Born on August 27, 1990 in Nice, France, Loïc Pietri is one of the most impressive names in French men’s judo. National, European and World champion in 2009 in his final junior season, he went on to become one of the international stalwarts in the U81 kg category, with six consecutive European and World podium finishes, including the World title in 2013 in Rio de Janeiro, Brazil. His next two Olympiads were far more complicated, with many injuries to body and soul. This skin-deep, long-term experience of light and shadow has an advantage though: it has given him a comprehensive understanding of the two sides of the top-level sport’s iceberg. At a time when he is slowly preparing to write a new chapter in his life, he has agreed, in keeping with a mutual respect that began in randori fifteen years ago, to talk to us over several meetings. A (re)putting into words, sometimes trenchant but always straightforward and sincere, of a journey that could have been different, but which happens to be the one he knows best: his own. – JudoAKD#001.
A French version of this interview is available here.
More than ten years have passed since your 2013 World title in Rio. Where do you stand mentally, physically and personally on January 13, 2024, the date on which this interview begins?
It’s hard to separate these different parameters. Mentally and physically, they’re kind of linked. At my age, it’s getting a bit tough physically, that’s for sure. That’s fair enough, but it inevitably affects motivation. As far as the top level is concerned, I’m no longer thinking in the medium or long term. I just want to finish this season enjoying myself. Off the tatamis, on the other hand, things are going very well. I’ve got a healthy merely three-year-old daughter and plans for the future.
At your peak, which was between the Turkish Grand Prix you won in March 2013 and the World Championships in Kazakhstan in August 2015, where you lost in the final, you racked up ten individual podiums in twelve international competitions, including three World medals and three European medals in a row. Then things suddenly started to get more difficult. What was the cause?
My body didn’t help me. I ruptured the medial collateral bone in my right knee at the end of 2017 and had to undergo surgery. The relationship with the staff also became difficult. After the Rio Games, I had decided to move up to the U90 kg. The challenge motivated me, but with the two other problems on the side, what was initially supposed to be a simple sporting challenge quickly became a medical but also a relational one. There was a lot to deal with.
Where was the breaking point?
I wasn’t given a whole season to get used to my new U90 kg category. Naively, I thought that my consistency over the previous Olympiad would have protected me from arbitrary decisions. Unfortunately, this was not the case and it was unfair, really. The directors and staff of the time acted (or didn’t act) in a way that often offended my values. It was a mixture of score-settling and a good dose of incompetence too.
In what way?
You have to call a spade a spade. I was put in the closet. I was sidelined for having given my opinion on some topics, notably during an athletes’ strike I had taken part in 2014 over bonus issues. We also went back to a typically Parisian high-volume randori training system. That didn’t suit me at all, and I made it known. From then on, everything became very complicated.
What do you remember about this relational shift? Are there things you should have handled differently, with more diplomacy for example?
I was diplomatic… But no discussion was possible. I was blackmailed into doing a lot of randoris, and the worst thing was that I finally gave in… and injured my knee badly. I blamed myself for smoothing things over but, you know, that’s all in the past now. It’s part of my career, like everything else. I learned a lot during that period and it made me grow as a person.
You stayed in the U90 kg class from 2017 to 2021. What would it have taken for the things to gel in this category?
To start with, you’d have to be allowed to compete [Laughs]. A member of staff went mad because I lost to Mikhail Igolnikov in the golden score in my first U90 kg competition. That Russian athlete had just been crowned European champion in the junior category, and went on to win the European senior championship the following year… Frankly, losing by a golden score to a guy on a roll in a category I was just discovering and where I was supposed to be getting my bearings, there was nothing to worry about, in itself. I’m still convinced that I could have done well in the U90 kg category. To do so, I’d have had to spend two full seasons on the IJF tour. And with a real coach.
What does a real coach mean to you?
It’s someone who’s also there when you’re in trouble.
I see… Otherwise, since April 2021 and your return to the U81 kg class, you’ve had a succession of great and legitimate expectations, and tough physical setbacks. How have you coped with this permanent yo-yo?
Every time I went out, I was more or less explicitly asked to prove myself again, but on the level below. Which I did every time. And I was asked to do it again and again… until I got tired and injured. The truth is that I was being outdone because there was no project for me, otherwise I would have been given a full season on the IJF tour. The truth is that I wasn’t in their plans, period.
You’re not the only one to report these contradictory injunctions, though…
Absolutely, and that’s unfortunate. If coaches and selectors don’t want you, it’s hard to break through the glass ceiling. You can’t get to the top in a snap of the fingers. A level is a process of growth. A conquest. You have to be on the tour for a while before you can perform. If you don’t have a staff behind you with a project for you, it quickly becomes mission impossible.
Does that leave you with any regrets?
No. What could I do? Regrets for what? You have to deal with the lack of human quality and the incompetence of the people you’re forced to work with. My words are harsh, but people who love judo and its values would be disgusted if they knew how things went behind the scenes. I dealt with the problems as best I could when they were there. Today it’s part of y past and I’m moving forward. That’s always been my guiding principle and I’m not going to change that good habit. I like challenges and I always have goals. And I’ve always been certain of one thing: there’s life after the top level.
If you compare all this with your expectations at the end of your junior years and your first senior seasons, what feeling dominates today?
There are two things that count for me: the emotions I’ve experienced and the fact that I can look at myself in the mirror. What do you want me to regret? That I gave my opinion and didn’t let myself be swayed by decisions that went against my head? Compared to the number of medals I’ve brought to the French team, I don’t think I’ve been treated fairly, period. When I was young, I was “too young”. When I was old, I was “too old”. But you can’t regret the fact that you didn’t let yourself be treated that way and still perform well. In fact, have a look at the statistics for all the French team’s athletes over the last fifteen years: fights won and lost in championships. Then compare the number of selections obtained by the judokas and their performance statistics in championships… You’ll see that the shame is in the camp of the selectors and managers of the time. I did the best I could with what I had.
Who was your worst career opponent? The one who made you raise your game?
The worst, and I say this without batting an eyelid, was my relationship with my federation. It’s difficult to evolve in a system that no longer works, and for you to want to work differently. Apart from that, as far as my opponents are concerned, the one with whom I’ve built up a real duality in my career will always be the Georgian Avtandili Tchrikishvili.
You’ve fought each other ten times, winning five times each, including three memorable finals: in 2013 at the World Championships in Rio, in 2014 at the Grand Slam in Paris and then at the European Championships in Montpellier. In this segment of your career, your European and World medals are a bit like his, and vice-versa. And you pushed the parallel until you both climbed to U90 kg after the Rio Games, with mixed results…
Some judokas are on their own when they reach their peak. We reached our peak at the same time. It was a fine duel, and I think the public prefers that to undivided dominance.
We’re back with you in mid-February, when you return from the Paris 2024 post-Grand Slam international training camp. How are you getting on with your goals?
I’m training and trying to enjoy myself… If I’m feeling really well, I’ll do some outings, otherwise I’ll give up. I’ve been feeling average since I came back from my shoulder operation. In fact, I think I’ve been letting go little by little since the Olympics selections went out. You know, top level racing teaches you a lot of things except one: how to give up. So I’m taking it one step at a time.
You’re starting to have ideas for the future too…
I want to enjoy my family life with my partner Sarah [Menezes, 2012 Olympic champion and 2010, 2011 and 2013 triple world medallist in the U48 kg class for Brazil] and our daughter Nina. So my return to the South of France is more than on tracks. I’m currently renovating a house in Nice to be able to welcome my family at the end of the Olympics. And professionally, I’m in advanced discussions with JC Monaco…
Does Sarah also look beyond the Games?
Sarah has the Paris Olympics to prepare for as coach of the Brazilian women’s team, then she’ll see…
Is coaching something you’re thinking about, too?
I still love judo, so yes.
Personally, I’ve always known you analyzing things, even when you were just coming out of juniors…
That’s often what made the difference for me, that willingness to look for solutions all the time. That and the fighting spirit are the most important things for me when it comes to playing at the highest level. That’s what I like about coaching too: helping to find solutions, but this time for others.
At what level do you want to coach? Only at the top level?
I’d like to do anything. The problem is that among the very youngs in France, the tendency is to favor the leisure approach. Personally, I like the idea of surpassing oneself. That doesn’t necessarily mean I want to train an “elite”. I don’t mind training someone to take them from departmental to regional level, for example. I just like to have someone in front of me who gives it all. The educational side of the job could also appeal to me. But if that’s what it takes to learn, and maybe also to see something else after all these years at the top level, why not? It could be a formative experience.
Some teachers are reluctant to send their young students to competitions. They say they prefer the martial side of the discipline, as opposed to the sporting one. Could you see yourself teaching without sending your pupils to competitions?
A martial approach without fighting? Personally, I find competition educational. I hear the arguments, but I think it’s a shame to do without a tool like this to do your job as an educator. Whatever the field, we are bound to fail in our adult lives. I think teaching a young person to be self-confident and to behave properly in the face of failure is a very good school for life. You just have to be careful not to force their hand. All judokas who compete will reach their limit at some point. There’s nothing dramatic about that in itself. You just have to be realistic and bounce back with a new project. At the end, it may be thanks to these competitive qualities developed through judo that success in this new project will be forged. Who knows?
But to achieve this kind of lucidity, don’t you need to have experienced competition? Otherwise it’s like giving up without even trying, isn’t it?
Yes, it is. Many people don’t exploit their full potential. There are a lot of limiting beliefs and psychological barriers. Sometimes people put them on themselves, sometimes others put them in their heads. Competition has a lot to offer in this respect. Finding the right balance between self-questioning and self-confidence is learned through adversity. That’s how I see it, anyway.
There’s another point I wanted to raise with you. Throughout your career, you’ve been a Niçois exiled in Paris. On a personal level, your partner and daughter now live in Brazil for most of the year. It’s as if, to find your balance, you need to always have one foot out… Is this something you’ve analyzed yourself?
What you say is true… I haven’t analyzed it until now, but you can [Laughs]. I think it has more to do with my relationship with judo at the INSEP and the training culture at the French top level.
What do you mean by that?
Well, at the start, the INSEP was a childhood dream, really. But then the place quickly turned into a prison for me. When I arrived, I couldn’t go home every weekend to see family and friends in Nice. I had to leave part of my old life behind. It was a radical turning point. Once you’ve made up your mind and left home for the first time, moving isn’t really a problem anymore… Maybe that explains my current life. My personal tastes must also have played a part.
Like what?
I like adventure stories and history books. I’ve just finished Nicolas Baïkov’s In the Hills of Manchuria and I’m starting a travel account of a French Capuchin missionary who landed on the coast of Maranhão in 1614. Don’t think I’m crazy, it’s just my taste [Laughs] I also love nature. Fishing, hunting or even just being away from it all. It’s certainly helped me get away from the megalopolis that is Paris. I want to be in Nice more often.
You used the term “prison”. When did this feeling of imprisonment at the INSEP start?
Right from the beginning, there were things that bothered me. There was very little discussion of technical solutions with the coaches, as I used to do with my father. Being immersed in a group with coaches with whom you couldn’t always talk to was complicated for me. Then we were asked to do enormous amounts of randoris and, with my very offensive judo, I was constantly getting injured. Add to that a corrupt selection committee – for a long time it was chaired by… a club president [Laughs]. There are fewer conflicts of interest like that since the arrival of Stéphane Nomis, fortunately.
With the benefit of hindsight, what would have worked better for you?
First of all, I’d have preferred fair selection rules, known to all in advance. My background leads me to believe that the Federation shouldn’t even be concerned with the content of training. It should just be responsible for the framework.
In what way?
In my opinion, when it comes to high-level training, the Federation should limit itself to two missions. The first would be to offer training tools such as courses and mass training. The second mission would be to establish fair competition with selection rules established well in advance. I’m convinced that everything would work much better that way.
In the same vein, would French coaching staff benefit from taking inspiration from what some Japanese champions do prior to their transition from athlete to coach, namely to spend several months training far from their home base, notably in Great Britain, to open up to other languages, other cultures and above all other ways of thinking about training?
Training coaches and offering a learning path can be very interesting in itself, but for me it’s not a sufficient criterion. As far as I’m concerned, if you aspire to join a national staff, you must already be one of the people with the best results as a coach. It seems logical to me that you have to prove yourself in a club, a performance center or even in another federation. The same standards demanded of athletes should also be demanded of coaches. If we want people to perform well, we have to judge and reward performance at every level. Otherwise we cultivate mediocrity and networking… The strength of the Japaneses is above all their ability to keep their best judokas in the fold and turn them into coaches. The same goes for the Russians, who I’ve heard sent all their London Olympic medallists to train in regional centers. But to get that level of commitment, you have to pay people properly. Especially in the performance centers…
Isn’t that what you’re seeing in practice?
No. Many promotions to national coach are based on… nothing. The coach is not far from the INSEP, he often comes knocking on the door, a manager likes him and off he goes, he’s recruited. Then he becomes an official and spends thirty years at the INSEP because he no longer costs the Federation anything. As far as I’m concerned, official coaches are one of the biggest problems in French judo’s. The status of civil servant is just not suited to the high level.
How difficult is it to last in this position?
It’s not so much about lasting. It’s about being effective. Of all the professionals I’ve come across (physiotherapists, doctors, fitness trainers, etc.), none of those who really gave their all stayed for very long. It’s too difficult, too demanding. An Olympiad is a mission. If you do your job well, two Olympiads is really exhausting… For me, that should be the maximum. This is not a position one should hold on to.
You say that at the age of thirty-three… Will you be saying the same thing in a few years’ time?
Not if things change and we become a big men’s nation again. That’s all the bad news I wish for us, isn’t it? But I think it’s so cruel to train so many young people in a system that produces so much frustration and so poor performance. Judokas are gambling their futures and taking risks, only to entrust their dreams to a high-level system which is no longer up to par.
What did you pick up in terms of pedagogy and relationship to performance during your many training sessions abroad, particularly in Brazil?
Brazil is a country where I spent a lot of time, that’s true. There’s a nice, fairly classic judo school there. They generally train good, highly technical judokas. I find that in judo, as in soccer, Brazilians often love the beautiful gesture. The social reality, however, is very different. High-level sport and competition are not necessarily accessible to everyone. Some youngsters qualify for national competitions, but can’t find the money to buy a plane ticket and honor their selection. For some people, buying a kimono is already a struggle.
And elsewhere in the world?
If we’re talking about international judo, we’ll have to cut a few corners to answer your question quickly, because I’ve got a book to write [Laughs]. Some countries have a very distinctive technical signature. I’m thinking in particular of Georgia with koshi waza (hip techniques) and hand-to-hand, the Koreans with te waza (arm techniques), the Japanese with ashi waza (leg techniques). The same goes for kumikatas: classic guards with lapels are often Japanese, Korean or Western countries. Crossed or far-back guards with triceps grabs often come from Eastern Europe or Central Asia. But judo is becoming more and more internationalized, and I find that the differences are less marked than they used to be. In terms of training methods, judo from Eastern Europe often involves short sessions with little fighting but fairly high intensity. On the other hand, you have the Japanese model, where long sessions are practiced at a moderate but steady pace. To me, all these differences just go to show that World and Olympic champions can be trained using very different methods and styles. I find it regrettable that we only copy – and often badly – the Japanese model.
Why is that?
Because to copy in the first place is to kill creativity, and it’s also to prevent ourselves from surpassing the person we’re copying. There are plenty of things to improve, but to do that we need to look for solutions by being factual, not by looking for a magic recipe. Of course, we need to draw inspiration from others. We have a lot to learn from the Japaneses, but they’re not the only ones we can learn from.
Do you have any other ideas in mind?
First of all, we have a Latin culture. So I’m not sure that the Japanese model is 100% duplicable in France. So, as much as I admire their training system, I think that if a French teacher has the same high standards here, he’ll quickly get complaints from parents and lose 90% of his licensees. For purely economic reasons, a club with thirty members is not viable… So France need to find solutions that are more in line with the French mentality.
And on the physical level?
Here too, the Japaneses have a morphology and physical qualities that are often very different from those of the French. And what about from a strategic point of view? Facing the Japaneses on their home ground, with their training methods and judo style, it’s going to be hard to surprise them. For all these reasons, copying and pasting Japanese judo seems to me to be a bad idea. When you see today that the Spaniards, Italians, Belgians, Canadians and many other former “small nations” of judo are overtaking us in the men’s category… Perhaps we should start by taking inspiration from what’s happening in our own backyard, and draw conclusions more in line with our own reality.
One day in Azerbaijan, I had a long talk with Richard Trautmann, who was in charge of the German men’s team at the time. He was telling me about the evolution of the German educational model, where kids go to school in the morning and have free time in the afternoon. He told me that the Germans had gone back to that and that now schoolchildren have full days, just like here in France. The downside, he says, is that German children have lost a lot of motor skills. They no longer have the space to play outside and, as a result, are also much less agile than they used to be, and this shows on the carpet in terms of skills and coordination. He told me that it was in the Caucasus countries that he rediscovered the spontaneity that the Western countries are losing. In Georgia and Azerbaijan, the kids who come to judo have already been practicing acrobatics in the open air for years. This practice says something about their future way of being. It also tells us something about our Western societies, where everyone is more “seated”. In his opinion, all this has an impact on mobility, motor skills and judo movements. And therefore on motivation. And therefore on emulation. And therefore on results.
There’s no doubt about it, because screens and a sedentary lifestyle aren’t very good for motor development. There are plenty of children living in the city whose parents won’t let them go outside “because it’s dangerous”. As a result, their only space is half an hour twice a week in the park. Compare that with a child who plays outside for six hours a day, of course all this has an impact on motor development. After all, we shouldn’t be gullible either, there is doping in certain countries… I doubt that having children who grow up in nature is the only real explanation for the extraordinary physical performances of certain athletes. A foreign judoka once told me that in France we live in Care Bear Land on this topic, and that judokas who get caught are just the tip of the iceberg…
What do you think of international staffs? I’m thinking of nations like Canada, Austria, the Netherlands, Azerbaijan, Israel or Russia a few years ago, where groups of coaches from different backgrounds work together. Do you think this could be an alternative for French judo?
Why not, if we’re looking for skills that don’t exist here, but it would be good to start by calling on those who are already here. I’m repeating myself here, but for me the most important thing is to take on people who have proven themselves as coaches. It doesn’t matter whether they come from here or elsewhere. We don’t judge by nationality, but by an individual’s qualities. I don’t believe in the arrival of a providential man. As I see it, the problem is structural, not personal. As far as training is concerned, everything is too centralized and managed by the Federation. At present, the Federation entrusts the fifty best French players of their generation to a single coach. This creates a form of monopoly. But every day shows that we’re not all cut from the same mold.
Did your own experience lead you to think that?
I’ve seen it happen since I started out. Every time a new national coach comes in, everyone hopes for the best and then, after two years, everyone’s disappointed. But that’s normal: the national staff trains too many people, and one training method can’t suit the majority of judokas. Add to that a coach who is also a selector, and the total absence of the selection criteria I mentioned earlier… I’ve almost never seen a good atmosphere last over time. But I’m one of those people who believe that for a group to perform well, the atmosphere is essential.
The model you propose is similar to the one used in many countries, with very distinct geographical entities and very autonomous operations.
There are few countries as centralized as France… And you only realize this when you set foot abroad. Even the Japaneses have competition between universities. Without having a university system like theirs, the majority of countries only have national training courses and groups. The rest of the time, judokas are at home in their clubs or regions.
What do you think is the ideal formula?
I’ll say it again: in my view, the most important thing is to replace the Selection Committee with selection rules that are known to all and laid down well in advance, so that judokas can finally compete in a fair, healthy and equitable environment. The second thing is that there shouldn’t be just one way of training. So,I’m therefore not logically in favor of imposing mine either [Smiles]. I’m convinced that different schools of judo should compete against each other. It doesn’t matter whether they’re clubs, poles or universities. We need to create competition between training methods and coaches. And that doesn’t exist today, because the system is asleep!
Are the French championships a good justice of the peace?
Not really, no. I think it’s wiser to judge over a full season and therefore to select upstream for a full season. The French championships are a competition where most of the participants know each other by heart, since they do randori together every day. It’s often a very tactical competition. So I don’t find it necessarily indicative of the real level of the judokas. In this respect, French judo differs from international judo.
What criteria would you use to select fighters for a full season, as you mentioned?
There could be several good ways of doing it. But my point of view would be to ensure that judokas compete at their level. The aim would be to build their self-confidence so that they don’t get into the habit of losing. To do this, I’d divide the fighters into two groups: those who have the level to compete on the IJF tour and those who, for the moment, have to compete on the French Championship, the European Cup and the European Open. All with statistics and a win-loss ratio which, in the interests of transparency, would be available for all to consult. Selection rules would determine who should move up the IJF circuit and who, on the contrary, should drop down to the level below. The holder of a category would have as many outings as the runner-up or even the third-placed competitor. Unless he medalled at the European or World Championships last season, the judoka with the best win-loss ratio would be the starter at the next Europes, Worlds and Olympics. This is very far from what is currently done with the Selection Committee, whose decisions are not always universally understood – and sometimes rightly so.
This arithmetical clarity in the criteria is a bit like what the Canadians do…
I had understood that there were rules for selections established in advance and progressive in Canada. But Canada is run by former judokas who have been on the IJF tour for a long time. They know the demands of the top level.
It’s not on the same scale either… Basically, what you want is to give back a little visibility from one season to the next for those selected, right?
The aim is to enable people to reach their full potential. To do that, you have to have individual projects. If you can’t fight on the tour for a while, it’s very difficult to progress. The step is often too high. Many former “small nations” take the time to develop their judokas over time, and their judokas end up surpassing French judokas. Between the French level and the world’s Top 20, it often takes several seasons to adapt and become a top performer.
And without getting injured…
Yes. All this raises the question of training load management. There are basic principles of training methodology to follow because athletes are not robots. When you have plans for someone before they get injured, you must be able to have plans for them when they return from injury too, otherwise it is difficult to renew a relationship of trust with them.
These are complex equations…
It’s a lot of frustration, yes. I’ve experienced it. I’ve even experienced it from both sides, because I’ve been on the good side of things and then the bad. I can see exactly how it is in both cases, in fact. As far as I’m concerned, if you don’t bring a lot of individuals to their best level, you won’t be able to have a team that rises to the top. The problem is that when you are both coach and selector and everything is centralized, taking a step back is difficult.
It smells like experience!
When a coach-selector doesn’t have a plan for you, you can’t hope to progress on the IJF tour. When you are in this situation, they make you think they’re giving you a chance, but in fact they’re not. There are people who can lose three times in a row in the first round, and we keep taking them out. I beat the Turkish Albayrak, European champion and World medallist, I lost to the Israeli Muki, World and European champion, then I got injured, and when I came back I felt like I didn’t exist. You always feel like you’re training for nothing. Sometimes you’re ready and you can’t go out. Sometimes you’re not ready and they ask you to go out. As I told you the other day: the biggest opponent I’ve had in my career isn’t the Georgian Tchrikishvili, with whom I had a tough time in the -81kg class, nor my weight. My biggest adversary throughout my career has been my relationship with my own federation. It’s been my biggest limiting factor by far!
You’ve never been a yes-man either, which can’t help…
I’ve been made to pay for it… But you know, on the whole, every time I’ve had to deal with someone who’s been willing to exchange ideas, things have gone well. I just like to discuss the choices and training directions that are taken. I feel it concerns me. There are several national and club coaches with whom things have gone well. I’m thinking of Stéphane Auduc, Jérôme Henric, Stéphane Frémont… On the other hand, when I was asked to do insane training loads, I had no choice but to say no. I was injuring myself all the time and it was impossible to progress under those conditions. And I’m convinced that if I hadn’t gone against certain demands, I wouldn’t have achieved as much as I did. So I have no regrets.
Wouldn’t you tend towards a professional tennis-type model, where the athlete pays his coach? Or, worse, like in team sports, where the team deliberately sabotages itself to get the coach’s head?
There isn’t enough money in judo to consider that. And the athletes don’t have the power to make a coach leave. I think the problem is structural. If I am attached to the fact that the Federation remains guarantor of a framework, I also remain convinced that the content of training is the responsibility of the coaches closest to the athletes and to the mat reality. That is to say, for a large majority, club coaches. There are not enough national coaches to manage each case individually with all the availability that this implies. But things are changing, step by step…
I’m well aware that things were complicated in terms of relationships with the previous staff. Wasn’t the arrival of Baptiste Leroy at the head of the French men’s team at the end of 2022 rather good news for you? He’s someone who’s done his bit both at club level and abroad, having taken charge of the Moroccan and Mauritian teams. And he’s sharp on statistics.
Yes but there is still a way to go… I’m watching from a distance. As I’ve already told you, I’m not waiting for a providential man, but only for a national technical direction to set up coherent and fair operating rules. Although for a long time Baptiste was one of the club coaches who was rather critical of the Federation, he was also quick to make some arbitrary choices when he found himself in the position of selector. But maybe he’s very good and has noticed things that nobody else has. We’ll see at the Olympics.
What makes you special is that your father Marcel was also a top-level athlete [European vice-champion in 1986 and winner of the 1988 Paris Tournament in the -78 kg class]. How did this lineage help you clear the hurdles?
My father was able to pass on a passion to me while letting me work independently from a very young age. It was really he who taught me how to train. If I have to sum up his approach and method, there are several things. Firstly, he likes to say that he’s trying to learn how to learn. And he’s not the type to monitor whether a student is training. At youth level, he teaches his students to attack in several directions: front-back and right-left. We often did little technical sessions with projections on big soft mats. I don’t think my father likes giving placement instructions. He takes his young judokas to a lot of competitions and encourages them to try out new projections and repeat them by doing nage komi (projection exercises). For him, competition remains the ultimate judge. If a technique works in competition, it’s because it’s well done. In this way, he tries to help athletes build an effective attacking system to win by ippon.
The approach is rather structuring…
Yes. When I was very young, I quickly enjoyed the challenge of competition and was keen to take part. I had the opportunity to do lots of competitions every year. When we lost, we never got told off, and we just started looking for ways to win the next time. It was an apprenticeship with a positive and benevolent attitude, and that was my good fortune. If I have one of the most impressive records in French judo today, it’s largely thanks to these foundations. But you know, the most important thing is that I did it all with pleasure and had fun, despite the difficulties.
Is this the source of your oft-observed ability to always look ahead? There are times, when we’re talking, when I feel you don’t want to dwell on the negative. Where does that come from?
I have to admit that you’re making me suffer by doing an end-of-career review interview with me [Laughs]. I don’t know… I don’t feel I’m getting anything out of it, and yes, that’s certainly where it comes from. Looking for ways to win encourages you to project yourself. That’s what I’ve always done.
“Integrity is glory without glory. It’s glory within ». Your posture reminds me of this quote from Arthur Harari’s film Onoda, 10,000 Nights in the Jungle, inspired by the true story of that Japanese soldier who remained to defend his homeland on a Pacific island for nearly three decades after the end of the Second World War.
Do you see me as a soldier fighting a lost war? [Laughs] Unlike a Japanese soldier, I’m not motivated by following orders. I have a sense of justice rather than duty. I like a job well done, and I don’t hesitate to say when I think an order is preventing me from doing it. I value my freedom to act.
Your career also reminds me of that of tennis player Mats Wilander. In the 1980s, he won seven Grand Slam titles and didn’t drop out of the World’s Top 5 almost continuously from 1982 to 1988. In 1988, he won three of the four Grand Slam titles and became World No.1. A year later, he was No. 64 and never again put one foot in front of the other, except intermittently, until his retirement. In retrospect, he’ll say that he explored both sides of the pro career mountain in this way… All this has given him a fairly complete view of the spectrum, and makes his analyses as a consultant often highly relevant.
Yes, it gives us two different points of view and, humanly speaking, it helps us evolve. But in tennis, the selectors can’t put obstacles in your way [Smiles]. You can always evolve on the tour. My career would certainly have been different in that way.
Tell us about your family stronghold in Valdeblore, high above Nice, where, in the Summer of 2021, you and your father found some cave paintings…
I’m a mountain man, on both the Corsican and Nice sides. Every weekend and during the summer vacations, I spent my free time in the village. For me, the city was all about school and judo. Valdeblore was really free. Everyone knew everyone else, and we were free to roam the village and the countryside. With my big cousin, we’d go for walks in the woods, go trout fishing, have apple fights or manhunts in the evening in the village, then settle down to listen to Nirvana while watching the stars before going home to sleep… My best childhood memories are in the mountains… Speaking of Valdeblore, I’m happy because on June 18 I’ll be carrying the Olympic flame in my village. Symbolically, I think it’s a great way to end my career.
What about Alexandra, your mother? What role did she play in all this?
My mother gave me love and a happy childhood. I think having a loving mother helps a lot in building yourself as an adult. During my career, she also gave me lots of advice on everything extra-sporting. She also came to help me in Paris after each of my operations, and she is my number one supporter. My father doesn’t even watch me fight [Laughs], whereas my mother knows all my opponents very well. She’s even interested in the other categories…
If the Loïc of 2024 were to give advice to the Loïc who fastened his first belt almost three decades ago, what would he say?
I think I’d tell him that you only learn through experience. That there’s not much I can explain to him that he won’t discover for himself on the mats. Off the mat, on the other hand, I’d tell him to choose his enemies more carefully than his friends. But when you’re twenty and have the character of a fighter, you confront injustice head-on. If I had it to do over again today, I’d do it differently: I’d attack the enemy on the flank [Laughs]. But the truth is, you can’t do it over again. – Interview by Anthony Diao, winter-spring 2024.
A French version of this interview is available here.
– Bonus: a spot filmed for a partner, a synthesis of the spirit of the Pietri clan –
More articles in English:
- JudoAKD#002 – Emmanuelle Payet – This Island Within Herself
- JudoAKD#003 – Laure-Cathy Valente – Lyon, Third Generation
- JudoAKD#004 – Back to Celje
- JudoAKD#005 – Kevin Cao – Where Silences Have the Floor
- JudoAKD#006 – Frédéric Lecanu – Voice on Way
- JudoAKD#008 – Annett Böhm – Life is Lives
- JudoAKD#009 – Abderahmane Diao – Infinity of Destinies
- JudoAKD#010 – Paco Lozano – Eye of the Fighters
- JudoAKD#011 – Hans Van Essen – Mister JudoInside
- JudoAKD#021 – Benjamin Axus – Still Standing
- JudoAKD#022 – Romain Valadier-Picard – The Fire Next Time
- JudoAKD#023 – Andreea Chitu – She Remembers
Also in English:
- JudoAKDReplay#001 – Pawel Nastula – The Leftover (2017)
- JudoAKDReplay#002 – Gévrise Emane – Turn Lead into Bronze (2020)
- JudoAKDReplay#003 – Lukas Krpalek – The Best Years of a Life (2019)
- JudoAKDReplay#004 – How Did Ezio Become Gamba? (2015)
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