competition – White Wolf BJJ

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.

BJJ Journey Blue Belt Buckhead BJJ

August 5, 2017: New Breed Part II

by Thomas

There might be something wrong with me. After all the anguish and frustration from being injured. All the work and patience to return to training. Even with a thick scar running down my arm as a reminder. Four months after breaking my arm, three months after returning to the mats (and even that might’ve been too fast), I found myself driving across Georgia towards another New Breed competition. The usual butterflies and nausea surging through my body. Yet there I was, jumping right back on the horse after it bucked me off just a short time ago.

Last time I competed at a New Breed, only a handful of Buckhead Jiu-Jitsu athletes competed. Yet we came home with the third place banner. A few months later, while I was in Seattle breaking my arm, they rose to second place. This time, we had our sights set on the team trophy. It felt like just about everyone at Buckhead Jiu-Jitsu signed up to compete. Clueless white belts through slightly less clueless blue belts. All hoping to contribute towards team points.

Despite my health concerns, I got swept up in the excitement as well. This time, though, only committing to the Gi portion of the tournament. This New Breed functioned as my first “real” blue belt tournament. Not my minute or two of a NAGA before breaking my arm and rushing to the ER. Not sure anyone can really counts that towards “experience.” Or maybe closer to “character building” in the way Calvin’s dad (from Calvin and Hobbes) defined life’s struggles. Surely, though, I didn’t come away with a lot of technical and tactical lessons from the day. At least not in the way competitions should be used for training feedback. So this felt like the first “real” competition at blue belt. Or at least one I could imagine not rushing off to the ER sometime during my first match.

Since the injury, I hadn’t trained No Gi at all. Part of it had to do with breaking my arm in a No Gi match. A lot of it, though, had to do with simply not caring much about No Gi. The past few months of growth have been in the Gi – DLR, Collar Sleeve, Collar Drags, pretty much anything on AOJ Online. Further, and a bit more honestly, this was during the rise of leg attacks and my 36 year-old body wasn’t exactly sold on putting my knees at risk. I could handle ankles, but for some reason I imagined my CLs (ACL, PCL, MCL, LCL) turning to dust like a vampire in the sun when heel hooks and reaping remained on the table. Hence, I only signed up for the Gi portion of the competition.

I didn’t give much thought about the tournament until the day of. I trained as I usually did. Drilled as I usually did. Studied as I usually did. Really, though, I believed the “win” entailed returning to the competition mats. Not necessarily a gold medal. Instead a boost of confidence to keep going despite my setback earlier that year. That being said, I wanted to “contribute” to the team points as much as I could (hopefully with a gold).

The day of competition arrived before I knew it. With another great turnout by Buckhead Jiu-Jitsu, a bevy of teammates ran around the mats competing in No Gi. Between matches, I sat with Kennith Jackson (KJ) to watch his bracket unfold. Quite a few of his opponents also signed up for the Gi portion (the bracket both of us signed up for). Soon enough KJ’s finals arrived. I watched and cheered as he decisively won gold. As we waited for the third place division to end, we liked our chances of closing our Gi division. There was no animosity or side eyes as we realized we’d be competing in the same bracket. Instead, I knew how tough he was and, according to him, my technical aptitude gave him problems.

For being from the same academy, they placed KJ and I on opposite sides of the bracket. The No-Gi silver medalist would be my semi-finals (and second) opponent. If I got that far. Up first, though, was a guy that lost in the first round of the No Gi division.

Compared to my previous competitions, I started out incredibly aggressive. Confident and focused on dictating from the start. I found a cross collar grip from the feet and fully sent a collar drag. I landed on top as he scrambled to half guard. I remember passing, but then being too attached as he bridged for a reversal. I pulled him into my closed guard and took a breath. I was still up on points, but not sure what to do as my mind raced through too many techniques. I could’ve clung to closed guard and wore out the clock. That would be the white belt thing to do. The simple thing. The thing that, yes, would’ve kept me safe and eke out a win, but I wanted to show my abilities. I opened to collar sleeve and shot a triangle. He postured up and I followed with another collar drag. I passed again and swung around his head for an armbar. The attachment to his limb proved to be way too loose and he easily escaped. I stood with him as he backed away. I took a second to glance at the clock and scoreboard to gauge how much effort to give the last few seconds. Then BAM.

It happened too fast.

He dove for a takedown and instinctively I sprawled without looking. I saw stars as we stood back up. My opponent stopped moving. His face looked pale. Something blurred the vision in my left eye. Someone in the crowd gasped. I heard something (water?) dripping on the mats. I looked down and saw blood. I touched my left eye and my hand came away sticky and red. Shit!

When I was about 12 years old, I often stayed over at my friend Daniel’s house. He was one of about a dozen brothers (a slight exaggeration). I really can’t remember how many brothers were in his household, but Daniel was the second oldest with Alan a few years older and driving age. The youngest was still a baby. The household a veritable zoo of boyish shenanigans like all-night Nintendo tournaments and Nerf fights and general tomfoolery.

Daniel’s family lived in a small subsection of trailers near the airport of our small Alaska town. From there we would march out to empty gravel lots to play softball or kickball or tag or have snowball fights or explore abandoned hangars and shacks and otherwise be boys out in the wild. It felt more alive than my home where I was the only kid in a household of mostly silence. So every chance I got, I slept over at my friends’ house. Especially if they had siblings.

This time it was the start of winter, probably November because of both of our birthdays and it made sense to celebrate together. On Sunday morning (before I headed home), his brother offered to pull us on an inflatable sled behind their snowmobile (such serves as entertainment in deeply rural Alaska). Slowly dragging us across the snowy tundra and up the best sledding hill. Then we’d careen down the hill before crashing into puffs of new snow. Again and again, Alan towed us back up the hill on our own personal ski lift until we realized we needed to get back to their trailer before my parents arrived.

Maybe it was our age or feeling a little wild, but we agreed to head back a little faster. Why not? Almost like a boat hauling someone on water skis. Zooming and skidding and laughing all the way. Why not? It would be fun and exciting and the worst that could happen was tumbling into the snow before loading ourselves back on the sled. Why not?

BAM! Shit! That sorta hurt.

“You okay?”

“Yeah, I’m fine.”

“Your eye?”

“What? Oh fuck.”

“Fuck.”

“Put your glove over it.”

As Alan hit the accelerator, Dan and I lurched and spun off the sled. At some point we collided heads and my eye split open for the first time.

BAM! Shit! That sorta hurt.

There was about 30 seconds left in the match at New Breed. I was way up in points and far from struggling in a submission when my opponent and I collided heads and my eye split open for the second time in my life. As I knelt on the mats while holding my oozing face, my opponent and his coach agreed to call the match and give me time to hustle over to the medical tent.

Visions of NAGA danced through my head. I searched for Rachelle. Pinched lips and arms crossed, she stood in the crowd looking at me. She and I thought the same thing. Here we go again. I sat in the medical tent as teammates and Rachelle surrounded me. The medic wiped off my wound and broke open a superglue vial.

“I think we can glue it, but not sure it will stay. It’s pretty wide.”

I looked at Rachelle. “Hey, at least it’s not my arm.”

She smiled. A hint of a laugh caught in her throat.

Derek Kaivani, Buckhead Jiu-Jitsu’s assistant instructor, came over between matches. He watched the medic work on me before turning away with a greenish hue spreading across his face. I knew a bad sign when I saw one.

Derek said, “I’m stalling them a bit, but you have about five minutes if you want to do your next match. Do you want to do your next match?”

I looked up at him. “What do I have to do to win?”

He turned back towards me. “Pull guard and keep him at a distance. De La Riva and collar sleeve. The stuff you’ve been working in my classes.”

Greenlight.

Derek sat in the coach’s chair and nodded towards me as we started. I took a second to imagine all the videos I’d watched and all the time spent after class with Matt Shand working a more proactive guard pull than the standard elbow-collar full guard technique. The sort that I had watched on AOJ Online and imagined the Mendes Brothers and the Miyaos doing at the highest level. Quick collar grab and swing into DLR. Then it’s off to the races.

As we slap-bumped, my muscle memory took over. I pulled as I imagined. Went right into an off balance, loading them onto my feet before pulling them over the DLR hook. I used my grips to pull myself on top and land in mount.

It was textbook. It was six quick points.

As he framed to fight the position, I heard something dripping. The thud-thud of water on a flat surface. I winced at the sound before seeing a droplet of red on the mat. I put my head down to hide my wound, but also to help maintain the top position.

My opponent, though, trapped my arm and bridged hard. Now I had him in my closed guard with my eye exposed to the light. After getting grips on my Gi, my opponent stopped moving. He looked up at the ref.

“He’s bleeding again.”

I knew it was over. My competition day prematurely coming to an end. Again.

I slinked off to the medical tent for the second time in 30 minutes. They probably thought I was asking for a loyalty card where the 10^th visit was free. Instead, they wrapped up my wound with gauze and an ACE bandage. For my time, they sent me home with a goodie bag full of superglue and an icepack. Alas, not the gold medal I was hoping for.

Not the best start for my blue belt competitions. 0-2 with 2 medical DQs. I couldn’t even return for the third place match, but at least I went home without any broken bones.

From the medical tent, I watched KJ beat my semi-finals opponent for the second time that day. He won his double gold and I was proud of him. I could tell he wanted that and he certainly earned it.

Both golds helped propel the Buckhead Jiu-Jitsu to the team trophy and first place banner. An overall successful day for everyone…except me.

I don’t want to make it sound like I was sad or bitter about the injury. I was actually quite happy for KJ and Buckhead Jiu-Jitsu. It just sucked that I couldn’t contribute how I had planned and it sucked that I got injured…again…while competing at blue belt. I even thought my performance felt like I’d turned a corner in confidence and techniques. Hitting stuff I’d been practicing and grasping at a style I enjoyed.

But hey, shit happens. Leaving me to ice my face until I returned home.

Sitting in our spare bathroom, we unwrapped my bandaging. The initial superglue already clumping and shedding in weird spots.

“We should’ve got stitches,” Rachelle said. “Or a steri-strip.”

“Can we glue it again?”

“I can try, but we have to clean up this mess first. You’re probably going to bleed again. Can you get in the tub.”

We peeled off my t-shirt and I stripped down to my underwear. Ready for blood to start back up again and make a mess. I thought about when I broke my arm and she had to help me shower. I thought about the cost-risk of competing or simply doing jiu-jitsu. I thought about anything except Rachelle probing around my would with tweezers and tissue.

I’m glad I didn’t watch in the mirror. I imagined the scene in Batman 1989 when Joker saw himself in the mirror for the first time. Smashing the glass before laughing at himself and what he had become. As Rachelle picked and scraped at the initial superglue, I bled again. More of an ooze, though, that we blotted with gauze.

“Okay, don’t move. I’m sorry if it stings.”

With full concentration, she dabbed superglue into my wound. It didn’t sting, much, but it was cold. I imagined being a statue until she said, “That should do it,” as she blew on it. “We’ll have to let it dry before applying more ice or showering.”

My eye bruised up pretty good. I’m only mentioning this because the next week I was presenting at a work conference. I wore big glasses the whole week in hopes of semi-hiding my wounds. Only one friend (Dave) asked.

“Jiu-Jitsu?”

“But I won the match,” I said with semi-pride.

“Worth it?”

“Yep.”

The day after New Breed. Bruising still spreading.

BJJ Journey Buckhead BJJ White Belt

February 3, 2017: My first IBJJF tournament and why not to search for opponents on social media

by Thomas

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.

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.

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.

BJJ Journey White Belt

January 2017: IBJJF Prep, or how to dramatically drop 2-5 lbs when you’re already lean

by Thomas

I mostly walk around at 135-137 lbs. “Mostly” is the operative word. There was a time when I lived with an ex-girlfriend whose definition of nutrition meant a 16 oz. bottle of Dr. Pepper and a mini-microwave pizza and that’s it. For the day. I ballooned up to 155 lbs. That’s not terrible. I understand that. On my frame, though, my face looked round. If I clenched enough to give most people a hernia, I could see the outline of some abs. Again, not terrible and yet not where I wanted to be in my 20s.

When we broke up, I worked out more and by “more” I mean incorporated more cardio (interval sprints, steady state biking, walking because she was my source of wheels, etc.) into my weight lifting routine. The pounds melted away until I hovered around 145 lbs. I thought this was good.

I stayed at this weight for quite some time, maybe a decade or so. I ate chicken breasts and broccoli for dinner, oatmeal for breakfast, and otherwise tried to “eat clean.” I steadily worked out and went from clearly a bit overweight to subtly overweight. I still wore 30-inch waist pants and size small or medium tops, but a little bit of love handles poured over my belt. Not much, mind you, but enough that the inevitable caloric orgy during the holidays forced me to buy a couple of 31-inch waistbands.

I still appeared thin with some muscle mass in my arms, chest, and shoulders. I clenched a little bit less to find a semblance of abs. This wasn’t enough as I crept towards 30 and saw my friends, family, and peers start their slow decline to what people call “dad-bods.”

I hired a personal trainer to design my workouts. I researched nutrition and started cutting various foods from my diet – sugary protein bars, soda or any drinks with calories (non-alcoholic ones) and processed carbs . The biggest change was this last one, where my previous lunch of PB&J sandwiches sat atop white bread then multi-grain and finally whole wheat. It made no difference until I cut breads entirely from my day-to-day meals. I stopped drinking beers and other carbonated beverages (alcoholic or not). That’s when my body vastly changed. Muscles bubbled to the surface. My abs became self-apparent. I didn’t have to clench to see a six-pack.

I walked around at 140 lbs. Maybe I drifted close to 145 around the holidays, but knew I could get back down once a switch flipped in January. I had no reason to push it further. I looked good, felt good, and my diet already felt restrictive enough. I couldn’t imagine cutting anything else. At least not without eating salads every single day while dreaming about pizza and cheesecake. But what sort of life was that?

Then competing at IBJJF events happened.

At NAGA, I weighed in the night before without my Gi and stripping down to a pair of swim trunks and a t-shirt. The cut off at 139.9 meant skipping a protein bar sometime during the week and fasting a little during the day of weigh-in. No dehydration or running laps while wearing plastic bags. Very doable. Almost too easy.

Only smaller humans could make that weight (sub-140). Albeit at that first tournament it meant facing 20-somethings while my 40s loomed on the horizon. It didn’t matter. As I won anyway.

At New Breed, the lower cut off for over-30 competitors was 149.9. I could make that weight while wearing jeans with a George Costanza wallet shoved into the back pocket, a hoodie, and a backpack with my Gi and water bottle slung over my shoulders. I hadn’t weighed 149.9 (or higher) in years.

This higher weight did intimidate me a bit. Yet with the age limit being 30+, that meant opponent(s) worried more about their 401K contributions than finding a Gi sponsorship. Same as me. We all had work on Monday, so let’s just put away the flying armbars and make sure we all make that meeting next week.

For the IBJJF, and part of its appeal to me, lay in the delineation of weight classes. I had a choice in matters. If I refused to cut weight, I easily made Feather. No worries leading up to the event, simply concentrate on preparation. My worries stemmed from the Feathers in our gym. They felt strong…stronger than me. They stood taller, using longer limbs and leverage to pin me down or keep me off them. I felt every one of those 14 lbs. between us. This was Featherweight.

Or I could cut about 2-3 (4 at the most) lbs. or the weight of my Gi, belt, and grappling shorts. I’d have to walk around at 136-138 lbs. to avoid joining those guys jogging in the parking lot while wearing trash bags and hoodies or grunting one out on the toilet in hopes of losing a couple more ounces. If I woke up around that weight, I could have a breakfast and some water and be set for the day. I could do this.

I changed my diet again. In came the salads. Out went almost anything resembling dairy or carbs. I drank a berry smoothie and ate one apple a day for fruit carbs. Otherwise, I embraced avocados and fats for energy. Every morning, I stepped on the scale to monitor trends. By Wednesday morning, after hard sessions on Monday and Tuesday nights, my weight hovered the lowest. It rose a little after easing back on Wednesday before plummeting again after Thursday and Friday sessions. The issue here, though, lay in taking Friday off before a competition. So I pushed my weight until my morning weigh-ins hit 134 lbs.

I could deal with 134 lbs. in the morning. Even after full meals and mild rest, I gained about 3-5 lbs. in the course of the day. If I competed earlier than 8 pm or fasted that day, I’d be fine.

The changes I saw encompassed more than the mirror. It became mental. I’d cut all foods and drinks – lifestyle choices – that I previously enjoyed. I ceased a weekly stop for burgers after Friday training. Bottles of wine collected dust. My wife stopped looking forward to weekend tacos. By focusing on the end goal of making weight, I changed.

The physical changes were largely negligible. Maybe I looked a bit more cut. Maybe my energy levels dipped during my morning workouts. Maybe my cheekbones jutted out more prominently after a night of hard training. Really though, the 3-4 pounds could be nothing more than a hydration issue. I was learning, though, how to hit and maintain this competitive weight.

This became a new me. I ate salads for dinner. I monitored my weight throughout the week, sometimes obsessively. I drank water and only water. I learned which protein bars contained no sugar and didn’t upset my stomach. I curtailed dairy as much as I could. Fats and proteins became my fuel. I lived the life of an obsessive athlete.

Was it worth it, though, this disciplined and restrictive life?

I can’t answer that. Especially in context of then. At 35 years old, I wasn’t dropping to Rooster. Feathers seemed too big, too strong. That much I knew. I embraced Light-Feather. This was/is my weight class.

I missed cheesecakes and burgers and pizza. I missed splitting a bottle of wine with my wife or sipping a cocktail or two on the weekend. I missed a lot of things associated with “unclean” living. So I made it worth it. I had to earn the cheats. Then it became a celebration of sorts, not just another day, another weekend, another meal. This was my life after converting to IBJJF competition.

BJJ Journey Buckhead BJJ White Belt

December 3, 2016: My second tournament (New Breed)

by Thomas

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.

BJJ Journey Buckhead BJJ White Belt

First Competition Aftermath: What’s wrong with me and what’s in the drawer?

by Thomas

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.

BJJ Journey Buckhead BJJ White Belt

First Competition, Part 2: Gi

by Thomas

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.

BJJ Journey Buckhead BJJ White Belt

First Competition, Part 1: No Gi

by Thomas

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.

BJJ Journey Buckhead BJJ White Belt

August 6, 2016: My mouth writing checks I’m not so sure I can cash

by Thomas

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.

Tag: competition

August 25, 2017: My First Master Worlds

August 5, 2017: New Breed Part II

February 3, 2017: My first IBJJF tournament and why not to search for opponents on social media

January 2017: IBJJF Prep, or how to dramatically drop 2-5 lbs when you’re already lean

December 3, 2016: My second tournament (New Breed)

First Competition Aftermath: What’s wrong with me and what’s in the drawer?

First Competition, Part 2: Gi

First Competition, Part 1: No Gi

August 6, 2016: My mouth writing checks I’m not so sure I can cash