I never intended to take BJJ all that seriously. Much less compete at the IBJJF’s Master Worlds. You know, the biggest tournament for grapplers/BJJ practitioners over the age of 30. A chance to call yourself a “world champion” even as you slap a handful of qualifiers to the achievement (Master 2, blue belt, light-feather). Still quite the achievement. Yet who was I, but some blue belt training at a fairly new academy in Atlanta, Georgia. Who was I to think I could beat all the other blue belts in my division. The ones training at more famous schools and under adult world champions, in rooms full of hardcore competitors. Let me tell you a secret…I never really thought I could. Not because of anything lacking in Sam Joseph or Buckhead Jiu-Jitsu. Instead it had everything to do with me and my mentality and the way I saw myself. Funny how our brains mess with us.
##
In the summer of 2017, the idea of traveling and competing at major competitions still felt new to us at Buckhead Jiu-Jitsu. A few months back, while my arm lay in a sling and I rode the ups and downs of painkillers, Matt Shand and Marc flew across country to compete at Pans when it was hosted in California. Winning a match or two felt like a huge achievement.
One of our own making some waves in a major competition. There’s a certain level of pride in that. A warmth in your heart that maybe, slightly, somehow you helped them get there. Their accomplishment a reflection of the gym, the team, and the mats we shared every day. Watching them compete, you felt part of that. Or at least a reflection of your training room. So I wanted to be there for Matt (or Marc or Ruth or whomever) as they brought that sense of team pride back to our academy.
This time – with Marc being in his 20s – it left Matt contemplating going it alone. After doing some PTO math, I promised to go to Master Worlds with him. “If you go, I’ll go.” At the least, I intended to support him and cheer my voice raw. At best, I wanted to be a hard “out” for the folks with multiple stripes and years on their blue belts. Blue belts faded with time and experience and starting to turn purple. The ones with a real chance at gold. Not little old me with a lonely stripe dangling from my belt and my right arm still atrophied from weeks in a sling.
We planned to stay at his buddy Neil’s condo in northern Las Vegas. We’d Uber or taxi to the venue, maybe even convince Neil to drop us off and save a few bucks. With the Mayweather vs. McGregor fight the same weekend, rooms proved sparse and jacked in price. Plus, it’s not like we planned to gamble, drink, or eat much before competing. So why waste money sitting in our hotels staring at basic cable as our stomach’s grumbled in emptiness while we checked and rechecked our brackets and match times? We could do that in a condo while playing video or board/card games, which Neil offered plenty of options.
##
About two weeks from the competition, tragedy struck. Usually that meant me, somehow, stumbling into a random injury. Instead the injury bug bit Matt. As he grappled after Saturday class, he yelped in pain. He lay on the mat grabbing at his ribs. A few of us gathered around, took a knee, and otherwise assessed the situation. When rolling, accidents happen. Maybe a submission hits a bit quicker than you expected. Maybe you fall a little awkwardly. Maybe you’re simply surprised by a move.
“I’m okay. I think it’s just a rib,” Matt explained as he struggled to sit up.
I’ve had my ribs go out when I played soccer. Quite simply, it sucks. It feels like someone stabbing you in the back, twisting a shank and probing around your insides. You jerk to a stop, straighten up, and inhaoe as deeply as you can as sharp pangs shoot through your body. The pain might subside as you relax and the rib slides into position (or close to). I even went to a good chiropractor or DO (Doctor of Osteopathic Medicine) and they’d pop it back into place. A bit more pain, but then an immediate release. A mild sprain.
I thought this was that sort of injury. It was not.
Years later, I felt what happened to Matt. Essentially a rib tearing away from the cartilage that binds the rib to the sternum. As it pokes towards the world like a finger pointing an accusation, it grinds away at the other ribs and all the internal nerve endings fire a warning. If you clench any abdominal muscles (laugh, cough, sitting up), your body seizes in pain. In this case, the best (only) course of action is to do exactly what your body screams to do – chill TF out for a bit. As in four to six weeks of chilling out as the cartilage reforms and hardens around the loosened rib.
With two weeks before Master Worlds, there was no chance Matt could compete. I couldn’t blame him then and even more I don’t blame him now (after it happened to me).
This, unfortunately, left me traveling to Master Worlds alone. Yet it provided a bit of symmetry for us. I was sidelined for Pans. He was sidelined for Master Worlds. One or the other stuck in Atlanta watching from afar.
##
Matt’s injury also left me scrambling for a place to stay. I probably could’ve still stayed with his friend, but I felt that was a bit weird since I’d never met him. Instead I took to the internet to book a hotel. As I said earlier, the Mayweather vs. McGregor fight threw a logistic and financial wrench into room shopping. The “best” I could find, without staying miles and miles from the competition venue, proved to be Circus Circus. Not exactly a luxury place. I’m not even sure luxury should ever be used in the vicinity of describing Circus Circus. Yet there I was pulling out my credit card and booking a room with some amount of satisfaction in my decision. Hey at least it wouldn’t break the bank and I wasn’t practically in Reno.
Flash forward to landing in Las Vegas, grabbing a cab to the hotel, and finding out my room wasn’t even in the casino (maybe a lucky break if you’re familiar with Circus Circus). Following the signs, I dragged my carryon suitcase out a backdoor, across cracked pavement littered with glass and fast food litter, past some dumpsters, and finally to a swath of rooms not even attached to the casino. It looked like someone threw up (many ways to read that) a motel in the back parking lot of Circus Circus. I checked and double-checked my room number and the signs pointing in that direction. Yep, this was it.
With a sigh, I counted out the nights I’d be stuck here. I believe it was a Wednesday. I competed on Friday. My flight home was on Saturday morning (the day of the boxing event and the night that all rooms skyrocketed up in price). Three nights. I could survive three nights.
As I locked and triple locked my hotel room, I reminded myself that I’d been in sketchier sleeping arrangements (not BJJ-related and maybe a story for another time).
##
I wake up early to work out. At various times in my jiu-jitsu journey, that meant attending morning classes. Other times, when morning classes aren’t available or sparsely attended, I head to a gym to work out. Even before BJJ, I lifted in the morning before work. Being “on vacation” or not at home doesn’t change anything. Being restless and a bit jetlagged before my first Master Worlds definitely didn’t entice me to break my habit. Quite the opposite.
Early on Thursday morning, I slid on my workout clothes while searching for a gym open at this crazy early hour (sometime between 4 and 5 am). A 24-hour gym appeared fairly close to Circus Circus. Walkable even. GPS proved deceptive. Despite an almost straight path, it took me about 40 minutes of brisk walking. One way. Not bad if you live in a city like New York or London. Even not that bad in Nevada in the early morning. Yet the reality of Las Vegas struck me as I trekked towards my workout. In short, I felt like I hiked through a circus just to get to the gym.
There’s a meme about people working out early in the morning passing the folks partying through breakfast the next day. This tends to sum up my experience in Las Vegas (even before BJJ). The extra flavor to this trip sounded like Irish 20 and 30-something year-olds hooting and hollering their way through Las Vegas before McGregor’s fight. Even at 5 in the morning, they could be found bellied-up to the bar or craps tables before meandering their way towards the elevators. Holding a pint of Guinness or a sloshing whiskey drink, they toned down their inebriation as they stumbled towards their rooms. These guys were the highlight of my morning treks. “Top of the morning.” “Early riser this one.” “Good for you, mate.” “Outlive the lot of us.”
Usually, though, I shared elevators with walleyed ladies in cockeyed cocktail dresses whose breath oozed of bottom shelf booze. Mascara and base smudged across their faces. Hair askew and smelling of Virginia Slims and knockoff perfume. Lurching around on platform heels. Tumbling against each other and the tobacco soaked walls of the motel as they clamored at every locked door until they found the one that matched their keycard. “Sorry, not sorry” smiles that stopped working long ago. After sharing an elevator with this lot, I contemplated taking the stairs. Yet the discarded syringes and strung out tenants forced me back to the elevators. Have I mentioned I was staying at Circus Circus?
I cranked up my headphones as I walked the early morning streets of Las Vegas. My mind reviewing every possible technique I ever learned. Mixing and matching a variety of combinations. Imagining a hundred and one scenarios in my head. What if…what if…what if… None of them ended with standing on top of the podium or even on the podium. All about the techniques, the matches, and never what the outcomes meant. Working my way through emotions – nervous, excited, lonely, scared – that always pop-up before a (major) competition. I didn’t expect to win, but I didn’t want to suck.
I passed a brothel or a “bar” with obvious sex workers milling out front (see: prostitutes). I couldn’t hear what they said to me, but I figured my lack of eye contact gave them enough of an answer. A car or two buzzed by, leaving me tiptoeing along the edge of the two-lane road. My sneakers kicking up dust and broken glass. The Las Vegas Athletic Club growing bigger by the step. Offering me a reprieve for an hour or so as I sweated out my nerves.
This became my morning routine. Walk through the early morning Vegas insanity. Work out like I do at home. Walk back towards the strip. Pack my backpack for a day at the Las Vegas Convention Center where they held Master Worlds. Try not to let my nerves consume me. Rinse and repeat.
##
Thursday:
Brown belts compete on Thursday. At least the ones I knew. This meant a crew of guys from Creighton MMA (CMMA) in Georgia. This meant guys like Alex Jutis and Chris Jones. This meant guys with years of Masters Worlds experience. Guys I semi-idolized in the way you look up to the good upper belts in your gym. For Buckhead Jiu-Jitsu, we didn’t have many homegrown upper belts. The CMMA folks filled that void due to a close friendship between Sam (Buckhead Jiu-Jitsu) and Paul Creighton (CMMA). They trained with us. We trained with them. No rivalries. No mentions of being a “creonte.”
I wasn’t so concerned with their individual matches, as I knew their level to be much higher than my own. Instead I watched how they handled the nerves or the comedown from competing (win or lose) in a major competition. I also watched the other two athletes from Buckhead Jiu-Jitsu – Ruth and Winthorpe – as they prepared to compete as well. Everyone more experienced or “seasoned” compared to me with the paint still drying on my blue belt and training for a little over a year at that time.
What I noticed: Going off to be by yourself is fine. Joking around in fine. Sitting there quietly is fine. Whatever you need to process your emotions. People were surprised to see me there, as Matt and Ruth were the ones expected to compete at every chance. Master Worlds is almost overwhelming. With dozens of mats (and growing every year), there are seas and seas of people coming and going and yelling and hugging and crying and celebrating. Vendors spread out in canvas tents to fill the convention hall. The usual Las Vegas excess of stimuli. Almost too much to keep focused on the task at hand. How could I handle it all in less than 24 hours? What was I even doing there? Was it too late to go back home?
I didn’t know Chris Jones all that well. Even now, I know him slightly more. A Marine and Iraq combat action veteran and now owner of Nucleus BJJ in Georgia. Even back then, in the local Atlanta grappling scene, his name evoked a mythological character. “Oh man, Chris Jones is competing at this New Breed.” “Who is Chris Jones?” “Just watch.” Which I did, as he seemed like some battle-hardened warrior ripping through all contenders in the advanced divisions (and open weight) regardless of their belt (him being a purple at the time). A gladiator asking whether we were “entertained yet” as he savagely subbed his way to victory. To my tiny white belt brain, that seemed unfathomable. Like he was some unstoppable force. Yet there he was at Master Worlds working his way through his bracket.
He won gold that year. The first time, after trying for years and years and years (since blue belt). I couldn’t imagine him ever losing and on that day he didn’t. What struck me most was the flood of feelings that poured from him (this Marine, this combat veteran, this total badass) as he hung with us back at the bleachers. Here was this practically mythical character (to me) going through a font of emotions. It meant that much to him to win something he’d chased for so long, maybe feeling impossible to achieve until finally breaking through and getting that gold. For a Chris Jones, the sort of intimidating force of nature, it made sense he’d win a world title. That’s the sort of athlete I imagined I’d be facing the next day.
##
Friday:
About 20 athletes were signed up in my division at Master 2 (ages 35-40), blue belt, light-feather (141.5 lbs and lower). Back then, the IBJJF seeding rules weren’t as spelled out as they are now. Further, and maybe a commonality at blue belt, most folks hadn’t competed much at IBJJF events. This left a cluster of randomly selected matchups and no clear cut “this is the guy to beat” aura for anyone. At that time, I only noticed the number of stripes or the wear and tear on my opponents’ blue belts. That’s about the limit to my scouting, with an understanding that I had maybe one stripe on my blue belt at the time (I think).
I also noticed the patches everyone wore. Many, like me, originated from gyms less renowned. A few, though, competed under ATOS or Alliance or Cobrinha or AOJ or Six Blades. Big gyms ran by world champions in their own right. I imagined novice versions of their instructors – DLR, sit-up guard, leg drags, berimbolos, suffocating mount, and so forth. Techniques and positions I studied, but yet to understand and implement in my game. Hell, I had no game at that time. Just go out and do stuff. No particular technique stood out or could lean on to bring me to victory. Despite my successes in local competitions, I imagine most of my teammates questioned how I won my matches. I wasn’t the spider-guard guy or even a particularly reliable passer. I wasn’t hyper-athletic or fast or flexible or…instead, like me, I imagine we all thought of me as “lucky” and yet somehow consistently lucky. All that to say, I had almost no game plan going into this tournament.
In my first match, a blue belt with four stripes served as my first opponent. Confident and probably sniffing around for his purple belt. I imagine he thought of me as an easy speed bump on the way to later glory. As every butterfly and nerve shot through my body, I figured he was right. So my mind grasped at my game plan. Concentrating on each step to help my mind focus on what I could control.
I wanted to start with a collar drag. At the least, I wanted to begin the match on my terms. Something I felt strongly about when I had no idea what to do or where to go after that. At the minimum, be first to do something…anything…and hope for the best.
So it went. Collar drag, but I missed grabbing his leg for a single. My opponent fell back on his butt, but I did not to make him accept bottom position. He popped back to his feet, although I still had the cross collar grip. I heard voices from the sidelines yelling at me to follow with the single leg. While still digesting the voices, I went for another collar drag. Again, not following on the single leg. Again those voices, and then it dawned on me. Those were the CMMA guys in my corner. They were yelling at and for me. That shifted my focus a bit to be more aware.
I avoided the definition of insanity (repeating the same thing and respecting different outcomes) and pulled to an open guard. It wasn’t the best pull, but it allowed me to wriggle into closed guard and close my legs like my life depended on it. I followed the instructions yelled at me from the sidelines and fought my opponent’s hands. I recognized something basic as I controlled both wrists. I threw up a triangle after jamming one of my opponent’s hands into his chest. I locked a triangle.
We fought there for a bit with the CMMA guys reminding me to break his posture. I kept working my legs to a tighter lock as my opponent wiggled and squirmed to regain his posture and weaken my lock. At some point we went out of bounds. The ref stopped us. Confused, I thought we’d ended the match.
Instead the ref ushered us back to the middle, awarded me an advantage, and reset us from the feet. I figured my best bet was to get back to closed guard where my opponent struggled. I pulled again and wriggled my feet through his arms and back to closed guard.
“Pull out his Gi,” someone yelled. I did as I was told.
“Wrap it around his back and go for cross collar.” I knew what they meant and followed in kind. This was a Brabo set up or a way to keep his posture down through the lapel wrap. I worked a deep grip on one side of the collar, but couldn’t get the other hand secure on the far side. Or at least not enough before he’d buck and fight and make me reset again. We worked like this for the rest of the match before time expired.
I won a match! Against a four-stripe blue belt. Oh shit!
##
Back in the bullpen, my mind whirled. This felt different than the other competitions. Usually in a high school gymnasium, I could sit on the cold aluminum bleachers and pretend my day wouldn’t be spent grappling other dudes. Instead, I paced back and forth with dozens of other blue belts waiting their turn to be led down an endless row of mats before being commanded to “combate.” All of us looking like we wanted to puke or die or slink back to our hotel rooms and order room service.
I watched the electronic board announcing upcoming matches. My name crawled up the list until I saw my next opponent’s name. Or more accurately his school. A-O-J. Well…fuck me. If Buckhead ever closed or I ever moved, this was the school I dreamed of training at. AOJ Online served as the main resource for my studies and here was a guy that trained there fulltime. How fucked was I? Like me in a Bizarro universe where we settled in southern California instead of Atlanta, Georgia.
With a belly full of butterflies I listened to the CMMA guys remind me to follow up on a single leg, but otherwise I’m doing pretty well for my first match in a major tournament. “You’re really coachable,” one of them said. “Yeah, it’s like playing a video game” I took those notes with pride. If it meant continuing to win, then I’d listen. “Take deep breaths,” they told me. I told them about my next opponents’ school. “Watch the berimbolo.” I only half knew what that meant. I definitely didn’t know what to do if he attacked with one. I imagined watching him berimbolo me, my back exposed, as he sunk in his hooks for four points. Yes, I’d watch the berimbolo…all the way to a choke from the back. “We’ll be there for your next match,” they told me before leaving me alone in my thoughts.
Time blurred together. I have no idea how fast or slow it took for my name to be called again. As we walked out to the mat, I stared at my opponent’s back and the patch. I fully expected to lose and decisively, but what other option did I have? Run? Fake an injury on the way out to the mat? Fuck it.
We grabbed each other’s collars. Both of us hesitant to immediately pull. Our feet running in place with indecisiveness. With the CMMA guys’ voices in my head, I reached for a single leg without even changing levels. My opponent’s grip held me at bay. I sat to DLR. Live by the sword, die by the sword. I kicked out his far leg and sat up to hug his near leg. I stood with the single leg and put him down to the mat for two points. I tried to force him to a half guard. That didn’t work. He pummeled his outside leg back in front of me. I dove for an over under pass without fully latching onto his hips and sinking into the position. He shoved me away before we both stood. He pulled to DLR. A much stickier version of what I did. He off balanced me, exposing my back. Berimbolo territory and me watching it happen. I somehow surfed back to facing him. “Step over his leg,” someone yelled. A CMMA voice. I did as instructed, then sunk to my knees to force half guard again. My opponent would have none of that as he pummeled back to neutral, his feet or shins always staying in front of us. We stayed here, me barreling forward and him staying disciplined with his guard. Seconds ticked away until minutes disappeared on the board. A slim 2-0 lead.
He went for loop chokes, yet I stayed stubborn with my posture. None of them getting very deep before I stood back up, providing room for his DLR again. Somehow I weathered staying right in front of him and not even cutting an angle. My meager athleticism allowing to keep my balance while continuously trying to force top half guard as my only plan of action. Playing this on repeat over and over again. Another cruddy over-under attempt or two before I stood up again. He stood as well, giving me a chance to try something different. Anything. How about a collar drag followed by a double leg? Two more points. I stayed on my knees, looking for a better over under. I didn’t know what else to do and didn’t want to make a massive mistake this late in the match. Anything to avoid scrambling out of a berimbolo or him sinking in his hooks in the last seconds.
I pulled again, banking on giving up 3 as a worst case scenario. He dove through my DLR. He attempted a diving back take from top position. WTF? I scrambled until getting on top and safely facing him as time expired. Match over. 4-0 and an advantage for the last exchange.
I couldn’t believe the moment. I beat an AOJ student and earned a medal at my first Master Worlds. What was even happening?
##
The mat coordinator told me to stay there near the mat. “Good match,” he said.
I waited there trying to understand the moment. I stood on the edge of a finals appearance at my first major IBJJF tournament. I never expected to get this far. This felt like Matt Shand territory and not little old me stumbling into the medal rounds. Then this voice popped into my head. It reminded me of the snake in Disney’s Robin Hood. A voice I’d fight again and again and again. Something that initially slithered into my thoughts at my first competition (NAGA) less than a year ago. It’s a voice that deflates the pressure from the entire event. “You did well. You won a medal at a major. You beat a couple of guys you didn’t expect to beat. Nothing wrong with ending your day here.” I wasn’t strong enough then to tell the voice to STFU. I had yet to find that second voice to speak a little louder. Like the old cartoons of an angel on one shoulder and a demon on the other. I’d yet to find that whisper – that shout – to keep going and that I deserved to be there and so much more.
My opponent stood with a very low posture, squatting almost to the mat. Back then, I thought that weird. Now…I should’ve guessed he’d pull guard. I sauntered into his full guard, never even attempting to establish a grip or angle change. I worked to open his guard a few times before finally opening his ankles. He swung in a DLR hook. I stepped over a foot just like last match, but since I had no clue how to consolidate from that position, I sat on his hooks and stayed off balanced. I didn’t swing towards a knee cut. I didn’t sprawl for a folding pass. I didn’t even fall to my knees trying to force half guard. Just squatted there hoping for something to happen. Something did.
He found pants grips on both my legs, swung into singe-leg X and put me to the mat for two easy points. It was a smooth transition to a textbook sweep and I was clearly not at that level. I found a collar grip and a DLR hook. He sat on my attachments, making it hard to pull him off balance (oh…this is what I’m supposed to do from that spot). He slide across my DLR hook to force half guard on my weak side (or slightly weaker side since I doubt I had a “strong” side then). Thankfully I’d been squished there a ton of times before and curled into a ball before sucking his legs into closed guard. I worked out his lapels and started breaking his posture with the Brabo grips from the first match. I couldn’t find any momentum there. I went for an overwrap on his right arm, hoping to sink in a choke. He kept himself safe by driving all the way in and take away room for a clean attack. We fought here for some time. The seconds clicked away. With less than a minute left, I used the lapel to enter a triangle. The CMMA guys yelling for me to break the posture and fully lock the attack. I locked it in. It felt good. Textbook even. Maybe this was my time after all. Clawing back from a deficit and finding a way to win in the waning seconds. His head turned red while he framed on my hips to survive just a little longer. How many seconds remained? Could I finish him? Could I squeeze more? Time. I lost. 2-0. Bronze at Master Worlds 2017.
Along the side of the mat, I didn’t know what to do next. I wasn’t heartbroken or devastated. I just didn’t know what the next step entailed. Was there a third place match? The mat coordinator told me to wait outside the barriers for the finals match and then meet everyone at the podium. “Good matches. I thought it would be you or the guy you just faced. That’s who I was betting to win gold. How long have you been a blue belt? You’ll get it next year, I’m sure.”
As he escorted me back to the insanity of the general population, the CMMA guys greeted me on the other side. “Go get your medal and we can all hangout. Really good job.” The guy I lost to ended up winning gold and being promoted to purple belt on the podium. Both facts blunted the loss. Not that I take them as an excuse on why I lost, but instead it told me where I was at that moment in time. A scrappy blue belt that could medal at a major tournament. Yet not nearly as refined as the guy who could win gold and be ready for the next rank. I was okay with that. I understood I had work to do if I were to pursue something more than bronze.
As I pulled off my medal, it swung into my eye and gave me a black eye (“It’s not a tournament until Tom gets hurt”). Laughing at myself, I placed my (quite large) medal in my backpack and wondered whether TSA would stop me at the airport.
As we dug into steaks and burgers, the CMMA guys asked me whether I wanted to keep chasing that gold (that “world title”). I shrugged my shoulders. Almost like a curse, they explained it can be frustrating and maybe even break you. Yet at the same time it gave your training focus and meaning. A double-edged sword.
Their question stayed in my head all night. Back at Circus Circus I didn’t sleep. I ate my way through shitty food as I packed my Gi and clothes from the week. I held the medal in my lap as I contemplated my next steps in light of this weekend’s success. I enjoyed training. I enjoyed drilling. I enjoyed the process of improvement. Of course I enjoyed winning, but mostly because it legitimized my training and dedication. Not because I wanted to be seen as some “badass.”
After a sleepless night, I boarded my plane back to Atlanta. I didn’t know what the medal in my luggage meant, but I did know I’d be back to training on Monday. Same as every other Monday.