Pressure and Pain: All's Fair in War and Jiu Jitsu

     The many layers of straps and webbing had been cutting hard into my shoulders with every step I took. So much gear. So much weight. So many individual pieces of coarse fabric grinding away at the soft skin on my neck. My plate carrier with ammo and radio and antenna attached, my assault bag loaded with food, water, backup radio and batteries. More rifle ammunition and as many mortar rounds as I could possibly haul. I was cursing myself for trying a new single-point rifle sling. They have their purpose, but it certainly is not long foot patrols. Pressure and pain, a constant state of discomfort. Like the annoying mosquito that chose to live in your ear.

      We started the movement well before daylight, in the empty darkness. Well, we were on tarmac waiting for the aircraft which would be our ride into the drop off point. The sun had just broken the horizon when we de boarded the Chinook helicopter. I always hated those things. I am still unsure just how it is they ever got off the ground. But it was mid-day now. Hot and humid, several miles deep and many more to go on this patrol. Yeah. This is just about exactly how I pictured it would be, playing army with my brother in the Smokey Mountain woods where we grew up.

     The river bottom which we followed was wide. Maybe 50 to 75m across. The water level was shallow which gave way to sandy and very rocky terrain. Every step had to be taken with caution. Rolling an ankle with a foul step over a large river rock would be hellacious to deal with. Like the hellacious blisters forming on my right foot. My Garmont boot, which needed to be retired months before, had split right over my pinky toe leaving a several inch gash in the leather allowing sand to pour in. I am certain all the sand in the river was now in my boot. This obviously led to horrible consequences. Foot troubles in the middle of a long patrol is far from desirable. But that is just the nature of the profession. I was not unique. It was a brutal job and certainly every man in the formation, roughly 2 platoons, were suffering their own individual and or similar aches and pains. All the while staying ever vigilant in watch for enemy we were searching. Pressure and pain, a constant state of discomfort, nothing that would kill us but enough to require mental and physical resilience to be ready when we found those that could, and very much wanted to kill us. But that’s ok, we wanted to destroy them too.

     There was no way I could breathe. It felt like a rhino was sitting on my chest. This dude was certainly built like a fucking rhino. I knew I did not have a chance in hell, but I knew I could make it a little longer. I was worlds and years away from Afghan river bottoms or mountain peaks. Seven years to be specific. I was in far West Texas. Being mauled by the rhino in a small Jiu Jitsu gym. The gym was hot and humid from the sweat we were all pouring out. Maybe I was solely responsible for the mats soaked in sweat; it sure felt like it. The rhino was in top mount, strategically pressuring his body weight down onto my chest. I had already lost my arms. He had them trapped and isolated over my head, his arms wrapped around them, in complete control of them. His upper body dropped to meet my chest, his sternum slamming into my nose. I managed to turn my head to the left, my left ear on the sweaty mat, my right, already sore from days of training, rubbing against his rough gi. But I found it! A fresh and ever so tiny breathing hole. A lifeline. My lungs filled maybe half full, but I was grateful for anything I could get at this point. Pressure and pain, a constant state of discomfort. Nothing that would kill me but…I knew I was addicted. The rhino quickly grabbed one of my isolated arms and locked an arm bar over his thigh. Simultaneously, I smiled and tapped to the submission.

     We sat on his cot when we got back from the mission. This was not the river but one of the other many patrols we conducted over that deployment to Northeast Afghanistan. It had been a long 24 hours and we were both smoked and ready for some food and sleep. Brandon Lavey, my friend and platoon mate had been on several patrols that got heated, but this was my first. I remember before we stepped off into the dark, leaving the gates of our small COP (combat outpost), thinking to myself, “I wonder if I’ll earn my CIB (Combat Infantryman Badge) today?” The CIB was coveted among infantrymen. It meant that you had truly been to combat. You had been fired upon and you returned fire. It was a physical and metaphorical badge of honor. Well, the day went as it did and I certainly did earn that silly badge. I was just grateful to be alive and that all of us who worked that mission were also alive and uninjured. I was very proud of my unit that day. Lavey reached in the shoulder pocket of his uniform blouse and pulled out a black CIB made to wear on the duty uniform or fatigues. He had been awarded this exact badge after his first mission in which he was involved in active combat. In his hands he held the small badge for a brief moment then extended his hand forward to me. He pushed the badge into my hand. I do not remember if any words were exchanged. That was 10 years ago now. There really wasn’t much to be said. I thanked him, shook his hand, and walked out of his room to head to my bunk to collapse and sleep. But I was proud. Honored and proud.

     Brandon was a warrior. On the battlefield and off. He enjoyed fighting, whether it was a sanctioned army combatives tournament on post, or a brawl between young soldiers in the barracks or the bar. We were soldiers, what else were we to do but fight? I also liked to fight, but only when it was necessary, I never sought them out much. But Brandon had a knack for bringing the fights to us. Which was unfortunate for me because unlike him, I really didn’t know how to fight. So, I tried to break things up as best I could when things started to go south. But I always did respect that side of Brandon. When it wasn’t going to cost us our jobs or an ass chewing with our Sergeant Major the following morning. All this aside, I loved Brandon Lavey. He truly was my brother, and it was an honor to fight alongside him in battle. Pool halls were another story. I am still confused to be candid, but Brandon eventually lost the fight with himself and drink and drugs. He died last winter, and me and many others that worked with him were hurt and broken. But I was also proud. Honored and proud to have fought with and known him.

     I would fight with Brandon again. At least in some way. He was not on the mat with me, but I certainly could have used his help. It was March 2024, and I was entered in a Jiu Jitsu competition in Midland, Texas. I was 32 years old and had been training Jiu Jitsu for 5 months. This was my first competition and obviously I was competing as a white belt. Brandon had been on my mind constantly throughout the afternoon. I was entered in three divisions and so far, I had won two of them. I wondered if Lavey would have been proud to see his friend compete as he had. I stepped on the mat for my final match. There was no competitor registered in my division. The only option for me to compete was to go up a weight class and down in age. I would roll against a younger man in his mid 20’s and he outweighed me by 90 pounds. I weighed in at 207 pounds and he was around 290. I knew this was going to be a brawl, just as Lavey would have wanted it. A brawl it was.

     My opponent snapped my gi down hard and fast, quickly bringing me round to reality. Thoughts of Brandon would have to rest for a minute. Or, five minutes, as that’s how long this match would go, the maximum time. I was getting absolutely rag dolled on my feet. He was strong and I was trying to be cautious. He eventually tossed me in a hard throw, but I was simply faster and able to scramble a bit quicker than he was. He initiated the take down, but I gained top mount position, and I held on to it for dear life. The rest of the match was honestly quite boring. I tried with everything I had to gain a submission. Sadly, I was just so new, I really had no clue what to do; however, I did know that if I allowed him to get on top of me, I would get smothered, so I just could not allow that to happen. I didn’t. As there were seconds left in the match, I knew he was tired. I took a chance, as I assume Brandon would have. I allowed him some room and he rolled me and got to his hands and knees. This was close enough to what I wanted, and I quickly took his back. With little time on the clock, I gripped the lapel of his gi and wrapped a choke as tight and as fast as possible. As time ran out, he tapped to the choke, and I won by submission. Brandon’s face immediately flashed into my mind, and I was swarmed by a sense of pride. Pride and honor. The same feelings that rushed me when he gave me his CIB.

     We all find our own ways and path to cope and to manage and to transition into a life of normalcy after a life of war and service. I am not here to say that Jiu Jitsu will help you do that. You can make those assumptions for yourself. Besides, there are plenty other veterans out there, with a far more decorated resume in war and Jiu Jitsu who already preach that gospel. No, I am just here to say thank you. Thank you to Brandon for his friendship and warrior spirit that still lives in me and many others today. And also, thank you to Jiu Jitsu for giving me small tastes of what I miss from my time in service. Pain and pressure, a constant state of discomfort, followed by moments of pride and honor.