We drove south on Highway 5, heading towards Tacoma. I blanked out at some point, staring out at the void between Seattle and Tacoma. The familiar feel of West Seattle disappear in the rearview mirror. Billboards for outlet malls and casinos took its place. This is the exact point I wished I had voiced the thoughts in my head. “Please, Rachelle, let’s turn around. This isn’t a big deal. There will be other tournaments. Let’s just enjoy our trip for the reasons we intended to come. I was stupid. I don’t need to do another NAGA. Let’s just turn around.”
There’s this sliding doors thought experiment. There are moments in your life when various choices change the outcome of your life drastically. Do you go through Door #1 or do you pick Door #2? Either way your life will change. For me, this was one of them. I still dwell on the “what if” for that day. What if I had chosen Door #2? What if…I had just spoken up?
In retrospect maybe it would have led to other problems. Maybe I’d start running from blue belt competitions, instead of diving in two weeks after being promoted. Maybe…
I do know what happened when I stepped through Door #1.
##
Initially I planned to compete back in Atlanta. Last time, in December, a handful of us competed at New Breed and we walked away with the third place team banner. This time, in February, we gathered as many competitors as we could. There were the usual suspects – Matt, Ruth, Marc, Hannah – mixed in with first timers and people dusting off their competition Gis. I wanted to be part of this, to be part of a push towards a first place banner. Years later, I could look up at the rafters of Buckhead Jiu-Jitsu and feel part of something special, which is the first time we took home the team trophy from a tournament.
Looking at the dates of the tournament, a slow dawning sank into my head and heart. I’d be in Seattle with my wife. We’d bought airline tickets and made lodging, rental car, and event arrangements long ago. This was supposed to be a weekend where we visited our beloved Pacific Northwest, reliving (even if for a short time) the life we left behind when we moved to Atlanta. Yet I couldn’t shake the feeling of abandoning my team. I even went so far as to try to figure out how to compete in Atlanta and still make it for the weekend with Rachelle, somehow being in two places at once. This was silly, I know. Sillier in retrospect. Instead I researched tournaments in the area. It was the least I could do to feel part of my team back in Atlanta. This was impetus #1.
At white belt, NAGA served as my first initiation to grappling/BJJ competitions. I came home with double gold medals. This gave me confidence and momentum to continue to compete at white belt, finding a tournament about every other month. Starting my blue and white belt competition journeys at NAGA felt connected in some cosmic way. This was impetus #2.
I’d lost my last tournament to a dubious DQ. This broke my heart. It set off so many dominoes that I’m still feeling the aftershocks today (years and years later). I wanted to jump back on the horse of competition, to rinse the taste of that tournament from my mouth. This was impetus #3.
I had ample reasons to sign up for NAGA. At least when you look at it from a purely BJJ point of view. In retrospect, there’s another side to all of this, without even going into what happened at the tournament. BJJ should be part of life and not the other way around. In other words, and the part that strangely sticks with me longer than anything else that happened, is that I ruined a trip with my wife. We only get so many opportunities for anything and my single-minded, selfishness towards my BJJ journey led me to drift away from something that is as at least as important to me and should be more important…which is sharing my life with Rachelle and building as many fond memories as we can, while we can. This is probably the largest regret I have about this weekend and the part that still hurts.
##
We sat on wobbly folding chairs, arranged under rattling space heaters inside a large warehouse. In the summer and maybe the fall, this space would be used for buying/selling farm stock or housing harvest machinery. A faint scent of hay and dusty animal hides lingered in the air. Today, at least, mats and plastic barriers filled the bulk of the space.
A few white belts, wide-eyed and jogging in space, lined up near one side of the mats. I stared at them, sizing them up. They were about my weight. They would’ve been in my division if this were a couple of weeks ago. Some of them looked younger, still struggling through early adulthood. Others, with stubble and maybe a gray hair or two, looked above 30 years old. These would be my folks, smaller and older. I watched them struggle against each other, finding some rhythm of white belt competition.
I stared at my paper tournament cards. There were two – one for Gi and one for No Gi. Because of my blue belt, I’d been bumped up to Intermediate No Gi. I didn’t expect this. I’d hoped my <1 year experience would still allow me to compete in the Beginner/Novice division; affording me a warm-up bracket to find my feet and build my confidence for my first blue belt Gi division. It wasn’t in the cards.
There was a second time – sitting there next to Rachelle and passively watching the ongoing white belt divisions – which doubt crept through my body. This time, I voiced my concerns. “Let’s just go.”
It wasn’t Rachelle’s fault. She only piped back what I talked about earlier. “You don’t want to do that. This is you facing your fears. If you run now, you might keep running. It’s just nerves talking.”
She was right to do this. This is what I’d asked her before, tournament after tournament, to keep facing my fears and nerves, to keep pushing myself. It’s just on this day, I didn’t articulate it correctly.
I should’ve said, “I don’t want to do this. I want to be with you, doing us stuff. Let’s go wine tasting and shopping and wandering and a million other things we won’t have an opportunity to do in Atlanta. This is my fault, to ask you to give up part of our vacation for this…a nothing tournament being held in a warehouse that smells like cows. There will be another tournament, in a week or a month or two months. I’ll be okay.”
On scratchy overhead speakers, they called my division. “Intermediate No-Gi competitors, start warming up.”
So my day started.
##
I sat on the warm-up mats and stretched out. I didn’t have a defined warm-up routine yet. Instead I watched other competitors and emulated what they did. I pretended to shoot a single (something I never do in competition). I inverted and hung out upside down, my feet stretching to touch the mat behind me. Again this wasn’t something I had in my game (yet). I did some jumping jacks and maybe a few squats. I kept my hips and legs loose while watching earlier matches on the mat nearby.
My division started. I had a bye in a 3-man bracket. That meant I would face the loser of the first match. I don’t remember a lot of their match. I remember one guy ripped off his t-shirt right before walking on the mat. The other guy wore a blue rashguard. They scrambled to the ground, neither person receiving points for anything. The guy with the rashguard pulled closed guard. The shirtless guy did a can opener to open the guard. It didn’t work. I started stretching my neck out.
I shot Rachelle a look, like, “Why am I even here. I don’t want this.”
She gave me a similar look. She didn’t want this for me. Was it too late to walk away?
My match would be soon, maybe 10 more minutes depending on the results of this one. The shirtless guy dove for the other guy’s legs. It didn’t work. This was the first time I saw someone actively going for leg attacks in a tournament. Nerves sparked across my body. I knew I’d lose to the shirtless guy if I faced him. It was just a matter of time.
The guy with the rashguard attempted a sweep. It wasn’t pretty and the shirtless guy scrambled on top and passed. That was all it took as he stalled out the match the rest of the way. At least I’d face the guy wearing a rashguard first.
Another match started. They both inverted, attacking each other’s legs. I couldn’t believe this was “just” Intermediate. They both wore blue accented rashguards. This was blue belt? This is what I would end up facing now and in the future? I was merely a white belt in a blue belt’s clothing. I was a fraud, an imposter. What was I doing here?
My match was next. I stepped out with very little nerves (relatively). I’d resigned myself to losing. It wouldn’t matter and at least I could go home or maybe convince Rachelle that one loss and one match was enough. We’d go wine tasting and do all the fun things we’d initially planned before I complicated matters with this tournament.
We shook hands. We bumped fists. The ref started the match. I faked a singled before grabbing his wrist and sitting down. At least I started confidently. He stepped forward before sitting on my feet. I grabbed an elbow and shot to butterfly. I toppled him. His butt hit the mat. I got excited and didn’t finish coming on top or stay tight throughout the sweep. He pulled his hips back and came back on top. I pulled him in closed guard.
I didn’t know what to do now. My closed guard was limited, especially in No Gi. I went for an arm wrap. I dominated his posture by cupping his neck and pulling him close to me like two bros hugging it out. I half-heartedly went for an arm bar. Finally, I shot a triangle attempt. He shoved my legs away. There was a scramble. I framed, got my hips back under me and slid into half guard. I had a left under hook and was on my right shoulder. I felt safe. I could play from here. I had an advantage. The pressure was on him to score now.
He tried to cross face me. I blocked it. I dove underneath, trying to under hook his free leg. From here, I could bridge or drive forward. From here, I could dominate the match. From here, I knew what to do. He grabbed my free wrist. He yanked his leg back and away. It wasn’t a big deal. I felt safe. He did it again. This wasn’t a submission, just him reacting to my control points, trying to wiggle free as I off balanced him.
Something popped. He pulled back, sitting down. I pulled away. We both heard it and looked at each other. The ref stepped forward. I knew something was wrong. I just didn’t know how much. It was my right arm, the one hooking his leg. The one he was pulling on the wrist. The ref called over the medic. She probed my right hand, my right wrist, my right elbow, my right arm. “I think you sprained it, at the most.”
We heard a pop. That wasn’t a sprain. This was something more. I wore a long-sleeved rash guard. There was a bump underneath. I looked to the audience, to Rachelle, to a nurse. Not someone with basic First-Aid/CPR.
The ref leaned down and asked me to grip his hand. I tried. I couldn’t. He looked at me, “You might have broken it.” I hoped he wasn’t right.
“I’m going to go,” I said.
The ref nodded.
Rachelle bundled me up, grabbed my bag, handed me my shoes. We got to the rental car. A hospital wasn’t far away, maybe three miles, but felt like 30. We hit maybe one red light. I wasn’t in pain, but I knew something was wrong. I cradled my right arm in my lap like a fragile newborn baby. I wanted to cry. I wanted to scream. I wanted to just disappear with Rachelle and forget this whole thing happened; to pick the other sliding door.
We arrived at the hospital. Rachelle helped me sign into the ER. They admitted me right away. This was at around 1 in the afternoon. They took my vitals before leading me to an empty room. I sat on thin, paper sheets. Rachelle found me a blanket, something to cover my sweaty legs. We waited for the doctors.
##
The brain plays funny games. In dire circumstances, we imagine reasons why the situation couldn’t be that bad, definitely not the worst case scenario. We start reimagining the narrative, grasping for reasons we should expect a better outcome. As more data accumulates, with the worst case scenario becoming more and more likely, hope slips away like an abandoned helium balloon.
I knew it was broken. Rachelle knew it was broken. Without definitive proof, though, we hoped for a dislocation, a sprain, or even a hairline fracture. A pop could mean my elbow simply released some pressure. I couldn’t make a fist because I sprained my wrist and just needed a readjustment and some RICE therapy. The lump in my arm was inflammation, stemming from something minor. It couldn’t be broken.
They took x-rays. They probed around my arm. They took their time because it was the weekend and I was from out of town and this was the ER in some small town in Washington. Time ticked away as Rachelle and I started discussing how to salvage the weekend. It wasn’t too late to hit dinner and still make the food and wine event we’d planned to attend the next day (Sunday). It wasn’t too late to have the weekend we initially intended before I interjected my own, selfish plans. We could make it work.
Attached to the wall behind me, a screen sat on a swivel. I couldn’t see the screen. The doctor and PA and Rachelle could. They pulled up the x-rays. Rachelle’s face turned two shades whiter. Her lips pursed together. Her shoulders sagged. When she felt my eyes on her, she touched my leg and my uninjured arm. This, more than anything, relayed the news.
I asked to see it. The PA turned the screen towards me.
Years ago, I broke my wrist along the base of my pinkie. They wanted to cast me for 6 weeks. I asked to see the x-ray. It was a hairline fracture, not even fully running through a tiny condyle of the bone. I walked out of the clinic with no cast, no pins, and no surgery. We wrapped my arm at night and I took it easy for 2-3 weeks. I hoped for that type of situation.
This time, it was broken. There were no doubts about that. It wasn’t a hairline fracture. The bones barely touched each other. The lump in my arm? One, jagged bone pushed against my skin, as if trying to come up for air like a submerged whale. There was no walking out without a cast, a sling, or something.
They tried hooking me up to some sort of medical Chinese finger trap. My arm draped down with a few smaller weights hanging from my elbow and bicep. They hoped gravity would pop the bone fragments back together. I never believed that would work. Rachelle never believed that would work. I doubt anybody believed that would work. We waited for the surgery consult, some local guy coming in for a different ER surgery, but could maybe fit me in.
That’s when the pain hit. Maybe it was partially psychological – the magnitude of the injury finally piercing through my denial. Or maybe adrenaline wore off, petering out to a calm realization that I was truly injured. A dull ache changed to a throbbing. We asked for something, anything to ward off the inevitable discomfort. They hooked me up to a drip of some kind. I didn’t ask. It eased the growing ache and calmed me down.
The surgery consult arrived, glanced at my x-rays before describing my options. My brain slogged through the static of the meds, the whirling insanity of the day, and started digesting the surgeon’s words. He could fit me in tonight, probably close to 10 or 11 at night. It would be an hour or so of surgery and then a day of observations. We could probably (probably) make our flight on Monday morning. I’d spend Sunday in the hospital, but my arm would have a plate and start the healing process.
I asked the surgeon to leave for a second. I needed to sort the pros/cons. This is my brain. This is my brain on meds and pain and dealing with bad news. This is me swiping aside my feelings and looking at the facts and strategy and options. This is me being the partner I should’ve been to start the whole weekend.
Option 1: Get surgery that night. Hope this random surgeon was at least adequate. All follow-up appointments would be with some clinic in Atlanta. Sunday would be ruined. Our trip would be ruined. I’d have a huge hospital bill as a take home prize. At least I could start healing a week earlier. At least I’d be put back together. At least the surgery would be done.
Option 2: Wait a week or so to get surgery. With inevitable swelling, I couldn’t get surgery on Monday or Tuesday or probably even Wednesday. It would be about a week before any surgeon could operate on me. It would be back in Atlanta, although I knew no one there to do it. I didn’t know if anybody could fit me in. I’d be broken during that time, opening a chance of further injury and discomfort. It would be at least a week longer for recovery. At least, though, we could salvage tonight. At least, though, we could salvage Sunday. It was rolling the dice with my health.
Although I discussed this all with Rachelle, I knew what I wanted to do. I could roll the dice with my health. Our weekend wouldn’t be the same as it could’ve been, through those sliding doors, but at least it could be something resembling our initial plans.
With a bottle full of Percocet and an open brace/sling around my fracture, we left the hospital before driving back towards Seattle.
Did we salvage that weekend? That evening, we ate large slices of pizza paired with glasses of local red wine. Rachelle helped me get to bed where I started learning how to prop my arm and sleep fitfully throughout the night. The meds helped. At least a little.
The next morning, a friend from BJJ called (Matt De Leon). Like some radar of friendship, he knew something was wrong. Talking to him, it made the emotions build in my chest like a burgeoning storm. I did my best to hide it, but this would be the first of my tears. When I hung up, I let them come. I sobbed in the car before meeting Rachelle inside for brunch. We ate at our favorite spot, sitting in our favorite stools, being served by our favorite server. He commented on my arm. “That looks new.” He’d broken his arm skiing, years before. He said the time passes quickly.
We wandered through local shops, searching for a medium-sized something to cover my arm and body. We found a blue hoodie, on sale. It worked well, slipping it over my brace and using the hood to pad the sling from rubbing a red, raw line across my shoulder and lats.
We did make it to the food and wine event, being mindful of my arm while zigzagging through endless tables of wine. We ate tiny donuts and random food samplers. We made it to the end, the international section, without blacking out or puking or otherwise going down the drain of being over-served. This was always our goal, this relative finish line. It was still early in the day. We made it back to the AirBNB where we ordered tiny pizzas and drank water. We sobered up while packing our clothes for the next day.
We salvaged the weekend a tiny bit. It wasn’t perfect, but nothing was. Tomorrow, Monday, we’d head back to Atlanta. We’d start learning what we could about my arm. We hoped to find a surgeon that could see me that week. I knew there would be a few sick days in my future and I didn’t have a lot of leave time to dispose of.
That night, word started spreading around my injury. I stopped following the texts as I couldn’t handle it. Not yet. There was tomorrow, but for now, I just wanted to be alone with Rachelle. That was always the point of the weekend, the part I forgot about. The part I still wish I could’ve fixed.