My voice is hoarse from yelling. The day is almost over and I have been coaching from the side of the competition mats for almost ten hours. My team of competitors have been in and out of matches all day. Most of their glory, successes, and losses have passed, and the crowds of people have all but subsided. Maybe a hundred people are still here, compared to the 1500 earlier in the day. I am kneeling on the side of Mat #1, watching the final competitor from Dark Horse finish up his bracket. The mats give off a scent of plastic and rubber. The air is humid from the competitor’s sweat.





Stephan is exhausted. He has been fighting all day, and it is finally showing. 14 matches down and as he waits for his last couple to begin, his head fights to stay high. The hard work he has put in over the last two months shows greatly. His wins have been battles, and his loses hard fought. Any inch his opponents wanted they had to take with force, and they had to defend it twice as hard when he came to take it back.

“Be first.” I told him as he stepped stepped onto the mat.

I have told him this at least ten times throughout the day. He shakes hands with his opponent, a thick young man, and the match begins. The first minute of the match is not much surprise. Stephan shoots a double leg takedown, forcing his opponent to the mat, and begins playing to pass his guard. A minute in, and his opponent comes up with a takedown of his own, reversing their roles and tying the score. I see Stephan’s energy waning. I was yelling over the loudspeakers and other coaches, giving him a mix of instruction and motivation.

“Get an underhook with your RIGHT ARM Stephan,” I tell him.

He moved his arm into place.

“Good. Now come up for a sweep Stephan. Come up for a sweep.”

He works to get up, struggling against the weight of his opponent.

“Work harder than your opponent is willing to Stephan!” I yell.

We both know how exhausted he is. But the weeks of strenuous training he had put in were meant to make him not to care.





This is the battle of a Brazilian Jiu Jitsu competition. And this is my role today.





The Dark Horse team in its entirety has been through a campaign of battles in preparation for this day. Spending Saturdays not sleeping in, not resting from a week of hard work, but sprinting until their lungs burned. It was these training's, these days of struggle, that accustomed them to endure the suffering they would face at the competition.

I am usually one of the many people stepping onto the mats on competition day. Today I did not fight my own matches, but I struggled in different ways as I watched my teammates fight. Coaching is a different beast for every competitor. All of the competitors are not just my students, but my friends. To watch them break themselves down over a match, or get ground down in a hard fight, affects me. I have empathy for where they are, and take responsibility in helping them with their unique needs.





Early in the day, one of my teammates came in silently. He was very stiff legged, and his eyes were wider than usual. The daily composure I see in him at the gym was not there. Competing does wonders to the mind. The adrenaline was pumping. I could feel it throughout the arena, and I’m sure he felt it too.

I let him move around the place, and didn’t talk to him for an hour or so. Once he was warmed up and getting nearer to his first match time I sat with him. He was still tense. I made small talk about other things, trying to calm him to little effect. We talked about his competing, how he felt, and I gave him a pep talk as we walked to his mat. When he stepped onto the mat he was amped, but seemed to relax as the fight grew near. I was nervous for him. Not for the win or the loss, but for his expectations. He wanted to win so badly, and it was hard on him.

He won his match, and came off the mat looking calm. The intensity of a first match is hard to suppress. After a good adrenaline dump, and a successful experience, his eyes were straight forward the rest of the day. I made sure to coach all of his matches, giving him a summary of the pep talk I told him earlier. It was not as necessary after his first match, but I wanted to show that he was doing well no matter what happened.





It isn’t the gold, the silver, the bronze that makes me proud to coach these men and women (though it is awesome when they get it). After months of dedicated training, of disciplined suffering on the mats with their fellows, it is their attempt that inspires me. When they go out and fight for every inch, win or lose, I am ecstatic. To see the hard work pay off, and their mental strength obviously skyrocket; being hardheaded and stubborn, refusing to give up in the worst situations, this is why I’m proud. I’ve been there: losing my match, exhausted, and hurting, but refusing to stop until I was forced to. I know how uncomfortable that is, and how the hardest part isn’t the pain or the exhaustion or the loss, but never giving up. Deciding to fight to the end, and sticking to it. That is why I’m so proud.