Success Stories

“I’ve been surrounded by death for most of my life.”

When she was 20 years old, Jo Thomson was sitting at the kitchen table, talking with the greatest influence in her life, her father, when he laid his head down on the table and, “went away.“ He was 51.

Now just embarking on the start of her seventieth decade, Professor Jo, as she is now known, thanks to her black belt in Brazilian jiu-jitsu, credits her father for establishing the beliefs that have carried her so far in life. In fact, she felt so attuned to him, she was convinced that she too, would die at the same age he did.

“In my head, I’m like him.”

Her father was a merchant sea captain from Scotland, who married the Jo’s mother after they met in Australia during World War 2.

Her father was “never a quitter,” who urged his daughter to get the best out of herself, and suggested university as an option. This at a time when most women were still encouraged to become bank tellers, or to teach, or work in retail. Jo’s dad told her to “Do whatever you like, but do it well. Maybe even do something women don’t do, like engineering or meteorology.”

Jo enrolled in the then new discipline of speech pathology, and was just starting her third year when her dad died. No-one had been prouder of her achievements.

Jo’s mother too, was a huge influence, and often repeated the words, “Always follow your heart,” to her daughter. Her mum got Jo her first job when she was 15. It was in a nursing home, and thought that “cleaning false teeth and wiping bums” would be good for her.

“She was a very wise woman, my mum.”

On Jo’s first day at work, a resident died and lay there for some time before being taken away. Undeterred, the Professor kept working and has since spent most of her career assisting the aged. She’s still loving the same job after almost 40 years. In her own words, she does “helpy things” and makes friends. If one of Jo’s own patients happens to pass away, she cries. Every time.

In fact, it’s not just a job. Jo truly cares.

As for jiu-jitsu, the Professor will tell you she started it because she was lazy. That’s a bit hard to believe, because throughout her life, Jo has pushed herself to perform at levels most other people would shy away from. She has competed in marathon events, from running to paddling outrigger canoes. And she was a competitive powerlifter with a bench press record of 110 kilograms.

At the time, Jo was in a powerlifting phase and wandered into the gym which used to be next to where Harris Farm is now. She saw a group of young Brazilian men and women, with very poor English, wrestling on some mats in a corner. One of them was Professor Marcelo Rezende, founder of Gracie Barra Oceania, who as Jo puts it, was, “just off the plane.”

After watching them sweat it out for a few weeks, she asked them if they might train her son, Jake. Initially Professor Marcelo wasn’t sure because he didn’t have a junior program, but eventually he agreed and Jake became Gracie Barra Oceania’s very first child student. Age 12.

Jo remembers Jake went from being an only child to all-of-a-sudden having 20 older brothers and sisters. She is very proud of the adult Jake has become, and she credits Professor Marcelo for being a significant influence in his development.

“Jiu-jitsu was great for him.”

As for Professor Jo’s start to jiu-jitsu, the school had moved to Old Pittwater Rd., in Brookvale, so Jo found herself having to drop Jake off, then drive to the gym for her workout, then drive back. The “lazy” Jo couldn’t be bothered, so instead asked Professor Marcelo if she could join the jiujitsu classes.

Professor Marcelo had never trained a woman of Jo’s age, she was 48 at the time, but jiu-jitsu is all about inclusivity (one current student is a young boy with cerebral palsy who cannot walk), so of course he agreed to let her try.

Jo turned up three times a week. Every week. It wasn’t easy to begin with, but as with any good jiu-jitsu student, she persisted.

Three times a week. Every week.

It took a little over 8 years before Professor Marcelo presented Professor Jo with her black belt. Recipients of a black belt are far more likely to be in their 20s or 30s, let alone Professor Jo’s age of 56 at the time. The Brazilians have a saying…

Machine.

Professor Marcelo considers Jo to be his second mother, and if you arrived at Gracie Barra Sydney, you’d quickly understand why. She cares for everyone. Every Monday she arrives at the school with a gigantic container of coconut cookies or some other baked treat. Gluten-free of course and enough for everybody.

If it’s your birthday you’re in for a special treat. Professor Jo might make you an entire container of cookies for yourself, or even draw you a picture, which is another of her passions. She has been drawing for her entire life and her favourite type of gift is a box of coloured pencils.

After her father passed away, Jo and her family cleaned out his office and found every single picture she had ever drawn during her childhood. He obviously loved and was very proud of his daughter.

40 years later, as both of her parents encouraged her to do, Jo follows her heart and continues to get the best out of herself. No doubt they would be prouder still.

"Yes, you're black. Get over it."

Unus Gaffoor's mum was blunt with her then nine year old son.

One of seven children, Unus and his family emigrated from South Africa in 1974 after the dismantling of the so-called White Australia policy. A policy which until then, had discriminated against non-European applications for migration.

Of Indian descent, Unus' family bought a house in the developing area of Campbelltown. An area of Sydney which 40 years ago still had a rural feel to it, and was about as caucasian as caucasian could be.

"There were definitely no other black kids at school," remembers Unus, "and after the first comments from other students, Mum's attitude taught me to ignore it. If I got into fights, it wasn't about racism. And I ended up as Captain of my high-school, so it obviously didn't matter."

Unus was just another kid. He played sports, mucked about with his friends, and had a happy Australian upbringing. After school he went to uni to study accounting and computer science, finding the latter discipline much more interesting, before making a career in software programming.

Unus didn't mind falling in and out of love either. In his mid-twenties, he married for a second time and had two kids. A son, Zane and a daughter, Leah. And it was via Zane that the family found jiu-jitsu.

"Zane had challenges with other kids, so we wanted to keep him active," says Unus. "He just didn't take to any team sports. We tried him in everything."

When Zane was 13, his mum, Clare, started going out with Geoff Toovey (Unus and Clare had divorced a few years earlier), who at the time was the head coach of the professional rugby league club, the Manly Sea-Eagles. The club was training with Professor Marcelo Rezende at the Gracie Barra Sydney school of Brazilian jiu-jitsu, and Geoff suggested Zane try it out.

"Straight away he absolutely loved it," says Unus. "He was getting a good workout and had a lot of older guys being a positive influence on him.

Unbeknownst to Unus, Zane had been facing issues with bullying at school. He knew Zane had always been a bit aloof from other kids his age, hence all the sports, but his son had stopped short of telling him about his problem.

Zane was a big kid. But a gentle one. The kind malicious kids identify as an easy target. The type who are unlikely to fight back. Unus had always told Zane that he had a right to defend himself, but he'd never stood up to bullies on his own. Now in the positive environment of Gracie Barra, Zane was hearing the same thing from other male mentors and was being equipped with the tools to carry it out.

One day, on the way home from school, Zane single-handedly threw three of his tormentors into a creek. After that, only one of them persisted in troubling him, which is when Unus found out about it, because the school rang him to say Zane had, in self-defence, used jiu-jitsu to submit the bully.

The school quietly acknowledged to Unus that Zane had done the right thing to defend himself, but said he still needed to be punished for breaking their no fighting rule. Unus understood the school's decision, while still being proud of his son for standing up for himself.

Ever since he started jiu-jitsu, Zane had been asking his dad to join him in training, but Unus felt he was too busy with work. He honestly never felt he could take the time - an hour out of a day a few days a week - to train jiu-jitsu. Unus also played a lot of golf and felt that was sufficient exercise, despite being a few kilos overweight. Finally, after three years of pestering, Zane finally convinced Unus to attend a promotional, "Bring a Friend" day at the school.

"The warm-up nearly killed me," says Unus, "after the hour was up, I felt like dying, but I could see it was a really effective workout. Everyone else looked so fit without doing anything crazy. I was hooked."

It wasn't long before Leah joined in too. Already fit through school gymnastics, but now hounded both by father and brother to try jiu-jitsu, she was the third family member to become addicted. Interestingly, both Unus and Leah have progressed through the belts at the same speed, right down to the stripes. Leah even met her husband, Mohamed, through her jiu-jitsu training.

Unus, himself, is 50 now, and can't imagine a life without jiu-jitsu in it. He feels he hasn't been in better physical shape since his twenties. Unus' network of friends is dominated by jiu-jitsu, thanks largely to Zane, Leah and Mohamed.

"It has changed my life completely, and my future, going forward now, is all jiu-jitsu."

He tells everyone the greatest value he has received from jiu-jitsu is much better bonding with his kids. In most situations children drift away from their parents as they get older, but because of the common interest in jiu-jitsu, Unus and his kids have stuck together.

They all plan to open their own Gracie Barra schools when they become black belts, and Unus wants to use his coding skills to develop software to help school owners deliver their services more effectively.

Within the Gracie Barra jiu-jitsu community, their future looks bright.

“Sorry for being dull.” said Cory.

He had just finished his interview for Gracie Barra Stories and was being sincerely apologetic.

Cory had just been talking, amongst other things, about his time in the Australian airborne infantry, and one particular situation where he was positioned in an armoured vehicle turret, raking the Afghan hills with his machine gun, in response to Taliban RPG and machine gun attacks.

Cory’s a pretty modest guy. Dull?

Far from it.

Cory Neill was born, grew up, and still lives, on Sydney’s Northern Beaches. It’s on the coast, about 15km from the central business district, and isn’t a thoroughfare to the city, so it’s fairly quiet and relaxed. Think beaches, cafes, restaurants, bars and sport. Especially surfing.

 

The Northern Beaches’ personality is reflected in Cory. He’s quietly spoken and chilled-out. He looks a bit like a surfer, except for his blonde hair being short and the fact he’s built like a tank. But not in a gym-junkie kind of way. He’s very athletic.

Cory can surf. His father used to make surfboards for a living and family tradition dictates Neill kids receive their first board when they turn one. Surfing’s not his passion, though. He loves Brazilian jiu-jitsu. It keeps him sane.

 

Literally.

 

After finishing high school, Cory wanted to join the army, but his mother wanted him to learn a trade first. Being as he describes himself, “such a Mummy’s boy,” Cory acceded to her wishes and spent six years working as a carpenter. Yes, of course on the Northern Beaches.
 

 

In 2010, Mum was happy that Cory would have something to come back to, so he enlisted in the army and began his training.

 

Private Cory Neill was a very good soldier. Discipline. Fitness. Weapon craft. You name it. With his carpentry skills, he could even build fitness equipment for his mates in camp.

 

After six months of training, Cory wanted to become a paratrooper with the 3RAR. The 3rd Royal Australian Regiment light infantry unit. Of all army recruits, less than five per cent get posted to the 3RAR. Cory was one of them. In his unit, Cory was a machine gunner, lugging around an 11kg gun, compared to his fellow soldiers’ 4kg rifles. He loved the military life and everything that came with it.

 

In 2012, the 3RAR was posted to Afghanistan for six months, to help train the Afghan army in its fight against the Taliban. But on the night of 29 August, Cory became involved in deadliest attack on Australian forces during the campaign.

 

A rogue Afghan soldier opened fire on the Australians, in a so-called, “green-on-blue,” or insider attack. Three were killed and two injured. Cory had been given some field medic training, and spent 20 minutes working on his friend, Lance Corporal Stjepan Milosevic, but was unable to save his life. Such an experience, no doubt, leaves its mark, and so it did with Cory. He had also witnessed the deaths of Afghan civilians, including children, and was having dark, violent dreams, which conflicted with his gentle nature. Even on his unit’s return to Australia, the nightmares continued, and it started to affect his work..

 

In what was completely out-of-character for him, Cory began to display moments of insubordination towards commanding officers. As a result, the army kept a close eye on him and eventually Cory was diagnosed with PTSD, or Post Traumatic Stress Disorder.

The symptoms of PTSD include recurring nightmares, irritability and emotional numbness. Unfortunately, it had an impact on his private life too, causing the break-up of his marriage. The army sent him to therapy and offered medication, but Cory didn’t want either option, so he was permitted an honourable discharge in 2014 to focus on his health.

 

Cory re-entered civilian life and started a carpentry business to keep him occupied (thanks Mum). However, it wasn’t the answer and his symptoms persisted. He was having dangerous thoughts. Not at all suicidal, but reckless. Like going skydiving and doing, as Cory puts it, “something silly.”

 

He found himself training at an MMA gym for a few months, but as a former soldier, the lack of a proper training curriculum led him to look elsewhere. Cory liked the grappling elements of Brazilian jiu-jitsu, so in late 2015, he decided to try the Gracie Barra Sydney school, run by Professor Marcelo Rezende.

 

Straight away, Corry knew he’d found what he was looking for. When asked what he likes about Gracie Barra, Cory says, “The people are amazing, the training is quality, it’s systematic…,

 

“…and they have the best gis.”

On his first promotion, Professor Marcelo gave Cory three stripes as there was no doubt he knew how to roll. Cory trained multiple times each day and immediately caused all manner of trouble for the higher belts.

 

With Brazilian jiu-jitsu’s physicality, its wealth of techniques, and regular tournament competition, Cory had found a lifestyle which challenged him, kept him calm and allowed him to focus on the important relationships in his life. Like that with his three year old son, Kye.

 

“My little mate.” Cory calls him.

Kye is often at the school when Cory is training, either watching Peppa Pig, helping to (loudly) count to 10 during the warm ups, or telling everyone how tough his daddy is. The two of them sometimes sleep in the backyard together. Under the stars in a swag (an Australian portable bedroll), just like Cory did in the army.
As soon as he could, Cory began entering jiu-jitsu tournaments in Australia. He feels the competition gets him out of his comfort zone. That uncertainty is an emotion he embraces, as it reminds him of his happier military days doing training exercises with his mates.

 

Success was immediate. Cory won every tournament except one, and usually every fight by submission. So with Professor Marcelo’s encouragement, Cory flew himself to Abu Dhabi for the World Professional Jiu-Jitsu Championship.

 

After four fights and four arm-bar submissions. He flew back a world champion.

 

Cory also self-funded a trip to the World Jiu-Jitsu Championship, hosted by the IBJJF. Another three fights later, he was a double world champion.

 

Wow.

 

Jiu-jitsu has renewed Cory, both physically and mentally. He can’t remember the last time he had a nightmare, and off the mats, he’s back to being his former, calm self.

Sadly, many of Cory’s army mates are still struggling with the mental demons of PTSD, so he Professor Marcelo are hoping to share his story with the military. Using Cory as an example, they hope to demonstrate that Brazilian jiu-jitsu can bring health and positivity into people’s lives.

 

What a fantastic idea.