Social media adds a new wrinkle to competing. We can search our opponent’s name on Facebook or Instagram or Twitter or (if really wanting to deep dive) Google. We see their cats or dogs or boyfriends or girlfriends or babies or Halloween costumes. We see their lives, while we search for podium pics or promotion posts. Maybe after the event, we look for their reactions or reflections. I’m not sure this is healthy. I know it’s not for others.
With my first IBJJF tournament, I sat at four stripes and looked forward to rolling into blue on a high note. After dropping to Master 1 (the 30-34 year old age bracket, while I was a fairly new 36 years old), I had one opponent. That’s it between me and gold. Who was this guy, this one last hurdle? Was he some superstar wrestler or submission savant? Maybe he trained as much as me or barely crept into his 30s after years and years of on-again-off-again white belt jiu-jitsu.
I caved to temptation. I looked him up on Facebook. He posted about partying in Vegas the week leading up to the tournament, walking around a few pounds above weight because he forgot about weighing in with the Gi, and how he didn’t train as much as he wanted to. They all sounded like excuses, ways to explain away his performance before he even stepped on the mat. To me, he sounded weak. Like Mr. Burns on The Simpsons, I started rubbing my hands together.
I compared my own preparation. I dieted, monitoring my weight with twice-daily checks. I trained religiously and smartly, feeling my abilities growing each day. I mind-mapped my match and positions. I did all I could to mentally and physically prepare myself for this tournament. I had no excuses and wanted none. I only wanted to compete.
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Because I was still a white belt and no one cares about white belts, the IBJJF scheduled my match somewhere around midnight on Saturday. This is an exaggeration, but it was in the early evening. That meant I sat around sipping water and not eating. It meant staring at endless matches and fielding even more endless questions about being ready. At a certain point, maybe around noon, I just wanted it to be over. I wanted to bump fists and grapple. I wanted it to go eat burgers and drink a milkshake. The longer I sat staring at the mats, the more I wanted to win and dominate. Especially as I saw how my opponent approached the whole event.
The time came to get my Gi on. I entered the warm-up area and waited for my name to be called. My opponent stood staring out at the mats. With wide eyes and a pale complexion, I imagined all his blood pooling to the butterflies in his stomach. He stood scared. He walked scared. In short, he looked scared. I got it. I understood. With black belts you recognized from YouTube or Instagram and a million matches going at once, an IBJJF can be intimidating. Would you weigh in correctly? Would your Gi pass inspection? Who was this guy you were about to compete against? Was it worth it? What would happen? Is it ever worth it?
My Gi passed inspection. I weighed in a couple of pounds under weight. I shook out my nerves and imagined what I wanted to do. I knew he’d pull guard. He said as much on Facebook. This meant I’d pass his guard, maybe go for mount, and win from there. I had my plan. It was time to see it through.
We walked out there. My friends and teammates gave me high fives. It was like coming home. I felt at ease. This was it. I stepped on the mat. We bumped fists.
He pulled guard. I sat to a combat base with one knee up with the other knee on the ground, keeping him from closing his legs to full guard. I stapled his right leg down and forced him to half guard. I froze a bit to feel his reactions. I slammed a cross face on and clamped my hands until my knuckles turned white. He rocked back and forth like an ailing salmon. I held strong and shoved my shoulder in his face.
I heard something. It was a stalling warning. My BJJBFF (Matt) told me to move. I started moving. I found an under hook on his far leg. I walked my knee out. Muscle memory took over. I slid my left knee across his belt before pulling my leg out. Three points for the pass.
My hands clasped together again. He bucked and wiggled under me. The ref called stalling again. My teammates told me to move. I started unwrapping his lapel to isolate his far elbow. I got called for stalling again. I looked up in confusion. My opponent took that moment to recompose a loose half guard. I passed again. 3 more points.
I finished wrapping his elbow in his own Gi before sliding my knee over his body and into mount. I should’ve stopped there, up 10-2 (he earned points for my stalling). Instead I wanted to finish the match. I whipped my leg around his head and isolated his neck and arm. I squeezed the triangle. He bucked again. I grabbed his arm and started pulling it to the side in a Kimura. He bucked again.
I fell to the mat, but I held the triangle and Kimura grips. I started pulling on his arm, his shoulder, waiting for the inevitable tap. He had to tap. Not to tap would be stupid and detrimental to his health, his limbs, and his grappling career. The ref called the match. I won. I must’ve. I had a Kimura, a triangle, and an 8 point lead. Gold was on the horizon.
We stood. My team cheered. The ref started making unfamiliar hand motions. He pointed to me. He raised my opponent’s arm. I didn’t understand. I shook everyone’s hand. I asked the ref what happened, but he walked away in silence. Such at it is with the IBJJF. I followed suit. I didn’t know what to say or do. I kept walking. I walked by the scorer’s table and my friends and the podium. I sat near a far wall and replayed the match. I won. In every scenario, I won. That’s it. I won gold.
I returned to the podium to receive my medal. The medal assistants couldn’t find my name in the system. My coach found me. My teammates found me. Another ref found me. I’d been disqualified for a wristlock. That was the ruling. It wasn’t accurate and it wasn’t right, but that’s the call. So it goes with the IBJJF.
I watched my opponent get his picture on an empty podium because I was disqualified from any medal. I saw him taking pictures with his gold medal and his coach. I stared in disbelief. That medal was mine and then again, it wasn’t.
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I had a tough night that night. This was my first competition loss. There would be more. Yet this one stung and still stings (a little…I mean we were white belts after all). Something about knowing you’re clearly better and yet someone else walked home with the gold medal. So it goes.
I wrote a long, self-pitying post on Instagram. I hated it immediately and deleted it in the morning. It didn’t matter. I kept going. I moved on by drowning myself in burgers, milkshakes, and pizza. I’d earned it.
A few days later, I looked up my opponent on Facebook. He wrote about his experience. He skewed the experience in his favor. Anybody would. He avoided commenting on how he won. He only showed the medal and that’s it. He didn’t discuss the score or exactly what happened, only the result. That’s fine, as is his purview.
This lit a fire in me. I’d leave him in the dust.
I saw him a year and half later at an open mat. Of course he asked me to roll. It was too easy. He rolled hard while I stayed relaxed and withdrawn and almost bored. He tried harder and harder as I submitted him over and over again. I know that will never bring the gold back to me, but for that time and place…it showed how much we’d grown since that first IBJJF tournament.
Two years later we competed in the same tournament. Different belts (me purple and him blue). I didn’t witness how he did. But I was curious. I looked him up on Facebook. He popped his shoulder and arm because he’d refused to tap early. The irony…to a Kimura. He “won” a default bronze, but didn’t emphasize this. Only that he lost to the eventual winner and that he medaled. Of course folks cheered him on. Called him a “beast.” The usual plaudits.
How did I do? I won as part of a streak of golds. I didn’t post about it on Facebook or Instagram. I only hung up my medal, next to the others. The next day, I went back to training and preparing for the next tournament.