• In a surprise crossover, Gordon Ryan mother and B-Team launched a fundraiser to cover BJJ medical expenses.
• The initiative spotlights a grim truth: broken bodies aren’t covered by standard benefits in a sport built on small purses and bigger co-pays.
• Early messaging urges athletes to apply with proof of injury and bills; social posts ask the community to boost, donate, and nominate cases.
• It’s a truce with teeth—clout pointed at a problem money can actually solve.

Gordon Ryan Mother And B-Team Shock Everyone—To Help Injured Athletes

You didn’t have this on your bingo card. After years of chirps and callouts, Gordon Ryan mother and B-Team are sharing the same mission: raise cash to pay for grapplers’ surgeries, scans, and rehab when the insurance cliff shows up.

The announcement landed like a flying triangle on the discourse—sudden, clean, and impossible to ignore.

“Ezekiel is friends with Trish Ryan, mother of Gordon and Nicky, and she suggested an open mat to help raise money for Ezekiel.”
– Danaher –

When Rivalries Pause Because Hospital Bills Don’t

No-Gi’s biggest story line since 2021 has been the No-Gi rivalry between Gordon Ryan and B-Team Jiu-Jitsu (the Craig Jones–Nicky Rod–Nicky Ryan axis).

The content was fun; the receipts weren’t—MRIs, ACL repairs, busted hands, chronic GI issues, you name it. Meanwhile, athletes outside the elite tier juggle part-time coaching, tiny purses, and American healthcare math that makes a meniscus tear feel like a mortgage.

That’s the context that turns Gordon Ryan mother and B-Team from a shock headline into a necessary coalition. When the ambulance ride costs more than the appearance fee, enemies start to look like co-signers.

“Let’s get together: Ezekiel Eze Zurita @buba_bjj is a jiu jitsu athlete from South America who has lived and trained here in Austin the last five years. He was a real fixture in local Jiu-Jitsu and helped us and other schools a lot as a training partner. Our ADCC camps would not have been the same without him.”
– Danaher –

This Sunday, One Roof, One Cause: Austin Rallies For Eze

On Sunday, October 12, two rival lineages share the same mats for something bigger than bragging rights. The seminar-style fundraiser will be hosted at Simple Man Martial Arts (formerly B-Team) in Austin

John Danaher’s New Wave team and Nicky Ryan’s Simple Man crew will train side-by-side to raise money for Ezekiel Zurita—a South American Jiu-Jitsu athlete and long-time Austin training partner who has fallen gravely ill.

The outpouring around Eze’s situation has turned private concern into public action, and the organizing engine behind it is Trish Ryan, better known to most of the scene as Gordon Ryan’s mother.

“Sadly he has fallen gravely ill with a brain tumor which has been operated on over the last week. He has racked up considerable medical expenses as a result.”
– Danaher –

What to expect from the day:

• Unified mats: coaches and athletes from both rooms sharing instruction and rounds—no scorecards, just support.
• Direct aid: proceeds earmarked for Eze’s medical needs (imaging, treatment, and recovery costs), with the goal of getting help to him quickly.
• Community first: students, hobbyists, and pros invited to contribute—whether by training, donating, or simply showing up to amplify the effort.

Symbolically, it’s a full-circle Austin moment: the place once synonymous with rivalry becomes neutral ground for solidarity. Practically, it’s exactly what the sport needs more of—high-profile people turning attention into assistance when one of their own needs it most.

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Danaher Booked to Teach at B-Team for Eze 

The Instagram announcement made it official: John Danaher is lending his brain—and mat time—to the effort.

In a move that would’ve sounded impossible two years ago, he’s scheduled to teach at B-Team as part of the medical-expenses fundraiser, with proceeds directed to injured grapplers who submit verified bills.

The post highlights a seminar-style session hosted at B-Team’s facility, plus donation and application details for athletes needing help.

Beyond the symbolism, it’s practical: Danaher’s draw means a packed room, bigger receipts, and faster payouts for imaging, surgery, and rehab. It also sets a precedent the scene has needed for a while—rivals can collaborate when the objective is athlete health.

In the end, the headline matters because it bends an old storyline into a new shape. Gordon Ryan mother and B-Team didn’t fix healthcare, but they did something that cashes today. In a sport where every scramble risks a bill, that’s not kumbaya—it’s triage.

• Chris Wojcik’s viral advice—quit your job and just do Jiu-Jitsu—raises the real question: can you live from Jiu-Jitsu without a day job?
• Liftoff routes exist (coaching salaries, prize purses, seminars, instructionals, content), but most require audience, results, or location leverage.
• Going pro means swapping one grind for five side hustles; passion helps, spreadsheets decide.
• The honest answer: can you live from Jiu-Jitsu—yes, but only with a plan; “train all day and vibes” is a fast way back to a W-2.

Can You Live From Jiu-Jitsu Without A Day Job?

The internet loves a shortcut. Saying the quiet part—can you live from Jiu-Jitsu if you ditch the 9-to-5—turns a mat-room dare into a mortgage question. The truth lands between highlight reels and rent receipts: some athletes do fine, a tiny elite do great, and many discover that “full-time Jiu-Jitsu” is really five part-time jobs in a Gi.

The Dare: “Quit Your Job And Just Do Jiu-Jitsu”

Chris Wojcik delivered the line that detonated group chats:

“The way that you get better at Jiu-Jitsu faster is quit your job and just do Jiu-Jitsu.”
– Chris Wojcik –

Deadpan? Sure. But he’s not trolling. Wojcik has been public about burning the boats—setting a deadline to leave traditional work and follow the mats full-time.

“I said I’d quit my job in 6 months — I did it in 3.”
– Chris Wojcik –

And the pro life wasn’t all posters and podiums:

“Pro Jiu-Jitsu isn’t always pretty… I took my favorite hobby and decided to make it my full-time job.”
– Chris Wojcik –

The message is two-sided: obsession will rocket your skill, but the bill arrives. Which brings us back to: can you live from Jiu-Jitsu?

The Math: Prize Money, Coaching Pay, Seminars and Instructionals

Strip the romance; count the revenue streams.

• Tournament purses. Invitationals and showcase events can pay top winners five figures on a good night, while mainstream circuits offer published purses that are meaningful for champions and modest for everyone else. Great if you’re winning; invisible if you’re out in round one. A realistic season requires travel budgets and the humility to treat prize money as bonus, not base.
• Coaching salaries. Full-time academy roles span a wide range depending on city and brand. Mid-market wages can cover a modest lifestyle; big-city roles or head-instructor spots push higher—especially when paired with revenue share or kids programs you actually fill. Private lessons (priced per hour or per head) change the math quickly if your schedule stays full.
• Seminars. Once your name means something, weekends become mobile ATMs: flat fees + door splits + merch. The ceiling tracks your competitive relevance and social reach; a cold Instagram is a cold seminar.
• Instructionals & online content. The quiet giant. Well-produced systems, clever funnels, and consistent content can outrun competitive Jiu-Jitsu income—if you’ve got a niche the market wants. “Beating everyone” isn’t required; teaching something distinct is.
• Sponsorships/affiliates. Gear, supplements, platforms. Credible brands pay in cash + product; niche brands pay in hopes and hoodies. Conversion matters; so does clean, regular content.

Add it up and the rule emerges: to answer can you live from Jiu-Jitsu, you need stacked income streams. One lane is luck; three lanes is a plan.

Wojcik’s Leap: Leaving The 9-To-5 And What He Learned

Wojcik’s timeline reads like a blueprint for anyone tempted to jump. Set a date, build audience, and accept that the “job you quit” gets replaced by six new ones.

He talks about the psychological shift as much as the financial one—turning a beloved escape into labor you track, measure, and optimize.

“Every time I’ve worked for someone else, the working relationship has gone up in flames… I hated being told what to do.”
– Chris Wojcik –

The hard truths he’s shared since going pro sound less like hype and more like hazard labels for dreamers: expect weird hours, inconsistent cash flow, and stretches where competing actually costs you money unless you’re building something around the medal chase.

Becoming “full-time” at Jiu-Jitsu is not just rolls on repeat—it’s camera setups, editing sprints, DMs, emails, class plans, and flights you booked wrong at 2 a.m.

“Doing Jiu-Jitsu for a living is weird.”
– Chris Wojcik –

That candor is why his punchline—quit your job and just do Jiu-Jitsu—lands like a dare and a disclaimer at the same time.

So… Can You Live From Jiu-Jitsu? A Brutally Honest Close

Here’s the straight answer to can you live from Jiu-Jitsu:

• Yes, if you treat the art like a business: build community, post consistently, coach with intention, and carve a teaching niche people will actually buy. Win when you can, but sell what you know.
• Maybe, if you rely on purses alone. Even big-night payouts are lumpy; one injury or early exit wrecks the month.
• No, if your plan is “train all day and hope.” The rent doesn’t accept highlight reels.

Wojcik’s “secret” still has teeth. Pouring every hour into the craft will level you up faster than a split focus ever could. The trick is surviving the climb.

Stack revenue, keep receipts, and treat your audience like students you serve, not followers you farm. Then the question can you live from Jiu-Jitsu stops being a thread title and becomes a line item—one you balance on purpose.

“The way that you get better at Jiu-Jitsu faster is quit your job and just do Jiu-Jitsu.”
– Chris Wojcik –

If you’re going to do it, do it with both eyes open—and both hands on your own ledger.

• There’s a place where “marriage shots” are literal: some men still try to wrestle a bride into a van as part of a so-called tradition.

• Joe Rogan’s on-air reaction made the clip go nuclear, but the practice—known as ala kachuu—is illegal and widely condemned.

• Reports and testimonies describe abductions, family pressure, and rare enforcement—alongside activists fighting to end it.

• Bottom line: you don’t “earn” a spouse with a double-leg; you earn a criminal charge—and a global dunking online.

Yes, People Still Try To Wrestle A Bride Into A Van

It reads like a sick joke until you realize it’s not: in parts of Kyrgyzstan, men have abducted women to force marriages—literally attempting to wrestle a bride into a van and rush her to a family house where pressure begins.

The internet heard that phrase and did what it does—memed it—while locals and human-rights groups kept repeating the unfunny fine print: it’s illegal, it’s contested, and it harms real people.

“You got to get this lady in the van against her will and then once she gets in the van she’s so ashamed that she marries you.”
– Joe Rogan –

That stunned line launched a thousand timelines, but the practice predates podcasts—and so does the push to end it.

Rogan’s “Wait—What?!” Moment Meets Kyrgyzstan’s Reality

What turned the global spotlight into a stadium floodlight was the contrast: a mega-platform hearing, for the first time, that some men still try to wrestle a bride into a van—and reacting with pure disbelief.

The clip set up an irresistible (and queasy) juxtaposition for fight fans: you spend years sharpening takedowns; somewhere else, a “takedown” is misused as a marriage tactic.

And then comes the part the memes miss. Accounts from Kyrgyz women describe being grabbed off the street, hustled into cars, and isolated in homes where relatives push a headscarf on them as symbolic “acceptance.”

Others recount elopements mislabeled as kidnappings and family-arranged drama that blurs lines, which makes the data messy—but doesn’t change the bottom line: force is not culture; consent isn’t optional.

“Walking proudly down a catwalk… seemed like a lifetime away from [her] nightmare ordeal… grabbed off a Kyrgyzstan street by a group of men wanting to marry her to an uninvited suitor.”
– Survivor account –

Ala Kachuu 101: The Bride Snatching Tradition That’s Illegal (And Still Happens)

If you’re hearing about this for the first time, here’s the quick primer. Ala kachuu (roughly “grab and run”) is the umbrella term—sometimes used for consensual elopements, but also (and notoriously) for non-consensual abductions.

During the Soviet period the practice was suppressed; after independence, reports say it resurged in some regions. Today, it’s criminalized under national law.

The problem? Laws on paper don’t always jump off the page.

Multiple investigations and features describe a gap between statute and street: community elders who treat abductions as “custom,” families who pressure victims to avoid scandal, and uneven enforcement in rural areas.

That’s how you end up with an illegal practice that still generates headlines—and why the phrase wrestle a bride into a van can go viral in 2025 without being historical fiction.

One longform summary captured the shock value in one line:

“In 21st-century Kyrgyzstan, it’s as common to have kidnapped your future wife as it is to have met her on a dating app in 21st-century America.”

Is that literally, statistically true nationwide today? Researchers debate prevalence, especially distinguishing staged elopements from abductions. What isn’t debated: non-consensual bride-kidnapping is a crime—and activists want it gone yesterday.

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Takedowns Aren’t Romance: The Women Fighting Back

Here’s the part where the script flips. For every dude who thinks you can wrestle a bride into a van and call it heritage, there’s a Kyrgyz woman proving that combat sports and civil courage rhyme.

Survivors model in public campaigns, lawyers shepherd cases, and organizers run hotlines and protests. Some of the most compelling stories feature women treating the whole apparatus—uncles, elders, gossip—as an opponent to be off-balanced and submitted with cold, boring persistence: filings, witnesses, court dates, repeat.

“[She is] one of thousands of women abducted and forced to marry each year… Bride kidnappings continue, particularly in rural areas.”
– Report on survivor activism –

Another blunt description from a field piece—part dispatch, part alarm bell:

“Men still marry their women the old-fashioned way: by abducting them off the street and forcing them to be their wife.”
– On-the-ground report –

So if you’re about to crack a “single-leg to ceremony” joke—don’t. We can clock the absurdity of the phrase without trivializing the violence behind it.

The last word: if a podcast clip made you Google “do people really wrestle a bride into a van,” good. Now use the same curiosity to learn what Kyrgyz women are doing to end it—and why the only legit takedowns in this story happen in a wrestling room, not on a sidewalk.

• In a new on-camera testimony, Andrew Wiltse says Daisy Fresh is a cult, alleging coercion, fear, and even criminal pressure tied to leadership.
• He uses phrases like “cult of personality,” describes teammates as “terrified,” and credits “Nicole” with getting him out.
• Wiltse claims no journalists have probed the accusations and publicly calls out prominent figures for staying quiet.
• These are allegations; as of publication, there’s no official response from those named. We’re covering what he said—verbatim—while noting his history of bipolar struggles that some raise when judging credibility.

Andrew Wiltse Says Daisy Fresh Is A Cult

Andrew Wiltse says Daisy Fresh is a cult, and you can’t just disregard him – he knows team Pedigo inside out. Not metaphor, not exaggeration—he repeatedly uses the word cult and lays out what he says are specific harms. The language is scorching and unmistakable.

“If you don’t realize it’s a cult of personality, you’re s—id.”
– Andrew Wiltse –

Wiltse’s allegations go well beyond gym beef. He paints a picture of pressure, intimidation, and conduct he believes belongs in investigations, not training rooms. Central to the clip: the claim that members lived in a constant state of panic.

“terrified” and “scared s—less at all times”
– Andrew Wiltse (describing team members) –

He also alleges criminal pressure tied to the gym’s orbit, using stark wording on camera:

“They sell d—s out of it. They pressure people into selling d—s.”
– Andrew Wiltse –

And he frames his exit as a rescue, crediting a partner by name:

“Nicole broke me out of the cult.”
– Andrew Wiltse –

Throughout, he insists issues (including SA concerns) were raised internally and mishandled—claims that, if substantiated, would escalate this far beyond community drama.

That’s the core of why Andrew Wiltse says Daisy Fresh is a BJJ cult detonated across feeds: the accusations land in the realm of policy, law, and athlete welfare.

Before The Blast: The Daisy Fresh Split And A Recent Manic Spiral

Well before the video where Andrew Wiltse says Daisy Fresh is a cult, he’d already described a widening rift with the team and coach Heath Pedigo—saying he and his brother were being phased out of content and activities, and even blocked from filming in the room.

“Even when I was there all day, every day, I was phased out of Daisy Fresh YouTube videos… I wasn’t invited on trips to camps, and I wasn’t informed about local tournaments or basically anything that everyone else knew.”
– Andrew Wiltse –

More recently, Wiltse was involved in a widely discussed incident with police that he and coverage around it described as connected to a manic episode.

The footage and reports framed it as a mental-health crisis rather than a standard “beef,” and it has since colored how parts of the community assess his public statements—fueling calls for third-party verification of any new claims even as others emphasize compassion and due process.

This context—first, the split; then, a high-profile manic spiral intersecting with law enforcement—forms the backdrop to this week’s allegations and the debate over credibility, evidence, and next steps.

Where Are The Answers?

Another through-line is Wiltse’s frustration with what he calls a wall of silence—both from alleged principals and from prominent peers. He also claims the media hasn’t done its job.

“No journalists have investigated… obvious red flags.”
– Andrew Wiltse

He singles out well-known figures for keeping quiet, sharpening the spotlight on why Andrew Wiltse says Daisy Fresh is a cult but the wider scene isn’t publicly engaging.

The pushback he anticipates—given his documented bipolar battles—is baked into the discourse. Even so, the standard here is evidence: either the claims are backed by receipts, or they aren’t. Diagnosis isn’t adjudication.

If Receipts Surface vs. If They Don’t

If corroboration surfaces (messages, documents, sworn statements), expect an immediate shift: formal inquiries, sponsor pressure, and real consequences.

If not, reputations are still altered—because a high-profile insider said “Daisy Fresh is a cult” on camera and the internet never forgets. In either case, the next chapter belongs to verification and replies.

Until then, the only thing that’s clear is the quote itself—repeated, emphatic, and now in the public record:

“People were upset that me and Bird had our own YouTube channel… We were flat-out told we were not allowed to record in the gym anymore.”
– Andrew Wiltse –

For now, Andrew Wiltse says Daisy Fresh is a cult, those named haven’t answered, and the sport is left with a hard question: who investigates, who responds, and how soon?

• Geo Martinez retires from high-level competition, citing the endless grind and a pull toward coaching.
• The 10th Planet ace emphasized age, injuries, and full-time gym duties in plainspoken remarks.
• Freakazoid leaves with EBI titles, an ADCC 2015 fourth place, and a decade of innovation that bent no-gi style lines.
• The next chapter is mentorship—proof that charisma and system-building can outlast the bracket.

Geo Martinez Retires—But Says The Grind Never Stops

The headline is simple and seismic: Geo Martinez retires. The delivery is pure working-class athlete—no mythologizing, no dramatic swan song.

Just a straight admission that the meter never stops ticking for elite grapplers, and that the smarter play at this stage is pouring into students and a growing room.

“I’m running a gym full-time, and I’ve been competing for a long time. I’m getting older, and I have some injuries here and there. I think it’s just time for me to focus on my gym and my students.”
– Geo Martinez –

The candor is the story. Geo Martinez retires not with a victory lap, but with a nudge to everyone stuck on the hamster wheel.

Freakazoid’s Last Word: “There’s Never A Rest Time”

For a decade, Freakazoid made chaos look choreographed. The exit line that will follow him is grimmer—and truer—than any highlight.

“When you’re a competitor, it’s like you’re always on the grind. There’s never a rest time. You’re always getting ready for another tournament.”
– Geo Martinez –

And he made sure to explain what remains when the calendar clears:

“Now it’s more about just the passion and just the love of the game.”
– Geo Martinez –

That’s the part that lands for anyone who ever taped a finger and limped into rounds. Geo Martinez retires but the love doesn’t.

From Breakdancer To No-Gi Legend

Before the memes and the mouthpiece, there was a body that moved different. A professional breakdancer turned 10th Planet Jiu-Jitsu black belt, Geo’s spatial awareness and balance produced a style that felt imported from a future rulebook.

The résumé isn’t just trophies—it’s texture:

• EBI champion (x3): a ruleset built for daring finishers fit Freakazoid like a custom rashguard.
• ADCC 2015 (4th place): the world’s hardest bracket met maximal creativity—and remembered it.
• Signature wins & moments: from the Jeff Glover upset to years of West Coast no-gi theater, his brand became shorthand for “try the thing no one else will.”
• One of the fastest promotions in BJJ history: It only took the Freakazoid three years to earn his black belt from Eddie Bravo.

If you trained in the 10th Planet orbit, you stole something from him—an entry, a grip, a willingness to live in the weird.

That’s the point. When Geo Martinez retires, the ideas he mainstreamed don’t quit; they sink deeper into the rooms he runs.

What Changes Now That Geo Martinez Is Retired?

First, the calendar. Expect fewer poster stare-downs and more packed classes where the owner is the most excited person in the room. The way he talked about the switch makes the path obvious: the grind kept taking; the gym keeps giving.

Second, the pipeline. 10th Planet thrives on personality-driven innovation. A full-time Freakazoid means more system kids—athletes fluent in the unorthodox—and more content from a coach who can demo, troubleshoot, and sell the style in plain English.

Third, the myth. The sport loves definitive endings; this isn’t one. It’s a pivot. Legends who coach full-time often shape eras more than they shaped brackets. If “Freakazoid” becomes a coaching tree instead of a fight card name, the story gets bigger, not smaller.

Above all, the tone he set on the way out matters. No bitterness. No “one last run” bargaining.

Just a clear decision and the kind of quotes that hit like a caution sign for the next wave.

“I’m running a gym full-time… I think it’s just time for me to focus on my gym and my students.”
– Geo Martinez –

If you needed a final reel, you’ve already got one: a decade of audacity stitched to an ethos that says the love of the game is the only part worth guarding with both hands. Geo Martinez retired from the lights to keep that love alive—louder—in the room that built him.