SCRANTON, PA — In a development sources are calling “long overdue and probably too late,” local jiu-jitsu practitioner Wesley Ploog, 34, learned this week that his training gi — a single white A2 he has worn to every class at Anvilstone Combat Arts since September 2018 — is technically machine-washable, a piece of information he has rejected as “spiritually destabilizing.”
Ploog, an IT helpdesk technician who has competed in zero tournaments and assists with the gym’s beginner class, has owned the gi for seven years. In that time, according to gym staff and at least 32 verbal complaints filed with management, the garment has been laundered exactly four times — three of those by accident.
“The first time, my old roommate threw it in with his sheets because he thought it was a tablecloth,” Ploog explained. “The second time, the laundromat attendant grabbed it off the bench while I was buying detergent. The third time, I left it in the trunk during a four-day heat wave, and the dry cleaner said they’d call the city if I didn’t come pick it up.” The fourth wash, Ploog confirmed, was performed by Ploog himself in 2021 “as an experiment,” after which he claims he was “unable to triangle anyone for six straight weeks.”
He has not washed it since.
“Each gi has its own soul,” Ploog said, holding the garment, which has matured into a color sources described as “field-mouse beige with vertical undertones of regret.” “When you wash it, you’re not just removing dirt. You’re removing the lineage. You’re removing the experience. You’re removing the BJJ.”
Anvilstone Combat Arts head instructor Keanu Cardoso, a third-degree black belt and the gym’s closest thing to a moral authority, confirmed he has been aware of the situation since approximately 2019. Across three years, Cardoso has personally taped fourteen anonymous “gentle reminders” inside the men’s and women’s locker rooms — reminders that have escalated in tone from “PLEASE WASH YOUR GIS REGULARLY :)” to “WE ARE BEGGING YOU” to a single sheet of printer paper containing only a coordinate map of the gym with one corner of the mat circled in red.
“I assumed he would figure it out organically,” Cardoso said. “Like, the body has a way of communicating these things. Sweat. Mildew. Other people leaving the room. I thought eventually one of those signals would land. They have not.”
Training partners report being able to locate Ploog by olfactory signature alone, often from the parking lot. Brown belt Antoine Caballero, 41, an HVAC contractor, confirmed he can identify Ploog’s presence in the building “with my eyes closed, from the heavy bag corner, while a fan is on.” Purple belt Marisol DeGale, 28, a registered nurse at St. Crispin’s Memorial, has begun bringing her rescue inhaler to training specifically for Tuesday nights when Ploog attends. “I had asthma as a kid and grew out of it,” DeGale said. “Then I met Wes.”
The situation reached a brief inflection point earlier this month, when a regional health inspector — on the premises to investigate an unrelated complaint about a food truck operating in the gym’s parking lot — paused mid-paperwork, looked at Cardoso, and asked, with what witnesses described as deep professional sadness, “Does it always smell like this?” The inspector then took out a separate notepad and began writing.
Ploog’s home life has adapted accordingly. His wife, Casey Ploog, 33, an elementary school librarian, now changes her clothes in the garage immediately after he returns from class and has installed a second hamper in the laundry room labeled “BJJ ONLY — DO NOT TOUCH — DO NOT EVEN LOOK.” She declined to comment on the record but made a face that several sources described as “the entire interview.”
“I love him,” she eventually clarified. “I don’t love what he is doing.”
Ploog’s Instagram bio, which he updated in early 2024, reads in its entirety: “the stink is the lineage.” His most recent post, captioned “7 years strong 💪 same gi, same soul,” has 4 likes, three of which are from accounts that follow only him and his gi.
The cultural toll on Anvilstone has been documented. Of the eleven white belts who began the gym’s beginner program in January, six have quietly stopped attending the Tuesday/Thursday fundamentals class that Ploog assists with — a 54% attrition rate. The four who remain reportedly chose Saturday and Sunday classes “because of work” despite none of them previously having weekend conflicts. The eleventh student transferred to a different academy in Wilkes-Barre, citing “scheduling,” “commute,” and, in a follow-up email, “the man.”
When presented with the comparative attendance data, Cardoso reviewed the spreadsheet for several seconds before responding only, “We are a family, and family has a smell.”
Asked whether he might consider purchasing a second gi to rotate, Ploog grew visibly emotional. “A second gi?” he said, looking down at the original, which appeared to be quietly fermenting on his lap. “I have one wife. I have one car. I have one dog. Why would I have two gis? That’s not a relationship anymore. That’s a collection.”
At press time, Ploog was reportedly preparing for an upcoming local tournament — his first in seven years — where he intends to compete in the same gi, which he has begun referring to in interviews as “the partner,” “the brother,” and, on at least one occasion that was definitely caught on film, “her.”