So you started jiu-jitsu. Love your original gym. Made amazing friends. Training regularly. Never really thought about competing. Along comes a NAGA or maybe a Grappling Industries. For some stupid reason, you signed up. Now your palms are sweaty, knees weak, arms are heavy. Just like Eminem, you’re trying not to vomit up your mom’s spaghetti. You competed. It wasn’t that bad. Maybe you even won gold. There’s an IBJJF Open coming soon. Why not? Your palms are sweaty…
Flash forward and somehow you’ve stumbled into being something of a competitor yourself. Your sights on bigger medals. Titles that impress others. Gold that eludes you as you stand further down the podium than you want to.
Or maybe you simply rose up the ranks. A well-worn purple or brown belt hanging around your waist. You’re a bit bored, though, because you’ve climbed the ladder and struggle for tough rolls. The sort that push you to improve and keep you showing up. The way being a clueless white belt felt. Now you’re spamming wristlocks on blue belts and yawning as you smash purple belts. The only person that challenges you is your instructor and even then it’s a daily coin flip. You wish the guys who used to beat you, but for various reasons quit, would show back up. You yearn for a fleet of badass black belts to move into town like some motorcycle gang. At the least, you wish for some tough open mats in driving distance.
Or you moved for a job, marriage, or different weather. You never gave much thought about joining a higher profile gym. Yet one is in the same city. In driving distance even. You check the commute. Not bad. You check their schedule. Lots of options. You check their monthly rates. Doable. You start to feel like Bilbo Baggins fingering the one ring. After all…why not? Why shouldn’t I check it out?
Or, quite simply, you always dreamt of training there. Obsessed with their athletes. Replaying highlights before bed. Buying all their instructionals. Never missing a match. Doing your best to imitate their style. If you had a genie and one wish left, the wish would be to train at this high profile academy. You sell your couch and TV and anything that won’t fit in a suitcase. You pack your Gis and decide to see what all the hype is about. Scared/nervous (scervous? nared?), but you’re doing it. You’re making it happen. Palms are sweaty…
No matter your reason, you now find yourself training at a high profile competition gym. Let me tell you what to expect. At least in my experience. Spoiler alert: It’s not easy, but it can be worth it.
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Once in a Lifetime
When you join any new gym, it’s tough. Your friends aren’t there. Your jokes aren’t landing (yet). Even the flow of class or instruction feels “off.” Folks roll harder with the new person (stranger danger) for various reasons. You’re not used to their style and vice versa. No matter what, the first week or two (or three) after joining a new jiu-jitsu academy is rough. Even if you are generally pretty, pretty, pretty good.
When you join a competitive school, especially a higher-level one, it feels even tougher. It is tougher. You quickly learn where you are in the pecking order and it may not be where you imagined yourself. After being one of the best grapplers at your old gym, you might be second guessing yourself when world champions pass your guard with ease. You question your jiu-jitsu, your belt rank, and even your desire to train.
What you have to remember, though, is why you moved. Or why you felt attracted to training at this competitive gym. Often it’s because you felt bored or unchallenged. You wanted to test yourself and grow. Now? It’s certainly challenging. Which is what you wanted? Right? RIGHT?!
Try to remember the monotony of your prior training. You trained with the same people on the same days, playing the same game over and over and over. Now is a chance to shore up new holes or learn new techniques or evolve like you never experienced before. At least at this (higher) level. As low as you feel in the early going, there’s only one direction to move…up.
When I moved to AOJ, I was a purple belt that had medaled (as a purple) at Euros and Master Worlds. I remember the gauntlet of other purples rolling their hardest against me, trying to scrub the skin off my face with a cross face and doing their best to add to their highlight reels against the new guy. I resorted to playing half guard again and again and again. Grinding out sweeps and over under passes. Yet I never considered myself that sort of player. My DLR (my main guard before I moved) didn’t last two seconds against anyone at AOJ. I got whooped for days and weeks. Or at least struggled to stay afloat. Quite simply, it sucked.
I didn’t want to default to playing half guard. It’s not why I moved to California. I could learn that anywhere. I wanted the pretty jiu-jitsu associated with the Mendes Brothers. Leaving me to choose between swallowing my pride and working on my guard retention, guard pulls, and DLR stickiness or grit my teeth and eke out training “wins” by playing half guard and grinding my face through over under passing. I knew my goals – short and long – and the second option created a barrier between now and then. I swallowed my pride and got passed. A lot. Then something happened. I learned how to play a unique version of DLR. One my late-30s knees (with 40s around the corner) could sustain. Getting passed became rarer. Sweeps became common. Wins and medals piled up.
It wasn’t easy, but even on the worst days…I simply had to remind myself why I wanted to train at AOJ of all places.
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Should I Stay or Should I Go
After a week or two, the reality of training at a highly competitive school hits everyone. Folks comes in with a smile and a sense of wonder. They’re finally here, stepping on the mats, lined up next to world champions, and ready to test their abilities. Then the cold truth hits them. They aren’t at that level (yet). Or at least the level they imagined for themselves.
Frankly, it’s a slap in the face. When I joined, thankfully, the reality of being in my later 30s blunted any hits to my ego. I wasn’t a Tainan or Cole. Getting subbed by teenagers didn’t change my motivations to be there. I wasn’t trying to “make a name for myself” or prove I could hang with (future) adult black belt world champions. That was never my intention, yet that’s not true for everyone.
I remember when an athletic brown belt joined AOJ. He was tough in No Gi because of a solid wrestling pedigree. Clearly talented and moved well. He jumped right into comp class and was placed in groups with guys like Tainan Dalpra and Johnatha Alves. A tough introduction to AOJ, but honestly a compliment if you know how Gui picks the groups.
Meanwhile a purple belt about my size, but in his mid to late-20s, joined around the same time. He moved from South America after winning many local competitions. After sizing him up, Gui put him into competition training groups with me. He was admittedly a handful and with a dangerous guard, but I enjoyed the challenge. I did well against this purple belt, which only matters to this story. After a few rounds together, he asked how old I was (10+ years on him) and how long I’d been training (overall less than him). I saw him calculating the math. If training at AOJ made me difficult for a 20-something competitor to deal with, what would that do for someone like him? You know…if he stuck around long enough for the training to pay off.
Meanwhile, I saw the wrestler sitting on the benches after another tough comp class. He held his head in his hands as he talked to a couple of other guys. It made no sense to him. Why did it feel like he couldn’t hang with Tainan and Johnatha or even guys not quite at that level? Hell, he struggled against me in the Gi (No Gi being a totally different story). All of it made no sense.
Flashforward a few months (even years later) and the wrestler no longer trained at AOJ. I never heard of him competing…really at all. The South American? Now a black belt at AOJ that won a ton of titles as a purple and brown belt (Masters). One stuck around. One didn’t. One could take the hit to his ego after realizing what training there did to anyone willing to put in the work. The other…couldn’t take the hit to his ego.
I’m not calling out anyone in particular, but I saw this a lot at AOJ. Folks stick around for a week or two or three and then find another place to train. A few others quietly keep showing up. Day after day. Week after week. Month after month. Then something happens. They start blooming. Gold medals and titles start stacking up. The plant grows to the pot, but you have to stick around long enough to blossom.
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How a samurai ties their shoes…
I heard the the following saying recently. “When you want to become a samurai, you need to learn how they tie their shoes.” Essentially, what makes a samurai a samurai? It isn’t the sword or the armor or even because someone refers to them as one. Instead it’s the small things (daily habits, mindset, how they hold themselves, etc.) that add up over time. Until one day that person simply is a samurai. The compound effect.
Another way to put it, “who do I have to become to get what I want.” Many people want to become a world champion or be considered the best in their field. Yet two things tend to happen.
First, people don’t want to put in the effort. The dream is there. No doubt. Yet they don’t (habitually) do the small things. Things like showing up when you’re sore or continuing to work new positions or finding the tougher rolls that will claw at your ego. Instead, it’s easier to default to a comfort zone and keep dreaming. This is the largest obstacle for most folks.
Second, is putting in the wrong sort of work. This is a bit more tragic. Someone shows up every day – motivated and hungry – yet their efforts are misguided. They don’t have the right people around them to point them in the right direction. Put another way, they lack samurais to emulate.
I’m a huge proponent of templates. Much of my success (on and off the mats) stems from seeing someone in a position I want and learning how they reached that standard. Many times it’s not inherent talent or blundering luck. It comes down to the small things repeated over a length of time. Many times it’s mundane tasks deemed below someone’s time. As simple as repping out drills, asking questions, or showing up with a positive attitude. It’s the little things that end up mattering the most. In other words, how they tie their shoes.
Being at a high profile competition gym provides you firsthand experience in how they achieved that level. Whether it’s the aesthetics, class structure, techniques, or something else, it’s all there to be absorbed and copied. Spending time there will teach you how to tie your shoe. That is if you want to become a samurai.
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Looking Sharp
“Do you ever realize we just play our A-games?”
This was a question muttered in my direction from a solid black belt, as we lined up in comp class waiting to be assigned training groups. Groups designed to challenge you. Each round a dogfight (in the normal sense and not in the half guard sense). Rushing to your A-game before your partner slides into theirs. Too late? Better have a backup plan to negate their entries and meander back to yours. Each grip, movement, off balance ready to tip the scales either way. The round ends and you prepare to do it all again. For an hour. Mentally, physically, and emotionally draining. Tomorrow will be the same thing. And the day after that.
Your rest day is the weekend or the day before a competition. If you even choose to rest.
“Do you ever want to puke when we start class?”
A different tough black belt with an even tougher job. No one would question this guy’s guts. As we cluster in our groups, waiting for the day’s instruction, I want to puke or pee or anything to yank me off the mats. Yet we don’t. Even when we do puke (just a bit of bile) or get a bloody nose, we swallow it back and keep going. Every. Single. Time.
I wouldn’t say all this sucks, but it’s no day at Disneyland.
Something happens, though, when you suffer through the nerves and grind.
I imagine metal melted down and folded over and over and over again until it starts resembling a blade. Then the blade sparking against the grinding stone until razor sharp. Now taking shape into a sword.
I’m no sword. I’m old and brittle and small. Maybe closer to a dusty ceremonial blade found in some crypt. Or a rusting, bent steak knife shoved in the back of a drawer or tossed into some ditch on the side of the road. Yet parts of my jiu-jitsu are sharp. Like the pointy end of my examples. Or used to be (see also: rust).
It didn’t happen by accident. It happened because I kept showing up despite knowing I’m dealing with everyone’s A game and feeling like I want to shit myself (or puke) every single day of comp class. There’s something rewarding about that – seeing the results of hardship.
You know there aren’t many gyms that could’ve forged that sort of edge. Hence you take pride in being able to cut.
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Keeping up with the Joneses
A good competition school gets results. Medals and titles stack up like poker chips in Rain Man. More than just the head coach or their family stand on top of the podium. The room speaks for itself. What’s the saying? A rising tide lifts all ships.
I remember a random Friday class. A bit lighter attendance as all Fridays tend to be. I get it. It’s nice to head to the beach or mountains a bit early. Avoid traffic. Get a head start on the weekend. Tempting. Very tempting.
We glanced around the mats between rounds and started counting the titles. Belt, age, size, gender didn’t matter. The room was loaded with folks that had won major IBJJF competitions at least once in their competition careers. There’s something empowering about that. We are all the Joneses and we’re all trying to keep up with each other.
You see Jimmy drilling between classes, you start drilling between classes. You notice Linda studying film and asking questions, you start studying film and asking questions. You overhear Bob signed up for the next IBJJF Open, you sign up for the next IBJJF Open. It’s not necessarily a rivalry, but following each other’s lead. You see their results and you start noticing what brought them to that level.
And trust me, they’re noticing you and your results.
It’s a vibe or culture. Almost unwritten expectations to continue this steep trajectory. The room continuously raising its level and you paddling to keep your head above water. Again, it’s not for everyone, but…it will make you better. By a lot.
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There’s dozens of us…
I feel (felt) horrible when I lost a competition. It took me years (and moving to AOJ) to understand why. It took me years and a black belt to understand a different lesson (and a different blog entry). For now, though, let’s discuss why I felt terrible. I disappointed myself. My sacrifice and hard work didn’t pay off. I hadn’t figured out how to win a major medal, even at the Masters level. My time and energy (and money) felt like a waste.
Let me jump ahead a bit. What does it feel like to win a major IBJJF tournament? I can’t speak for winning an adult black belt world championship, but I can speak for many other gold medals. Even though I cried a few times, it’s not as satisfying as you’d imagine. It’s relief and vindication of sacrifice and hard work. That’s really it. That’s the take-home message once your heartrate plummets back to normalcy and you shove your sweaty Gi back in your backpack. You’ve figured out – at least a little bit – what it takes to win something that “big.”
I was never that happy or overjoyed. I certainly never screamed at the rafters. Just relieved and vindicated. And hungry for pizza. Can’t forget that. I knew, though, there was more work to do.
When I lost, though, it was frustration more than anger. Although it manifested in sulking and solitude. I felt I’d done “enough” for that gold medal. Reality punched me in the stomach, yet a pizza still sounded good. Obviously there was more work to do.
With a sigh, I wake up the next morning and start writing down what to work on. By Monday, I’m back to training. By the next week, I’m squinting ahead at the next goal. In a month, it’s almost totally forgotten. Am I talking about losing or winning? Yes.
I thought I was alone in these feelings. This weird cycle of crippling aggravation after a loss and an almost blasé attitude when I won. In 24 or 48 hours, back to the routine with a bit of high-stress data to work from. Rinse and repeat.
What I learned, though, is all of us operate like this. We care (honestly) way too freaking much about something as niche as jiu-jitsu. Even the highs aren’t worth it because then another mountain appears in the distance. The next goal to conquer. Why do we do this to ourselves?
When I won Master Worlds as a brown belt (spoiler alert), I remember Pablo Lavaselli asking me what I wanted to work on come Monday. Not “how does it feel” or any other platitude. What can I do to improve? Not even for anything – another competition, a super fight, a grudge match with my gym rival. None of that. Simply for the sake of improvement.
What happened Monday? Amongst other things, Tainan critiqued my matches and showed me how to shore up some mistakes. No parade. No confetti. Just how to get better.
I didn’t take offense to either response. It’s because they knew. We knew. We all know what it’s like to carry that mentality. It’s frustrating and rewarding and addicting, but in another environment it seems insane. A bit too much. Obsessive. “It’s not that serious.” (And it’s really not.) But it’s hard to tell that to your feelings.
What’s the quote “those who were seen dancing were considered insane by those how can ‘t hear the music.”
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I’m just one point of view for training at a high-profile competition gym. For me, especially for that time and place, it worked out well. I wanted the challenge. I found good results. I learned a ton about jiu-jitsu, competing, and most importantly myself.
Every morning, running around the white mats with the smell of coastal California in the air, I felt blessed to be there. I was there just about every morning. I paid attention to every word of instruction. I did my best to implement the lessons. I watched how others digested their performances – not so different than me – and how I could do similar. I tried using every resource available while training at AOJ – drilling time, questions/answers, other motivated partners, comp class, traveling to competitions, observing high-level champions…etc.
Quite simply, I felt like I fit AOJ or AOJ fit my needs.
I also saw that AOJ wasn’t a good fit for some folks. I can’t speak for their experiences or why AOJ didn’t meet their expectations. Again, I’m just one viewpoint. As I travel, though, everyone asks what it’s like to train at a high-profile competition gym (like AOJ). For me, it was incredible. For others, not so much.
Hell, I can’t even guarantee I would’ve enjoyed a different high-profile competition gym.
The only advice I can really stand on, though, is give it time. The challenge comes with a price (somewhat literally). Your ego will be challenged. You’ll wonder if it’s worth it. You’ll likely think of quitting or finding an easier path. You’ll have amazing days sprinkled between humbling days. Don’t quit because it’s hard because that was the whole point. Right? RIGHT!? As the saying goes, “If you can make it there, you can make it anywhere.”