I woke up the next morning in a daze, though pleasantly well-rested. I looked at my arms and legs, and noticed the bruises starting to swell (particularly on my knees, which carried a reddish hue throughout the day) and the skin rubbed raw off of my toes and heels. My neck, usually stiff from years of wrestling, was even more rigid with the subtle creaks breaking the morning silence. I brought my fingers to my lip and noticed that it too had been busted open. Other than that, I felt fine, and I was “fine” enough to grab my hat from off of the floor. My arm reached down like a claw to grab the blue Dunder Mifflin hat, and found myself lying on the ground for two minutes. My back simply decided to say, “Screw you, Chan” to welcome the morning.

You might be reading this and think something horrible had happened the previous day. Perhaps I was mugged, or had gotten into a scuffle at the local pub over something minuscule like the proper way to dress a burger (the lettuce goes on the bottom, by the way). Yet what if I told you that a mere 24-hours earlier, I had gotten my ass kicked thirty times?

Willingly.

Let’s provide some context and dispel any preconceived ideas about my character. I take part in something called Brazilian Jiu-Jitsu, a martial art with the primary purpose of causing your opponent to give up (or “tap out”) after being placed in various strangulation or joint holds (or “submissions”). This may seem vary nuanced, especially to those of you who already participate, but for you new folks just imagine a combination of wrestling with armbars, chokes, and foot locks. You know, the stuff you see on TV with MMA and the UFC.

More specifically, I was taking part in a going away party for my instructor, Jason Bebber, at Fènix Jiu-Jitsu in Hickory, NC. The party was a combination of mini-seminars by some of the best jiu-jitsu practitioners in the state, grilled bratwursts, beverages, music, and overall joy, with each cover charge funding our instructor’s exodus to New York to train at the world-renowned Renzo Gracie Academy. My way of pitching in was to do a pseudo-charity roll: 30 rolls (or matches, each between 3–5 minutes) for $100.

Fènix Jiu-Jitsu

Just compare it to Relay for Life, except everyone is out for your neck…literally.

So on I went, having match after match with my friends from my gym and others. At first, I was doing good, not fantastic but passable enough to say, “This is a cakewalk.”

Then the tenth match hit. And I started getting tired.

Then the fifteenth match hit. I found myself in bottom side control (underneath the opponent, bodies perpendicular) a lot.

Then the twentieth match hit. I had bits of my hair torn out and brushed to the side of the mat while my heavier friends imposed their will on me five minutes at a time.

You get the picture. I had brief reprisals in between the matches for food, coconut water, and taking part in the mini-seminars, but by the time the thirtieth match had been rolled (fittingly, with my instructor), I held back a tear or two and inched my way back to my feet.

The beanie is hiding some spots missing from my hair. But let’s focus on the board.

I had done it. I had set a goal, achieved it, and celebrated with my teammates. So…now what?