from the mind of a lowley white belt
Somewhere in between my 4 cups of coffee and my mind rambling with self-loathing and insecurities, it dawned on me how utterly ridiculous the pursuit of tape is in the sport of jiu jitsu. In between the half-hearted attempts at takedowns and the contempt for our incompetence in defending them, we allow the opinion of a flawed individual to dictate the validation of our progress. The countless gallons of sweat and broken pride cannot be measured by a 3 inch long piece of sticky cloth. Tape is for the broken, the bloody. Things that are falling apart. It was never meant to be a merit badge of violence.
Every time you step on the mats, you’re sacrificing a piece of your life and investing in your abilities to fold someone up like a napkin. But among the creases you’re often the one getting folded. However, no one can see your intentions. No one can see all the napkin folding drills you’ve repeated all alone. No one sees the shit you endure from Bill in accounting, or that jiu jitsu is the only thing keeping you from popping his head off like a dandelion. No one sees this progress.
Just as you were expelled from the birth canal naked, cold, and alone, so shall we return. The little sexy pieces of fabric you so long for will be removed from your body for a cosmic eternity. There will be no character salvation simply because you got stripped by Rickson Gracie’s 4th cousin in 2037. Your journey has emphatically zero impact on the giant foot that crushes all mortals called “time”.