time and competitions, but he admitted to not even winning a match yet.  With my luck, I would be his first win.  We were both signed up for Gi as well, meaning we’d see each other a few minutes after our No Gi match.  I imagined losing that as well.

##

They called us onto the mat.  I wore obnoxious Halloween spats while he wore a coordinated shorts and rash guard combo denoting his school and rank.  One of us was clearly taking this more seriously, at least in regards to attire.

We bumped fists and started. 

I planned to shoot for a double leg, slamming Daniel to the mat and already up two points.  Hence, in my perfect preparation, I completed a handful or reps in class when my coach (Sam) taught takedowns…which probably made me an equivalent to Jordan Burroughs.  I dove forward, head down, and probably with my eyes closed.  I didn’t throw a feint, move around to find an opening, or really change levels.  Instead I leaped forward much like someone diving off a cliff and really, really, really hoping they didn’t careen off of sharp rocks or slam into the ocean floor.  Shocking absolutely no one, I failed my first takedown attempt. 

Daniel sprawled back, slithered his hands around my head, and slapped on a guillotine.  His legs whipped around me, leaving me contemplating my very existence, my place in life, and what the hell I was doing stuck in the armpit of some 20 year-old kid.  I figured if I tapped, at least it would be painless.  No shoulder pop or arm break or ankle lock.  I mean, at least I beat the guys on the couch.  At least I faced my fears.  At least I showed up. 

Then something happened.  Something that ends up happening in every one of my matches to this day.  Something wakes up inside of me.  I can dread being there.  I can wish to be anywhere else.  I can question all my life choices.  Yet for some reason an F-it vibe surges through my body.  Fuck it, let’s make this a fight.

I stood up in tripod and grabbed his elbow.  I pulled and yanked until my head popped loose.  He switched my head to the other side, but I shrugged.  The guillotine slid on, but not as tight as the other side.  If I could escape once, I could escape again.  I did.

I couldn’t afford a third guillotine and avoided it by sliding my hips back and out of reach of his arms and improvised a Sao Paulo pass – the last technique I remembered learning for this situation.  His legs popped open.  I was in half guard.  Another chunk of muscle memory flexed.  I slid my leg loose and cross-faced him.  Three points for the pass.  He shrimped and bridged, but couldn’t break my clasped hands.  I’d nailed him into the mat.

The ref warned me about stalling.  I didn’t feel I was stalling, per se.  I simply didn’t know what to do next.  I was up a few points, had plenty of time on the clock, and didn’t want to choke away the match.  So what do I do next?

Sam was still fighting traffic and couldn’t remind me of dozens of side control attacks we’d covered in class. So I relaxed my death grip, allowing Daniel to put me back into his half guard.  I passed again after he switched to butterfly and I hopped around his legs back to side control.  Three more points.  Again, I had no clue what to do next.  So I held him with all I had in me, my biceps grinding into his face.  The muscles in my forearms burning.  I was warned for stalling, again.

I relaxed again and Daniel slithered free.  My wife called out the time, close enough that gold started glistening in the distance.  My opponent dove for a guillotine again.  I fought off his hands and pushed him to the ground.  He whipped his legs around me to closed guard as time ended.  I won my first gold medal.

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.

##

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.

##

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.