Gordon Ryan vs Andre Galvao - forget about it.
The Sakuraba vs Gracie saga is old news.
The decade-long Titanomachy war between Olympian Gods and the Titans? Pfft. Please.
All of these pale in comparison to the tale of gladiatorial resolve I am about to recount for you. So tighten the velcro on your shoes, and top up your kombucha - shits about to get distinctly average.
If you read my first post - you’ll know the first year of my grappling training was conducted in a bloke’s ramshackle garage set up. Despite how weird things ended up getting with my coach MJ, I did genuinely enjoy it for the most part. I was getting to know a group of my mates on a much more intimate level; forming deep bonds of camaraderie as we threw down three times a week in the ultimate white belt underground Fight Club, nestled in middle-class Sydney suburbia.
I am Jack’s misguided sense of skill.
Our little ragtag group of warriors trained hard through the cycle of seasons in that bloody garage. We sweated throughout the beastly Australian Summer, shivered as we closed the roller door in Winter, and grew closer as a team during the transient Spring and Autumn.
About 9 months into this bizarre set up - MJ proposed we all compete.
He himself had decided that he was going to win the 2024 ADCC Trials in Thailand and then go on to win Worlds in Vegas (despite never having competed before and only having two years training) - so, by extension, his students had to compete also.
It was settled. We would all sign up for the next Grappling Industries competition later that month and see what we were made of. Boys would become men.
Now, competitive Martial Arts weren’t foreign to me - I trained Tae Kwon Do when I was a lad and competed a number of times through the belt levels.
I lost.
Every. Single. One.
And I don’t mean battled my way to the final only to lose by a point. I mean I got fucking annihilated in the first round of every tournament my poor parents forked out the entry fee for. I would get paralysed by nerves on the day, and would very publicly cry when I lost.
It wasn’t a great experience. I would feel like I let everyone down; the academy, my teammates, my mum and dad.
One particular memory of those times stuck with me more than the others. I was slightly too tall for the bracket I had entered, and the referees told my coach I would have to fight in the next one up. These kids were MASSIVE and I was scared of being humiliated again, so I latched onto the fee as an excuse not to do it. I’ll never forget the conversation with my coach:
“It’s too expensive, I can’t afford the £10”
“Do you want to fight?”
“I don’t have a tenner sir, I can’t”
“Do you want to fight?”
I was silent. Worried he would see through me I averted my gaze downwards, where I saw a ten pound note gripped in his hand.
“Sam. Do you want to fight?”
“......No sir”
I was a coward. The way he instantly - and quite rightly - moved his attention to my teammates who weren’t complete wusses was devastating. Again, I had let everyone down.
That memory and the feelings of inadequacy followed me into my adult life and have had a direct impact on decisions I’ve had to make. Feeling worthless can be so devastating, especially to a young man trying to find his way in this world.
Now all of a sudden, 20 odd years later, I was facing the same feelings of cowardice and disgrace. History repeats itself, that’s what they say right? But I was different now, I’d been through some tough shit during those decades and still came out the other side.
Fuck it, we ball.
This was for little Sam. The young boy in me who was still petrified of losing, terrified of getting submitted in 20 seconds and letting everyone down again. I’d do it for him.
I trained hard, shifted a few kgs, and developed a loose ‘game’ that only a white belt could form; pull guard, get to single leg X, sweep and ankle lock. It was flawless. I was tapping my team at training with ankle locks multiple times per session. Done deal mate, let’s go.
The day of the comp was swiftly upon us. I had a good sleep, my body was feeling good and weirdly, I wasn’t nervous.
My beautiful partner drove me to what would be our Colosseum for the day; Billbergia Sports Centre in the ancient settlement of Parramatta.
Located in the West of Sydney, Parra is now a bustling metropolitan area. Before the gentrification though, you’d be hard-pressed to hear anything good about it. Many a pub brawl fuelled by mid-strength lager and Bundy rum have etched the township into the echelons of combat history.
We were fighting on the shoulders of giants.
After weighing in, refuelling my weight cut with a BLT sandwich and enduring the agonising wait refreshing Smooth Comp on my phone, it was time to get nasty.
Match 1
Donned in my sick af Venum rash guard/spats combo, and a pair of footie shorts easily two sizes smaller than my penis permitted, I faced off against my first opponent.
A young lad (I had entered the adult division) stared back. He was tall, but much less muscular (fat) than I.
Piece of cake.
We slapped and bumped and bravely, I sat on the floor. I began to engage with my best butt scoot - I knew I had to get something going early, before he had a chance to start his game. It wasn’t long before I off-balanced him with a dummy-sweep, and shot between his legs for a single leg X sweep.
It was all going to plan.
He fell to the floor, legs entangled with mine. I stayed down too; forfeiting the 2 points owed for the sweep in favour of the finish (I’m a sub hunter, baby. Ain’t no points in the streets). I tightened my grip around his achilles and extended - waiting to feel the tap on my thigh as he admitted defeat.
It didn’t come.
What the fuck? This wasn’t the plan. I should be ripping my top off and slapping my chest right now. Shit.
I stood up and claimed my points - wondering what the hell I was meant to do now.
What followed was some of the sloppiest guard work you ever did see - absolutely riveting stuff for the audience who, no doubt, were on the edge of their seats desperate to see who would emerge victorious.
I ended up in bottom half guard with a solid kimura grip. He did the correct thing and hunkered down, grabbing the inside of his thigh. I managed to elevate and sweep him again, which was then promptly reversed and I was back in bottom position.
The crowd went mild.
In all of the rotational excitement, his arm came free and I was able to wrench it behind his back. Still no tap. I ripped harder. The ref winced. He finally relented.
I fucking did it!
My inner child rejoiced, my friends and training partners cheered. It was a fantastic feeling. 20 odd years in the making, I had completed my redemption arc.
Match 2
The day wasn’t done. Grappling Industries run a round-robin style tournament where you’re guaranteed at least 4 matches. It wasn’t long before I was back on mat 8, staring down another victim.
My adrenaline was pumping, but I was ready. Victory was possible, I had tasted it. Time for another, I was taking this guy's foot home with me.
Spoiler alert: I didn't.
The match began, and after some decent guard retention I managed to lock in another kimura from bottom half - I put every kg of body weight I had into pulling his arm out but my attempt was foiled by a last minute gable grip - stopping me in my tracks.
‘You almost got me with that kimura, man” he would tell me after the match.
In my excitement to get the submission, he stepped past my legs and reversed the grip to favour his own armbar attempt, it was delicious, I have to admit.
I rolled with it and tried to gain head height, he lost the armbar and transitioned into a triangle choke quicker than I could say ‘Pythagoras’.
I postured up, fighting his attempts at cutting the angle to solidify the strangle, and in my haste, dangled my arm like a sweaty carrot. He of course grabbed it immediately, and bent it the way an arm doesn’t like to be bent.
“Tap!”
Bugger.
1-1.
Match 3
To be honest, I don’t remember a whole lot of detail in terms of play-by-play with this one. Exhaustion was setting in and adrenaline was waning. But I do remember it being my most exciting match of the day.
I know I thought about wrestling with him for a quick second, before changing my mind just as fast and once again sitting down. It wasn’t long before he passed my guard to side control, and as I desperately tried to remember what John Danaher had taught me via his pin escapes instructional - I was mounted.
By now my opponent had racked up enough points that there wasn't a chance of me coming back on that front. I had to finish him.
Somehow, by the grace of Hélio, I escaped his mount and found myself in single leg X. I didn’t question how, but the turns had definitely tabled. He tried to spin out as I adjusted the grip around his ankle. I went with it like a lycra-covered crocodile, and I ended up belly down with his achilles in my grasp.
I pulled on that foot like a man possessed. My teammates and coach were all screaming, internally I was screaming also. My calves were cramping, my forearms were burning, it felt like an eternity and I couldn’t do it for much longer.
Why won’t this fucker tap?!
I abandoned the attempt, and in the resulting scramble found myself mounted on him. I tried valiantly to isolate the arm, but the clock was against me and we’d gone the distance. The match was stopped and his hand raised triumphantly.
1-2.
Match 4
I was done, innit.
My mate asked me how I was feeling before entering the tatami-clad danger zone for a fourth time. I felt like John Coffey breaking down in front of a concerned Tom Hanks in The Green Mile; I’m tired, boss.
“I’m cooked bro, I just want to go home”
Nevertheless, Mama didn’t raise no quitter, and out I went.
I had the routine down pat by now. Jog out into the centre, stand where the referee is pointing, shake their hand, shake opponents hand, ref shouts go, slap, bump, get after it. Just after my handshake with the ref, I met the eyes of my final opponent.
He was bouncing up and down, postured in an intimidating wrestler's stance, itching to be let loose - a chained dog waiting for his handler to unclip the leash. A look of stoney determination across his face - I could barely keep my head up.
He knew it. I knew it. I was about to get fucking destroyed.
I think it was maybe, 30 seconds before this pit bull had me mounted. My legs grapevined with his, and my left arm grindingly wrenched above my head. Clips of Lachlan Giles’ Submeta courses flew through my mind's eye - gently warping into distorted Eldritchian nightmares as less and less oxygen reached my brain.
He didn’t even need to dismount and finish the choke, I’d made up my mind. I had no fight left in me.
I tapped.
1-3.
As I lay there gathering my breath, the ref leaned over to check I was all good. I was better than good - I was exhilarated.
Overall I had an amazing time; I went out and gave it my all - bagged a win, and put up a great fight in my losses. I was proud of myself.
I was first to compete, so I got to spend the rest of the day cheering on my mates in their respective brackets, including a banger of a 3rd place decider; where my pal Nam survived what must have been 2 agonising minutes in a fully locked triangle. But somehow he held on to take the win by points. He’d later say he reckons he did pass out for a quick second or two at one point.
I’ll definitely compete again, it’s a great indication of skill level, character building, and I definitely improved a ton after.
In truth, no one really cares about the result, only you. As the great Declan Moody once told me when we were chatting about pre-match nerves;
“I’ve never lost a friend because I didn’t win”