My father’s death sent me to the jiu-jitsu mat. Then came defeat, low testosterone and the lure of a chemical cheat code

Photo by Eduardo Drapier/Unsplash

is a writer and lecturer in creative writing at Birkbeck, University of London, UK. He is the author of the autofictional novel Breaking Kayfabe (2023).

Edited byPam Weintraub

In the months after my father’s death, I seek encounters with nameless men in sports halls. I sign up for Brazilian jiu-jitsu (BJJ) competitions. I show up at half-empty venues, weigh in and wait around all day to roll around on floors, trying to strangle and not be strangled. As I step off the scales, competitors queue behind me and junior matches break out like temple dances on the plush white mats. When I enter the locker room, the air is stiff with the scent of energy drinks and nervous shits. Two of the toilets are blocked, so I join a ministry of men in tight, surfer-style rash guards staking out the disabled toilet.

Competition rules dictate that matches be fought over five-minute rounds. Matches can be won by submission; otherwise, the person with the most points wins. Points are scored for takedowns, pins and control. Competitors must be in place in an enclosed area known as the bullpen at least 30 minutes before a match. Then they take to the mats.

ROLAND BOWLER (Combat Sports Academy, Rochester, Kent)

WES BROWN (Granite Gym, Rochester, Kent)

Men No-Gi/Intermediate/Above 18/>100 kg

(The adult men’s intermediate ‘no-gi’ bracket – Brazilian jiu-jitsu without the traditional jacket-and-belt uniform – capped at about 100 kg, or 220 lbs.)

My opponent is bigger, stronger and higher ranked than me. His eyes stare back at mine above a full beard and dreadlock topknot, his gum shield bulging. We circle, our hands pawing for grips, trying to find an angle. It is eight days since Dad died. The loss is on a cellular level – I can feel his death all over me. Its hideous truth. Another man’s weight on mine, a shadow play as real as the struggle with my opponent, whose strength is overwhelming. His vitality flows over mine; I am drowning in his life force, an intimate energy of muscle and coconut oil, zesty detergent and sweat choreographed into a system of violence. He sweeps my heel, lifting my leg in the air and driving me to the mat.

It’s easy to echo Roger Murtaugh in Lethal Weapon: ‘I’m too old for this shit.’ But my opponent is 39, only a year younger than me. The difference is he trains five times a week, and he is also more talented. I am a hobbyist struggling to train more than twice a week, half-orphaned and desperate not to be a loser.

My intention was to win the match; the grief meant losing was not an option. I would win my first gold and point to the sky, as if Dad was watching. It would heal a psychic wound. Instead, I find myself with my opponent’s dreadlocked topknot pressed against my face while he runs through a frantic flurry of submissions as if he’s trying to pick a lock. He traps my arm, I defend my arm. He cups my neck; I frame against his chest. I try to hip escape, and he slides his arms around my collar. Every escape presents a problem worse than the last, I am trapped in a zugzwang, already defeated but fighting for pride to extend the time I’m alive before ego-death. After a few minutes, energy fading and breathing hard, his muscle-tearing grip begins to suffocate me.

My teammates, my coach and other competitors are watching from the sidelines, my lack on public view. Some of them yell instructions, but I’m too cooked to follow them. I’m not sure what chokehold he has on me, a D’Arce? An Anaconda? I can feel the sinews of his arms cranking my neck, the light narrowing into pitch darkness, I buck and kick and fight and pry at his arms but the more I resist the tighter the noose becomes, and I tap before the lights go out.

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Since I turned 40, there’s an advert that keeps appearing on my timelines: SHRINKING BALLS.

The writing is in bold print beside a pair of raisins, which seems an odd way to advertise testosterone replacement therapy (TRT). ‘It might happen,’ the advert warns, ‘but we can treat it.’

‘Manopause’ – the male menopause – involves the symptoms of declining testosterone, usually affecting men starting in their 40s. Unlike menopause, which is a more rapid hormonal shift in oestrogen and progesterone levels in women, the decline in testosterone is slow and gradual. For the past few years, I’ve woken feeling increasingly like I’d been beaten-up, exhausted but telling myself I’d slept badly. I put my neutered libido down to stress. The soft fat around my chest I blamed on lifting lighter weights.

At breakfast, another advert appears on my timeline, this one selling TRT as a ‘cheat code’ for life. The five symptoms to look out for include low energy, no motivation, anxiety, loss of strength and muscle mass – I have all of them. Why not take the red pill and see how deep the rabbit hole goes?

These are champions weighing hormones against world titles. My accounting is smaller

I go into my garage for a mid-morning workout. It’s when I feel best and apparently when men’s testosterone levels peak during the day. Between rounds of kettlebell swings and presses, I play a Joe Rogan podcast with the American BJJ champ Gordon Ryan and before long they’re talking about the lack of drug-testing in the sport and Rogan’s own use of TRT.

In the world of elite BJJ, even champions like Ryan are open about their steroid use. Jiu-jitsu has been promoted on the premise that a smaller, more technical competitor can defeat a larger, less skilled opponent. The same can be said of old and young. This combination of guard-play and TRT means that athletes like my idol, Brazil’s Vagner Rocha, can remain competitive with the world’s best at 44. Rocha recommends younger athletes stay clean but has ‘no shame’ about those over 35 using hormones to stay in the game.

These are champions weighing hormones against world titles. My accounting is smaller. I am always tired. My brain is fogged. And I have been released from the cycle of desire to the point where I have become a repressed heterosexual. My mood is chronically low. I am anxious for no apparent reason. My libidinal energy, what Sigmund Freud might have termed Eros, has diminished to the point where, despite being a grown man with a bald head, beard and muscles, I feel sexless and fearful.

I have been trying for another child with my wife, Becki, since shortly after the birth of our last one, eight years ago. She has been checked out and now it’s my turn. A blood test shows my testosterone levels are pre-pubescent.

But supplementing with TRT is not a simple fix. It can increase libido, energy and muscle, but it can also shut down the body’s natural production of testosterone and reduce sperm production – exactly the problem when you are trying to have a baby. The risk of not taking TRT for men like me is its own kind of twilight: living in a body that feels as if it is dying faster, with greater risk of bone fractures, heart problems, obesity and erectile dysfunction.

The referral letter to the urologist from my doctor says: This........

© Aeon