Note: Above picture is emulating a scene from Wes Anderson’s The Fantastic Mr. Fox.
When you are ½ of a DINK (Double Income No Kids) couple, you tend to toss money into hobbies. Maybe you buy a sailboat or a set of motocross bikes or join too many wine clubs or invest in artwork that you never put on the wall. For me and jiu-jitsu, I bought a grappling dummy. An expensive grappling dummy that arrived in a large cardboard box that I had to rip and tear apart to reveal rough canvas limbs. A grappling dummy that took quite a bit of grunting and sweating to cinch together before tossing into a spare bedroom. I laid down spare blankets and pushed aside desk chairs, promising to put everything back (refolding the blanket, shoving the dummy back in a closet, and rearranging the room to resemble an office) before leaving to class. After learning the dummy’s “skin” rubbed my body raw, I tossed on a pair of sweatpants and a hoodie before drilling knee cuts and closed guard attacks (triangles, arm bars, cross collar chokes, etc.) and any rudimentary moves I knew at white belt, heading into early blue belt. I started creating a routine, learning what worked and what didn’t when you tried moving around an 80 lb. sandbag vaguely resembling a crouching human. I even bought a cheap Gi for the grappling dummy and named the dummy, “Edgar.”
When I broke my arm, I couldn’t do a lot of things. I couldn’t attend class. I couldn’t really work out. I couldn’t even drill with Edgar as a supplement to attending class. I tried, but the bulky sling and the fear of breaking my arm from a mistimed leg drag kept me away. I imagined trying to explain to my friends, coworkers, and my doctor on how I re-broke my arm. At that point, if an inanimate dummy could break me…maybe this sport wasn’t for me. Instead, I imagined doing solo drills like Cobrinha, with my feet running against the wall as I simulated guard retention or shrimping and inverting across the floor or maybe even shots and Capoeira movements. With a hard floor, only padded by worn carpet, a large leather couch spreading across the main bulk of the living room, and two hyper dogs…solo drills proved fruitless in our apartment. So I sat on the couch, watching YouTube videos and AOJ Online and trying to figure out what I could and couldn’t do in the little space I had in the apartment. Yet, the dogs still pounced on me, my limbs hit the sides of tables and sent plants and lamps wobbling, and overall felt fruitless to even try more than the most rudimentary drills and stretches.
Then another large package arrived at our apartment. Actually two large packages. My wife started glowing as we walked out into the Georgia heat to accept the shipment. We had to open the boxes in our garage (a storage unit a few hundred yards away from our apartment and attached to a few other similarly sized storage units). After ripping through the cardboard boxes, we revealed cushy red wrestling mats measuring 10’ by 10’. We cleared some space in the garage by rearranging boxes, camping equipment and bikes before rolling out the mats and taping the two halves together. We brushed off some debris and I gave Rachelle a hug. This could work. This could definitely work.
Instead of going to class, I walked down to the garage, closed the door behind me, turned on some battery operated lights, played some music on my iPhone and performed solo drills. At some point, I even dragged Edgar down there (avoiding any neighbors that thought I might be the next Dahmer). I created 3 minute rounds and mini-sequences that evolved as I matured in my grappling knowledge. A simple knee cut became a dual-sided flow to side control submissions and a back take. Leg drags became an agility passing drill. I learned to invert with control. Of course there is a maximum of what you can learn and do on your own, but I started exploring those boundaries as I healed. At least I wasn’t sitting on the couch. At least it was something resembling jiu-jitsu.
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Life happens. A bridge near our apartment collapsed. The already bad Atlanta traffic turned into a nightmare. I remember the exact evening it happened, I was in class and someone asked how I was getting home. I shrugged and looked confused before checking my phone for Atlanta news and immediately broke into nerves and anxiety as I watched helicopter coverage of a flaming and smoking bridge/overpass that I used multiple times a day less than a mile from my apartment (much less the thousands of other commuters who took this overpass heading north or south or pretty much anywhere in Atlanta). Two hours later, I was stuck and mildly lost in the middle of the city, not quite sure how or when I’d get home as I meandered through back streets and random neighborhoods. Abandoned cars littered the roads, forcing the few stubborn drivers to zig-zag through the parked vehicles (thankfully I drove a Mini Cooper). People walked along the sidewalks, staring at their phones for directions. This was insanity, all because a single bridge collapsed on the highway. We had to move, closer to our jobs and away from the ridiculousness of Cheshire Bridge which had become the de facto link between two main highways (85 and 75).
Rachelle grew frustrated with the apartment complex. People stole our Halloween pumpkins and our welcome mat. We stomped through our building before finding the pumpkin smashed along the ground and our welcome mat in front of another doorway. We took the welcome mat back. I imagined Rachelle yelling inside her own head, “This is why we can’t have nice things” as she shook her fists at the sky. Those same neighbors smoked outside, all night, and left the building reeking of cigarettes before they slept until late morning and went to work at Best Buy or Hot Topic.
No one picked up after their dogs. Our own dogs had to tiptoe through piles of decomposing and soggy shit. I felt bad for them. This wasn’t the life we could afford and provide for them. Instead, I made an effort to walk them to the far side of the apartment complex where I could let them off leash to run around in clean grass. Ironically, this was the exact area designated for dogs that barely anyone used. In fact, we might have been the only ones to use it (most days it seemed that way). Instead, most people just let their dogs shit and pee right outside their own apartments before heading back inside to play Xbox and PlayStation.
A leak started dripping down from an apartment above us. The slow drip landed on our water heater and burned to an evaporated chemical stench that permeated our apartment. We opened all our windows and called the maintenance department. The main guy came to our apartment, leered at Rachelle, sneered at me and said he couldn’t smell anything. We called the apartment management company. They came down and took one breath before gagging. There was indeed a scent. We pointed out the leak and the dried, crusted spots on our hot water heater. They investigated while the maintenance worker probably took a cigarette break in some hidden depths of the apartment complex. It turned out a renovation going on one floor above us caused a leak that needed fixed and, in fact, REALLY needed fixed before further damage to their floor/our ceiling occurred.
Our washer sporadically broke down. We learned to fix it instead of calling up the same useless maintenance worker who leered at Rachelle before pretending to work a wrench along the appliances for a few seconds and then disappearing back into the depths of the apartment complex. Our garbage disposal consistently backed up whenever we ran the dishwasher. We could only run the washer or the dishwasher at any given time unless we wanted to bail water from one sink to the other to prevent a mild flood in our kitchen.
One set of neighbors, as generally quiet as they were during the day, took strippers home after a long night of partying and did drugs (beyond marijuana) in their apartment and out on their patio. They left at some point and sub-let rented to a rotating group of similar guys who left black bags of trash outside on the patio or along the walkways between apartments as if their mom would swoop by to pick it up and bring it to the bins maybe 200 more feet from their doorway. We only saw these people in passing when we headed to work and they were still up and running on all cylinders from the night before. One of the more steady strippers even owned a small, friendly dog who befriended one of our dogs. The trash in the hallways withstanding, these were probably our most likable neighbors as they left us alone and vice versa in those early morning hours.
This was life in a “luxury apartment complex” in Atlanta.
So we wanted and needed to move. Rachelle wanted a house, some place to garden and decorate the walls and not have to deal with petty theft and destruction. A place where the only dog shit we should deal with was our own (dogs). A place where we could fall asleep without waking to cigarette smoke and loud voices. A place where any maintenance fell on our shoulders (a mixed bag of responsibility). Simply, a place to call our own.
So we bought a house.
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I don’t care about owning a house. Rachelle does, or at least did. Although, I agreed that we needed our own space. I only had a few requisites for our new home. It needed to be located in a good neighborhood (hopefully with a convenient commute to the academy), offer a decent mortgage rate, have a yard for our dogs, and…most importantly to me…a place for a workout area. I needed room for the red wrestling mats, maybe some battle ropes and kettlebells long-term, and not a place where I had to roll everything up and shove it in a closet as if we were shamefully hiding a destructive habit.
We found one such place. It was, honestly, down to two main options. One offered an expansive attic master bedroom and a more established neighborhood. The other offered an unfinished basement with a load of potential for a workout area, but was located in a less established neighborhood. You can guess which one I pulled for.
Not that the decision was entirely selfish. We had grand plans to save up for a power rack, a barbell with free weights, kettlebells and dumbbells, etc. Besides growing tired of our apartment complex, we also grew increasingly frustrated with our gym. Our move prompted us to try out a new location for our gym membership, always with the thought to create a home gym and cut back on gym fees. Fast forward a couple of years and that never happened. Our relatively inexpensive gym fees seemed surmountable compared to upfront costs of gym equipment, installation, and maintenance. Not that we didn’t slowly add a battle rope, some kettlebells, a few smaller dumbbells, an ab roller, a balance board, a few puzzle mats, a yoga mat, a sandbag, and I’m sure I’m forgetting a few smaller pieces. Nonetheless, the first addition was the red wrestling mats from our previous garage. And Edgar.
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Part of the Caio Terra mythos entails owning mats in his childhood home and having friends over at all times of the day to train, drill, and roll. This led to getting better quicker. My friend Brian (in DC/VA area) did the same, mostly to supplement his academy training (generally quite traditional in their techniques and approach) with his growing knowledge and interest in leg entanglements. He invited a few of his buddies, approximately his size (he’s smaller-framed like me), and they rolled, drilled, and trained to get better. I can attest it worked for him and his friends as they are solid competitors.
For me, I didn’t really expect to be like Caio or Brian. In fact, it started small. My BJJBFF (Matt Shand) asked about my mats, if they indeed existed. During a couple’s game night, I showed him the mats, introduced him to Edgar, and gave him a tour of the basement (here is the washer and dryer, here is where I hang my medals, here is our wine collection). He asked if I wanted a drilling partner, at least more animated than Edgar. So it started that Matt came over that Sunday afternoon (approximately between 1100 and 1300) to drill for an hour.
We started small with a few three minute rounds and a minute break between. We shortened the rest to thirty seconds and added more rounds. We mixed and matched Gi and No Gi (wearing No Gi attire under our Gis) depending on our goals and upcoming events and tournaments. In these early weeks, we stuck to the basics of our academy – arm drags, half guard sweeps, and pressure passing. We had no concept of building sequences for our games. We didn’t do positional work or roll almost at all. We just drilled and drilled and drilled until the details sunk into our bones.
Matt wasn’t always available. That’s how it is when you’re human. You have a life or a significant other or go and visit family in another state or travel for work or simply live your life. Yet, there I was and had this mat. When Matt wasn’t available, I invited another Matt over (De Leon). This led to pretty much always having a Matt drilling with me on Sundays.
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It started as a joke. We started calling my basement “White Wolf BJJ.” By midweek, Matt or Matt would text me and ask, “Is White Wolf BJJ open this Sunday?” or “What are the hours for White Wolf BJJ?” We even checked-in, via Facebook, with a little White Wolf icon at my street address. A few friends of Sam’s (Buckhead Jiu-Jitsu’s head instructor) asked if another academy was swiping his students, especially some of their main competitors. Sam laughed it off and explained this was nothing more than a few of his students getting together to drill and train at my house during off hours.
We never skipped class to train at my house (a bit different than my friend Brian’s situation). We preferred to attend class. We were blue belts after all. What did we know besides to reiterate what we learned in class? Of course we benefited from time on the mat, guided by a black belt, and rolling with all sorts of different partners (and frankly ones that could better push Matt or Matt when it came to rolling). White Wolf BJJ served as a supplement and a review of the main Buckhead Jiu-Jitsu curriculum. At least at first.
“At least at first” sounds ominous, like the story is about to take a sharp turn into dark territory. Sorry to disappoint, but this isn’t the case. Instead, we (me and the Matts) started becoming creative. The fundamental steps of the moves we knew were becoming ingrained. Instead, we started trying to chain them together, to link them to a bigger picture/game. We experimented. Could you go from Over Under, grabbing the belt and slamming your head into their far hip, to Lace Pass (Crazy Dog) and vice versa? What transition battles needed to be won? What reactions would necessitate the switch?
From the guard, how could you sweep to get into this tight passing position? What if I held the collar here and came up from a semi-technical stand up while I chopped out your near leg? What do I need to do to win that transition and dive into Over Under? What about Sit-Up guard…was it easier to get into Over Under from here? What are the common reactions? Can you push on my head here? What about if you do this? Is my elbow too loose? Is that enough pressure? Now let’s concentrate on footwork.
During late spring 2017 and summer 2017, this is what the Matts and I did. Granted I mostly drilled and grew creative with Matt Shand. I was not nearly the athlete or as advanced as he was, but I could be creative and strategic. I could think outside the box and see bigger pictures…sequences playing out in a match in my head based on reactions. At blue belt, I still had a ton of “I don’t know” spots where my lack of jiu-jitsu knowledge still needed filling. But what I did know, I knew from Buckhead Jiu-Jitsu, and I could start fitting those pieces together. I wanted to contribute to our partnership, help him become a great competitor and reach his goals.
Then one day, somewhere in that spring, he asked if I wanted to do the IBJJF Master Worlds (a “world championship” for BJJ competitors over the age of 30). I think we broached this subject when I was still a white belt. I think I promised I would once I got my blue belt. I’m pretty sure I promised only because I figured blue belt was still a ways off (he got his in September 2016 while I got mine in February 2017). Now, with it looming at the end of the summer, he asked again.
I stuck to my promise and we kept planning and scheming for competing at Master Worlds 2017. For me, this seemed ridiculous. For Matt Shand, it seemed doable. He could win. He just won a match or two at Pans 2017 and surely improved since then. He always came out on top, generally winning most local tournaments. For me, at least it was a trip to Las Vegas to hang out with a friend. I committed to competing at Master Worlds 2017, although I expected to lose in the first round and spend the weekend eating and wandering casinos.
With my individual expectations low, the thought of being competitive at a major tournament gave drilling a little more focus as we looked, far off, in some hazy spot in late summer (August) was Master Worlds and a chance to compete for a big shiny medal.
White Wolf BJJ became the headquarters for our training camp.
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What are the three inevitabilities of life? Death, taxes, and change. Of course, with time, White Wolf BJJ changed. Rachelle framed the gold medals from my white belt days, including my coiled and permanently stained white belt. There are more medals (which we’ll get to) hanging from a nail on the wall. I have a competition Gi, now retired, displayed with some of those medals. There’s even a banner hanging on a far wall. It was a birthday gift from Rachelle.
The largest change, though, are the faces. First it was Matt and then Matt. Then I added Derek Kaivani to the mix. I remember the first time he came over, it felt like the Pope or some higher religious figure coming over to drill. I also remember not really knowing what to even work on. Those days changed as we moved to Derek’s attic and I started learning the inversion game. Here and there, I added guys like Miguel (on a random, cold Friday after Thanksgiving) or Joe Vo (a couple of times before a major tournament he was nervous about) and Mighten. The biggest addition was squeezing in Kenneth Yeung into a 0600 slot on Sunday mornings. But we have a couple more years until that happens.
Then we started traveling, but one thing stayed permanent. White Wolf BJJ stayed open.
It started small, only drilling and walking through the basics of Buckhead Jiu-Jitsu’s curriculum. Then we diversified, changing the format based on our needs. Maybe we only wanted to review some fundamentals. Other days we pulled up our phones and worked through an entirely new move or sequence. Or else we played with stuck spots through positional training. Many times it afforded an opportunity to come back from injury and slowly progress towards attending class and live rolls.
Always, though, it gave us time together. Maybe I’ll talk about this later, but for now, we went through a lot together on that red mat. We talked about competition nerves, injuries, doubt, imposter syndromes, dreams, starting a business, being unemployed, a new significant other, getting engaged, getting married, finishing grad school, grad school, trips, retirement, artificial intelligence, book recommendations, writing a book, hobbies before and after Jiu-Jitsu, 1970s/80s sci-fi, the people who’ve left Buckhead Jiu-Jitsu, the people new to Buckhead Jiu-Jitsu, Sam, Derek, each other, and pretty much everything in between. That’s the power of the mats, an academy, and a place you can shut off the world for an hour or so and just breathe. There’s something magical about finding that place. That’s why I keep White Wolf BJJ open.