myself am a student of Hsing-I, an ancient style of self-defense. I would like to teach you in exchange for lessons in American box . . . boxing.”
“Thanks, but I do pretty well at defending myself already,” Trias winked at Tom, who grinned back.
“Just so,” Hsing replied. “That is why I would like to study with you.”
“Thanks, but no thanks,” Trias replied. “I have my Navy duties and my training. I really don’t have time to take on a student. See you ’round, OK?”
“Yes. Yes, that will be fine,” Hsing nodded, then turned to leave. When he had gone, Trias turned to Tom. “Strange fellow. Ever heard of Hsing-I?”
“Nope,” Tom replied. “But I’ve heard that some of those Chinese boxers fight like tigers.”
The next afternoon, Trias was skipping rope in the gym when the door opened and Tung Gee Hsing entered. Hsing took a seat on a bench in the corner and watched quietly. Trias put away the jump rope and began working out on the heavy bag. Dust puffed from the stitching with each blow. Somehow, though, his timing was off. Trias felt Hsing’s eyes heavy on his back. It made him nervous. Finally, he turned and walked to the bench. Hsing stood.
“Are you here to ask for boxing lessons again?” he asked. “Yes,” Hsing replied. “And to offer to teach you Hsing-I.” “I told you I’m not interested.”
“Yes, you did.”
“Then why don’t you just leave?” Hsing bowed and left.
The next afternoon, when Trias entered the gym, there was Hsing waiting for him. He bowed to Trias and smiled.
“You don’t take a hint, do you?” Trias commented as he dropped his gear on the bench next to Hsing. Hsing just smiled. “Maybe the direct approach will work. What will it take to get you to leave me alone?”
“Would you like to fight?” Hsing asked.
“Me? Fight you? No offense, but you’re hardly in my weight class. You’d be at a disadvantage.”
“It’s fine. Hsing-I doesn’t use weight classes.”
Trias shook his head. “If I beat you, will you leave me alone?” “Certainly,” Hsing replied.
“Then let’s find you some gloves,” Trias smiled.
“Thank you, but that really won’t be necessary. Unless you would prefer . . .”
“It makes no difference to me either,” Trias replied. “But why don’t you put them on anyway. They’ll protect your hands. Tom,” he called out to his training buddy, “Call the guys outside, would you? They might want to see this. It looks like we’ve got a match between me and our persistent friend here.”
Trias danced around his opponent, sizing him up. Hsing stood steady but light on his feet, shifting stance ever so slightly to adjust for Trias’s position. Trias jabbed; Hsing slipped it. He jabbed again; Hsing dropped under the punch and tagged Trias’s ribs.
Trias’s eyes grew wide. The punch didn’t look like much, but the force rattled through him. He drew a fast, deep breath and looked at his opponent. Not a hint of satisfaction, not a hint of any emotion crossed his calm face. OK, so it was going to take more than jabs to get this guy’s attention.
One, two, three. Trias sent in a volley of punches. One, two, three, four. Hsing was blocking and slipping some of his best combinations. The punches that did land seemed to be swallowed up by his body without hurting him at all. So the guy was good. But could he last? Trias picked up the intensity. Try as he might, he could not land a thing. Finally in desperation he set up a punch to the jaw that would blast through any defense. One, two, three, four, blast. The punch flew in like a bullet, and landed on thin air.
Trias caught his balance in time to see Hsing’s glove completely fill his field of vision. Another punch caught him in the gut, and another on the side of the head. His feet went out from under him.
Trias’s vision cleared, and he saw Hsing’s hand extended. He grasped it and pulled himself up. Trias looked at the small man as he stepped through the ropes and left the ring. He had never seen a combination like that. He’d never seen anyone who could evade punches like that. Frankly, he’d never seen a man fight like that. Silently Trias left the ring.
Hsing was in the corner removing his gloves. Trias pulled off his right glove and walked over. He extended his hand. “Mr. Hsing,” he said, “Will you teach me?”
The Three Sons” is a traditional legend. No one is sure where it originated or whether it is a true story. People in many countries and from many cultures tell it.
The Three Sons
Once there was a great sword master. Among his pupils were his three sons. The sons were proud of their father and enjoyed studying with him. They put in long, hard hours mastering his art.
One day an old friend and training partner from the master’s younger years came to visit. He too was known throughout the land as a great sword master. The two men sat together in the master’s front room, drinking tea and telling stories.
“My friend,” said the guest to the master, “I would like very much to meet your three sons and to have them show me how they have progressed in the way of the sword.”
“Certainly,” said the master. “I will call them.”
The master walked to a mantel where several large, heavy vases stood. He took one of the vases from its place and balanced it on top of the door so it would fall when the door opened. He then called the name of one of his sons.
“In a minute, Father,” the son called back from the garden, where he was practicing with his sword. He was in the middle of a difficult move. With a few more tries he would get it right. Five minutes later he looked up from his practice and remembered that his father wanted him. Sheathing his sword, he dashed through the house.
The two men waited in the front room. They saw the knob of the door turn quickly and the door fly open. The vase on top of the door fell and hit the son squarely on top of his head. The son let out a roar and drew his sword. Before the vase even hit the floor, he had sliced through it, shattering it into a hundred pieces. Only then did he see that his “attacker” had been one of his father’s vases. He sheathed his sword, smiled sheepishly, bowed to his father and his guest, and began cleaning up the pieces of the vase.
“He is fast,” the guest said.
“Yes, and strong,” the father replied.
“Do you think that someday he could become adept with a sword?” “Yes,” the father said smiling at his son, motioning for him to sit and join them for tea. “Someday, perhaps.”
The three sat together talking for a few minutes before the father rose, took a second vase from the mantel, and balanced it over the door. He called the name of his second son.
“Yes, Father,” the second son called from the garden, where he had been practicing with a few friends. “Excuse
