How Jiu Jitsu Made a Man Out of Me
Getting beat up by a girl is arguably one of the best things to have happened in my life.
Before you take that in a weird way, let me explain — I was fourteen years old, about to start high school, and I moved in with my dad after my mom relocated to Brazil. My father always trained Brazilian Jiu Jitsu; at the time I had no idea what Jiu Jitsu was. But I knew it made my dad buff and hardcore, so when he announced I would be training with him, of course I wanted a piece of the action.
And so it was finalized, Monday evening rolled by, I hopped into the car and rode off to the academy. We bowed in, and class started — I was excited and ready to go, because I thought all my time playing like the Olympics in my middle school gym classes were about to pay off.
It didn’t pay off, at all, because I had never felt more exhausted in my life after the first 30 minutes.
The warmups were ungodly. I never knew the human body could be pushed so far. I was convinced the professors wanted to drive me into the grave. By the time we were finished, my scrawny arms and legs were functionally noodles attached to a torso, my chest and throat were on fire from the cardio, and my eyes were red and stinging from my sweat. I was so miserable, I hated every minute of it.
