Being a meandering relation of the thoughts to which teaching one’s wife the fine art of “wowing” the rubes gives rise.
"OK, hon. Just do it – now.”
Mags took a deep breath, inhaling through her nose as I’d told her. Suddenly, her hand shot downward. She lowered her hips, twisted into the blow, and exhaled with an audible hiss. The next sound was that of the board -- now neatly halved – clattering to the pavement. Her pinched, apprehensive facial expression disappeared, replaced by wide-eyed astonishment and then childlike delight in the space of a few heartbeats.
“Honey, I did it!” she said, clapping her hands together as wonder sparkled in her eyes.
“You sure did,” I replied, laughing. Well, indeed ye’ did/ don’t ye’ know ye did/ too-me-right-fol-loo-ra-lassie/ well, indeed ye’ did, I thought, as I stepped forward and hugged her, nearly lifting her off the ground.
An hour earlier, we’d returned from a gun show at the North Atlanta Trade Center, and the now-broken board had still been part of a 1”x12”x6’ plank we’d purchased from Home Depot on our way home.
We’d gone to the show in hopes of selling jewelry and generating advance interest in Maggie’s forthcoming TEOTWAWKI novel by handing out “teasers” from the opening chapter. In other words; we aimed to erase the word “starving” from the term “starving artist.” Given the present states of the economy and the publishing industry, both were ambitious undertakings, but –to my mind, at any rate – reasonably successful. She’d sold enough jewelry to cover the fee for our table and defray the cost of the “toys” upon which we invariably load up whenever we attend a show. And while reading for pleasure isn’t a preferred pastime of the gun show crowd (or of the younger members, at any rate), she’d managed to give away most of the promotional material, as well. Needless to say, I was very proud of her, and of the opinion that she’d earned a treat of sorts.
A week earlier, we’d rented a passel of movies from Blockbuster (as neither of us has watched television in well over two years, books, movies and music have become our primary forms of passive entertainment), among them an indie release entitled The Foot Fist Way -- a literal rendering of the Korean term Tae Kwon Do, as the astute reader will note. In a nutshell, the Foot Fist Way chronicles the misadventures of a typical, not-too-bright strip-mall martial arts instructor from North Carolina. It’s a comedy with a “documentary” feel, and is to martial arts what This is Spinal Tap and A Mighty Wind were to heavy metal and folk music, respectively; or what Best in Show was to the AKC crowd: an affectionate kiss of death.
Having trained in various martial arts -- on and off, mind you -- since 1994, I’ve met the “real world” counterparts of the dramatis personae more times than I care to count. (Embarrassingly enough, I’ve actually been a few of ‘em at one time or another, but that’s neither here nor there.) As a result of this “interesting” background, I was laughing my ass off (literally rolling on the floor in convulsions of compassionate scorn and self-mocking mirth) from beginning to end. Mags, on the other hand, didn’t get much of it. I can’t fault her for that, as her martial arts experience is confined to “playing” with me when I’m in a good mood, and to a few hours of top-notch, down-to-earth instruction at two Animal List BBQs.
In short, she’s never been exposed to the KKK (“killer klown krowd”), as I’ve dubbed martial artists who don’t exactly have a “kung fu grip” on reality. TFFW being, in essence, 90+ minutes of inside jokes at the expense of said lunatic fringe, much of it simply didn’t register with her. She has, however, seen a few photographs and videotapes of Yours Truly during his “tofu-eatin’ Buddhist hippie” phase, as a result of which she mentioned that she’d like to see yer humble, Hillbilly narrator “do some Karate stuff.”
Paradox time.
As the Gentle Reader may have gathered, I have serious misgivings about the “puir bit crathur” that substitutes martial arts for a real life. Robert W. Smith (a.k.a. John Gilbey) and others have examined the phenomenon in greater depth than I could; ergo, I’ll steer the curious towards their observations/comments and continue with my own.
Having expressed my suspicion of those who maintain a “fear/flirt” relationship with Thanatos (and I’ve walked a mile of two in their boots -- poorly crafted, uncomfortable, and ridiculous-looking, they’re the spiritual/philosophical trappings of a platform-soled, ‘70s pimp, and indicative of the same level of consciousness), I’ll now reverse myself and posit that “do[ing] some Karate stuff” without a good reason denigrates both the art and its practitioners.
To be sure, I’ll willingly and cheerfully “play” with my wife (in the absence of genuine joie de vive, the “sword that preserves life” rapidly deteriorates into a nicked, rusty, blood-caked instrument of state-and caste-sanctioned murder – an overpriced version of a pipe, ice-pick or suppressed SMG), but I won’t amuse her.
I respect the art, the men who taught it to me -- and the men who taught them – too much to cross that particular line.
In modern America, landing a weak, ineffectual blow a fraction of a second before one’s opponent lands a weak, ineffectual blow guarantees an electroplated trophy. In medieval Okinawa, by way of comparison, not pulping a samurai’s knee, breaking his neck, rupturing his eardrums, or gouging out one or both of his eyes guaranteed that the karateka would be killed, and his wife and children raped, murdered, and/or sold into slavery. In its original form, Karate was the “final word” of the (presumably) powerless against the powerful – the ultimate kinesthetic expression of the modern Special Forces motto: De oppresso liber.
And not a whit of entertainment value to any of it.
I’ll admit to having taken up martial arts for all the wrong reasons. In nutshell, I’d planned to track down an ex-girlfriend and send whomever she was shacked up with at the time to the emergency room. Nothing personal, mind you (I’d neither met the guy nor done enough digging to determine his position in the “lineup,” as it were), just a bit of catharsis via anti-chivalry. After a few months, though, training became an end in itself. It also helped me to calm down (I’d been in full-bore psycho mode for nearly five years when first I threw on a pair of white pyjamas) and put things into perspective. As I’d benefited from it so much, it occurred to me that using it to trounce some gobshite I didn’t know from Adam would exhibit profound ingratitude on my part.
Before I continue, let me state – in no uncertain terms – that I’m neither an angel nor a stranger to violence and human nastiness in general. And I certainly won’t claim never to have misused the art. I’ll readily admit to having provoked many a poor, less-than-brilliant (and less-than-sober) bastard into “escalating” -- solely for the pleasure of seeing him back down and/or run off. Naturally, I only subjected the overtly aggressive ones to this particular treatment, as a convoluted chain of rationalizations allowed me to don a halo of righteousness (to these eyes, at any rate) when doing so. I was only acting in “self-defense,” after all. N’est ce pas?
Yeah, right: “And the bull rolled off the nickel!” as my great grandma often said. The Gentle Reader certainly knows better; and I suppose I did, as well – even then. Beyond the fact that intimidating obnoxious fuckwits is an unsavory pastime (and one that -- as historian John Garraty observed of slavery -- degrades the practitioner as much as the victim); beyond the fact that the “thrill” wears off very quickly; and beyond that fact that abusing a method of self-cultivation eventually gnaws at the conscience, my training ultimately changed my attitude towards violence.
I’m not repudiating it, by any stretch of the imagination. It has its uses, and the notion that it “never solves anything” is sheer idiocy. Try telling the Swiss otherwise – if you don’t mind being laughed at. As it happens, the intelligent application of violence in a narrow defile near Morgarten (15 Nov. 1315) solved their problem with the Austrians for quite some time…
As history abounds with similar examples, there’s nothing to gain from belaboring the point. Sometimes, violence (or the credible threat thereof) does indeed solve problems. End of story. This, unfortunately, brings us to a veritable amphisbaena of a problem: the double-headed “fight fallacy” that has become so irritatingly commonplace in modern America. One head of this singularly loathsome reptile hisses that violence never solves anything – while the other hisses that it solves everything.
In the case of a clear-cut bully/aggressor, violence is often the only solution. When last I checked, entreaties to morality and common decency had rather a dismal success record against megalomaniacs, sociopaths and rabid dogs.
Unfortunately, life isn’t a Zoroastrian battle between the irredeemably wicked and the incorruptibly saintly. (Having never met an incorruptibly saintly person, by the way, I categorize them as I would unicorns, flying horses and fairy godmothers: charming superstitions).
When the “magic wand” of actuality dispels the glamours of media mythology and propaganda, pissing contests between the irredeemably wicked and the irredeemably wicked (I no more doubt the existence of this particular class of critter than I do that of the IRS or FEMA, for the record…) or groups of “just plain folks” with conflicting interests are more evident than epic contests between opposing moral archetypes.
Jackals fighting vultures for scraps of carrion. Two groups of “the great unwashed,” both with legitimate grievances against (and equally illegitimate demands made of) each other; both sides egged on by ersatz godlings and minor-league Machiavellis.
“Only this and nothing more,” as Poe wrote.
In these cases, violence seldom, if ever solves anything – except the short-term problems of a third party with interests of its own. Backing one side or the other is tantamount to attempting to introduce “democracy” to nations, the occupants of which have yet to produce a “homegrown” Magna Charta; or to assay polishing turds in a rock-tumbler: At best, the would-be dispenser of “righteousness” (or economic expediency) ends up with ruined machinery and crude fertilizer. At worst, he ends up with post-colonial, Sub-Saharan Africa.
In either case, he learns to ignore the “human cost” of his decisions and behavior.
This, incidentally, is at the root of my fondness for the Asian martial arts. Paradoxically, their emphasis on subduing the ego and controlling the id also demands personal and social responsibility of the practitioner -- accepting that actions have consequences, and that violence has a readily observable “human cost.”
I can speak only for myself, but in my case, training in martial arts actually shook the dust from my long-neglected capacity for empathy. Studying the human body’s strengths and weaknesses (and learning to exploit them) served to elevate my awareness of and appreciation for both. As my skill increased and I realized how easily I could kick others’ asses, I simultaneously realized how easily my own ass could be kicked by a person with sufficient experience and/or training. The more I trained, the more styles I observed, and the more fighters I met, the more evident it became that ours is truly a “rock-scissors-paper” world. It was quite a humbling epiphany. It was also physically painful at times – another empathy builder. (Being on the receiving end of certain techniques does wonders for one’s ability to “walk a mile in the other guy’s shoes” before applying them. There’s nothing quite like being put into a “tap out now, or lose the use of the limb for a few weeks” submission hold to encourage questions like, “Does this asshole really deserve this?” when confronted with a jughead whose belligerence far exceeds his combative capability.)
During my first two years of training, my late father worried that I wouldn’t bother to ask myself questions of that sort. Given my temper at the time, I can’t fault him for it, but luckily he was wrong. Da himself had more than a nodding acquaintance with violence. He’d been in the Marines during the ‘50s, as a result of which he’d learned the Corps’ pre-Tae Kwon Do hand-to-hand combat (read: the good stuff) and done his share of shore patrol. After passing the bar exam, he’d renewed his acquaintance with the hairy side of life via indigent defense work for Clayton County. This necessitated taking the cases of those whose aggression/assets ratio averaged, say, 10:0, and whose “anger management” skills made me look like the Dalai Lama, in comparison. Needless to say, for Da, the outcome of clubbing a man or bouncing an ashtray off his head was neither theoretical nor theatrical. In his world, the righteous hero didn’t light a cigarette and exit the local saloon unmolested, striding through the swinging doors (while the formerly rowdy crowd held their hats to their chests in reverent silence) after putting the local bully into a coma for shagging his wife. On the contrary: in Da’s world, the poor bastard usually ended up in the clink, facing a ten-year minimum mandatory sentence for aggravated whatthefuckever. It was a point he never tired of driving home, sometimes subtly and sometimes with the finesse of a rabid bull elephant.
One afternoon in 1995, whilst practicing kumite and randori with a friend, I experienced the unmistakable sensation of being watched. Turning around, I noticed my father staring at us intently. Eventually, he left and I thought no more of the matter. Later that evening, though, he approached me and said, with his characteristic bluntness: “You realize that if you ever use that stuff on anyone, you’re in a world of shit, don’t you?” He then handed me a copy of the Georgia Criminal Code, the relevant pages and passages conveniently bookmarked. Even had the training failed to impress the value and fragility of human life upon me, this abrupt introduction to the terms “aggravated felony” and “minimum mandatory sentence” motivated me to elevate my consciousness – or at least to abstain from ripping bozos’ arms off and shoving ‘em up their asses for no good reason.
“Do some karate stuff,” eh? Sure, hon. Lemme jes’ send some fuckwit to the ICU for your amusement…
Fortunately, they worked in concert, as a result of which the focus of my training changed. Certainly, I was still interested in the combative and self-defense aspects of the art, but the fear, pain, rage and desire for revenge that motivated me to train in the first place began to dissipate in proportion to my progress. I never succeeded in banishing them entirely, mind you (and I’m glad for that -- pain, fear and anger alert us to the fact that something is wrong, after all), but I’d learned to manage them in ways I never could before “taking the plunge” and tying on the obi. I don’t suppose it’s at all obvious (evidence leads me to conclude the contrary, as a matter of fact), but the more competent one becomes at violence, the less inclined he is to use it. Competence builds confidence, which, in turn, alleviates fear. And the sad truth is; like most of our species, I was a “fear biter” during my teens and early twenties.
As Dave, the man, reined in the frightened boy/animal formerly known as “Jeff,” however, he became less interested in what he could do to other people, and more interested in what he could do, period. As I’m not a particularly “spiritual” person (and don’t trust those who claim to be, for the record), the physical elements of the art still appealed to me very much. I enjoyed the “moving meditation” of kata as much as the next guy, and was (counterproductively, I might add…) proud of my growing ability to focus solely upon counting my breaths during seiza -- the day I made it all the way to five without noticing that my nose itched, getting miffed at the guy next to me for giving me ringworm whilst practicing wristlocks, or wondering when I’d last changed my oil was a leg-wetter worthy of Old Faithful -- but the euphoria following a hardcore workout, during which my own sweat plastered my gi to my body and left my hair a mass of dripping, unruly tendrils was every bit as satisfying. Obviously, I needed to strike a balance of sort. But how?
The answer fairly screamed itself into my ear – even as my nerve endings did some screaming of their own -- the day I tested for my advanced blue belt. It was, as I recall, a clear and sunny afternoon in the summer of 1995, a little over a year into my training. I’d bopped into the dojo, at one with the universe (if still at odds with the government) and happy as a hog in slops; wanting only to increase my meager store of combative know-how, do the art justice -- and find a plausible excuse for copping a feel off a lady I found strangely alluring, for all that she wasn’t even a Celt. (Who knows? Maybe it was the pair o’ Grade-A “sweater cows” she sported. I’ve long been an agrarian at heart, after all…)
“Bean,” says I to myself, “who could hope for a lovelier day? The sun is shinin’, birds are singin’ in the high-tension wires (funny how wind whistles over and around pure carbon, now ain’t it?), an’ the air is as clear as Bill Clinton’s thought processes ain’t. Ah! And rear bear-hugs, by God! Bless her heart, she’s none too skilled at defending against that particular attack! Well let’s change that, shall we? It’s for her ultimate benefit, after all…”
After jamming my street clothes into my weather-beaten surplus duffel bag in an untidy wad (and jamming myself into my gi in an equally untidy wad), I flexed my muscles in the dressing-room mirror, faked a few punches and kicks at imaginary enemies, derived shamefully macho pride from the fact that adjusting my “cup” to accommodate my Johnson required both “real world” ingenuity and abstract mathematical formulae I’d not used since high school; and sauntered into the dojo-proper.
Only to find it completely empty.
Now being the only one to attend class was nothing unusual -- I was a fanatic, and trained several hours a day, every day, rain or shine. When rain or cold reared their ugly heads, though, the dojo was often as deserted as a titty bar on Cheshire Bridge Road. Shugyo and kokoro – alas and alack – are alien concepts in the Land of the Day-Glo Satin Gi; so had it been rainy or cold outside, I wouldn’t have been at all surprised. As, however, this day was neither, I can’t account for the absence of would-be budoka – I can only recount it.
“Well just damn!” says I. “I ain’t gonna figure out if that heathen Chinee calf-pinch thingy works or not – not today at any rate! Piss up a rope! Now my whole afternoon’s well an’ rightly fucked!”
Had I been more observant, I’d have noticed that the dojo was not, in fact, completely empty, for all that it seemed so at first. Would only that it had been… As it happened, though, my instructor had quietly entered the room and begun leafing through a plastic box of index cards. Apparently, what he saw didn’t make him happy.
“Bean,” he said, “If we had a dollar for every hour on this card, we could pay off the national debt. You plan on testing any time soon?” He also mentioned that there were more respectable ways of earning a black belt than having one’s current color disappear beneath a layer of electrical tape (one stripe for every ten classes).
In truth, I had indeed been planning to test –someday. Having only passed my green belt exam by the skin of my teeth, though (doing fifty-eight pushups in one minute -- immediately after a two-mile run -- and spending the next ten “Ralphing” up my pre-test Amphetacarb™ energy drink were the high points of the evening…), I’d been playing it safe ever since. I wouldn’t even consider testing unless I was sure I had my rank’s requirements down, pat.
Brian, though, wasn’t having it, and in retrospect I can’t fault him. Confidence and courage are two character traits every karateka should strive to cultivate, and playing it safe develops neither. Without challenge, without the possibility of failure, there is no uncertainty. And I can think of no better definition of courage than the ability to remain calm when confronted with fear and uncertainty.
“You’re way overdue,” he said. “And it just so happens that we have the dojo all to ourselves today.”
Thus began my test, under the singularly evil grin of my instructor – whose mood seemed to have improved markedly.
Until that day, I’d hated testing in a large group. For some reason, I’d imagine that all eyes were upon me, scrutinizing every move and misstep. That day, though, testing alone seemed infinitely worse. There was nothing to distract my instructor, no crowd in which to disappear. Previously, I’d hated crowds, but I suddenly realized that they’re actually a very useful medium of camouflage. Now, however, I was in the open, with nowhere to hide. It isn’t strictly germane to the topic at hand, but this element of the test was very beneficial. I’d long had a near-phobia when it came to crowds, but after that test, it simply disappeared. Interestingly enough, the experience also reinforced my ability to “take care of business” when everything was up to me and me alone.
This came later, though. The test itself was absolutely harrowing. We went through self-defense techniques, rolling and falling, combinations, free sparring, six kata, and finally, breaking. My first two breaks were relatively easy: two boards (no shims or spacers) with a spinning side kick, and a “speed break” (board supported from below only – no top hand) with a reverse punch. The third break was the problem. At my belt rank, the sensei wanted to see what I could do, so he asked me if I thought I was up to taking out two boards with the same punch. Being a cocky little shit, I answered in the affirmative, flipped my hair out of my eyes, and grinned as cavalierly as fatigue allowed. Assuming a front stance and summoning up loud kiai, I effortlessly broke the boards – and the middle knuckle of my right hand.
I passed the test and spent the next six weeks nursing the injury. The experience, however, had left me with a persistent urge to take breaking to the next level. On my next day off, I drove out to the now-defunct Century Martial Arts Supply outlet on Peachtree Industrial, and picked up a copy of “Hei Long’s” (an obvious pseudonym) Iron Hand of the Dragon’s Touch, which, despite its uh, “interesting” title, is not a B-grade kung fu movie, but rather a B-grade kung fu book. And not one I recommend.
It’s taken quite a while to undo the damage I inflicted upon myself whilst putting Goodman Long’s method into practice, but I didn’t know any better at the time. Besides, it was, in all fairness, far less punishing than traditional Japanese hand conditioning -- however frightening the implications of that statement. I’ve long since discovered Chinese iron palm training, and whereas I’m a half-assed, sporadic practitioner thereof, I’ll concede its undeniable superiority. I benefited more from my first month of practice than from six months of damn-near ruining my hands on a makiwara, but to reiterate, I didn’t know any better at the time. If nothing else, it was a start.
Fast forward to the present. Until last Saturday, I hadn’t broken a board in years; beating up inanimate objects having lost most of its appeal during my mid-thirties. I haven’t stopped conditioning my hands, mind you. I still practice iron palm (sporadically and half-assedly, as previously noted), confining the pounding to a homemade beanbag, and massaging liberal doses of dit da jow into my hands before and after each session. The canvas covered boards, however, have long since been put to more productive use, and corning my knuckles in first-degree-burn-inducing brine now seems like a surreal dream – a hazy recollection of a time in my life during which I wasn’t playing with a full deck.
My hands are softer and more flexible now, but they’re actually stronger and – oddly enough – more sensitive. My foreknuckles, while still slightly enlarged and roughened, no longer sport calluses. The tendinitis that plagued me until very recently has disappeared, and even the bone-growth on my wrist is shrinking. Not a bad tradeoff, to my way of thinking…
And yes, I can still break boards.
When we returned from the gun show, I took the plank into the garage and cut it into 1’ sections with the circular saw. Mags steadied it as I sawed, but her facial expression suggested that she wondered what the hell I was up to. Finally, she came out and asked.
“You’ll see,” I said, smiling as pleasantly as I could. As I’ve mentioned, she’d done a bang-up job of selling our jewelry at the show, and it had since occurred to me that I could “do some karate stuff” without hurting anyone or cheapening the art.
I crossed the driveway, stood two cinderblocks on end, and placed the board atop them. Kneeling before them, I raised my right hand and split the board with a shuto (referred to by the culturally illiterate as a “karate chop”). It was an easy break, really. Nothing to it. It’s purely a matter of form and physics at that level. I noted, though, for all that I hadn’t broken in years, it was even easier than I remembered. There was no pain at all – not even a mild sting – and in truth, I’d hardly been conscious of the impact.
“Oh my God!” gasped my wife, as if she’d seen Moses parting the red sea, and not her beer-guzzling ne’er-do-well of a husband halving a piece of lumber.
(I found this funny as hell, as on the day after our wedding, Maggie had seen me break a chopstick with a folded piece of paper, under the tutelage of my Bro, Justin Kocher. Justin had spent years trying to convince me that it wasn’t a mere parlor trick, but knowing his sense of humor, I suspected him of trying to put one over on me. Moreover, my late granduncle Jim was a superb amateur magician, and having learned a similar bit of legerdemain from him decades before, I was even more suspicious.
Jim’s illusion consisted of surreptitiously extending his index finger alongside the lower edge of the paper, and breaking a pencil with said digit. Justin’s feat, on the other hand, was no illusion. Emphasizing the importance of form, focus and – in this case – “snap,” he coached me along until, on my tenth attempt, I did it.
With the zeal of which only the newly converted are capable, I grabbed a chopstick and a piece of paper, and set out to spread the word. My first prospective proselyte was my friend Raja, who (being many years younger; more inclined towards regular practice; and unable to escape a certain crazed Hillbilly, owing to a freak accident of positioning) managed it on his fifth or sixth try. As Mags was present the entire time, I’m at a loss to account for her surprise.)
Next, I assumed a very low horse stance and broke another with a palm strike. If anything, it was even easier than the first break. The expression on Maggie’s face, though, was priceless. She was clearly off-balance, and being the mischievous SOB I am, I couldn’t resist taking advantage of it.
“How’d you like to try it?” I asked.
“Oh, I don’t know, honey,” she replied, looking doubtful and apprehensive. “It looks pretty scary. Does it hurt?”
“Not if you do it correctly.”
“Well…”
And with that, I gave her a crash course in Board Breaking 101. I’ve shown Maggie a move or two in the past, and when she manages to focus her attention on the task at hand, she does rather well. Now I’m no Tony Jaa, and the Gracies have nothing to worry about (I’m a far too lazy, indifferent, and out-of-shape martial artist to pose any threat to the big boys) but I usually hit what I aim at, and I usually hurt what I hit. So much for my qualifications. I am, however, a halfway competent communicator, and was therefore able to teach her the rudiments without seeing her hands in plaster casts.
Obviously, her physical safety was of the utmost importance -- she’s my wife, and while I was admittedly having a bit of fun at her expense, I love her and didn’t want to see her injured. This, needless to say, absolutely shitcanned knuckle-blows. I’m one of those chauvinistic bastards who think women have no business punching at all; but lest the militant feminazis in the audience take up pitchforks and torches and lay siege to my house, I’ll add that with my bone structure, I have no business punching at all.
And I usually don’t. However counterintuitive the assertion, I’ve noticed that open-handed strikes are faster, less likely to result in injury to the one throwing them, and actually more powerful than blows with the fists. The “hammerfist” is the sole exception to the rule in my experience, but it isn’t as fast as the shuto, owing to the tension in the forearm. It’s also less telling, as the force of the blow is distributed across a larger surface area. This narrowed the choices down to the shuto and the palm strike (teisho).
Delivering the former from a kneeling position can be rather tricky for a complete beginner, so I opted for the latter. First, I ran her through some deep breathing, to relax her. When she was no longer visibly nervous, I had her assume a horse stance, and taught her to coordinate her breathing with her hip movements. Then, I showed her the basics of the strike, and had her put all three elements together during a few “dry runs.” Finally, I ran her through some “woo-woo” mental exercises I won’t recount, reminded her to aim three inches beyond the board, and asked if she was ready. She nodded and said, “I think so.”
“OK, hon. Just do it – now.”
Bam! The heel of her hand struck the board, which fell to the ground in two equal pieces. After congratulating her – and I can’t express how proud I was of her -- I picked up the remains and had a closer look. She’d done a fine job by any standard, but for a rank amateur, she’d performed it wonderfully. The break was as neat as if she’d split the wood with a hatchet, the lack of splintering indicating that she’d struck it dead center and directly along the grain.* For her first break, it was doubly impressive, as was the fact that she’d succeeded on her very first attempt – with a mere ten minutes’ prep-time.
I’m not terribly worried about 1’x1’ squares of shelving attacking Maggie, Gentle Reader (we’ve no resident poltergeists, to the best of my knowledge), but if ever they do, I know she can handle them. The most important thing to me was seeing her do it – even though I knew she could all along. Watching a person accomplish something he/she would previously have thought beyond his/her ability always leads to a feeling of great satisfaction –especially when that person is my wife. If ever she is hassled, though, it’s nice to know that an equally forceful strike to a skel’s nuts, floating rib, kidney or jaw** would give him something to ponder while she made her escape.
Next week, I think we’ll play around with the knifehand…
G’night and God bless.
* I’m almost loath to admit it, but the wonderful world of pugilism is actually home to a species of critter best referred to as the “breaking geek.” The “breaking geek” is the martial arts equivalent of the Star Wars fanboy – the kind of guy who actually knows that Han Solo’s name is the Norwegian third person singular male pronoun (han) welded to the Latin word for “alone” (solo). (No, I’m not a Star Wars fanboy, for the record. I just happen to speak a bit of Norwegian, and I’ve studied elementary Latin.)
His trademark is using his terrifyingly intimate knowledge of various woods (at times, one suspects him of actually having sex with certain trees) to “one up” other breakers – making them want to kill him in the process.
“Hmm. Very impressive. But have you ever tried breaking the rare Tunisian tundra redwood? It’s close-grained and very curly – a true test of skill. Of course (polishing his fingernails on the front of his shirt) it’s also twenty dollars a square foot, and you need the right connections to get it. So I’ll understand if you haven’t…”
“Uh, Clarence? Could you jus’ set that there Georgia white pine down for a second? I’m fixin’ to test my fuckin’ skill on this here dipshit’s cranium.”
**Back in ’85, my late father (who was forty-seven at the time) sent a twenty-something, “urban cowboy” punk to Northside at the conclusion of a very short barfight. Not understanding that fucking with ex-marines isn’t terribly bright, he sucker punched my father and knocked him down – but not out, to his eventual sorrow. The kid ended up having his jaw wired for his pains, but avoided going to the pound for assault, as Daddy -- being a magnanimous sort -- reckoned the injury and medical bills were punishment enough, and opted not to press charges.
Charges or no, I (being a seventeen-year-old, borderline hood at the time) was very curious as to how he’d managed to put the guy on the ol’ soup-and-Slurpee diet. (God knows, I’d certainly tried to break other boys’ jaws in the past, but could never quite pull it off.) One evening some weeks later, I came downstairs for a snack and found Da sitting at the kitchen table, slightly in his cups. Taking a seat, I told him how cool I thought the entire episode had been (he disagreed emphatically, by the way), and asked him how he’d managed to rearrange the asshole’s face. He flipped the ash off his cigarette, took a sip of beer, shrugged, and answered: “Hook punch.” He then resumed staring out the kitchen window, at which point I hauled ass, posthaste. The story, however, stayed with me.
At forty-one, I’m in much better physical condition than my father was at forty-seven. I’m no less prone to excess, but I exercise more often, consume a more balanced diet, and actually practice hitting things. My open-hand techniques are (and have long been) more powerful than my punches, and whereas I’ve yet to break a jaw (to the best of my knowledge, that is: being as allergic to jail as is a typical, modern American kid to legumes, grains, seafood, meat, vegetables and dairy products, I’ve never actually stuck around to assess the damage after landing a “stunner”), I’ll still take ‘em over fists, any day.
