Here’s to Yesterday.
Editors Note: So for the past 20-something years, I’ve always written on lengthwise folded copy paper or Fisher Price size legal pads. This marks the first essay I’ve written in a composition notebook in an effort to keep better track and save them for posterity... or to make it easier to sanitize when shit gets sideways.  So if this sucks, that’s gotta be the reason.  

As I was wasting time scrolling through one of the Satan Social Networks the other day, I came across a video clip from All in the Family. It was Season 4, Episode 20, "Lionel Gets Engaged". For those of you who don’t know about All in the Family or what it was,  let me paint a better-than-Pollock-worse-than-Rembrandt picture for you. All in the Family was a 70’s sitcom starring Carrol O’Conner as Archie Bunker, a lower-middle class cab driver from Queens New York.  There was Edith: his flighty, shrill-voiced wife; Gloria: his hippie, try-anything-once daughter; and finally MEATHEAD: Gloria’s fiancé and eventual husband (and, turns out, big time Hollyweird director). Like with most shows of the era, there were lots of transient characters and some special guest stars here and there - the standard fare.  Here’s the hook though: Archie was kind of an asshole and a not-so-subtle racist.  Not a "March in the streets, Scum Scum Scum Go Back To Where You’re From" kinda racist, but an "under the breath, smartassed wise cracks, screw up common sayings to make them offensive (Well if that ain’t the black callin' the kettle pot)" kinda racist. In today's Americccpa and in this society, you couldn't even dream of broadcasting this on network television. 
      Thing is the show was written precisely that way to show what an ass Archie could be, making him the butt of the joke whether he realized it or not. The show never glorified or reinforced his views. It showed the audience, the other characters, and even Archie himself, how dumb being hateful for hate's sake really was.  This was no standard sitcom. From its first episode it addressed racism, antisemitism, infidelity, homosexuality, women’s lib, rape, religion, miscarriage, abortion, breast cancer, menopause, impotence, and even the Vietnam War.  And this was a FUCKING SITCOM!! It was fathoms deeper than a fat guy arguing with his wife.  
     The Bunker family was what I would call working class and affected as any family on the line was back then by any ripple in the economy, labor market supply chain.  Look up the gas crisis in the seventies - Weak leaders lead to bad times.  It’s a saying for a reason, but I digress.  Archie would come home and head straight to his chair and holler for Edith to bring him a beer and he would start in on taxes or politics or whatever social movement of the day was and how it effected him directly, even when it didn’t. It only made him sound ignorant. Like the people you hear spouting half the story and then when you call them on it, they brush it off or completely change sides so they don’t look like dumbfucks. Yeah, like that.  There’s this one thing that made the show work though: When smacked in the face, over and over and over and over again with fact upon fact, example upon example……Archie would not only admit defeat, HE WOULD ADMIT HE WAS WRONG!! CAN YOU FUCKING IMAGINE???
Sometimes it was a slight nod with a certain smirk. Sometimes it was a self deprecating comment.  Sometimes it was an outright “I’m sorry”, or “I was wrong”.  
That was it.  That was the magic formula that made it all work. Archie was human and foul-able.  He was also worthy of redemption.  I have no doubt lots of people watched the show because Archie was a racist.  Imagine their surprise when they realized it wasn’t a hymn to the old days, but really a damnation of them.  No eye was safe from the thumb of All in the Family.
         Then, in the eighth episode, a black guy moves in next door. George Jefferson, his wife, Louise, and son, Lionel, move in next door and the irony and tension go up considerably.  You see, George, a successful upper-middle class businessman, is just as big a racist as Archie, and just as outspoken. Louise is the rock upon which all of George’s waves of bullshit crash and break.  Louise gives George a pretty wide area of operation but when she’s done with it she has no problem dressing George down, and how.  Lionel is the late teens/early twenties son who surfs George and Archie’s bullshit with the grace and ease of Laird Hamilton.  Lionel has more interaction with Archie and is unshaken by his bullshit and ignores it or goes all “wells, I guesses I musta dun forgots, Massa Archie”, which automatically makes Archie cringe and squirm audibly and visually.  The show was way deeper than it let on; a masterpiece of terrible things funny and helping people laugh at themselves so they could skip the crying stage.  
          What I really loved were the Archie and George Episodes.  Two dudes who were trying to impress their point on the other at all cost. Archie, the lower-middle class cabby, and George, the upper middle class businessman. Both had no problem getting filthy dirty mudslinging and name calling one another, neither one saw the other in themselves (not till later episodes anyways). Two sides of the same asshole. 
     Back to Season 4, Episode 20: "Lionel gets "Engaged.  Lionel gets engaged to a beautiful girl and she wins the Jefferson family over quickly.  George dotes on her to his friends and she clearly has his approval.  It’s not till the engagement party that we find out that Lionel has kept something from his Father, George.  The secret is that his fiancé has mixed parents and her father is white as the driven snow. 
Of course Archie is there and he ear hustles his way into learning that George has no idea that the other white guy at the engagement party is actually going to be related to him shortly.  Archie watches the big blow up between George and Lionel and in what becomes a trend in the show between them, Archie consoles George at the bar, because it’s the 70’s and that’s what men did.  
“What the hell happened Bunker?” George asks. 
“Jefferson…I got no idea but here’s to yesterday…”, and they toast.   
Two bigots finding solace and a sympathetic ear in each others company. They both see the times changing and even though they are each others hate incarnate they find comfort and "normal" with each other.  "Why?", you might ask? Because in that room of people, they felt like the other was the only only dude that KNEW HOW SHIT WAS SUPPOSED TO BE!! Not acknowledging to the audience the irony of their twosome, the modern world, and its changing social norms. 
The enemy of my enemy is my friend; my enemy if he’s the only other dude who will believe my bullshit is at least an ally till I get the numbers on my side built back up, that kinda thing.  
      What I see now (and subconsciously understood as a kid) was these two loudmouths coming to grips with being lied to and misguided and wrong for most of their lives... and that they both were redeemable men.  The long game of the show was to illustrate that people can change for the better. Whether that was the point or just happened, who knows, but it happened just that way.  Isn’t it fucking sad that that these fifty-some years later this same society would have lost that knowledge: that men can be redeemed? That men can change and admit their faults and follies and be given another chance? Societal Evolution at its finest.  
       Not only were the hot tub parties, cocaine, and tax brackets better in the 70’s, so were people. Their attitudes and faith in others not just to see different points of view but to realize mistakes and accept apologies. Making fun of things from all sides to show that we all really aren’t that different when it all shakes out.  
    Today jokes are hate speech or even better: MISINFORMATION!  There are protected classes and special policies and procedures to safe guard those classes.  Playing nanny and coddling instead of the tough father and saying, “handle it kid”.   
So as Archie says “Here’s to yesterday...”, so do I. Here’s to Yesterday. When a person could change their mind, admit their wrongs, and be forgiven not cancelled, shunned, or ruined.  When we could talk about our differences without shouting or bullhorning over the opposing side to shut them up or stop the dialog.  When, like Archie and George, we could see our common ground and work from there. Failing that, we could have an oldfashioned donnybrook in the parking lot, with no one getting shot,  work shit out, and be better men for it. No court or coroner needed - just fixing things amongst those individuals and changing minds and hearts one or two at a time.  
What I wouldn’t give for a yesterday like that..

Never are we closer to our cave dwelling selves than when we sit around a bonfire at night. We may talk to each other but our gaze always returns to the flames. We can’t help but watch the flames lick and lap at the wood as it slowly and steadily converts it to ash and soot. As the bark crackles and pops and peels and disappears we watch as if magic is being performed right before our eyes. Oh how disappointed our hairy ancestors would be. This, like many things we have gotten wrong over the centuries, is a symptom of our soft and easy existence. That may seem a little harsh but I think it’s accurate. If we were able to bend space and time and watch our former families around their fires in the Paleolithic Era, I believe we would see women and children doing and behaving much the same as we’ve talked about above. But what about the others in our ancestral pack, the men and adolescent boys, the Hunters and Protectors of our Tribe? I believe we would see them facing out, several steps away from the fire light. So far away they could barely feel the warmth, if it all, and far enough to allow their night vision to return and be effective. They would be scanning the darkness before them; staring with wide open eyes allowing their peripheral vision to take in as much information as possible. Their ears searching the inky black for noises like footfalls, twigs snapping, or leaves rustling. We would also see them rotate in and out. Fresh sentries to replace those that have been on duty, likely with the new man standing behind the one already on watch, exchanging information with his replacement and allowing the second man’s eyes to adjust. Pretty sophisticated for a bunch of half ass not-quite-people not-quite-apes, right? How can I say this was such surety? Because I am writing this and you are here to read it. That means our ancestors survived at least long enough to procreate and pass on our DNA to keep it alive for one more generation. We didn’t survive out of nature’s kindness for clawless, virtually defenseless apes. No. We survived because we learned. We survive because we armed ourselves. We survived because we made plans. We survived because we knew the whole world was out to kill us. We no longer have to worry about dire wolves or sabertooth tigers, but that’s not to say there’s not plenty to worry about. To think otherwise is going against all those centuries of learning our DNA brings us. We should once again take a lesson from our ancestors. We should face away from the fire. Remove our gaze and our attention from the warm center of our domesticated lives and understand there are real threats just outside our fires’ light… and prepare for them an appropriate ancestral response.

 I have never been this old before. At the time of this writing I am 44 years and 11 months old. Closer to the end than the beginning. I’m five years and one month away from retirement from my “straight” job. The job that has funded my endless summer of a life. It has given me the stability to be able to do the things I wanted to do, and kept me eating when I fucked myself up doing those things. And I did that many, many times. It has not always been convenient with shitty shifts and shitty days off and shitty coworkers; but even at its worst it’s been way better and easier than bad. Soon though it will all be over. I will be able to maybe open up a second jiu jitsu school and work with the two charities I champion a lot more. Maybe I’ll even start another one: taking Brazilian Jiu Jitsu to extremely impoverished areas around the country: Johnny Appleseed Jiu Jitsu.
Plans within plans. That’s how I’ve always been. Never am I not planning the next thing. Yes, I spread myself too thin. Yes, I go 1,000,000 miles an hour or I’m at a dead stop. It’s how I’ve always been good or bad. I’m not sitting here trying to stroke my own lariat. The way I live is definitely not for everyone, but there are those who don’t go 10 miles an hour. As I plot and scheme my escape from an 80-90 hour work week to something more around 50, I’m astonished by those in similar situations planning their escape from 40 hours to something like a -10. From these guys I’ve heard things like: “I need to pick up a hobby I can do when I retire”. To which I reply: "You are almost motherfucking 50 years old. How do you not have one yet?" There’s also: “I’m really going to get in great shape when I retire.” Because 50 is exactly when you should first start worrying about being morbidly obese and eating out of a box or bag or the freezer section for every fucking meal.
Now before you cut my throat, I know that people can change and it ain’t over til it’s over, but goddamnit, the years that are gone are ALREADY OVER!!! That’s my point. So many of these poor dumb bastards only know being a worker drone. Work, marry, breed, raise kids, pay taxes, die five minutes after they retire. They have pursued nothing. They have gained no knowledge. They haven’t grown as a person in decades. Wash/Rinse/Repeat.
​Now don’t get me wrong, not everyone has to be a fucking wild man with his hair on fire, but you do need to have some sort of passion; an outlet, something that is yours just for you. And don’t give me that “I’ve got kids” bullshit. I know plenty of badasses who are single parents and kill it, not only in raising their kids but at some other venue besides their job. I have met so many weakass men who hide behind their kids like ISIS hiding behind a human shield. It’s pathetic, especially given what these “men” do for a living. They blame a lack time but it’s really a lack of will. 
I see men squabble about the money they will make at 60, 65, 70 and 72. Who the fuck is excited about anything having to do with being 72? They salivate talking of cost-of-living raises and compounding interest. They are so caught up in the dollars, they can’t even recognize that they will be long dead before that money will ever grease their palms. I understand wanting to plan for the future but you’ll most likely be able to do more at ages 50 to 60 than 70 to 80; so, yeah, you should save some for the grandkids and all that but you should also be living right now in every way you can that makes you happy.
My maternal grandmother lived in squalor most of her life and saved and saved and saved. She did everything from pick cotton to clean motel rooms. When she got too old to care for herself, my family went four states away to get her and bring her closer to home. It took several 4 to 5 day trips to clean out her house. She was not only a hoarder, but rat holed money everywhere she could. Every single fucking article of clothing, jar, envelope, box, had to be gone through. We found almost $20,000 in 10’s, 20’s, and 100’s. When it was all said and done, they found a home for her just a couple blocks from my mother’s house. My grandmother paid $150,000 in cash for her brand new home. She had denied herself her whole life. Less than a year later she was dead from cancer. Good thing she saved her money like a troll and lived like a car bum her whole life. Sure she left a decent inheritance for my mother and uncle but dollars to years unlived, was it worth it? Money is great, security is great, but when that’s all you worry about and becomes what you’re fixated upon it’s like a maximum-security prison.
​Life is about experiences not your goddamn bank account. I’m sorry guys, but Mick lied. Time is not on our side. In fact, the clock is ticking for us right now and we’ll never know just when it’s going to stop. I’d like to say you’ll regret it, but you won’t. You won’t do anything because it’ll be too late. The clock is ticking. You should be moving...

The Forest. It’s untamed depths can be a place to relax and unwind, unplug and get back to a simpler state. It can be a substitute for the gym, where you can train in the open air maybe even barefoot. The Forest can be a place to get lost, either on purpose or by accident. It’s also a place you can die - likewise on purpose or by accident. Yes, that’s a bit dramatic but it doesn’t make it any less true. You can find yourself in the Forest unexpectedly- maybe by misfortune or maybe by mistake - turning a nature hike to a full on fight for your life. It’s a centuries-old tale of man against nature and man’s own will to conquer or lay down and die. A story that still captivates our imagination and stirs romanticized thoughts of survival and triumph over not a singular adversary but an entire environment, be that the Alaskan Bush in the dead of winter or the jungles of the Amazon, where everything from the weather to the animals to the water is out to end your meek existence.

I’m not here to tell the tale of that Forest. I’m here to tell the story of being lost in the Forest of your own mind where we can lose sight of our purpose. The rut, the grind, the bubble, whatever you want to call it. It’s common sense that you will lose sight of the objective if you’re microscopically focused solely on immediate obstacles. Most will journey through their life wholly in their bubble, interacting and reacting only when they need to, doing the necessary things but little else. They do their jobs to make their wage. Maybe they get some small satisfaction, probably they don’t. Maybe they just pay their mortgage, bills, feed the kids, and get away a couple of weekends here and there.

We, however, seek more than that standard day-to-day subsistence, choosing to Live as hard as we can - not to simply exist. We seek out the opportunities to test not only our physicality and intelligence, but our grit and resolve; believing the glory is found in the struggle. Rock climbing to skateboarding to skydiving to powerlifting to racing motorcycles to taking up with redheaded women - all different but all require a high physical, mental, willpower ratio.

But even the things we seek out to achieve a uncommon life can become a new Forest we get lost in. We will use Brazilian Jiu Jitsu for illustration here, but it could be anything that requires strength, brains, and balls. When you first start BJJ, it is like trying to learn how to walk, tie a Windsor knot, and conjugate verbs in Russian without knowing the alphabet yet - all at the same time. Everything is new and looks like some sort of crazy sorcery, a partner-assisted forced yoga. You train and train and think you’ve started to understand basic body positions and pressure only to be reassured during rolling that you in fact do not understand even basic body positions and pressure. It seems like two steps forward and nine steps back sometimes. Days turn into weeks turn into months turn to a year, maybe two or three. These things can come to a point of frustration and come perilously close to contempt. You doubt your skills, you doubt your techniques, you doubt your coach, perhaps you even doubt your desire.

This is normal. And, it’s just the first big test on a path that will be littered with trials. It sucks and it’s hard and almost everyone quits right about this time. Where you really get in trouble is when you start comparing it with “regular life”. Regular life requires so very little of us that it’s really no comparison at all. Regular life is relatively easy compared to what we deliberately subject ourselves to, those challenges we need to make us feel whole and alive. That’s the point, right? Here’s where the forest can swallow you up if you are unable to see the progress you’ve already made, only aware of only the road ahead and never turning back to recognize how far you’ve come. Sometimes a glance over the shoulder is a good way to put shit in perspective. Sometimes you just need to have fucking FUN! Quit being so goddamn serious about it, that helps too. No matter what it is you do, you should always have a little smile on your face during, and a big smile at the end. How great does it feel to be spent and invigorated all at the same time? You used to watch others make magic and now you can make some of your own. The road to self improvement and satisfaction in BJJ and any other ballsout pursuit isn’t a road at all. It is not even a trail. At best, it’s a compass, an azimuth, a pace count. At worst, it’s just a cardinal direction.

Sometimes the forest is full of wait-a-minute-vines and Draw Monsters. Those are the times when you can’t see 3 feet in front of your face. Sometimes the forest breaks open to a rocky ridge line with no vegetation where you can see for miles. The terrain is always changing and while it may sometimes feel familiar, it will never be the same. Do you want to know the secret? Do you want to know the all important life hack that will make everything just so much easier? Well here it is: “Trust your compass and just keep fucking walking.” When it feels like it’s just too much work or too far or too dark or the rain is pouring and the wind is howling, just keep walking - and while you’re walking, remember WHY you started. I promise you, with my whole heart, that there’s a clearing just up ahead. A place where it will get easier to walk for a while. A place where you can rest while still progressing. If you stop now, you’ll never see it.

I can make you one other promise and that’s that the next hard leg is coming. Just keep walking.

What one boy learned about gamecocks, Mercurochrome, and keeping his mouth shut for decades one Saturday afternoon in 1980.

At five years old, I had already traveled to Europe. It is my earliest memory. I can still give play-by-plays of some of the incidents from this trip: licking the walls in the salt mine, my father being attacked by a swan in the black forest, pooping in the bushes outside of castle ruins.

It was Saturday, early fall in 1980, and I was at my grandparent's house for the day. My Grandma Irene was working in the garden pulling out dead plants and getting it ready for the next season. She was a WAC in WWII, a physician’s assistant to be exact. She got shit done. My Grandpa Ed wanted nothing to do with helping her or doing any kind of manual labor while not on the clock. He eagerly volunteered to take me off her hands for the day. My Grandpa was what you call a “Rounder” or a “Corker”. They both fit him depending on the day of the week, time of day, and how much he’d had to drink. Yes, my Grandpa was a drinker, and a fighter, and he really liked the ladies. But he LOVED the Bulldogs. He was a dog man from waaaaaay back. He had been known to set a dog down from time to time but he never ate off the backs of his dogs, and he couldn’t stand men that did. By 1980, he was all but a spectator. He’d help a young guy out with his “keep” here and there or he’d teach them “aftercare” - that was his specialty; and, I believe to this day, where my early interest in emergency medicine came from. He loved talking about his old dogs. They always brought a smile to his face and it would always lead to another story. He was also very proud of the fact that he never lost a dog during or after a fight. “You see, Boy, he punches holes in the other dog and I patch up the holes the other dog punches in him.”, explaining it the only way a five-year-old would understand. It was a different time when men appreciated gait and vigor, not in paid-to-play athletes, but in each other and themselves in everyday life. A time when the word “hero” meant someone who had done something truly heroic. A time when being called a coward was grounds for an assbeating.

The elusive trait that he and all men like him sought in a dog was called “gameness”. It was talked about with reverence and mysticism. At least, that’s how I remember it. There are many definitions for gameness, but I think an easy, non-flowery way to define it is “a willingness to fight no matter the odds, putting victory over self, resolute and unyielding.” Two men would make an agreement, agree on weight, price and forfeit money, set a date and that was that. It wasn’t about the gambling, at least not for my grandpa. He’d say, “Any fool can lay down a bet, and any asshole can pick a pony. If it was about the gambling, Boy, there’s at least a dozen ways to do it that have faster action, bigger payouts and less investment. It ain’t ever been about the money.”

Gameness in the American Pitbull Terrier was highly regarded and sought out but by no means was it guaranteed. “They’ll all quit on you Boy, some just way sooner than others.” Not to say there weren’t a lot of very game dogs out there, but if gameness was the be-all and end-all for you, then Brother, chickens was where you ended up. Gamecocks we’re game all day every day, 25/8/417 no questions asked. And this, friends, is how we arrive at Derby Day. I’m not sure if you’ve ever seen a gamecock up close or in person but they are a sight to behold! Not just their manicured plumage and cut combs, but their PRESENCE. There were several birds for sale before the derby began. The birds were tethered and on cable spools turned out on their sides. My mind remembers row after row but it was probably only two or three rows. Some moved a little bit back and forth but most just stood there. Like you would expect a living statue to be still in a park or a state fair. I knew they were alive but they just did not move. You could see a head twitch here or a feather ruffle there, but there was almost no movement at all. That wasn’t what stood out the most to me, though. What stood out was their power - just standing there. The ferocity, the strength, the badmotherfuckerness. I was five, I didn’t have the words but I damn sure recognized the strength I saw in them. Chest high, their feet grabbing purchase on the spool, necks slightly forward. Each one in their own ways saying “I dare you to test me”. At least that’s what I remember now. That Saturday, I heard them saying something else: “I dare you to PET me!” Now I had been told in no uncertain terms not to touch the pretty birds. But I just could not resist, I mean they were so still. Surely they would like to be petted? What animal doesn’t, right? “Gamecocks” is the short answer. As my Grandpa shot the shit with his friends, I wandered around looking for my new best friend to pet and maybe even hug, if I was lucky. Then I saw him: the biggest, reddest, toughest looking bird of them all standing there like a statue. He was the one. Maybe my Grandpa would even buy him for me. I had an image of me walking my chicken up the sidewalk much like the cartoon bulldog Spike from "Tom and Jerry". I’d love to tell you what happened next, but for the life of me I do not know. Neurologists say our young minds are able to shut out painful and traumatic experiences, that some early growth is so painful that we have keep no memory of it. The next thing I remember is being in the passenger seat of my Grandpa’s station wagon as he’s speeding home and hugging me to his side. I’m sitting side saddle and I have a white and red splotched towel wrapped around me. We get home and it’s straight in the front door and right to the bathroom. My Grandpa started cleaning me up and I was just scratched all to hell but nothing that required stitches. My face was saved from any marks as I was told I turned my head and urgently called for my Grandpa (Read: “screamed bloody murder”). My Grandpa retrieved a small, brown bottle. It had bright orange liquid in it and a glass applicator. It was called Mercurochrome. If you don’t know what that is, Google it. It was an antiseptic back in the day made of mercury... because that’s not poisonous... Anyway, it burns like hell and I remember my Grandpa smirking as I tried to blow on every spot he dabbed it on. He said, “Careful, you’re going to get lightheaded huffing and puffing like that. Especially with all the blood you’ve already lost.” I realize now as I write this that that’s the first time I remember someone busting my balls. He was full of firsts. We walked out of the bathroom and straight into my Grandma. My arm is virtually orange and there was no hiding that something out of the norm had happened. Without missing a beat, my Grandpa said, “I bet this little bastard he wouldn’t run through the rosebushes and I’ll be goddamned if he didn’t. Never shit a shitter.” My Grandma just shook her head. I’m positive she didn’t believe the story but she never mentioned it again. My mother never believed it either. “Why isn’t his face scratched? Why aren’t his shirt or pants snagged?” I’m sorry Linda, but we lied. That was 39 years ago and I’ve always kept our secret. Understand I only broke his confidence because I think the story is worth telling. I loved keeping our secret. It was a test at an early age. He never asked or told me to lie I just stuck to the story, just like OJ. I am sorry for lying to my mother but she and I had plenty of our secrets too, so I guess it all washes out. In the end that’s all we really have - I mean TRULY possess: our memories. So go make them. Make your secret pacts with your sons and daughters and grandkids. They will be the things they treasure most when you are gone. Use your time Brothers and Sisters. Make it count.

This was originally written for an online BJJ magazine, but it hits on things we preach and profess here at HAC. We appreciate all of your support and all the amazing apes we’ve met in the last two years. Thank You All for taking the time to read our stuff, share our images, and wear our name on your chests and backs. There’s no higher praise you could give us. 

Why do we need to be motivated? It seems like every other article I read is about motivation, or motivating others, or yourself or, or, or….
Do we need motivation for reassurance, or is it more like preemptive praise? Is the absence of motivation a mark of subpar performance or even a lack of participation? Is it just a byproduct of an increasingly weak-minded society; one that applauds mediocrity with trophies and doesn’t have winners or losers so no one’s feelings get hurt? Why must the need for motivation be linked to a need for acceptance?

From time to time, everyone needs a little kick in the butt, a wake up call to refocus and work on shortcomings, or to see other avenues. We find ourselves stuck in a rut, or worse, sliding back. Maybe that wake up call comes from being tapped or maybe even just worried by a lower belt rank. Maybe an old training partner you used to handle with ease is quite a bit tougher now.
Examining your experiences while being completely honest with yourself, identifying your weaknesses, and then finding ways to overcome them and grow is the best “motivation”, at least in this humble writer’s opinion. I will call this “invested motivation”: being motivated by an actor/action you were personally involved in with positive or negative outcomes. So if there is “invested motivation”, the flipside would be “uninvested motivation”.
There are some awesome motivational pieces to be found on YouTube videos, blogs, Facebook pages, memes, etc. Don’t get me wrong, they can be evocative; make you smile, laugh, or cry.

But do they truly motivate? How many things pass in front of your eyes every day? How many of those things stay in your memory and mind for more than a day? They are generic blanket statements with no direct, personal application. They are uninvested motivation.
I’ve heard many teachers and instructors talk about the pathways of learning: seeing, hearing, speaking, and doing. Can these pathways not also be applied to how we are motivated? Motivational videos or articles may cover one or two of these pathways, but it is in actually putting your hand in another’s lapel, scrambling for position, giving your all, and coming up on top or vanquished that pretty much covers all four pathways. This is invested motivation. You were there, present, in the moment, so you have both perception memory and muscle memory input from these experiences. You are an invested actor in the actions, and there is a whole different level of impact this has on your experience and your motivation.
I’m not saying throw out the iPad, or delete your YouTube app on your smart phone. You can still get your daily Buddhist motivational text message you signed up for after yoga class last Saturday. That’s fine.
What I’m saying is this: We, as jiu-jitsu practitioners, are different than others and our motivational needs are different, too. We choose to practice an art that puts us in direct physical contact with another human being, constantly looking for a dominant position and the choke or submission.
Do you know how alien that sounds to normal people? That, my friends, should be your motivation! We all train and compete for different reasons. When you need a motivational recharge, focus on how far you’ve come and what you’ve done to get to this point in time. Think about how bad you used to hate shrimpies. Think about how much you hated getting your guard passed for the thousandth time when you were a white belt. Think of all the drilling. Think of all the rolling. Think of all the private lessons, all the seminars, all the tape, all the sweat, all the blood, all the time.
Your jiu-jitsu life is your motivational film. Maybe you didn’t film it. Maybe you didn’t have it edited by some tech genius with a killer soundtrack. But I bet you remember the first time you tied your belt around your waist the smell of disinfectant and sweat at your first gym, the first time you were choked out or arm barred, and the first submission you ever got. Think of all the people that have disappeared off the mat after injuries, or life changes, or a blue belt. Yet you’re still here, putting in the hours, doing what it takes on and off the mat to get better and make your training partners better.
Your motivation is all through your jiu-jitsu movie and it’s all through your life. By letting it come from within you, you’re not only able to push yourself further, but you’ll bring others along with you. People who are early in their Jiu Jitsu lives will be drawn to you because of your dedication and seemingly endless motivation. As they train with you and next you, they will learn about what drives your motivation and they’ll start to cultivate their own. They will learn to rely on themselves and their own experiences to pull them through when training, or life, or anything else gets them down.
Like any good script in any great movie, it’s all up to the writers. So let the good guy win. Let the lost dog find his way home, let the nerd get the girl, and let there always be a sequel.

This is Marsh’s Library in Dublin, Ireland. Founded in 1707, it is the oldest public library in Ireland. As Beautiful as it is Aged. For all intents and purposes, it is exactly where you would traditionally go to seek answers, and “find knowledge”. 
Knowledge is not necessarily centrally located, nor must it be written in ancient tomes to have value. As I was searching for something else this morning, I came across a video I’ve seen a dozen times or more and I probably watched on a “Wide Wide World of Sports” episode a hundred years ago. The video was of an exhibition kickboxing match between Rick Roufus and Changpuek Kietsongrit with modified rules of no elbows, no throws, and the clinch would be an intermediate rest position (no upper body strikes or knees). Roufus, an American Kickboxing Champ, was there to show just how superior American Kickboxing was to Muay Thai.

That was not what happened. Though Rick broke Changpuek’s jaw in the first round (so much for exhibition), Changpuek weathered the first round and the heavy hands of a heavier, motivated opponent who was trying to close the deal early. Round Two Changpuek came out and started taking Rick’s legs out with low leg kicks to his base and lead legs. American Kickboxing did not allow these kicks and viewed them as “unskilled” techniques. As much as Changpuek’s grit was tested in the first round, Rick’s was tested in the next two. Without any answers and no defense, Rick was surviving on heart alone. His movement slowed by bruised legs and punches uncharacteristically telegraphed, it was hard to watch as Rick took kick after kick from his smaller yet powerful opponent. Shortly into the third round, Rick is put down with a kick as he’s attempting a spinning backfist or kick and the referee calls the fight. Rick is carried from the ring on a stretcher and isn’t available to talk to the camera. His 18-year-old brother and corner man, Jeff or “Duke” is, however. Jeff remarks that his brother won the first round, there were several fouls, and there was nothing to do about the low kicks. “Typical” you might say. If the story ended there you’d be right. Something happened shortly after that fight that makes this story worth retelling in the Combat Sports world and everywhere else. Soon after his brother’s fight, Jeff went to a Muay Thai seminar that focused on low kicks - and completely changed his opinion. He soon after left to train in Thailand. Jeffrey “Duke” Roufus went on to become a World Super Heavyweight Thai Champ and a World-Renown Thai Boxing and Striking Coach.

Knowledge is where you find it. Sometimes it comes veiled in surprise. Sometimes it will shake the core of your belief systems. Sometimes it will completely change the way you “fight” things from there on out. Your true challenge is to recognize it, to accept it and to let it change what needs changed to make you better. So many will see that better option, the smarter choice, and still hang on to their old ways, denying what their own eyes just witnessed. We hold fast to our beliefs, our values, and old ways - but when something becomes a hinderance and we see the better answer, we MUST grab it and make it ours. Hold it fast until it’s time to let that go, too. You aren’t investing in that “thing/way/opinion” - you’re investing in YOURSELF. Know the difference.


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