When my oldest son started entering Ju Jitsu competitions, we had a big decision to make.
His academy was just starting to enter its students into external competitions, and the belt system the academy used internally didn't perfectly align with what was used externally.*
As such, we didn't know whether my son, who had been studying Ju Jitsu for almost two years at that point (and had performed well in in-house competitions), should compete as a white or grey belt.
The coaches suggested he compete as a white belt; they weren't sure how my son would do as a grey belt and felt that losing too many matches at competitions could shatter his self-confidence. I thought that was a valid point, but I saw things from a different perspective.
In my final year of high school, I joined the wrestling team. Every morning, I'd get to school early, change into my gym clothes, and get thrown around the gym's mats like a child's doll, which must have been a comical sight for anyone watching, given my significant size.
My wrestling partner was my friend Rob, who, at the time, was ranked the eighth-best wrestler in the province. Which is to say, I wasn't any challenge for him: it would only take him longer than a few moments to defeat me in a match if he decided to toy with me for fun.
But Rob was a gracious winner, and every time he'd beat me (and he did beat me every time), he'd explain what I did wrong and how I could improve.
Every loss came with a lesson. And with each lesson, I improved.
I improved so much, in fact, that when it came time for our big regional tournament, I finished in second place (Rob came in first, obviously) and earned myself a spot in the Ontario Federation of School Athletic Associations (OFSSA) provincial championships as one of Ontario's top 32 wrestlers.
Losing matches to my friend every weekday morning was tough on my ego, but the lessons I gained from losing made me a much better wrestler. Had I been paired with a weaker wrestler every morning, I certainly would have won more matches... but absolutely would not have made it to OFSSA in my first and only year of wrestling.
That's what was going through my mind as I thought about the level at which my son should compete. He has expressed a desire to be exceptional at his chosen sport, and although inevitably losing to more experienced competitors would certainly be difficult, I also knew it was the best way to improve. To be the best, you have to beat the best.
But the level at which my son should compete wasn't up to me: it was his decision.
We discussed his options, and I told him my wrestling story and what I thought he should do, then told him it was up to him. He decided to begin competing as a grey belt.
As expected, he lost most of his matches. Not only were his competitors more experienced, but they were often much bigger and stronger than my son; not all boys in the 12-13 year-old age bracket are at the same stage of physical development, if you know what I mean.
But he persisted. Loss after difficult loss, he kept at it.
And every loss came with a lesson.
Recently, my son competed in his Academy's Spring In-House Tournament.
He won all four of his matches by submission, earning himself a gold medal for his bracket.
Microsoft cofounder Bill Gates said, "Success is a lousy teacher. It seduces smart people into thinking they can't lose."
But when smart people lose and view each of those losses as an opportunity to get better?
That's when the magic starts to happen.
* This issue has since been corrected, and the belt systems are now aligned.
Comments