I woke up in a cold panic.
I’m still not sure why.
Perhaps it was because I just crossed the treacherous Rubicon of telling my 8 ½ month pregnant wife that I’d be traveling to West Hollywood to grapple strange men.
Or maybe it was because I was overweight and needed to sweat out the excess lbs.
Nevertheless, I knew that in zeven hours I’d be boarding a flight and couldn’t go back to sleep.
3 A.M.: I stop fighting the restlessness, stumble into my office and step onto the scale.
151.8.
Although I was down from 180 lbs I weighed before cherry season started, it was three pounds shy of my desired 148.8.
I drew a 110° hot bath and begin sweating out the extra libras.
I made weight, then had a thought provoking revelation.
What if my scale is wrong?
To test this theory, I brought a 1.5 pood kettlebell from my garage and placed it on the scale.
The kettlebell, which weighed exactly 54.1 lbs, read 52.4 lbs on my digital scale.
This meant my scale was Labor Contractor adjacent.
Because the tales it told were accurate only to itself.
Suspicions confirmed, I drew another hot bath, submersed myself and made weight again.
9 A.M: I drove to the airport, parked and boarded a flight to SoCal.
In case Mrs. Wilson went into labor prematurely, I booked a return flight that allowed me to “Travel Anytime” and spent the first half of the flight Googling departure flights back to SMurF from all major airports within the Los Angeles basin(LAX, ONT, SNA, BUR.)
Little did I know that the little man would show up 108 hours later, but that’s a different story for a different day.
As we flew over Half Dome, the guy next to me noticed me shaking.
Out of concern, he asked, “Scared of flying?
“Terrified! But that’s not why I am shaking,” I tell him. “I’m mildly dehydrated.”
“Then drink some water,” he advised.
“Yes, about that…” I reply
We chat inconsequentially for the remainder of the flight.
Talking helped because conversation distracted me from how shitty I felt.
We land and I shuffle my exhausted ass to the Ride Share Area where I spent a small fortune to Über to UCLA.
An hour later, I arrive and aimlessly wander around campus until I see a statue of John Wooden.
“Pauli Pavilion can’t be far away,” I think.
Despite the recruiting violations, I’ve always respected Wooden.
His “Do your best” leadership philosophy really resonated with me because I come from a family with insane levels of competitiveness.
Growing up, winning and/or being the best (not your best) was prized above all things, including sanity.
This probably explains why at the ripe old age of 37 I’m still competing in amateur grappling tournaments, but neither of us have time for a deep psychological analysis of the great PVW, do we?
If you do, keep reading.
*****
The biggest barrier to entry for me to compete in grappling tournaments has been my weight/diet.
I yoyo wildly.
Now, I know all effective dieters feel the need to proselytize, so here goes:
Over the past few years, I have gone from 180 lbs down to 145 lbs multiple times.
I seem to expand and contract in geometric progressions based on nutrition alone.
This is funny because even though my weight fluctuates my height stays the same.
Beefcake 180lb PVW
I’ve competed, with limited success, in weight classes above my natural 149.
But if punching above my weight has taught me anything, it’s that there is a reason combat athletes hire nutritionists..
I’ve tried all the fad diets all to varying degrees of success and failure.
Calorie restriction, Vegan (for a day), Lo-carb, Carb cycling, Carnivore, Tim Ferriss’s Slow-Carb.
I tried Vegetarian, but it killed my hormones.
Tried Keto, but had no energy for training, plus the shits were awful.
When ballooned back up to 180 lbs the last time, I was intermittent fasting.
I’d not eat for 24 to 48-hour intervals, then break said fasts by feasting on sodium packed electrolytes, sweets, processed foods and drinking eight Bubly’s a day.
Despite exercising like a demon and burning 4k calories a day, the scale didn’t lie.
I was obese.
To add insult to injury, my sleep patterns/anxiety levels were all over the board.
After much consternation and frustration, I tried the Dolce Diet. and for the first time in YEARS felt great.
Turns out, eating food is good for you.
Who woulda thunk.
I think the Dolce Diet is commonly known as the Whole 30 diet, but call it what you want to call it, it worked.
I lost almost 30lbs in a month.
Now, as Paul Harvey said, “Back to the rest of the story.”
2 P.M.: I enter Pauli Pavilion
Legendary names like Bill Walton, Russell Westbrook, Reggie Miller, Kareem Abdul-Jabbar and now Paul Vincent Wilson have all graced it’s storied halls.
The tournament I was competing in was billed as “The Largest Indoor Jiu-Jitsu Tournament in the World.”
I’m unaware of a larger “Outdoor Tournament”, but I stopped fact checking Jiu-Jitsu Tournament Producers two belts ago.
I’m not saying all Tournament Producers are full of shit, but sometimes their decision-making processes can be described as questionable.
Take Worlds for example.
Open to Amateurs and Professionals alike, Worlds is the most prestigious Jiu-Jitsu tournament on earth.
At Worlds competitors compete in the classic martials arts attire, the “Gi” or “Kimono” if you want to be Japanese about it.
Now, Worlds takes place in June, and if you’ve ever been to South America you’d know that June is Wintertime in the Southern Hemisphere.
So it makes sense to train in the warmth of a five-pound Gi.
NoGi Worlds (without a kimono) traditionally takes place in December.
Which, if you are south of the equator also makes sense, it’s warmer. Less fabric necessary.
In 2007, Worlds made the move from Rio de Janeiro to Long Beach.
Despite changing weather patterns and the hemispherical flip flop, the Tournament Producers chose to host Gi Worlds in June and NoGi Worlds in December.
Why does this matter?
First off, I think it demonstrates the Grand Wizard of Jiu-Jitsu mindset:
Things change, but they remain the same.
Second, training in the Gi in the 209 during summer months is hot as fuck. .
Third, training NoGi in the wintertime is colder than a Clinton Foundation hitman.
Fourth and finally, I really want to compete in Gi Worlds again, but it coincides with peak Cherry Harvest.
Traveling to the Eastside of the LBC, as it were, remains impossible for me while we are picking..
WTF. I’m drifting again. Back to Westwood.
I weigh in at the tournament.
I’m .8 lbs under.
Tournament scales are notoriously inaccurate, so I chide myself for not drinking more H20 on the flight down.
After stepping off the scale, I pound water and electrolytes to facilitate the rehydration process and put on 7 pounds.
I could’ve avoided cutting any weight by starting my diet sooner, but alas I’m a Black Belt procrastinator.
Before stepping onto the arena floor, a young Brazillian girl stops me to measure my Gi for symmetry and theology.
She grabs a fistful of my undershirt and with the accusatory tone of a TSA agent asked,
“Is dis a Hash Guard?”
I laugh and ask, “A Hash Guard?”
This provoked our Brazilian to yell “IS DIS HASH GUARD?!!!”
As many of my readers know, I have yet to master feigning respect for hollow authority, but this woman could in fact bar me from competing.
I bit my lip and reply, “Yes. This is a Hash Guard”
My Brazillian amiga meant to say “Rash Guard,” a common undershirt worn while grappling, but Brazilian’s pronounce certain R’s as H’s.
This makes life extremely difficult for Brazilian Pirates, who instead of giving the traditional ‘Arrr…” are forced to hiss like an exasperated Wilson.
After clearing tournament customs, I walk down to the bullpen.
It’s about this time at every tournament the doubts start to creep in.
I start wondering myself, “What the fuck am I doing here? I’m 37. Have a kid on the way. What’s my end game?”
A few years ago, Ryan Holiday mind fucked me with these two pieces.
And my only counter to those Stoic Koan’s is that competing makes me feel alive.
That said, once I shake hands for my first match, all feelings of nervousness or excitement go away.
I feel like I enter a time warp of adrenalized tunnel vision.
I won my first two matches by taking my opponents down and controlling them positionally.
My third match was against an Adonis who was athletic as all get out, but lacked technical skill.
For the initial two minutes the match was back and forth, but I eventually reversed him, took his back and sank in a rear naked choke
Unfortunately, I left too much wiggle room with the Gi fabric and he wormed his way out of the strangle.
I retained back control, but accidentally crossed my feet (a rookie move).
His coach made him aware of this by shouting, “HIS FEET ARE CROSSED.”
My opponent put me into the above submission and extended his hips.
The pain was excruciating.
I’d definitely submit to this in the gym, but there was no way I would in a tournament.
I never thought I’d be the kind of guy that would allow a limb to be broken, but I didn’t care.
“Break my ankle for all I give a shit.” I thought.
“I’m not tapping to some super athlete with the douchiest submission next to buggy chokes.”
Moral: If you’re gonna be dumb, you better be tough.
And at this point in life, I’m so far down the dumb-tough continuum I might as well move into a trailer park in Isleton.
Eventually, I escape the submission, time ran out and I won the match.
This was a pyrrhic victory because while getting my hand raised I was so tired I couldn’t tie my belt, my gas tank was on E and my ankle fully sprained.
I was so filled with adrenaline that I couldn’t feel the sprain, but I’m sure it didn’t help my performance in the finals.
My finals match was against a Judo guy from some Brazilian School.
Stupidly, I tried to wrestle him and got taken down.
I swept(reversed) the guy multiple times, but every time I did this my opponent would roll out of bounds and the Ref would restart us in the standing position.
In Jiu-Jitsu terms, this is known as getting “Brazilianed.”
Most Brazilian-Brazilian Jiu Jitsu Refs are so fiercely nationalistic that when it comes tournament time their ethical matrices descend to the level of your average Federale.
Perhaps, I’m being conspiratorial and my opponent knew the rules and I didn’t.
Either way, it’s is a lame way to lose, but even lamer way to win.
This isn’t sumo.
Losing in the final sucked, but I need to keep in mind that my coaches would’ve submitted all my opponents without breaking a sweat.
Which not only means that I need to improve, but I should focus exclusively on submitting people rather than winning positionally.
Now, I know that coming to this obvious conclusion sounds a lot like Happy Gilmore realizing he should hit a hole-in-one every time.
Alas, I’m a product of the River-Delta School System.
This is to be expected.
All in all, I’m proud of my performance
For a twelve-hour out and back mission, I learned a lot.
My most important lesson?
It’s that even though I’m El Segundo on the podium, I’m still Numero Uno in Tu Corazon.