Don’t do jiujitsu. Especially not the Brazilian type, or BJJ as we call it. This is, basically, the whole post.

No, seriously, don’t. They call it a martial art and for the first couple of years you may struggle and get choked out and tapped and think you’re “fighting” or something, but if you stick around, like me, you’ll see it for what it is: a non-collaborative male-coded dance class. Think about it. You try to do your moves and the other guy tries to do his and you both interrupt one another. Intentionally! It’s encouraged! BJJ is also unsanitary: a bunch of dudes in japanese pajamas lying on the floor and on top of one another. There’s a lot of sweat and panting and inadvertent hugging involved. It’s literally called BJ! J!

So, don’t do it.

Unless, of course, you’re me: a 42 year old midlife-crisis-enduring dude who needs something to fill the void. This is the embarrassingly simple solution I was talking about: it turns out that, to get myself out of my short but very deep funk, all I needed was A. Fucking. Hobby. 

Here’s what BJJ did for me:

First, it gave me a new set of goals that were low stakes enough to allow me to fail repeatedly while not overthinking it. I’m just an older guy learning a new skill; my skill ceiling is incredibly low and the material benefits of excelling in it are ludicrously small. There was no way that my success would mean anything to anyone or anything other than for my own personal satisfaction.

Then, it gave me something to strive for long term mastery in. Dance class or not (side note: don’t try to join a real dance class as a middle aged man. Don’t ask me how I know), it’s a complex movement system where “success” can be reached in many different ways, a property I appreciate. It’s mastery achieved over long hours over years: as I’m writing this post I’m almost five years in, 5 training sessions a week on average, and I’m a bit more than a skilled beginner. There is lots more oil in this well.

And then, it gave me a routine that is grounded in my physical body. Every day I either train or do something in service of training, to rehab or prehab or increase mobility. I train to exertion, channeling my aggressive tendencies that aren’t very cool to discuss nowadays but are still there for many of us whether you admit to them or not. It keeps me much healthier than I would be otherwise. 

So, yeah, don’t do BJJ. It’s not about this specific hobby. It’s about adopting a practice that gives you manageable stakes, that offers a path to mastery, and that grounds your routine in your physical existence. It was far from enough, but adopting it was the first step to figuring my way through to the next step in my personal identity, a crucial one.

A few years ago I fired myself from the day to day management of TrueML. The pressures of heavy travel and daily firefighting were wearing me out and also taking away from the focus I needed to have: working with investors and thinking strategically about the group and its future. I hired an incredible President and refocused my energy on high leverage work.

This post isn’t about that. It’s about what comes after that: Nothing.

No emails. No mid-night fire fights. No screaming customers. No surprise audits. The slowdown from running at a speed that was too hard to sustain to doing the opposite almost gave me whiplash.

For a while I thought my life was over. Not in the physical sense, but the figurative one: I still run a company, so I’m not going to start another one. I was already in my 40s, had several exits, was (and am) married with kids and a house and some pets. I had nothing to prove: if there’s a game, I’m on the podium. I was set, but I was also terrified: is this it? Will my life just look like this until I die? Is there nothing else to look forward to?

Yes, a typical mid-life crisis. You’re probably right. Lots has been written about them; I probably won’t say something new altogether. I’m writing this post to organize my thoughts and to give others in the same situation a sense of what worked for me. The good news is I didn’t blow up my marriage, act like I wasn’t my age, or get a face lift. 

What did I do? I had a few deep thoughts and discovered at least one solution that was embarrassingly simple: I realized that my identity wasn’t about being a decision maker at a company or a board member. I wanted to have relevance in a system of value that meant something to me, one with real stakes. What do I mean by that? I’ll say more in a series of short posts that discuss what did and didn’t work for me.

My name is Ohad, and I’m a board member.

It took some effort to admit this, given how much crap I’ve given the idea of board members, especially external ones.

I used to think that “independent”, non-investor board members were just window dressing, a fancy position used by well connected people to feel like they have a bit of influence, or by other influential people to throw their old coporate peeps a bone late in their career.

I still think that, but I used to think that as well!

The only thing I’d add is: sometimes, for (probably) limited time periods, having someone with specific experience have a close under-the-hood look at your company and offer unvarnished feedback while being willing to roll their sleeves to solve a problem (and be aligned on incentives) is a good thing. Sometimes, that person is effective enough that they don’t need to join as an executive to make a difference. Sometimes.

I still think board appointments should be rare, and that founder CEOs should either be allowed to do their thing or be replaced. I haven’t really changed my view about early stage private company governance.

But sometimes… every rule has an exception.

I’ve been thinking about why I was so intrigued by the C-levels who decided to ban committees. It’s not that I’m a fan of committees; they often exist to avoid responsibility. They’re a way for people without the authority or courage to make a decision to feel like they’re still doing something, confusing activity with action. That said, I think execs grappling with how their team decides to work together says a lot about leadership, and one’s own limitations as a founder-CEO.

I’ll be honest: I’m not a great manager of larger organizations. A decent one, sure, maybe even very good for earlier stage teams, but not great. I make decisions quickly, I communicate clearly, and I hate long, drawn-out processes. Strategic planning? Endless deliberation? Death by deck review? Not my thing. I get impatient. I tend to dictate. Once I reach a decision, I assume everyone else is already there too – which, of course, often isn’t the case. So when I realized that our company needed more coordination to succeed beyond its founder-driven phase, I did the only rational thing: I hired someone who’s actually good at it.

Here’s the thing. Companies are fundamentally coordination machines. They let large groups of people work together toward a shared purpose in a way that’s unmatched outside of war. You can dislike meetings, status updates, and Slack messages all you want, but that is the work. Every time I see someone talking about “reinventing collaboration” or “getting rid of email,” I recognize that impulse. It’s the founder’s impatience. But the truth is, most real progress happens when people sit in a room, argue over a document, and slowly grind toward alignment. It’s not glamorous, but it’s how things actually move forward.

For a founder, that’s a hard pill to swallow. In the early days the chaos, the speed, and the gut-driven decision-making are your edge. They’re what gets the company off the ground. But past a certain point, that same chaos becomes the bottleneck. The company needs professional managers. It needs planning, process, and patience.

That’s why I hired a president. It’s both the cause and effect of why TrueML is now experiencing a period of stability. Not stability for its own sake, stability that reflects maturity. We’re growing, profitable, and leading our category world-wide. That doesn’t happen through founder magic alone. It happens through a system of people who know how to coordinate at scale, and executives who know how to guide them.

My role now is different. As always, I make sure culture flows from the top, I make sure we have money in the bank, the right executives in the right seats, and that our investors are aligned, just at a different resolution. Importantly, occasionally (and not too frequently!) I still pull the founder lever, when the company needs a big move, something that breaks the mold and resets expectations.

Our first acquisition was that kind of moment. It was risky, painful, and stressful, but necessary. (and in hindsight extremely successful) Those moments are my responsibility as a founder: to inject just enough chaos to force progress without burning the place down.

If things are working, if growth continues, if the thesis was right, if the machine is humming, then the job becomes building the structure that stabilizes it and lets it all scale. That’s when you need real coordination. Real management. Real collaboration. Now we’re past our second acquisition and more are coming – in a structured, mature way that follows our successful playbook. Pretending otherwise, believing you can replace that with slogans or software, or that email and slack are bad and need to be replaced with “something” (like what?) is a luxury. Like Holocracy, it can turn into a delusion that can quietly destroy a company.

Coordination is the work. Communication is the job. And understanding that is one of the hardest, most humbling lessons a founder can learn.

If you’ve spent any time watching high-level Brazilian Jiu-Jitsu competition, you’ve likely come across Gustavo Batista. His passing system is a masterclass in control, weight distribution, and intelligent movement. For those looking to refine their guard passing, studying Batista’s approach can be a game-changer.

This post will explore some key aspects of his passing strategy, questions that remain about his approach, and how his system compares to others.

The Core of Batista’s Passing System

At the heart of Batista’s passing game is his ability to manage angles and prevent his opponent from creating leverage. A few principles stand out:

1. Leg and Collar Control: Batista often controls the collar while securing a grip on the leg, preventing the bottom player from cutting an angle to attack.
2. Step-Over to HQ: He forces his opponent into a knee shield position by stepping over one leg. If his opponent controls his leg, he moves into HQ position.
3. Floating and Weight Distribution: His passing relies on a balance between floating and committing his weight at the right moment. He often collapses his knee inward to prevent attacks on his front leg.
4. Knee Positioning for Pressure: He pinches his knees together tightly to control his hips’ weight deployment, allowing him to stay heavy and prevent guard recoveries.
5. Back 50/50 Control: When he sits on his opponent in back 50/50, he uses his weight to tire them out while limiting their movement options.

Key Technical Details

• Angle Control and the Hip Hinge: One unique aspect of Batista’s movement is his ability to hinge at the hips without losing balance. He angles his knees inward to keep his weight centered.
• Gripping Between the Shoulder Blades: When his opponent aggressively defends collar or head control, Batista switches to a grip between the shoulder blades, making it difficult to clear his control.
• Preventing Leg Attacks: He collapses his knee inward and shifts his weight away from the knee-cut leg to prevent his front leg from being attacked.
• Pant Leg Grip Alternatives: If his opponent denies him a pant grip, he transitions to controlling the hip or collar to regain control of the leg.

Comparisons to Other Systems

Batista’s passing system shares similarities with other high-level guard passers, such as Dominika Oświecińska, who applies a similar system but without relying on the pant grip. Understanding these nuances can help practitioners adapt techniques based on grip availability and game style.

Matches to Watch

• Batista vs. Matheus Spirandelli
  • At 2:37, Batista uses a floating leg to prevent a straight ankle lock. His control of the top leg and positioning of his foot near the opponent’s hip make it difficult for an attack to succeed.
  • At 7:37, he is lifted but shifts his weight to the inside leg, showcasing how he stabilizes himself.
• Batista vs. Jansen Gomes (2024 Final)
  • Notably, at 3:01, Batista transitions to shin-on-shin single-leg X guard. He developed this approach to counter opponents squatting hard in De La Riva.
• Batista vs. Uanderson Ferreira (2023 Crown)
  • At 3:53, Batista executes a shuck-over transition, leading into a K-guard matrix or reverse 50/50 attack. His ability to “surf” the opponent in open guard is a key principle of his game.

Additional Insights

• Adjustments for Explosive Opponents: Batista adapts his strategy based on the explosiveness of his opponent. Against competitors with strong takedowns like Jansen Gomes and Uanderson Ferreira, he opts to pull guard first.
• Thoughts on 50/50 in Modern Gi Competition: Given the evolution of guard play, particularly for older competitors with knee issues, understanding how to manage 50/50 becomes crucial.
• Dealing with the Knee Cut: Batista’s system includes intelligent weight shifts and leg positioning to nullify knee-cut passes effectively.

Final Thoughts

Gustavo Batista’s passing system is a refined blend of weight distribution, grip control, and positional awareness. While it may not be possible to replicate his game exactly due to physical differences, understanding his core principles can elevate any guard passer’s game.

For those looking to dive deeper, Batista has an older instructional on BJJ Fanatics, with a newer one in the works. His matches provide a treasure trove of insights for anyone seeking to refine their passing system.

If you’re serious about improving your passing, start by analyzing Batista’s techniques and experimenting with them in your own game. Over time, you’ll develop a more dynamic and effective passing approach tailored to your strengths.

I’ve started getting Linkedin messages again, congratulating me on my work anniversary. I have a bunch of fake positions listed (I mean, being my brothers’ older brother is in fact real, just not really a position per se) so it’s sometimes hard to know what people are talking about; but no, this was about a real one. We started working on TrueML in mid-January of 2013.

There’s nothing wrong with stepping down as a founder. We start companies for various reasons, we fit different stages, and we have different definitions of success, not to mention tolerance levels for sheer pain and uncertainty on a daily basis. It’s ok to walk away, in fact it’s often the right choice. If, however, you’re like me: if starting companies, for you, is self expression borne out of necessity; if you chose an extremely difficult problem, knowingly, for the shot of making a real difference; and if you really, really, absolutely fucking hate losing… Well, in that case, you gotta stick it out for a very long time.

Like, a very long time. So long that almost all your VCs write you off. So long that corporate observers rotate two or three times and stop answering emails. So long that people ask “are these guys still around??” So long that every person you wanted to impress for the wrong reasons leaves your friends group. So long that your competitors go from “they’ll never make it” to “we are better than them” to “I can’t believe you’re choosing them after our years of working together!” So long that the solution you invented and the market you defined become the standard. Until everyone else quits. That’s how long.

At the end of all this, you need to have been right all along. You need to have had the better product all along. Then, if you survive, like Bubba Gump Shrimp Co, you will be the only ship to capture all them shrimp. Then, after you yourself won’t be so sure anymore, you’ll have won.

We’re not in the end, but we’re close to the end of the beginning. I can feel it in my bones. And I’m not going anywhere.

When the Nazis came, Bronislava and Herman’s lives would never be the same. They were, as we call it in well-laundered English today, “displaced”.

They didn’t know each other back then, or maybe they did, but they had their own separate lives that the Nazis ended. Bronislava, or grandma Bronia as we called her, was sent to a camp in Siberia. When they ran out of food they ate their horses, and then I don’t know what. Herman, grandpa Shmuel, joined the Red Army and remained an avowed communist to his death.

This isn’t their whole story, these two people smashed together by the aftermath of war, my dad’s parents. It’s the story of what their generation brought to us: the trauma of war, and specifically of hunger.

Oh we’ve had traumas since, trust me. A story for a different time. But food trauma was real and ever present. Old people hiding stale bread in the nooks and crannies of their homes, just in case the Nazis ever came back. “Yeled tov mash’ir tzalahat rey’ka”, a good boy leaves an empty plate. Wasting food, the cardinal sin.

It took me decades to stop leaving leftovers in the fridge until I ate them or they became moldy. It took me years to stop losing my mind over wasted food. And now, the boy forgot to eat his sandwich and it’s going in the trash, not in my mouth. What does he need our trauma for. I call that progress.

The most common refrain among older beginners practicing any hobby is “I wish I had started earlier”. I get it, but like any other time when people wish to be younger (read: I want to be who I am now in a younger body), it’s misguided.

Sure, I’m out of time, in a sense. I’m 43 years old. Statistically, I have fewer years to live than I’ve lived already, certainly in good health. My athletic performance is on a down slope, in a decade I will lose my explosive power, in two decades I will be frail, and then I’ll die. Which, you know, not great if you’re trying to get stuff done.

Still, we’re missing something here, and that’s the alternative value of time. The reason one hasn’t started this or that hobby earlier is because they had better, or more cost effective, things to do with their time. In your 20s and 30s you wonder who you’ll marry, whether you’ll have kids, make money, and what your career may look like. In your 40s, that’s not the case. I’m married to the love of my life, my kids are doing well, my professional situation is good. I, basically and positively, have nothing better to do with my time. What better time to pick up a hobby?

Scorpion (stylized as </SCORPION> because hAckERs or whatever) was a bad TV series, a knockoff of Lie to Me which was a knockoff of House MD which… You get it. Really. I wanted to like it so much and I couldn’t make it past the first season. I have no explanation how they made it to four. It left, I think, zero impact on pop culture, but it did leave us with one good scene – S1E1’s diner chess scene.

In it, the protagonist (who’s obviously some kind of genius, naturally) explains to his future hire, a normie mom, that her autistic son isn’t mentally challenged – his fudging with salt shakers and sugar packets is actually him playing chess against himself, and when challenged, he was able to beat a grandmaster in just a few moves. I can’t find it online so take my word for it or rent it and see for yourself.

It’s weird but I sometimes find myself in a similar, though much less dramatic, position. Since I’m in my 40s, more friends are starting to have teenagers – with all their angst, hormones, troubles, you name it. Now I’m no child psychologist and definitely not some genius on a TV show (though if you’re hiring, who knows? Have your people talk to my people) but I do sometimes recognize intelligence and passion in others, and I know from personal experience that non-conformism can indicate boredom and intelligence, not something to beat out of a child just because their parents can’t relate. They’re just not made to sit up and raise their hand and answer questions in Ms. Levy’s third grade math class.

I can’t use chess to make my point so I often use this story by Isaac Asimov called Profession. You should absolutely go read it, but the gist of it is that learning new capabilities to become productive cogs in the machine can, and maybe will, be sped up and automated, but the creative process that generates that knowledge cannot be. However, since people who will benefit from being productive, professionally-trained members of society far outnumber rebellious, creative folks, they will spend their early years in a constant struggle, not finding their place. This story helped me as a teenager, though I had no idea what I was going to do with my life, and it may help you or your favorite normie parent who has to deal with a future founder in the making. Frankly, I don’t envy my parents and my teachers and what I put them through.

I often describe the evolution of a company as an upwards spiral: you keep progressing and you’re also on a continuous cycle of having to re-evaluate parts of the company for the next level. One of those evaluations is of executives and their ability to continue to lead the functions they are in charge of. Here’s a rough framework I’ve found helpful.

First, by “executives” I mean third line managers, that is people who manage people who manage people who manage individual contributors. Naturally this implies a stage and scale of company (things are much more hectic and fast paced at an earlier stage) and also functions (a VP-level IC hire doesn’t fit in this model).

Executives’ cycle is generally 2 years long and is divided into four 6-month phases (roughly similar to the forming-storming-norming-performing model of team building, another one of my favorites). The absolute length of the phases conforms to the speed of growth of the company but only by a bit – I’ve noticed the same at FraudSciences, Klarna, PayPal, and TrueAccord at different stages and velocities.

Stage 1: acclimation. The executive is settling in, learning the ropes, understanding where the bodies are buried. At this stage you’re either sighing a big sigh of relief because you’ve hired someone to take a huge chunk of work away or (hopefully rarely) get the sinking feeling that you hired the wrong person. This is the time to correct that mistake. Quick learning executives or ones putting out dumpster fires will have some positive effect even at this stage.

Stage 2: transformation. The executive learned the ropes and is starting to make changes. They may hire new people to replace non-scaling team members, cycle through talent, re-negotiate operating mechanisms with you, and so on. This is when you start seeing their playbook in action, and the seeds of future performance are planted. This is also when this exec will be torched on Glassdoor or in exit interviews for “not getting it”. This is not necessarily a bad signal.

Stage 3: performance. Under-performers are out, new team is in, playbook installed: this is when you’re getting the most out of your exec.

Stage 4: scale. Having promoted or hired their staff, the executive can now extract themselves from daily operations as much as possible, negotiate operating mechanisms with their directs, and be ready to move to the next level of abstraction: take on more responsibilities or deal with, for lack of a better term, “strategy”, as contrast to daily tactics. That means planning ahead, designing their organization, developing new capabilities, and improving cross-functional work.

Interestingly, not delivering in stage 4 is a very common yet often disregarded failure mode for executives, and it’s allowed to fester until they buckle under the weight of daily responsibilities and burnout. I spend a considerable amount of time pushing my directs to enhance their bench, if only because of my own experience of not having done that.