The Worth of a Degree

Education is important. Nelson Mandela called it the most powerful weapon people can use to change the world, Abraham Lincoln said it was the most important task we could engage in as a people, and I say it’s the most important tool I’ve seen to improve the lives we all live.

Investing in education almost always pays off, for individuals and nations.

By the way, I use the term “education” broadly: some of the smartest people I know didn’t graduate from high school, and some of the dumbest have Ph.D degrees. If this sounds like a poetic exaggeration, I assure you I mean it literally. There are many ways to educate and improve yourself, with academic work being just one of them.

This month, after almost exactly four years of hard and consistent training. I earned my purple belt. I have a long way to go in my jiujitsu journey, but I’m so happy to have taken this step. The four-year mark is a nice coincidence, since it coincides with the amount of time it takes most people to complete something most people identify more clearly with education, an undergraduate college degree.

I have one of those, and believe me, I worked way harder to get the purple belt than I did to get my Bachelor of Arts. Sorry, professors, but it’s true.

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My mom always valued education, so she made sure I finished my undergrad degree. Later, I went on and got a Master’s, and earned an honor or two along the way. I don’t talk about that stuff a lot, and the only reason I’m doing so now is to put it into context.

This is the context: it’s no exaggeration to say that I’m as proud of this belt as any of that academic work. It took that much work and that much sacrifice.

It was a good day.
It was a good day.

In order to obtain an education in jiujitsu, I had to make several investments: a lot of time, a ton of sweat and pain, and of course some money.

When I graduated from college in 1998, in-state students attending public four-year colleges paid $3,243 on average in tuition and fees. It’s a lot more now (and frankly, I think college should be free, as it is in many other countries).

That investment has paid for itself many times over in life experiences, in jobs I couldn’t have gotten without the degree. As the great musical philosopher Tom Lehrer once said, “Life is like a sewer: what you get out of it depends on what you put into it.”

I already told you that I had to work harder to get my purple belt than I did to get a college degree. Factoring in gym dues, seminars, privates, instructional materials and expenses from competing at tournaments, I’m fairly sure I spent more money along my path to purple belt, too.

(If anyone is really interested, I can break out those calculations. I frankly never even thought about it until now: when you’re doing something you love, you just kind of do it.)

Getting a black belt takes more than 10 years in most cases, time that’s roughly equivalent to getting a Ph.D. To me, the comparison between jiujitsu education and advanced degrees just illustrates the value of learning jiujitsu: the achievements we’re proudest of are the ones that are hardest to accomplish.

For students, we have to accept early on that getting where we want to go requires commitment. Why, then, do so many jiujitsu students shortchange themselves — and try to shortchange their instructors — on their martial arts education?

There are two parts to what I’m trying to say: the part that involves us as students of jiujitsu and the part that involves the way we relate to our instructors.

Primarily, what I want to say is this: as students, we should be maximizing our return on the investments we *do* make. If you’re paying dues to your school, why not take advantage of all the classes that are offered? It costs as much to train twice a week as it does five in most schools. Training as much as you can maximizes your return on investment.

Everyone has their own path to walk, and we all have different resources at our disposal. I’m not just talking about spending money here. Not everyone is fortunate enough to have the disposable income to go to every seminar, buy every DVD set or take privates consistently.

That’s why it’s important to acknowledge that there are different types of investments. Can’t afford seminars, but have time to stay after class? Get extra drilling in. Time is the most important investment you can make. Don’t have access to the gym? Do a spreadsheet or a mind map of the techniques you know. Jiujitsu is a long journey, but the more time you’re able to put in, the quicker and more rewarding it is.

I like spreadsheets.
I like spreadsheets.

The second part of this involves our instructors. This is a little trickier, as it always is when art and commerce intersect.

If we value a college education enough that we’re willing to spend tens of thousands of dollars on it, though, why wouldn’t we place a similar value on our continuing education in jiujitsu?

It’s tough to make a living running a jiujitsu school, and I’m always surprised when people do things like get out of paying gym dues. To a certain extent, I understand — everybody’s trying to get by, and since your instructor loves jiujitsu, he probably wants people to train.

Keep in mind that your instructor has to make a living, and your school has to stay open. If you like training, that’s a shared interest that’s well worth preserving.

Invest in your education, whatever path that takes. And invest in the people that help you keep learning. We all get better that way.

Why I Love My Blue Belt

Every belt has a different meaning. As I’ve said before, a jiu-jitsu belt is literally just a piece of cloth — but symbolically a whole lot more. The piece of cloth just keeps your gi closed. It’s the work you put in on your journey, the time you spend with your instructor and training partners, that really gives a belt its meaning.

For that reason, every belt has a story. Today I want to talk about my blue belt and why I love it.

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My blue belt is a Dom belt. One of my closest friends and training partners bought it as a surprise. He got the belt at the Mundials without me knowing it and gave it to my instructor to keep for when the time was right. That alone makes this belt special for me. My instructor, Seth Shamp, was a brown belt then, so he asked Billy Dowey — an excellent instructor at Forged Fitness — to come to our school for the promotion.

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This is the belt I missed out on for a long while, the one I thought I’d I never get. I don’t have a natural aptitude for jiu-jitsu — it took me three classes to learn the basic hip movement we call shrimping. I just kept showing up to every class.

Every class, that is, except the one night that black belt Mazi Heydary visited us. I was picking up my girlfriend’s sister at the airport. It was the one class I missed for months.

Later, I found out I was supposed to get my blue belt that night. I probably don’t have to describe to you the feeling in my stomach after I discovered this.

But I did get it eventually, and with it, my ritual train. Yes, this is the belt I got my train in. It probably still has sweat and blood in it from 18 minutes of my best friends beating on me.

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Don’t let the crazy smile fool you. Or do.

 

Because of its distinctive deep blue color, it’s a nice-looking belt. It’s thick and tough and fades into a really cool hue the more you train. That’s mostly good.

It’s also bad, because it has also gotten my ass kicked at two gyms I’ve visited. Some guys thought it was purple and they sent some killers after me to test the visiting “purple belt.”

This is the belt they disqualified at the Atlanta Open because it was too worn and faded. I had to run and borrow a belt from my friend Braxton. It was a little inconvenient, but I was also really proud. It was that faded because I had trained so much.

Note: not my belt.
Note: not my belt.

In this belt, I’ve rolled with Rafa Mendes, Gui Mendes, Murilo Santana, Vicente Junior, Samir Chantre, Osvaldo Quiexinho and a bunch of amazing black belts who did me the courtesy of showing me how much I have to learn. In this belt, I’ve taken classes and seminars from instructors like Murilo Bustamante, Dave Camarillo, Gui and Pedro Valente — and of course the legendary Royce Gracie.

 

Rickson Gracie has touched this blue belt.

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I did all eight divisions at a US Grappling tournament in this belt. I sweated through 13 blue belt matches. I’ll never have another belt that I’ll do that in, because you can no longer do any more than four divisions at a US Grappling tournament. I’m truly sorry that I delayed those tournaments, but grateful for those experiences.

This is the belt I wore at the world championships (Mundials) last year. I lost in the first round. I hate losing. But I don’t regret anything: I trained and dieted and sweat and bled with my friends for weeks. I shocked myself with what I was capable of, and I never would have found that out without my friends pushing me until I collapsed. I made a mistake that cost me the match, but the work I put in taught me powerful things. I’ll always have that inside me. My belt is a reminder.

 

This is also the belt I took double gold in at the New York Open (for some reason, New York showed it more love than Atlanta). It had always been a goal of mine to win absolute at an IBJJF tournament, and I did it, and then I went out and ate everything in sight with some great people. I’ll remember that day for the rest of my life.

A belt is just a belt. But you could also say that a life is just a life. You get out of things what you put into them. I look down at my blue belt and I see a lot of great memories with great people. I see hard work and frustration and commitment and pain and fun and love.

Yeah, I said love. I’ll always love my blue belt.

That being said, I’m pretty fond of this new one too.

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That’s right, my white belt got a little dirtier tonight. I want to thank my instructor and all my training partners for helping me achieve this goal. If you’re reading this, though, you’re probably a friend who has contributed in some way to this as well, so thank you too.

I had my first roll in it with Seth, and then a bunch of rolls with some of my favorite folks. I can’t wait to put some more memories into it, starting with 6 a.m. class tomorrow.

 

 

 

A Case Study In Fudoshin

In martial arts and in Zen Buddhism, we talk about fudoshin. Roughly translated as “immovable mind,” fudoshin can be described as a state of emotional balance. This type of composure is of particular value in times of crisis, which is one reason it was a virtue prized by the samurai.

This can be a struggle for all of us. Fortunately, we have some good examples to follow.

Murilo Bustamante is one of the best and most well-respected jiu-jitsu fighters ever. We were fortunate enough to bring him in for a seminar last year. Wherever I visit to train, no matter what the school’s affiliation or focus, I find deep respect for Bustamante.

He even choked me, and how many people can say that? ... OK, a lot of people.
He even choked me, and how many people can say that? … OK, a lot of people.

I was stuck home sick all day today, and I decided to spend some time watching several of the dozen or so Bustamante fights available on UFC Fight Pass, After watching some of his later bouts — and by the way, the next time I’m tempted to make excuses based on my age, I’m going to remember watching a 39-year-old Bustamante in Pride — I moved on to a fight I’d seen before.

That famous fight is his UFC 37 clash with Matt Lindland.

I first learned about this fight from Royce Gracie black belt Jake Whitfield. When I first watched the fight, I considered it part of my education in jiu-jitsu history. Since then, I’ve watched it several times, and taken something new from it with each watching.

This time, I took this from it: this fight is an object lesson in fudoshin.

You can pretty much feel safe if any one of these guys is with you, nevermind five of them.
You can pretty much feel safe if any one of these guys is with you, never mind five of them.

To understand why, you have to understand the context. Bustamante was the UFC’s middleweight champion, having taken the belt from Dave Menne.

Despite being the defending champ, though, he was the betting underdog. Oddsmakers and observers of MMA favored Lindland, who had earned an Olympic silver medal in wrestling. He was also younger and undefeated in seven fights. That is to say, despite Bustamante’s achievements, most people were expecting Lindland to win.

It didn’t go that way. Using fundamental jiu-jitsu, Bustamante took down the Olympic wrestler with just over a minute gone in the first round. Two minutes later, Bustamante secured a tight armbar and Lindland was tapping.

But Lindland claimed he hadn’t tapped, and in what he would later call his biggest mistake, referee John McCarthy informed the combatants that he would let the fight continue.

Commentator Jeff Osborne said immediately after the first tap was disallowed: “That may have cost Murilo this fight.”

Imagine that: you’re the champion. People expect you to lose, which you have to see as a slight. Then you execute perfectly, surprise the critics by taking down a Greco-Roman wrestling expert, get the submission, the referee stops the match …

… and then tells you you have to do it all over again? Now that the opponent has seen what you want to do? How would you react? To say that this would throw most people off would be an understatement of epic proportions.

Would you be able to shake that off and perform immediately? Would you be able to calmly go about your business and secure another submission?

Because that’s exactly what Murilo Bustamante did, hurting Lindland with punches in the third round and securing a fight-ending guillotine.

It’s not just responding with grace under pressure and continuing to fight well that impressed me. Frank Mir, another commentator on the broadcast, pointed out that if you deny tapping the first time, you might not get a chance to tap the second time. More than one black belt I’ve talked to about the fight has said the same.

Not Bustamante. He briefly protested the mistaken decision to re-start the fight, but shortly thereafter put his mouthpiece in and went to work. He used his technique to dominate and finish the match. And when McCarthy stopped the fight a second time, he let go and celebrated with an admirable level of restraint, respect and dignity.

Ignoring the understandable frustration — even anger — that Bustamante must have felt at the time takes incredible emotional control. That’s fudoshin.

Murilo Bustamante should be universally acknowledged as one of the greatest representatives of jiu-jitsu. When you remember his fighting skills, don’t forget his immovable mind.

Degree of Difficulty, or Driving in Sicily

For the past week, I’ve been watching closely for motorbikes zipping around me in any direction, improbable lane changes and aggressive double parking. I’ve been honked at for stopping at a stop sign, cut off by not one but two pedestrians strolling their children, backs firmly placed to the rush hour traffic. By the time I pulled into the gas station and saw the guy smoking while pumping his gas, I almost welcomed the oncoming explosion.

Here’s a time-lapse photo series that gives you only the barest idea of what this driving experience was like:

But it got better.

Why did it get better? I flew into Catania a week ago with the plan to spend a few days here at the beginning of my driving tour through the largest Mediterranean island. During those few days, I saw all of the above multiple times, plus a guy in a full wrist-to-shoulder cast use his crippled wing to hold his phone while he screamed into the receiver — all the while weaving through traffic in full defiance of lanes, laws and common decency. For obvious reasons, I walked a lot.

Once I got out in the country, the degree of difficulty diminished considerably. Partly, this was because the rural environments were less crowded. Upon returning to Catania it occurred to me that I’d picked the deepest end of the pool to start with: flying in to a busy university town after dark and trying to find a tiny road that even locals hadn’t heard of.

I drove back to Catania in the middle of rush hour today, though, and I noticed something: I was still a tourist, but I was able to get into the flow of traffic better. Little old men were only cutting me off when I let them. I could identify a valid parking space and capture it with minimal trauma.

This made me think about jiu-jitsu. Not just because everything makes me think about jiu-jitsu, although of course that is also true.

Vacation training! A proud tradition.
Vacation training! A proud tradition.

The gym where I train has grown a lot. When I started, there were perhaps 10 serious regulars at the classes I attended. I had no idea what I was getting into, and back then we all rolled after our first class.

My first rolls were with my instructor; a very successful pro MMA fighter (he’d heard I’d wrestled a year in high school, so we started standing); a monster wrestler who was a three-stripe blue belt at the time; and a then-purple belt who has crushed tournaments ever since I’ve known him. I can’t recall if I rolled with the future blue belt world champion at my first or second class, but it was one of the two. There weren’t many other white belts, and there certainly weren’t any that I was better than.

It went how you’d expect. This was the deep end of the pool. This was driving in Sicily.

I trained a while. Got crushed every night. I was having too much fun learning things to be upset about the litany of kicking that my solitary ass took.

White belt life: I didn't know much, but hard training taught me to close that guard pretty fast.
White belt life: I didn’t know much, but hard training taught me to close that guard pretty fast. Not sure what else I’m doing here.

In the coming months, I was still at the bottom of the ladder, but the sink-or-swim situation I was in forced me to get a solid grounding in the fundamentals. First I was still getting passed easily, but I knew when to shrimp. Then I was still getting mounted but I knew to keep my elbows tight. Maybe I’d see my opponent do something that I had no idea about, but I knew to protect my neck and face.

This was real progress! When new white belts came in, even the really big and strong ones had a tough time submitting me. I had a lot of practice trying (and mostly failing) to survive against bigger, stronger, more skilled people. This was a huge help that I’m still thankful for.

Train with lions, and even if you're the runt of the litter, you'll grow.
Train with lions, and even if you’re the runt of the litter, you’ll grow.

[Note: I have mixed feelings on whether it’s good for new people to roll their first week. Generally, I think Roy Marsh has a solid philosophy on this: people wait to roll until they have some basics, and he has a standard safety spiel before each rolling session. But that’s the subject for another post. Anyway, the deep-end experience was good for me, but might not be best for most folks.]

I mention degree of difficulty, too, because it’s important to have training partners that challenge you, push you and tap you. We all know the White Belt Hunter: he’s the guy who gets his blue belt and looks around the room for less experienced, ideally smaller people, never realizing that those people are getting better at a faster rate than he is. Making progress — especially early, but at every stage of the game — requires skilled, tough partners.

The progress in my early jiu-jitsu life mirrors my return to Catania. I’m still overmatched driving here, but I know some basics I didn’t know before. It makes getting around easier, less stressful, and more fun.

The first time I successfully cut off that driver who was trying to get over on me and laughed at the guy who hesitated and was lost reminded me of my first successful escape from back control: yes, you’re better than I am, and yes, this is a small victory in the grand scheme of things. But this small victory is helping me improve — and helping me become a better training partner.

I still train with all of the people who I mentioned at the beginning of the post. They’re still all better than I am. Rolling with them is more fun than it’s ever been, though, and more productive for all of us.

Why am I writing this? Perspective. Our near-term goals don’t have to be to beat everybody, or to speak a language fluently, or to drive like a local (n fact, please don’t drive like a Sicilian local). I don’t miss getting my face smashed every night, just like I don’t miss feeling utterly lost on the roads. That time investment helped me build a foundation, and I recognize that.

Keep focusing on building that foundation, and your journey will get more enjoyable with each step. Even if you have to step into the deep end of the pool.

 

Road Trip

Last night, I got to train once again with Royce Gracie. It’s always a terrific experience, and I learned a lot.

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Making this a tremendous 24 hours — and no, I didn’t plan it this way — this morning I’m leaving for a month-long trip through Italy and Greece. My mom is retiring, so I’m going to travel with her. We’ve never really had the chance, and I’m grateful for it.

Of course, I’m going to train along the way. Don’t worry, mom knows.

I’ll be starting in Sicily, moving through Italy via Rome, Florence and Venice, and then heading to Athens. I made a Google Map of the places I’m going to try to train (some of the pins are hotels — sadly,  there are no academies on Santorini that I know of). If I have Internet access I’ll try to blog along the way about the places I train.

 

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On the off chance that anyone reading this has academy recommendations, feel free to leave ’em in the comments or email me! Or, if you see a nerdy-looking dude with a black backpack walking through Italy or Greece, just stop the person and ask if they want to train. It’s probably me, and I probably do.

Learn the Rules of JiuJitsu, Break the Rules of JiuJitsu

“Learn the rules, break the rules, make up new rules, break the new rules.” — Marvin Bell

 

The American poet Marvin Bell has a tremendous body of work that spans traditional, experimental and radical forms. His work is passionate, intricate and thoughtful — and as you’d expect, this makes him worth listening to when he talks about creating art.

There are points of commonality between the literary arts and the martial ones. I’ve been thinking about writing more lately, so I returned to some Marvin Bell texts the other day.

What does this have to do with training? I was struck by how many of Marvin Bell’s 32 Statements About Poetry sound, with minimal editing, like he could be talking about jiu-jitsu.

Below, I’ve taken many of the 32 statements and lightly edited them. I removed the ones that are just about the process of writing poetry. But I kept the majority of the statements, replacing “poetry” with “jiu-jitsu” and “writing” with “training,” for example. To me, there are significant insights that cross over. This might say something about the practice of each art, or it might simply speak well of Bell’s observations about life.

If you’re interested in poetry, check out the original 32 statements (and, while you’re at it, The Book of the Dead Man). If you’re just here for the jiu-jitsu, read on for some advice from a different type of artist.

The Dead Man would actually make a pretty sweet gi patch.
The Dead Man would actually make a pretty sweet gi patch.

 

1. Every jiu-jitsu practitioner is an experimentalist.

Jiu-jitsu is like science: we experiment with techniques. If the techniques work against a resisting opponent, we keep using and refining them. If not, they’re changed or discarded. And each of us has different physical attributes: for a time, I experimented with the body triangle. Upon my scientific discovery that I had stubby legs ill-suited for the task, I moved on. Training means trying things and finding what works for you.

 

2. Learning jiu-jitsu is a simple process: learn something, then train it; learn something else, then train something else. And show in your training what you have learned.

Jiu-jitsu is a deep, rich, complex art: jiu-jitsu is hard. In contrast, learning jiu-jitsu is easy. You find a great instructor, show up and do what they say. Drill the older stuff regularly, and be open when they show you something new.

 

3. There is no one way to train and no right way to train.

One of the instructors I respect most is old school, but also open-minded. After he watched a Caio Terra DVD, he remarked about how odd it was that Caio teaches techniques in a radically different way than he does — but the technique still makes sense. This is one reason Dave Camarillo’s maxim “train with everyone” is so apt: there are many things to learn and many different ways to learn them.

This man might not be able to tap you (or he might, who knows?). But he has knowledge that can improve your jiu-jitsu.
This man might not be able to tap you (or he might, who knows?). But he has knowledge that can improve your jiu-jitsu.

 

4. The good stuff and the bad stuff are all part of the stuff. No good stuff without bad stuff.

5. Learn the rules, break the rules, make up new rules, break the new rules.

Some of Bell’s statements I didn’t have to edit at all: these two were among them. These are true of poetry and jiu-jitsu and life. The latter in particular has echoed in my head for many years.

In jiu-jitsu, I think about rules like “hands off the mat,” which new people absolutely need to internalize. Then you train for a while and you learn exceptions. But this simple dozen words could be a philosophy all its own.

 

6. You do not learn from work like yours as much as you learn from work unlike yours.

I will never pull 50/50. Yet I own Tony Pacenski’s 50/50 guard DVD set. This is both because it’s important to learn the techniques you’ll come up against, and because it gives me a window into a way of doing things that is vastly different from my own.

 

7. Originality is a new amalgam of influences.

Ryan Hall is justifiably known for making great instructional DVDs. One of the things I like most about them is that Ryan explicitly mentions where he learned certain techniques and principles — almost like an academic citing sources. The way he thinks about jiu-jitsu is original, but includes knowledge he’s gathered from other sources. In amalgamation there is creativity.

Like it says in Hamlet, there is nothing new under the sun. We stand on the shoulders of those who came before us.

(This is also, incidentally, a reason I love rap music and mash-ups: creative combination and repurposing of found objects. But that’s a different post.)

"Wait, you're going to use this image in a weird post about poetry? ... Blue belts."
“Wait, you’re going to use this image in a weird post about poetry or something? …  Sigh. Blue belts.”

 

8. Try to drill techniques at least one person in the room will hate.

You can take this one of two ways. Either “that guy is going to make fun of me for drilling berimbolo, but I’m going to do it anyway,” or “I am going to drill heavy pressure techniques, like the kind Roy Marsh teaches, and give people free chiropractic adjustments.”

Like Bell says, there’s no one way to do things.

 

12. It’s not what one begins with that matters; it’s the quality of attention paid to it thereafter.

I started out with much better takedowns and takedown defense than one of my training partners. She’s been working assiduously on it, and now she’s basically caught up to me. Nothing is static.

 

21. Jiu-jitsu has content but is not strictly about its contents.

These days when I go to a seminar I’m more interested in conceptual understanding than I am in learning new moves. Concepts are more important than contents. Once you have a bucket, you can always fill it with water. If you have no bucket, get all the water you want, and all you’ll have is a wet floor.

Leo Vieira told me at a seminar this year: “As long as I am comfortable and using less energy than my opponent, I’m doing the right thing.” It blew my mind.

 

23. One does not learn by having a teacher do the work.

You can ask your instructor to show you every technique they know. They can spend weeks of their life doing so. If you don’t drill constantly, you won’t learn even one of those.

Sometimes you have to turn upside down.
Sometimes you have to turn upside down yourself instead of having the teacher tell you to turn upside down.

 

 

28. Jiu-jitsu is a manifestation of more important things. On the one hand, it’s art! On the other, it’s just art.

Dave Camarillo’s academy has one rule: respect. It’s amazing how one principle can apply to all practices and situations.

It’s great to learn self-defense, just like it’s great to learn to move people with poetic words. But it’s really about the larger picture: respect, beauty, work ethic and becoming a better person.

 

29. Viewed in perspective, Parnassus is a very short mountain.

I’m just going to leave that right where it is. It’s perfect.

 

Perspective is everything.
Perspective is everything.

30. A good workshop continually signals that we are all in this together, teacher too. 

Bell wrote this about writing workshops, but the best jiu-jitsu seminars are like this.

Murilo Bustamante, a man who as achieved more as a competitor, coach and instructor than 99 percent of people ever will, came to teach where I train. He listened to every question. He showed every detail people needed help with. He had enormous respect from everyone before he walked into the room and left with more than when entered.

 

32. Art is a way of life, not a career.

That says it all, no?

Charity seminar in NC by Royce Gracie Black Belt Roy Marsh

Quickly: Roy Marsh is a good friend of mine, a great guy and a tremendous teacher of Gracie Jiu-Jitsu. He has graciously offered to teach a seminar at the gym I attend to benefit two great charities. It’s a $20 minimum donation, which makes it possibly the best value seminar of all time.

If you have trained with Roy, you know how good he is. If you haven’t, you owe it to yourself. Come learn great stuff and help out great causes.

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$30 For Charity

I don’t talk about goals a lot on the blog, for a variety of reasons. Thinking about them? That’s a different matter.

Your mental approach matters a great deal in terms of how you perform, and one of greatest flaws has always been overthinking things. When you get trapped in your own head — especially mine — it’s not the best recipe for going out and doing what you’ve trained to do.

We all have coping mechanisms, and one of mine is list-making. I think about a series of tasks I have to complete in order to put myself in the best position to succeed. That’s really all you can ask of yourself. If you put a good process in place, you’ll most likely get the best result you could have.

The lists also help me focus on the single specific task at hand. I fly out Tuesday to compete in the Mundials on Thursday. There are 84 guys in my division. If you let yourself think about all those potential matches, you’ll go crazy (at least I would).

So here’s my goal: to give $30 to charity.

If you read the blog regularly, you might know that I donate $10 for every match I win during the year to three worthy charities. Last year it was two, the Women’s Debate Institute and the George Pendergrass Foundation. This year I’m also matching my friend Alec Cerruto’s donations to Backpack Pals, a charity that supplies food to needy children. So every match I win costs me 30 bucks, which is probably the best 30 bucks I ever spend.

Note: there is no "First National Bank of Berimbolo." Yet.
Note: there is no “First National Bank of Berimbolo.” Yet.

So that’s the goal. $30. In the event that I reach that goal, I’ll try to give out another $30. But I shouldn’t and can’t and won’t think beyond the first check I’ll write (or really, PayPal transfer — who writes checks?).

It helps that in my position, I have different goals than someone else might. I turn 40 this October. I love to train and compete, so that’s what I do. I don’t have grander ambitions to set the competition world on fire at the upper belt levels. This is what I do for fun, and I think I perform best when I’m just out there having a blast.

I can’t tell you exactly how I’ll feel when I step out onto the mat, but I’ll tell you what I hope I feel: joy. Gratefulness that I have the opportunity to practice Brazilian jiu-jitsu at all. The sense of relief that I finally get to have some fun after weeks of hard training.

That, and I hope I feel a little poorer. We’ll see!

Do Not Apologize For Losing

Have you ever apologized after a loss? If so, stop it.

I’m not talking about the extreme situations here where you do something foolish that causes a loss — failing to prepare properly, or making a huge mistake ignoring your coach’s advice during the match. If you do those things, go ahead and say you’re sorry.

That’s not usually what happens, though. Most often we lose because we had a tough matchup, or because we’re learning and growing and ran into a situation where we didn’t know the right thing to do.

Mostly, I’m talking to myself here:  I used to apologize when I got knocked out of tournaments. I used to feel like I’d let my teammates, coach and training partners down if I lost.

There is no "I" in "emo," but there is a "me."
There is no “I” in “emo,” but there is a “me.”

This is very different from my perspective now. I have begun think of tournament competitions as just an extension of training: instead of training with the people I roll with everyday, I’m putting myself in a different situation with an opponent whose techniques are unknown. This is an extremely valuable training experience, since you aren’t going to know if your opponent wrestled, did judo or anything else.

Changing this viewpoint took me a long time. The impulse to say “sorry” is understandable: your instructor and training partners put a ton of energy, sweat and bodily risk into helping you prepare. You want to run strong for them.

But I came to realize that it misses the point: it misses the process, the journey. It misses what makes you proud about your gym and teammates. When I sat down and thought about what makes me proud of my instructor and teammates, competitive success barely made the list.

I’m proud of the way we support each other. I’m proud of the way nobody lets anybody else quit during a hard workout. I’m proud of my friends’ competitive achievements, yes, but I’m just as impressed by the grinders that show up and train every day even though they haven’t had tournament success — maybe even more so. I’m proud that, like any family, we sometimes bicker but we get over it and keep helping each other get better.

What’s a medal compared to that? What’s a great day at a tournament — even the best day — compared to years of that shared experience?

Win, lose, whatever: you get back up.
Win, lose, whatever: you get back up.

 

A loss might end a tournament for you. It might sting. It should sting: if you’re preparing right, you’ve put a ton of effort into the experience. That tiny part of your jiu-jitsu journey might end in that painful fashion.

But a loss won’t stop your gym, and a loss won’t stop you. The journey goes on. The effort you put into training, the work you put in and the sacrifices you made don’t go away. They’re the ingredients that have made you improve, at jiu-jitsu and at life.

The process is the big picture. Think of a tournament as just part of training, a necessary but impermanent part of your permanent, day-to-day practice.

So go out there and win every match if you can. But if you lose, you don’t owe me, or your teammates — or anyone — an apology. You don’t owe anyone anything but, where applicable: “thanks for helping me out: see you in the gym tomorrow.”

It Takes A Very Steady Hand, Or Foot

If you’ve trained Brazilian jiu-jitsu for any appreciable amount of time, you’ve had injuries.

Personally, I consider myself one of the more fortunate. Sure, I’ve had the occasional malady, but I have been lucky to avoid a major injury that would require surgery. Besides the pain and expense — as much it galls me to admit this — I don’t want to take the time off from training that a major injury would require.

One of the first pieces of advice I try to tell the new guys who go too hard is that injury is the real enemy: if you want to get better at jiu-jitsu, staying on the mats is job one. Especially for a guy who weighs 138, turns 40 this year and trains regularly, I’ve been very lucky.

It takes a very steady hand ...
It takes a very steady hand … and believe me, the “Skill Game Where You’re The Doctor” bit from the original game applies to our community’s rampant self-diagnosis.

That’s what I keep telling myself this month. Leading up to the New York Open, I had a nagging foot injury that I trained through. At the tournament, I re-injured it during my finals match. Now, every time it gets manipulated in the wrong way — even gently — it becomes debilitating.

But there’s the Catch-22: you can’t train without risking injury, but part of the reason you want to avoid injury is so you can keep training, especially with a tournament (like, say, the Mundials) coming up. Where is the line between being tough and being stupid?

The answer I’ve come to is that you must evaluate two factors: risk of re-injury and reward of training. When you’re nicked up, which is how I’d classify my current injury, you can still train some things. For example, one of my training partners hurt his knee and spent his healing time working half-guard. You also must evaluate your ability to protect yourself while drilling and rolling, and figure out whether you’re taking too great a chance on setting yourself back.

Naturally, figuring this out depends on the severity of an injury. I’ve had back injuries that were simple stiffness and would loosen up once I got moving, and back injuries that I’d have had to be a lunatic to train through.

Given my various experiences with being nicked up, I’ve often been surprised at how easy some injuries are to train with and how hard others are. I do a lot with gi grips, for example, but finger and hand injuries are relatively simple to train with. You can wrap ’em up and hide the injured hand. (In fact, at least one person reading this has choked me using only one hand).

The opposite end of the spectrum: rib injuries. I’ve had two ribs pop out. You use your core for everything, in jiu-jitsu and in life. One of my rib injuries was extremely painful and fairly debilitating. The other one didn’t hurt much. But then I tried to sit up and couldn’t. This foot injury has shown me — again, stupid as it sounds — just how much you use your foot, both in guard and on top. It’s harder to hide than you’d think.

After musing on which of my little bumps and bruises were hardest to train with, I made this graphic rating the injuries on a scale of 0 (a cakewalk) to 10 (sweet merciful crap, maybe we’ll stay in bed and watch videos).

This is just my own experience and is not meant to be taken very seriously. The only medical advice I feel comfortable giving is “you should eat right and train jiu-jitsu.”

This is a super-scientific image from my most recent x-ray and MRI. They combined them into an MRX.
This is a super-scientific image from my most recent x-ray and MRI. They combined them into an MRX.

There shouldn’t be many surprises here. The big muscles and joints are always big problems. I also always think it’s worth noting that if you have an infection, that’s a 10 and you should stay home, period: I raise an eyebrow at how many folks don’t get this.

One notable rating, and this might be a function of the severity of the injury: I personally found it easier to train with a messed-up knee than with a messed-up foot. Obviously, my knee injury wasn’t a major thing, but I was able to change up the things I was doing fairly effectively to protect the knee.

With the foot? Can’t be on top, you’ve got to stand on it. Can’t really keep the guard closed, and with open guard, you either have to step on hips and biceps (ouch!) or try to hide that foot by putting it further away from your opponent — which means you need to shrimp off of it (also ouch).

We all have strengths and weaknesses. In terms of the old remedy of Rest, Ice, Compression and Elevation, my ICE game is tight, and the rest I have a problem with. (See what I did there?)

The old saying goes, “If you wake up one morning after training and nothing hurts, you died.” My hope is we all start to prove that saying wrong. Happy and healthy training to all of you.