Sensei.”
“Glad you’re back, Sensei,” comes from the back of the group. Laughter follows.
“Thank you. Glad to be back. Now get busy.”
These are my brown belts, two dozen of them and four soon-to-be browns. I’ve always said the most dangerous martial arts students are hungry brown belts. They’ve been at it for over three years and because they’re closing in on their promotion, they train like they’re possessed; eager to prove to each other and to me, they are black belt worthy to each other and to me. Because I’ve been away for a while, these guys are extra eager to show me they haven’t been slacking off.
Nate asked if he could train with the brown-belt class tonight because he had an appointment and couldn’t stay for the following black-belt class. I said sure, plus it would give me a chance to see him move and see how he treats lower belts. I’ve had black belts from different systems ask to train with my students. There have been a few who possessed excellent skills but treated my lower ranks with disdain. Those I’ve asked not to come back. The ones who are always welcome are those black belts who are kind to my lower ranks, act humble around my black belts, and listen to my suggestions. Nate appears to be one of these.
As a kenpo stylist, he wears black pants as we do, and he’s purchased a black T-shirt from Adam, my senior black belt in charge of supplies. Nate’s belt isn’t old and tattered but it isn’t brand new, either. The ends display two stripes depicting he’s a second degree. He didn’t mention it when we were chatting earlier. That’s a big plus for Nate.
He and Steve have partnered up and are moving about swapping techniques at a nice, controlled pace. Steve is in his late twenties, a little over six foot and skinny as a bo staff. However, it would be a mistake to think skinny equates to weak because Steve is deceptively strong. He’s tried everything to put on size but instead he gets stronger and stronger, which isn’t the worst thing to happen. He’s been training off and on for about four years, mostly on for the last year.
Nate is doing a nice job of controlling his speed and aggression but I can tell he’s itching to release it. His expressionless face is in direct contrast with Steve’s constant smile that spreads even wider whenever he launches a cool move and likewise when Nate throws something nice. Steve likes a good move no matter who does it.
I can see Nate’s hand skills are his forte with his kicks coming in a distant second. His front, round, side, and hook kicks aren’t bad, they just don’t shine as brightly as his precisely delivered hand combinations and his near flawless body mechanics. He’s had good training from a teacher who stressed hands over legs.
“Stop!” I call out. “Okay, everyone looks great. You’ve been practicing hard while I was away, and it shows. I’m proud of you. Any questions?”
Billy Bob raises his hand with phony eagerness to which everyone smiles except Nate who doesn’t know what is going on. Every class has their funny man. Mine is tall, lanky and redheaded William Appleton—“Billy Bob”—born and raised in Mississippi.
“Dare I ask, Billy Bob?”
“My question, sir, is what is truth?”
“I got your truth right here,” I say, clenching my fist. The class goes, “Oooo” in unison.
“Happy you’re back, Sensei,” Billy Bob says with a grin and a bow.
“I missed you too,” I say, shaking my head at the smiling class. “Okay, switch partners and lets do the four-count dummy drill.”
We’ve practiced this a lot, but for Nate’s purpose I demonstrate on Jackson Steele, a short, muscular brown belt, who is testing for his black in the next couple of months.
“You will take turns hitting each other four times, not a flurry, but with half a second between each blow. Each time you hit your partner with a controlled shot, your partner will react as if really struck. For example …”
I front kick Jackson in the abdomen and he snaps forward holding his stomach as if I’d hit him hard. I follow with a controlled round kick to his right leg and he sags to the right. My third hit is a controlled hammer fist to the back of his neck. He drops to one knee, his head hanging limply. When I follow with a knee strike to the side of his face, Jackson falls all the way over.
“Now it’s your partner’s turn to hit you back, beginning from his last position. In this case, Jackson went all the way to the floor so he has to start from there.”
The muscular brown belt thrusts a controlled sidekick into my knee, and I bend over sharply pretending to be in pain. Up on his knees now, he pretends to hit me with a palm-heel uppercut to jerk me nearly upright. He hops to his feet and snaps a controlled front-legged, lower shin kick to my groin, and I bend over with a theatrical grunt. He finishes with another slap kick to the same target, and I stumble back with a small whimper.
“Oscar performance!” Billy Bob calls out. A few students applaud.
“Okay,” I chuckle, waving them off. “Remember, the idea here is each time your partner reacts, you’re presented with a different silhouette. This is much more valuable than always striking at a stationary upright one. Okay? Have at it.”
The class always has fun with this drill and Nate is fitting right in. He’s not smiling, but I can tell he’s enjoying himself, especially since his partner, Padre, overacts to each of his blows.
Nate’s burden seems to have lifted once he began training, and I know well the feeling. While the martial arts have saved my cute behind on several occasions, it has saved my psyche more times than I can remember. Doc Kari, no doubt, has an explanation with lots of Latin words. I just think of training as blowing out negative carbon buildup.
“Stop! Okay, looking good everyone. Whatever you’re doing on your own time, keep at it. Your extra practice is showing. Padre, up front.”
“Yes, Sensei,” he says, scurrying up to me.
“Let’s finish the class with basic reps: jabs, cross punches, backfists, and uppercuts. Then do front kicks, sides, rounds, and hooks. Two sets of fifteen reps each. Got it?”
“Yes, sir.”
I move through the rows to the back of the class and stand ready to throw reps with everyone.
“Fighting positions,” Padre barks. “Backfists with a front-leg lunge. Ready. One!”
Twenty minutes later, I resume my post at the front of the class. We’re all sweating hard and breathing hard.
“Thanks, Padre, good job. I haven’t been able to train much lately, and it feels so good to be back. Okay, feet together, stand straight, and place your hands on your belly. Breathe in through your nose and feel your belly expand. Hold it, two, three, four. Blow it out slowly, two, three, four. Hold it, two, three, four. Breathe in, two, three, four.”
Two more repetitions and everyone’s heartbeat and breathing and more importantly, energy, have returned to normal. It’s important to mellow everyone out before turning them loose on the highways and byways.
“Thank you for teaching us!” Padre barks after calling the lines to attention.
“Thank you for teaching me,” I reply. “Ready! Salute!”
Left
