Creating a professional grappling circuit that bridges prestige and profitability has been the holy grail of our sport for the last decade. Ever since Gordon Ryan slapped a Burger King crown on his head, every competitor chasing a NAGA belt has dreamed of the day they could make enough money competing to move off their cousin’s couch and quit their night shifts at Carrabba’s. I feel your pain—I’ve been there, too. I spent years behind the bar at my hospitality jobs, half-lying to regulars about my “next big match” just to feel like a professional athlete.
It’s been painful to watch so many organizations rise and fall, usually making the same mistakes along the way. At first, I blamed the promoters. But the truth is, Brazilian Jiu-Jitsu has always been cursed. Its entire history is rooted in theft, deception, tribal disputes, and family feuds. Why would any attempt to unify the sport now be different?
This year’s Craig Jones Invitational (CJI 2) unfortunately followed that same path. Not from lack of effort—Craig has done more for athlete pay than anyone in the game. But even his broad, charismatic shoulders couldn’t carry this weight.
The switch to a Quintet format was the fatal flaw. I’ll keep saying it until people listen: submission-only grappling will never be a spectator sport. I’ve sat through more pro grappling events than 99% of you reading this. Trust me, I know.
The inaugural CJI was a hit with its 3-round, 10-point must system. I was skeptical at first, but watching Kade Ruotolo vs. Andrew Tacket live at the Thomas & Mack Center was electrifying—arguably the greatest match in submission grappling history. And then what happened next year? They scrapped it for a confusing hybrid Quintet. Cue the turd sandwich.
The problems with Quintet formats are always the same: the team vs. team hype dies once you realize draws equal eliminations. Suddenly, you’re watching two elite grapplers try not to get submitted. Paint dries faster. That was day one. Only the controversy surrounding a questionable Giancarlo Bodoni tap and Geo Martinez’s questionable tap denial kept the restless crowd awake.
Day two brought more action, thanks to a $50k submission bonus. Vagner Rocha’s gritty survival against Victor Hugo was a classic veteran moment, and Dorian Olivarez tearing through opponents like a Tasmanian Devil was worth the price of admission. The female bracket finals even teased a storyline with Helena Crevar vs. Sarah Galvão for $100k, though the Chael Sonnen/Gable Steveson fiasco quickly derailed things.
Then came the decision disaster. A million dollars on the line, and rules changed mid-event? That’s beyond sloppy. The finals controversy made “Tie Break Gate” a permanent stain. Hopefully, Craig’s backer keeps his word to pay both teams and avoid messy litigation.
To make matters worse, Craig has enemies in high places. Dana White doesn’t forget slights, and Steveson’s last-second dropout reeked of UFC sabotage. Let’s not forget that this event was designed to spite Mo Jassim and the ADCC. Many hardliners still won’t forgive Craig for that split.
So where does that leave us? CJI 2 was a doozy. I’m torn. Craig has given us moments and paydays we’d never see otherwise. But between UFC contracts locking down athletes, potential lawsuits, and shaky rule changes, the future feels uncertain.
Still, if Craig runs it back in Vegas next year, I’ll probably still book my flight. Because like every other gym owner, I need my purple belts to practice on slanted wall mats now—thanks for that one, Fuck Craig Jones.
As always, I remain your loyal subject. Just telling it like it is.
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