It started, as most existential crises do, with an ill-advised late-night YouTube binge. I was deep into a documentary series on the samurai, soaking in tales of unwavering discipline, stoic honor, and blades forged in the fires of righteous indignation. “Ah,” I mused, stroking my (admittedly sparse) beard, “the true lineage of the jiujitsu warrior. We, too, embody that ancient spirit. The meticulous preparation, the serene focus before battle, the… the relentless pursuit of armbars on people half our size.”
The next morning, still buzzing with bushido bravado, I arrived at the dojo, gi pressed, mind cleared. My intention was to channel the legendary Miyamoto Musashi, perhaps even achieve mushin as I rolled with Kevin from accounting.
But then, something… shifted.
Kevin, bless his heart, missed a guard pass and flopped onto his back with the grace of a beached whale. He then proceeded to complain, quite loudly, about his knee, his lower back, and how he definitely had me in a submission if the timer hadn’t gone off.
Suddenly, the image of a noble samurai, calmly accepting defeat with a bow, evaporated. Instead, I saw… well, I saw Timmy from my 8th-grade CYO basketball team, flopping dramatically to draw a foul, then whining to the referee about phantom contact.
Later, during drilling, I watched as various training partners argued over who got to use the good crash pad for breakfalls, debated the merits of different protein powders (vanilla vs. chocolate, a debate as old as time itself), and spent an inordinate amount of time adjusting their cell phones on the matside timer.
It hit me with the force of a poorly executed hip toss: My fellow jiujitsu practitioners, and by extension, myself, were not, in fact, stoic warriors contemplating the ephemeral nature of existence. We were… glorified recreational athletes.
The evidence was overwhelming. We weren’t stoic, silent masters of the blade. We were enthusiastic, slightly sweaty, often-complaining individuals who enjoyed grappling, camaraderie, and occasionally throwing a fit when someone used too much knee pressure. We were, in essence, just slightly more flexible and submission-oriented versions of a Catholic Youth Organization basketball team.
I looked down at my gi, no longer seeing a symbol of ancient warriorhood, but rather a fancy uniform, not unlike the reversible mesh jerseys of my youth. I pictured myself post-training, not meditating under a cherry blossom tree, but probably grabbing a burrito and scrolling through TikTok.
The realization was liberating, in a way. No longer burdened by the immense historical weight of the samurai, I could embrace my true identity: a guy who really likes jiu-jitsu, and who, like Timmy from 8th-grade CYO, occasionally complains about phantom injuries. And perhaps, just perhaps, there’s a certain honor in that, too. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I think I pulled something trying that last berimbolo. Does anyone have an ice pack?
