Jiu-jitsu for me is the lens I use to see and interpret combat and, by extension, life. That is why I choose to see it as a complete martial art first and as a sport second. So why compete at all?
When I am a student in a martial arts class, I am not competing with my training partners. My will to win barely exists in that context. The dials are all turned down, most of the time at least. I go for things chiefly because I want to discover their flaws and how I can fix them. My aim is simple:
Perfect technique – Perfect timing and weight distribution – Perfect spirit.
When I compete, however, I live in the now and I wear my heart on my sleeve. When I take on the role of an athlete, as opposed to that of a coach, instructor or training partner, there is no diplomacy. No middle grounds.
When I win, I feel amazing! I raise my arms and shout as my happiness and endorphins rush through my veins.
When I lose, I always feel like burning my gis. I don’t want to talk to anyone. I don’t want to watch any matches. I don’t even want to be in the competition venue any more.
Win or lose, however, I always feel like parts of both me and of my competitor have died and melted into the tatami, into the arena and down to the core of the Earth.
Adult life can often be too tame and full of the necessary masks of civilisation. True genuine moments exist, of course: When I share a deep laugh over an inside joke with a loved one. When I finally get “too-cool-for-school” students to understand how to tackle a mathematical problem (or at least care enough to engage with it in the first place!). Rare moments, where the masks fall off.
Likewise, you will occasionally come across the downhill spiral when you don’t get what you were hoping for. When we suddenly have to deal with loss, rejection or “failure”. One-way ticket to “The Zone of Self-Pity”. We’ve all been there.
But we remind ourselves that we are adults. We keep up the mask. We soldier on.
The thing is…
We need to feel.
