CHAPTER THREE
School was its’ usual boring self, and seemed to take forever. When it was over, I still had to race home to do my chores and eat. I wolfed down a small meal without chewing much and rushed out the door, yelling good bye to mom as the door was closing.
I got to the dojo before anyone else had arrived. Mr. Tanaka showed me what he wanted me to do as regarded to my cleaning duties. It was a lot more than I expected.
I paid him the half of the money that I owed and I started cleaning as the students started coming in. They were all around my age, and I didn’t recognize anyone from my school, for which I was extremely grateful.
Mr. Tanaka had already given me my new uniform and I was already wearing it while cleaning. When all of the students had arrived and Mr. Tanaka indicated the class was going to start, I joined them.’
I was nervous to start with, but calmed down as we stretched, then moved into the calisthenics; push-ups, sit-ups, jumping jacks and so forth.
When we were done with all of those, Mr. Tanaka got one of the students, gave him a large, thick, foam pad to hold then started to kick it. I could imagine the damage that his foot could do to someone’s body.
He called the kick a round-house kick, and each time he struck the pad, his foot made a loud popping sound and man, he really moved the kid holding the pad.
After a few minutes of demonstrating the kick, he paired each of us off and had us taking turns to practice the kick. So far I thought the class was pretty cool. I struggled with the kick, but no one seemed to care. There was no berating or ridicule. I was starting to feel pretty good.
After practicing the kick and about a half dozen other techniques, Mr. Tanaka announced that it was time for sparring. He said that since this school was teaching a fighting style and not for competitions, that the main emphasis would be on actual fighting.
He went on to say that everything we learned could be used to defend ourselves, and that a good defense included a strong offense.
Staying with our same partners, we were told to begin sparring and to be careful to watch the face and groin shots.
Well, I had no clue as to what he was talking about. I had never really been in a fight before. I had always run away from the bullies at school, and of course my dad was too big and strong for me to fight against.
So, for the next hour, one classmate or another proceeded to beat the hell out of me. When one of them was done, Mr. Tanaka would yell, ‘Time,’ and we would switch partners.
There were no gloves, no padding in our uniforms. It was just bare knuckles and feet beating on my bony flesh till I was good and tenderized, till I was black and blue.
I left there that night sure that I was done with that mess. There was no way I was going to pay someone for that abuse! I could pretty much get that at home for free. I was really angry.
As I got closer to home though, my anger cooled and I started to worry. How was I going to tell my dad that I was going to quit after only one day? If I told him it was too hard, he would beat me with his words as well as his hands.
I could try to lie to him, to tell him that the teacher really didn’t need me after all, but what if he called Mr. Tanaka? With his drinking he was so unpredictable. And, if I just pretended to go and he tested me and found out, he might just kill me after agreeing to let me go to the class, he’d gone into a drunken rant about how the class might make me more of a man instead of such a wimp. I couldn’t just quit now. Plus, I was covered in bruises, if I was going to pretend to attend the class, how would I continue to duplicate that? Oh man! And it was only Monday. I had only four more days to endure the class until the weekend.
Well, I kept getting beat on and I continued to hate the class until one day, it stopped hurting. The beatings actually started to feel good. I even started to inflict a little pain myself. From then on, I loved the training.
I practiced non-stop. I literally ate, slept, and breathed it. I had found something else that I was good at.
Oh, I was still roaming the woods and the city. We were still poor and I still needed things, still needed the cash to pay for my lessons.
When I wasn’t at either of my schools or prowling in and out of homes or businesses, I was alone in the woods. During the day-light hours, I didn’t dare make my rounds for fear of being seen or getting caught.
So, as strange as this might seem, I took up reading. On one of my outings, I had picked up a few boxes of comic books, hoping that I could trade or exchange them for cash.
I learned quickly that that was not the greatest idea. The clerk at the comic book store looked them over and then looked back over at me, with a suspicious expression, as if her were trying to put something together in his head. Maybe one of his customers or a nerd buddy had told him about some missing comic books. I had forgotten that those guys hung around in tight knit groups.
After a few moments, he shook his head and told me what they were worth and the price he could give me. Neither was very much. Certainly not worth getting discovered. I kept them and took them back to my hiding place in the woods.
I had accumulated quite a few of them, but rather than throw all of those books away, I decided to try reading them. They turned out to be pretty exciting; heroes chasing villains. Villains going after the big score. Sometimes, it wasn’t clear which side was better.
I found myself drifting farther and farther, into my own world of fantastic adventures. To myself, I became Ghost Man, or the Silent Shadow, able to walk through walls, to become invisible and enter or exit any place undetected.
As my martial arts skills improved, so did my stealth abilities. I dressed now all in black clothing, with a mask that left only my eyes visible. I wore special shoes made of fabric and soft soled, much like that of an acrobat or the tabi of the ninja.
I was taught how to fall without getting hurt; how to jump, leap, even how to dive from an elevated from point. I would gracefully distribute my weight by slowly collapsing my arms, tucking and rolling through it, then winding up on my feet without making a sound.
I practiced these moves continuously. I eventually got to the point where I could effortlessly dive from a single story roof hands and head first.
My martial arts skills continued to improve. I read through the small library of books my instructor kept, then, went in search of more. I read all of the martial arts, oriental philosophy, and strategy books that our small public library held. I was fascinated by the mystical origins of the Asian traditions: The drunken master, the praying mantis, the iron fist….
One particular tale I remember well described a master who left all of his worldly life and possessions behind in search for a stronger, more powerful style. He went to the jungles of Asia and lived alone for several years, training, working on the techniques he knew, trying to simplify them. He made them more powerful, more deadly.
The master used the trees of that jungle as his striking and kicking posts. Over time, his feet, shins, hips, shoulders, wrists and hands became conditioned. Rock hard.
He could kick or strike a tree with all his strength and do no damage to himself. No damage!
He did however, leave his mark on the trees.
All of the time he spent alone in the jungle helped him. The solitude allowed him to clear his mind of useless things and to focus and appreciate the things of God. Living off the land and out in the elements helped to toughen up his body as well.
The story said that after living this life for years, he finally returned to his village. He tried to explain all that he had gained from his time in the wild, but none of the villagers wanted to listen.
Frustrated, he told them that he had developed more powerful strikes….Iron Fists, and could prove what he was saying.
He pointed over to a bull in the corral and told the villagers that he could knock it unconscious with one punch but, when he got into the corral to prove himself, the bull charged and he jumped out of the corral and ran in fear. The villagers shamed him with their jeers and laughter.
But, he refused to be defeated. The next day, he came back and once again entered the corral. This time when the bull charged, the master stood his ground. When the bull came close, he leapt toward the bull and struck a mighty blow right on the skull, between its’ eyes.
The bull stopped, shuddered for a moment, then, fell to the ground, unconscious.
Wow! It was exciting adventures like that that really fueled my love for reading. The more books I read, the more I wanted to read. Although I didn’t start out with a goal of learning anything of real value, I still did.
I learned to think and do things differently. I developed a lot more calculation in my thought processes.
For instance, when I wanted to improve my fighting speed and reaction time, I turned to books to learn how the body functioned. I wanted to understand exactly what made it tick.
Several books mentioned that our body’s movements were directed by electrical impulses; our muscles being told what to do by electrical energy, which strangely enough, is similar to how electricity tells a garage door to open or a light bulb to turn on.
So, how could I use this information to increase my kicking and striking speed?
Well, I needed to find a way to make my body’s electrical signals travel faster through my nerves and muscles. But could it be done?
Surprisingly, the image that came to my mind while I was thinking about this was of a water flowing through a hose, and I wondered what I could do to make the water flow faster.
Two things immediately came to me: increase the water pressure or increase the size of the hose.
Now, I know we can’t increase our blood pressure or enlarge the size of our blood vessels, but I kept getting this image of making a hose larger, and reducing some of the back pressure of the water, which would then resist/restrict/slow the water’s flow. Ok, and that resistance is what was really at fault for slowing down and holding back the water’s free flow. Likewise, in a similar way, electricity’s flow, or speed, is also determined by what it is flowing through or traveling along.
A flash came to my mind. A divine inspiration if you will. I had it!