Two Hours

At first, I didn’t really know how to answer it. I didn’t want to train that day. I showed up, but for the first 10 or 15 minutes I basically wandered around the mats aimlessly. I was physically there, but my mind was somewhere else entirely. I couldn’t stop thinking about my friend, what had happened, and everything that comes flooding into your head when someone you love is suddenly gone.

Eventually, I started rolling with a training partner I trust and somewhere along the way...without even realizing it was happening, I was locked into the world of Jiu Jitsu. For a little while, everything else got quiet. I wasn’t forgetting my friend. I wasn’t suppressing what had happened or trying to convince myself that I was okay. I was just completely preoccupied. Jiu Jitsu demanded enough of me physically and mentally that, for those moments, there simply wasn’t room for much else.

Even if it only lasted two hours, I desperately needed those two hours. I left the mats feeling clearer, lighter and even happier, which felt strange considering how I had walked in. The sadness came back pretty quickly afterward. Of course it did. Jiu Jitsu didn’t fix anything. My friend was still gone, and I still had to deal with that reality. But for two hours, it gave my mind somewhere else to be. Sometimes I think that’s enough.

It doesn’t have to take something as dire as losing a friend to understand the value in that. It can be a shitty day at work, an argument with someone you love, stress, anxiety, frustration - life gives us a million different reasons to carry something onto the mats with us. I’ve done this long enough to know that almost anything can be improved by a little time on the mats. Not fixed, but improved. I think that distinction matters. Whatever is waiting for you outside the gym will probably still be waiting when you walk back out the door. But sometimes an hour or two away from it is enough to change the way you carry it. Sometimes you come back to the exact same problem with a clearer head, a calmer mind, or simply a little more capacity to deal with it. I’ve proved that to myself over and over again. This time just happened to be the most extreme example.

I also don’t want to write about that day without writing about the reason it hurt so badly in the first place. My friend was the great Andy Williams, and any chance I get to talk about Andy, I will. Any chance I get to tell people how much I loved him, what he meant to me and what kind of human being he was, I’m going to take it. Andy was genuinely universally loved. He was a rare light in this world. The kind of person who made you smile the second you saw him because you knew something funny was about to be said, a powerhouse hug was coming, or you were going to hear one of his endless, hilarious stories. He was larger than life. Somehow both a brute and incredibly gentle. Insane but jolly. Strong but soft. I honestly don’t know that there has ever been another person like him, and I don’t think there ever will be.

I had the privilege of knowing Andy for more than 20 years. We traveled the world together, shared an insane amount of life together, and I got to call him one of my best friends. There are no words that can adequately explain how much I loved him or how much I will miss him. The world was robbed of one of the purest souls I’ve ever met, and the void he left will never be filled.

Maybe that brings me back to what the mats actually gave me that day. They didn’t fill that void. Nothing will. They didn’t make me forget about Andy, and they certainly didn’t make losing him hurt any less. They just gave me two hours where I didn’t have to stare directly into it.

There are moments in life when you don’t need something to fix you or make the pain go away. Sometimes you just need a place where the volume gets turned down for a little while. For me, since I’ve been doing this, that place has been the mats.