Petter Häggholm’s blog

From the Department of Obvious Epiphanies (BJJ Division):

When I first started out in BJJ, I learned early on that whenever I get to the top, it is good to be heavy—that is, to apply as much weight as I can; to ensure that as much of my weight as possible is supported by my opponent rather than squandered on the ground. For a long time, however, I was sort of indiscriminate in this. Take side control, for example: I would get to side mount, apply my cross-face, drive my shoulder in, and lean my weight onto my opponent via my shoulder, my chest, maybe even my other shoulder.

My current thinking is that this is, by and large, wrong. It is wrong because by sticking to my opponent using so much surface area, I am creating two weaknesses in my top pressure:

1. I am distributing my weight over a large surface area, so that he experiences moderate pressure on his jaw and moderate pressure on his chest, rather than really pinning any one part to the ground.
2. I create a lot of attachment points, and a lot of friction, so that although it is admittedly hard for my opponent to move, it is also hard for me to move.

These days I am approaching my top game with a very different strategy. Instead of indiscriminately applying my weight, I try as much as possible to pick one point where I apply it. It might be via chest-to-chest contact. It might be through my shoulder, in cross-face. If my opponent is pushing my hips away, I might pike up and drive all my weight into his chest, or his solar plexus, via my head, until I can get around his arms. But as much as possible, I make my pressure pin-point and localised.

I honestly think that I can today apply more effective pressure when I am up on my toes and driving via the top of my head than I could two years ago when driving indiscriminately with my chest, even though I was then some 20–25 lbs heavier.

1. Because the surface area is smaller, the pressure is greater (provided I don’t get lazy and apply less weight!). Thus though my opponent’s chest may be freer under side mount, his head is even more pinned to the ground from the cross-face, and since he can’t escape unless he releases pressure wherever I apply it, this is more effective.
2. Because I use only one point to pin, the rest of my body is free to move. This allows me to play a much more responsive and mobile top game.

With this has come the obvious observation that the best pin (in the sense of top control pressure and keeping your opponent confined, not the judo-scoring osaekomi sense) is not one that cannot be broken—there is no perfect pin—but instead one that if and when my opponent escapes is one that leaves me in a good place to adapt and stay in a superior position. Having more pinpoint chest-to-chest control, for example, rather than being sort of generically smushed across my opponent, means that if they manage to start turning in to escape, I’m in a pretty good place to pivot around the point of contact, spin to the other side, and stay on top, in the opposide side mount. (Alternatively, I’m in a good position to spin for the armbar, should my opponent expose the far arm.)

For the same reason, I have become extremely fond of knee-on-belly for top control. It’s very much in the nature of knee-on-belly to apply pinpoint pressure (via the knee, obviously), and it’s an extremely mobile top position that very easily lets me switch from knee to knee, or between side mount and knee-on-belly. This is in fact a game I sometimes like to play when I am paired up with a beginner whom I outclass and I don’t feel it’s a contest (or very nice) to apply constant submissions: Just sweep, get to the top, and hone my positional game, where instead of stuffing escape attempts I just go with them, flow with the momentum my opponent imparts, and transition to another top position. That way I get to practice something worthwhile, and they get to practice escapes (in a manner that is admittedly frustrating, but does have opportunity for success).

I do not think that it is a coincidence that this thinking has evolved in a period of time during which I have finished more armbars in an average week than I previously did in two average months.

Novum cingulitis (“the new belt blues”) is a psychogenic condition generally contracted on obtaining a new belt in a martial art, such as BJJ, where the patient’s abilities are constantly tested against those of their peers. Typical symptoms include tenseness, a sense of guilt and unworthiness, and constant low-grade nervousness, and may include a period of mild depression. Other common symptoms include paranoia (though this is controversial as some argue that everyone is, in fact, out to get the patient).

Novum cingulitis has no cure, but the condition is self-limiting and will resolve on its own, typically ⅓–½ of the way to the next belt (when a new outbreak may occur). Common home remedies include sandbagging (q.v.) and practicing martial arts without hard sparring, where the additional measure of “pulling rank” may also be employed. Modern medical science recommends against these extreme measures, however, and suggests a healthy diet, vigorous exercise, plenty of rest, relying on your teammates, and colloquially, “manning up”.

Though poorly documented in the literature, novum cingulitis is a very common condition. If you yourself practice BJJ and have never suffered from the new belt blues, you probably know someone who has.

Yesterday—March 8, 2012—Gracie Barra Vancouver hosted a pretty remarkable seminar. Sadly, two of the five guest instructors weren’t able to make it, one due to illness and the other due to the fact that life is busy and shit happens. I am not too disappointed, though, because we still had Flavio Almeida, Marcio Feitosa, and Luca Atala (who incidentally runs Gracie Magazine) all on the mats—all three world champions, I believe—which is skill and knowledge enough for any seminar. Additionally we had three of our own established blackbelts—Tim, Rodrigo, and John—and two brand new blackbelts: Will and Evan (both of who rather amply deserve them). It’s not often you see eight BJJ blackbelts on the mat all at once.

I also received a promotion, though a less dramatic one—I’m now, after about 4½ years of training (started in October 2007), a BJJ purple belt. I’m not sure how to feel about that. On the one hand I am proud, because it’s been a long journey and I have gained a tremendous amount. On the other hand I feel awfully self-conscious because I feel very strongly that I don’t really deserve it yet. But then, I gather most people feel that way when they get promoted…and it’s been said that a new rank isn’t something you get when you are the level that belt represents, but rather something you need to grow into. And that makes sense, of course—obviously even the average purple belt must be better than the average brand new purple belt! I started feeling like I deserved my blue about two stripes in: Halfway. Maybe this will be the same.

When Rodrigo was awarding the belts, he said a few words about everyone who received one—most for the blackbelts, of course, who have been at it for about a decade, but some for us new purple belts, as well. He recounted how, early in his tenure at the school, I had come to him depressed and dispirited, and complained how I felt my game was not improving at all; how I would never get anywhere; how I was close to quitting. I’m pretty sure he misremembered that last part: I don’t recall ever wanting to quit or give up. But it’s certainly true that it felt for a long time like there was a plateau I would never rise beyond, and it was a pretty low plateau to be stuck on, at that. Time (and Rodrigo) have certainly proved me wrong on this point. Regardless of what I or anyone else might think of my skill relative to what a purple belt ought to be, I’ve risen a very great deal above that level—in skill, in confidence in the skills I have, and in confidence that I will continue to grow and improve. I’m still very aware of my limitations, but I no longer feel like I’m stuck. I’ve spent too much time improving to think that there’s an end to that road.

So whether (as I am told) I deserve it now, or whether (as I feel) I have quite a lot of growing into it left to do, it remains a milestone on that journey, and I know that I will fully deserve it—grow into it, and eventually even outgrow it. Some day.

I got a chance to roll for a bit with Flavio Almeida, which was quite an experience. I’ve rolled with a couple of very, very good guys, but not very much. “Supa” Dave Rothwell, but that was so early in my whitebelthood that I had no ability whatsoever to judge what he was even doing. Rodrigo, obviously, much more recently. Now Flavio. It was a very different experience.

It’s hard to judge, of course, what part is style, what part is what he felt like doing at that particular time, and what part is him going easy on us poor noobs. Still, Rodrigo plays a thousand-ton crushing top game, moving about half an inch at a time and giving me less than that to work with. He moves very slowly for the most part—but will explode with huge, quick transitions as soon as the moment is right. Flavio’s game, on the other hand, was extremely smooth and yielding. There was, as I had occasion to remark, a lot of “jiu” in his jiu-jitsu: Jujutsu (the more modern Romanisation) is often translated as “the gentle art”, but I gather ju doesn’t quite mean “gentle”, but refers to something that yields before and adapts to a stronger force rather than opposing it directly. This was very much how Flavio rolled: When he chose to, of course, he got on top and put on as much pressure as he wanted, but he spent a lot of time allowing his opponent to push or pull, simply going with that energy and momentum to transition into some other position, giving the opponent a brief moment to reflect on what a bad idea it was to provide that impetus, before moving on to the next one.

I had the opportunity to watch him do this before I rolled with him myself, and in consequence I played a very conservative game. Since I could tell he’d go with every push and take advantage of it, I tried to make my own game one of inches; if he would turn every bit of energy I supplied against me, then I should give as little energy as possible. At the level he chose to go on against us mortals, I lasted a while, even earning one of those Nice! exclamations one issues in response to something good and unexpected, when I managed to block a sweep. Afterward I was told I had a nice, tight defence—which was very pleasing regardless of how well I realise that he was of course being very nice and generous about it; if someone like Flavio really wants to get me, I don’t think my defence would even register.

I really liked to see (and feel) that ju part. It’s something I want to include more of in my own game, and I sometimes try in my own halting manner when rolling with beginners.

Quite a bit of the seminar was taken up by various speeches and thank yous and promotions, but still the bulk of the time was technical instruction. I took a few hastily scribbled notes during water breaks in order to help me remember what had been taught, which I will set down here in order to hopefully cement them a little better in my mind. I doubt it’ll be terribly helpful to anyone who didn’t get to see the demonstrations, for which I don’t apologise—this is chiefly for my own reference!

• Perhaps my favourite part of the seminar was an extremely simple way Luca Atala demonstrated to defeat the spider guard. On the one hand there’s an element of “Why didn’t I think of that?”; on the other hand he emphasised and demonstrated some details that I hope will stick with me for a long time. In particular, he emphasised the need to tuck your elbows in, and showed how the spider guard can largely be neutralised simply by tucking your elbows, gripping if possible just below the knee. Nothing revolutionary, but solid, and the demonstration helped remind me or inform me of some details I was missing.

  The pass from here was very simple: Once you have neutralised the spider guard, transfer to a two-on-one grip on a leg and stretch that leg out while passing, keeping two-on-one until you’ve established side control.

• Flavio and Marcio demonstrated different pieces of the spider guard game they’d picked up from Romulo Barral (I’m afraid I don’t recall who demonstrated which part; I think maybe Flavio showed the sweep?). It was based on a spider guard grip where one arm was released and that grip was transferred instead to a deep collar grip. Hip out to turn, so that my far leg is on the opponent’s bicep; shift under them to get lifting power. (This was a tricky part for me.) If they don’t base out, this is a slow but sure sweep in its own right, shifting them over me.

  If they do base out, here’s where the sneakiness begins: If I have a right spider hook, turned so my left side is toward them, then pass my left leg around their right leg, angled so that the front of my knee can collapse the back of theirs. Pinch my knees together for leverage, push forward—and over they go.

  If, on the other hand, they base out far, using their right arm, the submission off this setup presents itself: Square back up and slip the right leg under their (non-controlled!) arm, while sliding the right spider hook over the shoulder: Triangle.

• Another part focused on posture control from top side or half guard. The emphasis here was that if the opponent’s head is driven down, it breaks their posture and takes away most of their power. One application was: Opponent turns in; I place my top hand high on their head, and swim my other hand under their arm for an overhook, reaching for my own wrist. If I now walk around their head, I will flatten them back out. (For drilling: They turn back in; I repeat going in the other direction.)

  From here was a half guard submission that I’ve seen before but never mastered. Sadly I didn’t master it last night either. It involves stuffing the half guard in just the same manner as above, then using my right hand to feed their left lapel to my left (cross-face) hand. Then, dive my right hand through an overhook and under their head to reach that lapel—this is hard; you have to reach very deep and I found it tricky to have enough gi material to grasp. If this is accomplished, there’s a trianglish choke achieved by sprawling out, using my chest on their triceps to force their arm into their neck.

  A simpler but very interesting option from here is to stuff the half guard in just the same fashion, then swim my right hand for an underhook and flatten them out (into a fairly standard top half position). Then, keeping control of the arm with that underhook and blocking their head with my left hand, step over and hook the head with my left leg—locking my ankles together if at all possible (kind of like a triangle about their head and right arm). From this control position, the straight armbar on their left arm is trivial. My drilling partner and I played a bit with this from a regular half guard setup (rather than coming off the head/posture/stuff thing), and found that it works though it’s harder; when it doesn’t come off a flattening action, the bottom person may be in a position to shift to his left side and escape out the back door.

I’ve written before about the notion that combat sports aren’t good for self defence, as well as the cliché that you never want to go to the ground in a street fight. Today I want to look critically at a similar statement: That while BJJ does have a subset of techniques that work in real fighting situations, such as street fights or MMA, modern sport jiu-jitsu has become too specialised and so far divorced from actual fighting as to be largely useless.

There is certainly a kernel of truth to this argument, smugly though it is often delivered. Certainly, as its exponents insist, many of the bewildering new guards in high-level jiu-jitsu—spiral guard, tornado guard, berimbolo, reverse De La Riva, X-guard, 93 guard, and so on and so forth—are probably not a good idea in a scenario where your opponent isn’t trying to avoid losing points to a sweep, but trying to smash your head into the ground.

Curiously, I only ever see this argument aimed at BJJ, but in actual fact it’s perfectly applicable to other combat sports as well. Judo, for example, contains a lot of stuff that is totally pointless in a street fight: Uchimata sukashi and sukui nage spring to mind, though perhaps te guruma isn’t the most useful technique in an altercation either—and what’s the point of all those turtle turnovers? Even something as straightforward as boxing has a few things, like bob-and-weave actions and the strategy of pummeling into a clinch, that work only under its specific ruleset. Yet no one seems to feel that this makes “sport boxing” any less of a fighting art.

The simple truth is that a fight between high-level practitioners, just like a match of expert judoka or professional boxers, is a contest of experts, where both people have the same basic toolkit, and both people of necessity know exactly how to deal with that basic toolkit. Just as judo contains uchimata sukashi because judoka are likely to face people who will attack them with uchimata, so any combat sport will develop techniques useful for dealing with its own attacks and counters. No one developed the tornado guard to fight muggers or drunken idiots: It was developed by jiu-jitsu experts in order to defeat other jiu-jitsu experts, because when your opponent knows exactly the same set of basic positions, attacks, counters, setups, and follow-ups as you do, having something different in your arsenal can give you the edge you need.

It’s not like the existence of sport jiu-jitsu means that you’ll walk into a BJJ school off the street one day and immediately start being taught the arcane ways of the berimbolo. On the contrary, most experienced practitioners—even the ones who enjoy learning all the exotic stuff—seem to stress a strong foundation in the basics. By the time you learn even one of those “useless-for-fighting” guards, you’ll have a good grasp of the basic closed guard (perfectly valid for fighting, as breaking an opponent’s posture prevents him from striking), open guard (feet on hips can control distance and protect you), mount, side mount, and back mount (all solid offensive positions), half guard (a valid step to recovering guard), and maybe a few other bits and pieces like butterfly and spider guard (and for self defence, surely we can agree that a guard that involves control of both the opponent’s hands is sound).

By the time you learn the stuff that isn’t applicable in a fight, then, you already should and most likely already do know the stuff that is perfectly applicable—and you’re likely to be good at them, nor will you ever stop working them. No matter how fancy your reverse upside down quarter tornado guard gets, you’ll still be drilling basic armbars from closed guard. After all, you never outgrow the basics, even if you add to them.

Now, it is true that BJJ as often trained leaves a few gaps. I think and hope that everyone who trains it realises that dealing with strikes is a skill you won’t develop by training exclusively in grappling—I know that I have some of the tools to do it (breaking posture, restricting movement, and so on), that in fact the same tools that work for grappling can also neutralise strikes—but I also know that there’s more to it; that I haven’t trained myself to use those tools for that purpose or in that context; and that if you put someone with MMA gloves in my guard, I’m in for trouble. This is of course why many people choose to do a little bit of MMA, or at least rolling with strikes involved, to see what it’s like and learn to deal with it. Maybe I should at some point. But to note that BJJ qua sport grappling without strikes is incomplete (which is true) is a far cry from validating the frankly silly idea that sport jiu-jitsu training is unhelpful.

After four years and an extremely belated start, this month saw me participate in my second-ever BJJ tournament, Grapplers Inc. on February 4, 2012. This time I’ve been eating pretty well for a few months, and so with no need to drop any weight I was comfortably in the middleweight division, instead of the inappropriate medium heavyweight division I was in last time. I knew I had improved since the last competition; I was fitter, stronger, more technical, and more active on the mats. The result?

Oh well.

My analysis is pretty much what I wrote in the YouTube description:

Unfortunately, I ended up inside a strong guard that I just wasn't able to break. I think, and in fact I thought even during the match, that I should have stood up to break the guard, since he was clearly breaking my posture whenever I tried to get leverage to open the guard kneeling; however I don't work enough standing guard passes and decided I was too likely to get swept, and should therefore stay down and play more conservatively.

Right or wrong, that's where I lost the match. I briefly thought I was going to pass to half guard, but he nearly caught me with a sweep in the transition, and as I scrambled to regain posture he caught my arm.

The next few months will be on the theme of standing guard passes.

What I didn’t say in that description is that unlike the other tournament, this time I’m slightly unhappy with the result. Not that I care so terribly much that I lost—after all there are always better guys out there, and I’m not a natural athlete so I think just getting to the point where I can make myself compete in such a physical event is pretty significant. Still, I wish it hadn’t gone like that. I’ve made tremendous gains since the early autumn, thanks to registering for that first tournament; and I’ve continued to improve since then. I know that I’m better than I was in November—in better physical condition, faster, stronger, and with a much more active and cohesive game. I have better jiu-jitsu! But you can’t really tell from that video, where I got stuck doing largely nothing. That is irritating. It’s irritating. I’m irritated, and a bit frustrated.

It may be, though, that this frustration itself is mostly a good thing. I feel this way because I know that I’ve improved, and because I have gained some confidence in my game. In November I had no idea what would happen: I just wanted to get my first tournament out of the way. This time I knew that the odds were perhaps against me (because, having waited so long, I have very little competition experience for a blue belt), but I also knew that I had a game and things I wanted to do.

Then, too, I left the tournament with a feeling of I do not want this to happen again! I want to compete again, and win or lose I do not want to spend another match just stuck in the guard like that. I want to spend the next few months working my standing guard passes so that if I end up in the same place, I will smash that guard; and if I lose, it will at least be different. The last tournament just got me introduced to the idea of competing; this one exposed a big hole in my game, pointed, and laughed at it like Nelson Muntz.

My only fear is that I may get promoted too soon. Be it via franchise rules because I’ve been toiling along for 4½ years, or the same principle as a ‘sympathy D’, I fear the possibility of receving a belt I don’t deserve at the big several-multiple-world-champions seminar next month, preventing me from competing at blue belt again. Ah well, hopefully such nightmares won’t come to pass. There should be another big tournament locally in May or so, and I want to be there.

Hopefully, too, I’ll find a chance to compete in judo at some point this year. At least here it’s not too late; a mere orange belt, I’m very much a nobody and should be able to get my first-tournament jitters over with in this sport at a fairly early stage!

Team highlights:

As a follow-up to my post about the tournament, here’s some footage (thanks to Jaimie!):

My first match, medium heavy (click through to YouTube for description):

My second match, open weight (ditto):

Team highlights, better camera and far better results:

You never want to go to the ground in a street fight!

You may have heard that sort of thing before, if you’ve ever heard anyone discussing or dismissing the values of various martial arts for the purpose of self defence:

1. BJJ¹ is great for competition, but it relies too much on the rules. In a real fight there are no rules.
2. BJJ may work one on one, but grappling won’t work against multiple opponents.
3. Going to the ground is the last thing you want to do in a real fight. It’s a sure way to get stomped by the assailant’s friends.

There are various quick dismissals of some of these (and similar points). For example, dirty fighting isn’t the magic bullet some imagine; ball grabbing isn’t so easy and trying to punch someone in the groin, if they know a bit of grappling, is not very effective. And the history of MMA and the UFC empirically and convincingly taught us that while a complete martial artist must be competent in all three phases of unarmed combat—free-moving standup, clinch, and ground—still the reality is that grapplers almost always seem to defeat strikers if the latter have not trained in wrestling/grappling enough to learn some takedown defence. In modern MMA, of course, everybody is more rounded and a grappler with no striking won’t last long, but this is precisely because even the strikers who prefer to keep the fight standing have learned enough grappling to remain standing or defend and disentangle themselves and get back to their feet.

As for multiple attackers, well, if you’re outnumbered you’ll probably lose no matter what you do. I agree that keep moving, don’t get trapped, and don’t go to the ground is good advice, but I think clinching and quickly throwing is pretty effective too, and in a real multiple-opponent fight it seems absurdly optimistic to assume that things will always go your way and you’ll never get grabbed and taken down against your will. Grapplers have the advantage of knowing how to get to a top position, disentangle themselves, and stand back up. Still, one-on-several fighting is a losing proposition regardless of what you do. And in one-on-one situations—the situations you have any realistic chance of winning—grappling works just fine. (In that classic bugbear of a violent rapist assaulting a lone woman—actually a small percentage of rapes—BJJ², with its highly developed guard and techniques for variously choking or breaking an opponent who is trapped between your legs—seems so well-suited that it might be custom made.)

But all that is by the way. The truly puzzling thing about all this is the assumption—sometimes tacit and sometimes explicit—that “real world self defence” comes in precisely one variety: Life-or-death combat against an enemy with mortal intent and against whom lethal force is justified. (Sometimes this is codified in that reliable old false dichotomy: It’s better to be judged by twelve than carried by six.) Furthermore, every multiple opponent fight is assumed to consist of the hypothetical protagonist being outnumbered. (Perhaps the exponents of these street-lethal martial systems just don’t tend to be out among friends. One might facetiously ask why.)

In reality, I’ve never been in a really serious fight, and probably you haven’t either. The last time I was in a “real” fight it was on the schoolground. Perhaps you’ve been in a barroom brawl or some retrospectively stupid ego fight. These are not fights where lethal force is justified. It may be trivially true that it’s better to be judged by twelve than carried by six, but all things considered it might be better to swallow your ego and back down, or even take a few bumps and bruises and four stitches in the ER, than to spend two years in prison and acquire a criminal record.

The reality is that different violent situations require different levels of force and different kinds of violence. Here, I would argue that grappling arts like BJJ are inherently superior to striking arts, because while boxing is an excellent martial art and combat sport, and a very effective way of defending yourself should it come to it (especially if you have at least rudimentary grappling skills in case someone eats a punch and bulls his way into a clinch), it simply does not have a continuum of force that allows you to gently control a situation. It’s perfectly legitimate when used against the hypothetical psychotic attacker, but wildly inappropriate when your usually-pleasant friend gets rowdy and drunk at a party. Punching someone is fair if they are trying to punch you first, but if somebody is pushing shoving you and gearing up to a fight, perhaps it’s wiser to just trip them up, take them down in a controlled fashion, and place them in a pin until they calm down.

Furthermore, it’s simply not true that every conceivable “street fight” involves you being outnumbered. If some truly heinous asshole assaults you outside a club, would you rather break his teeth and gouge his eyes out with some (hypothetically effective) Krav Maga, or place him in a loose guillotine and wait until the bouncers (or the cops) come and drag him away? Both approaches protect you from violence; only one of them protects you from legal consequences of using excessive force.

And of course it’s not like BJJ lacks responses to situations where greater levels of force are necessary. If my life were truly on the line I wouldn’t try to go for a gentle takedown and a pin; I’d go for the hardest takedown I could muster—maybe a hard double-leg, or perhaps a throw inherited from judo such as harai goshi or uchi mata; and slamming someone down on pavement is certainly no less effective than punching them in the face. (It’s true that BJJ players tend to be much weaker on takedowns than judoka or wrestlers, but we still have more training than the average untrained schmoe. If the schmoe in question is not in fact unskilled and possesses enough grappling skills to block takedowns, well, then you’d better have some grappling know-how to counter his!) We learn control positions and pins, but we also learn joint locks that can put limbs out of commission, and best of all, chokes and strangles that can rapidly render an assailant unconscious more reliably than any other technique. (It would take another minute or two of strangling after the point of unconsciousness before death sets in, so it’s unlikely to happen accidentally. Compared to concussion-inducing strikes, or joint locks, chokes are relatively low-risk methods of putting people out of commission.)

I’m not trying to paint BJJ as a be-all, end-all system of self defence here. For my more complete thoughts on that subject see this post, but in brief I think that unarmed combat is a final and rather poor line of self defence, after avoidance, negotiation, escape, and armed defence in that approximate order. I also don’t wish to elevate BJJ over other grappling arts such as judo, wrestling, or SAMBO, which all have different strengths and weaknesses but are all fantastic. Nor do I mean to devalue striking: A complete martial artist should be able to handle himself both standing (freely or in the clinch) and on the ground. MMA, not grappling, is where the martial arts reach their peak in applicability for unarmed one-on-one combat (though rulesets such as Daiko Juko/Kudo, sanda/sanshou, combat SAMBO, and similar are also very excellent). What I do think is that grappling is an essential part, and that if you’re self defence oriented and can choose only one part (which would be unfortunate), grappling is in fact more important than striking. I also think that a lot of criticisms are weak and unfounded and deserve to be deflated.

In summary, whenever you hear somebody say that you never want to go to the ground in a real fight, don’t just nod in instinctive agreement with common wisdom, but instead stop and recognise that

1. …in the highly unfortunate circumstances where you are compelled to use force in self defence, context matters;
2. …whenever milder levels of force are called for—restraint rather than incapacitation—grappling offers far more options than any amount of striking
3. …grapplers learn to fight on the ground and off their backs, but are not limited or required to, as takedowns are vital parts of the game and e.g. BJJ has a strongly developed strategy for getting to the top and a dominant position;
4. …many of the horror scenarios designed to point out the folly of grappling—say, multiple attackers or weapons—are scenarios you’re unlikely to win anyway, and it may be more sensible to consider the value of different approaches for scenarios where any approach is workable.

As an example, here’s cell phone footage of a drunk man accosting renowned grappler Ryan Hall in a restaurant and being forcibly subdued without a single punch thrown and without causing injury.

¹ I use BJJ as an example because it’s particularly prone to this kind of criticism and because it’s the art I myself practice and am most familiar with, but it applies pretty much equally to judo, sport SAMBO, submission grappling, Greco-Roman, freestyle, or collegiate wrestling, and so on.

² This is an exception to ¹.

Received the third stripe on my blue belt last night. Logging it here for the sake of completeness, as I tend to log my rank progress—I should be happy about it, but I’m not. I feel very keenly that I do not deserve it. Well, I don’t feel like I’ve deserved any BJJ rank at the time it was given; by now I’m pretty sure I do deserve my blue belt, but scarcely more, and certainly not halfway to purple. I can’t help but feel and fear that part of the reason is time served—the instructors can only give so much attention to every individual, after all. I think scrutiny intensifies at purple and brown. (White belts are of course tremendously varied, and blue belts have a very wide range, but purple and brown belts seem invariably very, very solid.) So I feel less flattered or recognised than I do self-conscious and uncomfortable.

Admittedly, I felt a lot more rotten about this than I otherwise might have because I also happened to be rather ill last night and had to sit out the moment sparring began to avoid my lunch resurfacing inopportunely. It’s hard to feel hardcore when, instead of doing the three hours of training I had planned for, I managed a mere forty-five minutes before I had to go home, eat bland food, and go to bed early.

And I suppose there’s no question but that I have improved tremendously since I got my blue belt. In the most general terms I feel that getting to blue for me was mostly a journey of picking up various parts—techniques and theoretical principles—and since then it has mostly been a matter of joining the parts together. I have a rather pathetically small repertoire of techniques, but the ones I have are growing more and more solid, but more than that they are fitting together better and better. Instead of knowing how to execute an armbar and being aware that I should tighten up positions and take away space, I can now execute an armbar while keeping positions tight and taking away space (at least, compared to what my “armbars” used to look like…). It’s much more tactile and flowing; I am better at feeling where things are going, rolling with it, responding, and countering, even if I don’t know specific techniques for it. And while I may speak disparagingly of my small arsenal of techniques, I’m not really concerned about that aspect: I much prefer a small set of moves I know reasonably well to a grab-bag of quarter-assed¹ techniques. And while I may lose a lot of rolls, I don’t think it’s because I don’t know enough techniques. It’s a deep and wide game with enormous variety, but it’s amazing how many fancy moves I don’t know that I can still shut down by simply working fundamentals like keeping a solid base and my arms in tight.

Still, I’ve a long way to go before I feel comfortable wearing a belt with three stripes on it (if it’s blue), or before I feel like I can hang with the average guy wearing the same belt—this latter being why I feel so uncomfortable with it. I’d much rather be the guy of whom it is asked, Why doesn’t he have (some rank) yet? than Why does he have (some rank)?, but I fit much better in the latter category, alas.

I also feel very self-conscious of the fact that in four years of BJJ I haven’t competed even once. I really, really should. Aggression (when appropriate), initiative, and plain drive to win are major factors missing from my game, and I find it difficult to conjure them up in friendly training. Even an informal training-structured-as-tournament, where it’s clear that my aim is to try to win rather than practice, brings pretty big changes into my game. I’m better when I’m trying to win (surprise!); when I treat rolling as “Well, we’re just rolling” it’s so easy to get lazy, to meet strength and aggression with an attitude of “it doesn’t matter who wins, so I may as well roll over and work from my back”. True as far as it goes, but horrible when entrenched as a habit. All of this, I think, would be well addressed by competing—and by simply training for competition.

On the other hand competing in itself has no appeal for me. I want to have done it, and I want the benefits I’d get from it, but competition itself? For fuck’s sake, I always had trouble getting over my nerves in junior chess competitions! That does not bode well for a higher-stakes competition where people actually watch, and although life is not at stake, limbs sort of are… I also feel that it’s sort of pointless to compete when I know that I’m pretty lousy for my rank and weight bracket (I am over-ranked and overweight—I mean, I’m not obese or anything, but in a sport where people cut weight, I’m quite a few beers above where I ought to be). It would feel sort of odd competing when, realistically, it’s no competition—I know I’d almost certainly lose my first match. Making matters worse, if I did compete I’d be wearing a Gracie Barra gi and publically lowering the average level of Gracie Barra competitors. The matches are individual but there’s a team element, a team spirit (and sometimes team awards). I don’t want to join a team only to provide a new weakest link.

¹ My current techniques are half-assed; ergo, the techniques that look half-assed relative to my current level must be quarter-assed.

On Friday, I took the Academie’s blue cord exam for the third time, and as it turns out, the last, as I passed and was awarded my blue cord¹, the second rank in the school’s system—briefly, unofficially, and unauthorised-ly by yours truly as

1. Green cord: Basic familiarity with the first rudiments of rapier fencing, very brief introduction to sidesword and longsword. Getting here does not require any sparring; in fact I think it’s more about getting the skills to use a sword safely enough to be allowed to start sparring.
2. Blue cord: Demonstrate competence with the basic principles of rapier fencing (finding and gaining, lunging, and so on), and familiarity with cuts, offhand, &c. Here, you’re expected to have an idea of what you’re doing, and in combat, you should be working proper technique and not fall to pieces under pressure (as I am prone to doing), whether you win or lose. Although you need some sparring skills, this isn’t really about being a good fighter, but about building the basic foundations for longer-term skill development.
3. Red cord: Strong competence with the principles of rapier fencing, including the offhand dagger and “adaptive fight” techniques and tactics like voids; familiarity with sidesword and shield. To gain this level you not only need to show proper technique, you also have to show that you can really fight with a rapier: One of the requirements is that during the 40 minutes of sparring during the exam itself, candidates must maintain at least a 50% win ratio (which initially sounds low, but the attendees at rank exams are pretty heavily biased towards more experienced students; the ability to defeat beginners won’t get you anywhere near that 50% minimum). I think the total number of hits I’ve scored on red cords in sparring is, at last count, one, but to be fair I don’t think he was actually playing to win.
4. Silver cord: Heaven knows. Apparently, you need to be assessed in 33 or so categories before you even qualify for the exam. Interestingly, no one at the school has achieved this rank.
5. Gold cord: Heaven probably doesn’t know. Possibly you need to defeat several opponents at once while swinging from a chandelier. No one has achieved this rank per se, though Devon, the head instructor, holds it. I guess it’s hard to rise through the ranks when you have to build a ranking system from scratch. I’ve never heard anyone suggest that he does not deserve it. (I’ve also never seen anyone score a hit on him that he didn’t look like he was charitably allowing.)

It is to be noted that the Academie Duello rank system really seems to be designed to support a curriculum rather than being merely a hierarchal award system (as in many “traditional” martial arts) or competition division system (as it tends to function in e.g. BJJ and judo). Students are not kept at green cord because they aren’t good enough to be blue cords; rather, they are kept at green cord until they have a sufficient mastery of the basic principles that the instructors deem that it’s more conducive to the student’s progress to work on other material.

To make that a bit more concrete, the fundamental part of rapier skills at Academie Duello are based on the concept of the “true fight”, the “art” in Capoferro’s Art and Use of Fencing, stressing control of the opponent’s sword at all times and the basic strategy, and component skills, of gaining control, pressing one’s advantage when one has it, and backing up and striving to regain it when lost. In a “walk before you run” approach, the school’s curriculum is intended to make students competent with this before teaching voids and other fancy manœuvers, and to learn the single sword before adding the complication of a dagger. Being a proponent of solid basics before adding fancy tricks, be it with a sword or in jiu-jitsu, I wholeheartedly approve of this approach.

The last time I tested, I gained further competence that this is really what they are doing, because although I failed the exam, I spoke briefly to my instructor (Greg), mentioning that while I was happy to keep working on the green cord rapier material, the wrestling part of the curriculum was feeling rather repetitive and unrewarding. He agreed, and since then I’ve been joining the blue cord class for that portion: Assigned, that is, to the lessons that my instructor feels are most conducive to me learning in (and enjoying!) class, rather than to what my rank “qualifies” me for.

Moreover, I have actually quite enjoyed attempting and failing the blue cord exams. Whenever possible, I like to have some focus in my training, and especially my sparring. Instructional time is easy: Do what you’re told to work on. Sparring time is easy to waste, fighting just to win or rehearsing your strengths without correcting your weaknesses. Sparring should be focused. Taking the exams has provided me with opportunities to have a group of the school’s most senior instructors and students all assess my skills and distil their collective judgement into a few concrete areas, which has allowed me to focus on improving precisely those areas.

And this has worked. Every time I fence, I am acutely aware of just how and how much I have improved over the past six months. (I am also acutely aware of the mistakes I still make. This is the constructive but unpleasant consequence of skill improvement and Dunning–Kruger.) Every time I fence, I know exactly what I need to work on, and am able to isolate and work on the areas most in need of improvement. Several instructors have told me in recent months that they can clearly see that I’ve been working very hard: This may or may not be true, but the important fact is that I have been working with great focus.

This is in some contrast to BJJ, where…well, I probably lack focus, but it’s also harder to achieve. BJJ is a game of incredible breadth; as I’ve mentioned before,

…BJJ has so damn many possible positions. For a basic game you need some competence in both top and bottom position of full guard (open and closed), half guard, side control, knee-on-belly, north/south, mount, turtle and butterfly; you’ll probably want to know what to do with spider guard, sit-up guard, maybe some fancy stuff like De La Riva, and so on.

In BJJ, you have a largish set of very basic attacks (armbars, americana, kimura, omoplata, cross choke, RNC, guillotine, rear lapel choke, triangle, arm triangle…) and an indefinite plethora of fancier moves. In rapier, you have one principal attack (the lunge), a couple of subsidiary attacks (the cuts), and—well, that’s about it, but ipso facto you had damn well better get good at those, because your opponent will be no less focused: It’s a process of extreme refinement and finesse.

BJJ is more fun in the sense of playing-around-and-wrestling, but rapier is extremely rewarding in that it allows me, well, rapier-sharp focus in development. I enjoy them both tremendously, only in very different ways. I consider myself very fortunate to be able to practice both.

Well, I’ve spent the past six months or so working very specifically on the particular areas that my instructors have identified as crucial to my mastery of the basics; I still have many weaknesses to work on in these areas (some of which are expressed in red pen on Friday’s exam report card), but I have now been deemed competent enough that it’s time to expand the breadth of my game as well as its depth. It’s been a long-ish journey—the blue cord guide tells me it usually takes 3–6 months from green to blue, and it’s taken me about a year and a half, which is rather slow progress even after one notes that I go to only one class a week rather than the recommended two. Since red cord is estimated to take 1–1.5 years, I reckon I’ve got 3–4.5 years at a proportional pace: Plenty of time to work on my current weaknesses as well as the further improvements and new skills.

But first, I shall spent my Saturdays this coming month doing my best not to knock the buckler out of my own hand or cut my own leg with the highly confusing, and to me entirely novel combination of sidesword and shield. Excelsior!

Personal timeline, approximate:

• November 2009: Enrolled in Academie Duello’s Taste of the Renaissance introduction program.
• January 2010(?): Received my green cord as token that I’d completed the introduction and could enrol in regular classes.
• June 4, 2010: Nothing happened on this date, but if I progressed at the expected pace, I should have achieved my blue cord around this time.
• December 4, 2010: First attempt at the blue cord exam, failed: Knew I would fail, wanted to know what to work on.
• February(?), 2011: Second attempt at the blue cord exam: Thought I would probably fail, and did.
• June 3, 2011: Third attempt at the blue cord exam: Thought there was a somewhat >50% chance I might pass, and did.

¹ To applause of the gathered students that seemed heartfelt rather than merely polite. It warmed the cockles of my black and shrivelled little heart.

Tested for the second rank of the school today, this being blue cord. There are three reasons why I want to reach the next rank:

1. Blue cords appear to do interesting things in the wrestling part of the class
2. Sidesword + shield
3. While I don’t really want high rank anywhere in anything, it’s nice to offically not be at the bottom of the ladder

To qualify for an exam you have to be assessed (and signed off) for a number of components; for blue cord: Basic wrestling stances and turns, rapier posture/footwork, offhand positions for rapier, measure and tempo, using and defending against cuts, and reading the first part of Capoferro’s Gran Simulacro. The exam itself contains a demonstration portion where you have to demonstrate some of these skills, like measure/gaining and some offhand stuff; and a combat portion, where blue cord candidates must fight 2×10  minutes against all comers, and are assessed on form. (Red cord candidates must fight 4×10 minutes, and must maintain at least a 50% win ratio.)

I went in expecting to fail, mostly due to a problem with my posture (I don’t push my shoulders forward enough in seconda and quarta), partially due to poor combat performance, and with a sprinkling of other factors that I hoped to hear about. I went in with the attitude that if I passed, that’d be nice; more likely I’d fail but get helpful and specific feedback.

I actually did much better than I thought I would. Of course, I did still fail, but the feedback I got was a lot more positive than I had expected, and I basically failed due to the problems I’m already aware of and working to improve. (There was a remark about footwork as well—also a known issue, though I tend to regard it as smaller.) Most notably, I did a lot better in the combat portion of the exam.

I’ll keep working on what I’m already working on; failure notwithstanding, I actually feel quite good about this because I performed much better than expected, and was surprised to find that there weren’t any other problem areas. (Of course I am perfect in exactly zero areas, but to paraphrase my instructor, I’m deemed good enough in other areas to move to the next level and start expanding my skill set while I polish them. The posture and footwork stuff are fundamentals I should improve before I move on and try expanding.) I expected to try again the exam after the next one; now, if I make notable improvements in my problem areas, maybe I’ll try for the next one, in two months.