Grapple Asia

Losing

“Man will only become better when you make him see what he is like.” —Anton Chekhov

Kid’s Class – Joseph 

Joseph is five. One of our youngest students in the kids’ class. Before the sparring starts, he looks up at Radik and says, almost matter-of-factly,

“You don’t always have to win, you know.”

The two of them stand in our makeshift ring, four white belts laid out on the mats. Radik, only a month into training at the gym, towers over Joseph but moves with confidence. Joseph, on the other hand, has been with us for six months, long enough to know the odds weren’t in his favor. I could see it in the way he spoke: he was hedging his expectations before the “match” even began.

They shake hands.

Seconds later, Radik dominates the position. Joseph taps quickly, then bolts straight into the arms of his father Michael with tears running down his cheeks.

The Father’s Words

Fathers are often our first heroes, our first archetype of strength.

Joseph quotes Michael’s advice almost like a mantra. He hears the words, but you can tell he hasn’t yet absorbed the lesson. His young mind is trying to process it in real time, even as the disappointment wells up and spills over. After a few moments, the tears stop, and he comes back to the mat.

When the next round is called, Joseph steps forward.

He extends his hand to Radik again only this time, before a single move is made, he says he won’t fight back.

He’s submitted before the match even starts.

Losing as a Teacher

No one likes losing. But in Jiu-Jitsu, losing is unavoidable.

In fact, it’s the foundation of progress.

In the beginning, it’s constant a sharp, visceral feedback loop. You lose until you don’t. You climb the food chain, marked by belt colors which denote size, skill, and experience. Eventually, you begin to dominate those below your level, or at least most of the time.

But grit is the currency.

And grit is forged in failure.

Where Joseph Meets Me

Watching Joseph, I couldn’t help but see parts of myself.

These days, I sometimes find myself hesitating to spar with visiting athletes especially the bigger ones, even if they’re just one belt below me.

I ask myself: Why?

It wasn’t always this way. In my early 30s, I was fearless, eager to roll with anyone. Now, as a coach, I’m more calculated. Some of it is age, sure.

But there’s also the reality of my size, the risk of injury, and the toll that comes with balancing so many roles as a gym owner.

The Weight of the Role

When our gym re-opened, I was the de facto “head coach” while our lead instructor was away.

Class volumes grew. Injuries became more frequent so did my own brushes with staph and sickness. I couldn’t afford to treat training as “show up, roll hard, go home.” My body wasn’t just mine anymore; it was part of the machinery that kept the gym running.

Private clients.

Class curriculum.

Administrative work. (The list goes on…)

It all eats into your recovery. It all changes how you approach sparring.

A former coach once told me:

When you become a coach, forget about you—it’s about your students now.

At the time, I resisted that idea. But the longer I’ve been in the role, the more I see the truth in it.

The Lesson I Keep Relearning

Joseph didn’t know it, but in that moment, he was showing me something.

“You don’t always have to win” isn’t just a comfort line from his dad it’s a truth that keeps evolving as you grow.

Sometimes, stepping back is wisdom.

And sometimes, the real win is making sure you can come back tomorrow healthy, ready, and able to serve those who now look to you as their version of “Dad in the corner” 

Mac