Stirring Point

His forearm ripped across my jawline as he went hunting for my neck. I tucked my chin to protect my throat, knowing he’d attempt a face crank next. And here he was, on my back, squeezing my mandible with every remaining ounce of strength. Like a shovelhead being driven into the dirt, I felt the enamel of my lower teeth puncture the skin of my lip. Droplets of copper-flavored blood oozed onto my tongue and mixed with the taste of my mouthguard. It soaked my tastebuds with jolting nostalgia–transporting me back to a childhood memory of when I once stuck a penny in my mouth.

I strained under the intense pressure and feared my teeth might shift in my gum line. I stopped defending with my left hand and reached up to tap his arm. His choke released and we both fell to the mat, drenched in sweat, and spent from the effort. A moment later, the timer buzzed, signifying the end of the round. We leaned forward, forehead to forehead, hugging each other and smiled:

“Your mouth. Is it okay? It’s bleeding,” he said.

“Totally fine. Just a little blood,” I said. “Really, no big deal.”

And it was no big deal. This is what we do.

We stood, tucked in our gi jackets and moved towards our next partners. The heat was stifling in Tangier. I’d come to Morocco to understand more about the grappling community and my first lesson was learning just how damn resilient they were in this weather. I dreamt of diving in the ocean, dunking my body in a vat of ice, or at minimum, leaning my battered head against any patch of cool concrete I could find. I ran to slug water from my bottle and checked the air temperature on my phone. 94 degrees with no air-conditioning, and no fans. Three shoebox windows just larger than portholes were the sole gateways to fresh air. My stomach churned and I poured sweat. Dehydrated, jetlagged, and exhausted–I was positive I’d vomit any moment from the heat. Simply standing in the room was enough to cause anyone to perspire, let alone sparring at full speed.

I stepped up to my next partner and took a deep breath. We began standing and locked onto each other’s lapels. We circled the mat, grip-fighting, and searching for the inside position. I attempted a shot–a double leg takedown–but was slow and sloppy. He sprawled his legs and stuffed the shot, using his hips to drive me to the floor. I felt him leaning heavily on my neck, so I inverted over one shoulder and tried to recover my guard. But he stuffed that too, pinning his knee against my hip. I shifted erratically, attempting to escape, knowing he was now in control.

He leaned in, working to capture the last bits of space between us. His palm landed on my brow and the pearl-weave of his weathered cotton gi dragged across my eye socket. It felt like a fist covered in burlap plowing across my face, opening a patch of skin below the eyelashes. Goddamn. My first black eye of my trip–an unflattering memento from my time in Tangier. He jumped to knee-on-belly, smashing just below my diaphragm with a portion of his body weight, while his other hand searched for my collar. I reached to free the knee from my stomach and he used the opening to grab my lapel. I switched back to defend my neck with both hands and found myself watching the beads of sweat pooling on his forehead. Each drop moved in slow motion, hanging from his brow like the edge of a leaky faucet. Then, plop…….plop…..plop. The drops splashed on my cheek. Gross. I wanted to reach up and wipe his sweat from my face, but protecting my neck took precedence. I attempted hip escapes, framing against his neck, attacking his grips, all to no avail. Plop…plop; a drop hit my upper lip. Disgusting. Why do I do this again? Fortunately, the biological override of survival subdued my gag reflex. No time to puke now. But his grips were clamped like the jaws of a pit bull, and slowly, methodically, he usurped the last pocket of air between our chests. I felt the blades of his palms compress against the arteries in my neck. Time to tap or be put to sleep. One last splay of his wrists tightened the choke, narrowing my field of vision. I reached up and tapped his forearm before the room went dark.

You may ask, “Why would anyone do this sport?” It’s a fair question. Beyond the window, it sounds brutalizing, barbarous, and foul. At times, it feels this way. We refer to it as “the gentle art,” although this moniker mostly applies when compared to striking sports like boxing, muay thai or kickboxing, where concussions and headshots are commonplace. So again, why do jiu jitsu?

There is beauty to this martial art, unlike anything I’ve ever experienced. The sport is not about size or athleticism, although these traits help. At its foundation, it’s about technique, mechanics, and timing–allowing smaller practitioners to submit larger ones using chokes and joint locks. Size and strength help, but technique reigns supreme. And the cost-benefit here? Well, aching joints and strained tendons are no match for the burgeoning sense of grit and determination the sport provides for those willing to endure. Mastering technique is a lifelong pursuit and paramount to competitive success on the mat. Yet, the inscrutable pummeling the perennial ego receives is the great joy of jiu jitsu. When one steps on the mats with another sound practitioner, delusion is given a bath in the hard truths of reality. The narratives we tell ourselves about how tough we are, how resilient we are, and how unique we are from others, are all pulverized under the auspices of jiu jitsu. Delusion doesn’t stand much of a chance.

And this is where fortitude is given its podium to shine. By simply showing up, day after day, even the meekest of minds find courage, stamina, and determination on the mat. Sure, the whole thing may be a ridiculous, sweaty pajama party, as some people posit. But even so, any opportunity we have to cultivate fortitude and strengthen our will under deliberate duress is a chance to grow in meaningful ways. We need more grit in our lives, not basely, or in some simple masculine sense, but in ways that support our well-being when facing hardship in the world. There’s no escaping hardship, so it seems best to prepare ourselves by doing things that will ready us with a roadmap on how to navigate organic hardships as they arise.

After getting choked, the round ended and I thanked my partner. I took another slug from my water before finding a new opponent. I desperately wanted to take the last round off. I’m old, I told myself. I’m not used to the heat. I’m not sleeping well. Every excuse climbed from the darkness to convince me not to try, to give up, to throw in the towel for the night. Just then, a young guy around 20 years old approached me and gestured to roll. “Yep, let’s go,” I said. Just give what you’ve got left. That’s all you have to do.

I sat down in open guard and my partner charged forward. We scrambled back and forth before he ended up in my half guard, then a moment later, my closed guard. The heat had us both in its clutches. My limbs were heavy, my head a boulder. He too was sluggish and soaked to the bone, but filled with grit and completely pugnacious. I grabbed his same side collar and sleeve and shot my hips towards his head. My left leg went over his shoulder and found the back of his neck. I moved his other arm across my body and locked my feet behind his shoulder, eventually locking a foot behind my knee to tighten the grip. I grabbed his head with both hands and pulled it down. He reached up and tapped to the triangle choke. When I released my legs, we looked at each other, then up at the clock. Only two minutes left for the night. Time to dig deep. Time to grind. We slapped hands, bumped fists, and went back at it.