Friday, August 02, 2024 by C. Michial Jones
There is a point where “resolve” is no longer a choice, but a thin wire you cling to above an abyss. When the doctors confirmed I was at Stage 3C—the final step before the word “hope” is removed from the conversation—the world went numb. The recommendation was unanimous: a radical open prostatectomy. It was my only chance to survive the monster.
I kept training, but I was going through the motions in a fog. In a moment of defiant desperation, I decided to enter a BJJ tournament. In my mind, it was a “last dance”—a final opportunity to test myself before the surgery potentially changed my physical capabilities forever.
The Open Bracket
My wife, Amber, was my bedrock, ever the optimist. But as I stood ringside at the tournament, the reality of my situation felt crushing. My son Curtis and my coach Bryce had already competed and won Gold. When my name was called, I looked at the coach’s chair. It was empty.
I was alone. I was second-guessing my sanity. I was thinking of my uncle Pat—a powerhouse of a man who didn’t survive his battle—and wondering if I was next.
To make matters worse, there was no one in my age or weight bracket. To get a match, I had to go down in age and up in weight. Standing across from me was a 31-year-old giant: 7′ and 265 pounds of youth and aggression. I felt like I had lost my mind.
The Voice from the Void
The match started, and I was struggling. I was a 47-year veteran of the arts, but in that moment, I was a man drowning in his own head. Then, through the noise of the crowd, I heard a voice.
It wasn’t a suggestion; it was a command. I looked over, and as if he had materialized out of the ether, Rocky France was sitting in my coach’s chair.
Rocky, the man who had died and come back to life himself, was there to pull me back from the edge. He coached me through the storm. Even when my shoulder gave way—breaking under the strain—I didn’t quit. With Amber telling me that the pain was temporary and Rocky in my corner, I fought through the pain and the fear, eventually walking away with a Bronze medal and my arm in a sling.
The Lesson of the Sling
I didn’t win the gold that day, but I won something much more important. I realized that even when we feel most alone, Amber is always there. Rocky didn’t just coach me on how to handle a 260-pound opponent; he coached me on how to handle the diagnosis.
I went into that tournament thinking it was a goodbye. I left it knowing it was just another round. The shoulder would heal, the surgery would happen, and the “monster” would find out that I don’t give up ground—especially when I have a a loving wife and brother in the chair.
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