Here I am. Stuck under the potbelly of a forty-something-year-old, probably corrupt cop. He is squishing my face into the two-inch dense foam mat patterned like a red-and-blue checkered flag across half of the room. This is exactly what I need after the last few weeks of complete chaos. Being squished under an oversized man is the perfect poultice to remove me from the looming future that is sure to come and place me in the current moment. The sound of a decent rap song that has recently been bastardized into a soul R&B rendition, through the use of artificial intelligence, is drowned out every few seconds by the sweat of Potbelly’s rash guard pressing against my ear as I turn my face to the side to avoid being smothered. He smells of piss and old coffee, and the room smells of balls and armpits. The bacteria and fungus slowly grow on me as a casual reminder that even in self-development and personal growth, there are cons. In all fairness, ringworm and a staph infection are very minor and easy to prevent as long as you stay diligent with a hygienic routine. Compared to broken limbs and the false sense of confidence that can be obtained through the sport of grappling, acquiring a skin infection is tolerable.

In the current position my head is facing, I have a clear, quick glance of Professor seated against the wall mats in lotus position with his phone in hand. He is queueing up another terrible song, overstimulated from the spike of dopamine from excessive marijuana use combined with the twenty-year sustained release of endorphins, causing a full vortical dive into the egoistic mindset that assists in maintaining an apex hierarchical position required when running a Jiu Jitsu dojo, but hinders the sort of self-progression the rest of us go through. I guess it’s the result of a give-and-take from teetering the line from student to instructor.

Instead of drinking tonight on this cold, wet Friday, or watching films at home, or going out to eat, or spending time with family, here I am. I barely survived high school and have never felt adept at anything in life for the past seven years or so. A lustrum caused by a world-ending breakup with my high school sweetheart and a minor health scare led me to pursue a major in No-Gi Jiu Jitsu. It started with a pursuit of fitness, something I avoided since my teens, followed by a reemerging fixation with martial arts that developed into a full-blown obsession with Jiu Jitsu.

Now, I am struggling for air under Potbelly. At thirty years young, I have finally found something I am decent at. At the moment, I might be stuck under two hundred and thirty pounds of whiskey and McDonald’s, but in a few seconds I will be out from under Potbelly’s mount and entangled in his legs, where I will have an advantage and end this segment of our simulated deathmatch.

I withhold from referring to Jiu Jitsu as fighting, especially when focused on the sport aspects, a common debate among non-grapplers who choose to disparage the martial art when they aren’t consumed by the indoctrinated constitution put forth by the likes of Joe Rogan or Jocko Willink. As much as I am sick of the neo-bro lingo presented from the vanguard and others, I can’t help but defend the principles. An argument I like to propose during tête-à-têtes of this nature is that Jiu Jitsu might not be a form of fighting per se, but instead is in kinship with aggravated assault or battery. It could even be considered an expression close to attempted manslaughter.

“If I were to use Jiu Jitsu on you right now, and the cops showed up, I would go to jail for the same reasons as fighting, maybe even worse.” I say to the disparager, usually a drunken uncle or cousin of low self-esteem. “In school, if a child puts a fellow student into an armbar or chokes his bully from behind to the point of near or full unconsciousness, even in self-defense, that kid is likely to receive far worse punishment than if a punch or kick was thrown.”

Potbelly lets me know the reason he gave up early is because he tends to avoid precarious positions such as leg lock battles, the positional entanglement that ended our semi-match a few seconds ago. Leg locks are attacks that use your legs to control and pin your opponent’s hips while manipulating their knee and foot with your upper limbs in a multitude of ways. A fierce, pugnacious game of footsie. Jiu Jitsu instructors ignored these attacks in the past due to a stigma that they were too dangerous to practice until students reached a certain level of skill and awareness. Currently, most schools and instructors, including Professor, are in full support of teaching leg locks to beginners. Guys like Potbelly avoid the metadata and choose not to expand their arsenal of attacks, electing instead to make sure he vocalizes the reason why he gives up early as a method of protecting his ego.

“Nice job, Steven,” Professor says, still looking at his phone for the next shit song to play as our informal and unimportant DJ.

“Thank you, Professor,” I respond.

Potbelly and I give each other a hand slap followed by a fist bump, the universal sign of starting another mini round of battery. I am seated on my butt with my hands out in a manner like I am trying to catch a football, and Potbelly is on his knees with his hands attempting to push my legs to one side or the other of his body. The micro-battles of Jiu Jitsu are concepts that can be fully studied through theoretical principles, but can also be completely ignored and processed through the subconscious. Potbelly feels more like the subconscious grappler. In contrast, I am focused on connecting my elbows to the inside of my knees, creating a structure that is harder to manipulate. This concept of defense is called framing or frames. Earlier, to get out from under Potbelly’s potbelly, I had to create wedges with my limbs and shift onto my side so I could replace those wedges with my frames. Now I am trying not to let Potbelly get around my frames and keep him on the outside perimeter, away from my chest and head, by keeping him at distance. I am looking to frustrate him and capitalize on an opening that will lead to me flipping him over or submitting him. Within the span of five minutes, the goal for Potbelly is also to make me submit by tapping, the universal sign of giving up. Similar to antics from an uncle or dad who would torture you, at a young age, with tickles or noogies and give you an opt-out by saying the word “uncle.” In a single match after practice, the more I make my opponent submit, the better I feel afterward. Not all the time, but there is a remedial feeling while driving home knowing that I made a cop—probably corrupt—give up multiple times in mutual assault.

I am not fully in the moment during my match with Potbelly, as I can hear a blue belt somewhere on the mat flirt with one of the only females at our gym. I think I hear him offer her private lessons to level up her game so she can hold her own against some of the newer guys. A common ploy that will either place him in the friend zone, get him kicked out of our dojo, or result in a new fling. He can pursue this advancement similar to Jiu Jitsu—conceptually or latently—and it is unknown which avenue will work, but that is part of life and grappling.

“What’s your Instagram handle?” I hear Blue Belt say.

The cost of not being fully in the moment while sparring with Potbelly is evident, because I now find myself in the same position I was earlier. Underneath Potbelly’s potbelly.

– Spencer Hayes