FORMS AND FIGHTING, FIGHTING AND FORMS

by Phillip Starr

*Excerpted from “Martial Maneuvers” by the author.

Beginning piano students spend countless hours practicing simple finger exercises and eventually move on to study the classics – compositions that were created by masters of ages past. The martial arts masters who contributed to the creation of the traditional forms, the classics of Eastern martial disciplines – are our Bachs, Beethovens, and Mozarts.

The forms of your chosen craft are representative of your art and are intended to teach you how it is to be applied in combat. Therefore, the manner in which you fight should look very much like, and have have the flavor of, your forms. Unfortunately, this isn't true for most contemporary martial arts practitioners. Let me give you an example of what I mean...

Many years ago, I was invited to help officiate at a large Chinese martial arts tournament. I witnessed some truly remarkable forms that day. Performed with great celerity and precision, they were absolutely beautiful and I looked forward to watching the freestyle sparring competition because each martial discipline has its own flavor, its own way of applying various techniques as shown and practiced in its forms. However, my enthusiasm wilted when the sparring competitors, suited up with all the appropriate headgear and hand and foot pads, blasted into each other with all the finesse and technique of a second-grade schoolyard slugfest. It resembled an abysmal, ineffective mishmash of sloppy Western boxing and slipshod Muay Thai. No one demonstrated any particular style at all; they all looked the same, regardless of what form of kung-fu they practiced!

Clearly, these people did not make the connection between form and fighting.

Much of the reason for the lack of real martial skill has to do with the WAY in which many of today's practitioners train. Forms are often practiced as a matter of tradition with little attention given to the information they contain and the fighting skills that they are intended to develop. Simply running through a form “by the numbers” isn't enough; the various fighting techniques and tactics must be extracted and practiced repeatedly until they can be performed correctly without conscious effort. Unless this is done, we cannot hope to achieve “form.”

THE DEATH FACTOR

 by Phillip Starr

For all the spiritual insights that one might achieve, it is often well to remember just what the various martial disciplines were designed for; killing other human beings as quickly and efficiently as possible. They were not intended to get you in touch with your inner child, reduce stress, or help you get rid of those nasty extra pounds. Certainly, there are many benefits to be gained from regular practice of a martial discipline but don't mistake a benefit for the primary purpose of the art.

Now, I'm not advocating the practice of some kind of so-called “reality martial art” where we all wear spiffy camouflaged pants and combat boots. What I'm saying is that it is essential to practice as if our lives depend upon what we do; as if we're engaged in actual combat. When you practice your basic techniques at full-tilt boogie, when you burn through your kata, when you practice basic one-step or freestyle sparring with a partner, it should be done with the feeling that the slightest error, the smallest loss of balance, power, or anything else will result in your immediate demise. Don't just “lob” your kicks out there, don't dance your way through your forms, and don't just toss your techniques at your partner as if you're playing catch. Gichin Funakoshi, the “Father of Japanese Karate” put it very succinctly when he said, “Practice should be done with deadly seriousness.”

Sure, there are times for playing and laughing but for the most part, training should be very serious. For beginning students, it is perhaps a little less serious because they are still learning how to execute the various movements and control their techniques (to avoid injuring their partners as well as themselves), but for more senior practitioners it is much more serious. When two seniors square off to practice one-step fighting, the receiver must understand that if he makes a mistake, he may well be knocked down. He must feel as though he is looking death in the face. He must face up to the primary underlying fear that we all have in our hearts...the fear of death. And he must overcome it.

It is this experience that's vital to acquiring a real understanding of the essence of martial arts. It's one thing to attend class and enjoy the social life that it offers. It's quite another thing to face a partner who will surely knock you out of your socks if you make an error. It needn't always be this way but such serious training is a very necessary part of traveling the martial path. I once met a female taijiquan teacher who assured me that she KNEW that taiji had never been a martial art. She disdained fighting in any way, shape, or form and insisted that taijiquan had been developed to improve health and awaken a certain sense of spirituality. There was no convincing her otherwise.

Another taijiquan school had a sign outside that said, “Taijiquan; The Harmless Martial Art.” Kind of a paradox, I thought. But I was walking with some friends and decided to turn away from that one. Just another flake in a bowl of granola.

Intention is another key factor. If your training partner doesn't have the INTENTION to knock you down, how can you expect to ever learn to connect with him and FEEL his intention? The ability to do this could well mean the difference between life and death in a serious struggle.

A rough parallel can be drawn between a soldier who has completed basic training and a veteran who has looked death in the face. They both know how to use their weapons; they both received the same training but the veteran has something that the newbie lacks. Experience. He's experienced the knotting of his gut, the surge of adrenalin that pours into his bloodstream by the gallon just before combat, the fear, the doubt, and many other things that occur just before he rushes into the jaws of death. He's learned to control them, to do what he must do regardless of the fear factor and the so-called “lizard brain” theory.

It is my contention that this kind of experience and subsequently, training that is as close to the real thing as we can get without going over the edge and actually injuring each other, helps to eliminate the “lizard-brain” concept. Repeated, realistic training is the key. Unrealistic practice, especially that which involves a partner who has no real INTENTION, leads to nothing.

And it is my belief that regular, repeated training of this kind can lead to a true understanding of the spiritual side of the martial ways. One who has never “looked death in the face” can never achieve this level of understanding. As the legendary Masutatsu Oyama (founder of Kyokushin karate) told us, “To truly understand the spirit of karate, we must face death and, if necessary, be willing to die.”

THE CRITICAL INTERVAL

 by Phillip Starr

In traditional Japanese swordsmanship there is a poem that tells us,

"To strike the opponent you must have your own skin cut;

To break the opponent's bones you must be cut to the flesh;

To take the opponent's life you must have your own bones broken."

The famous Japanese swordsman, Yagyu Jubei Mitsuyoshi (first son of Yagyu Tajima No Kami Munenori, who was head swordmaster for the Tokugawa shogunate) said, "The difference between victory and defeat lies within the distance of one 'cun'." A "cun" is known in Chinese as a "tsun" (or "cun", in Pinyin). It is the measurement of the body inch used by acupuncturists and is generally found by bending the middle finger and measuring the distance between the fold of the first and second knuckles.

It's pretty darned small.

A story is told of a duel in which Jubei participated. The challenger was a samurai of a daimyo whom Jubei was visiting and he asked for a lesson with bokken (wooden swords). Although such "lessons" could easily result in serious injuries, Jubei agreed. Once the swordsmen squared off, the action was quick and the two fighters seemed to strike at each other simultaneously. It was impossible for anyone to really tell who won. The challenger asked for another chance and it was provided, but with the same outcome. Members of the audience swore that the duel had ended in a "hikiwake" (a tie) but Jubei told them that they were unable to discern the true timing of his stroke.

His opponent then demanded that they have another go at it but with shinken (live swords). Jubei tried to talk him out of it but the young man would have none of it. Thereupon, they had at it one more time but this time the challenger's kimono was soaked with blood as he backed away. He collapsed, dead on the spot. Jubei's sleeve had been cut and he suffered a slight wound from his opponent's sword. It was then that he uttered his famous saying about the distance between life and death being no wider than one "cun."

Author Dave Lowry refers to this as "yuyo", which is, I think, called "yaoyan" in Chinese. It means roughly, "critical distance"...the distance between life and death, the very essence of timing and distance (which are actually the same thing). It is mastery of real technique.

If you want to see yaoyan in action, don't go to the next karate, kung-fu, or taekwondo tournament. You won't find it there. In those fiascos, one never sees truly refined, masterful technique. In fact, you'll not see it very often in today's martial arts schools (an unfortunate fact, but true).

However, if you chance upon a traditional school and observe well-trained students practicing three-step or one-step fight, you may get a chance to witness it. The attacker will fire his technique with absolute precision, aiming to just touch the receiver. However, the receiver will shift and execute a defensive maneuver or technique at the last possible moment and fire out his own counter-technique, which, although it is delivered with maximum destructive power, will stop just short of contact. It is directed at a specific target and its timing will be flawless. The attacker, putting complete trust in his training partner, will make no attempt to block or evade the counter-attack. He might blink, but he won't move because to do so might cause him to step into the blow and, even worse, it would show his partner that he doesn't trust him or have much faith in his skill.

Those who have refined this technique even further are capable of applying it during freestyle one-step and freestyle sparring practice.

This is becoming a real rarity nowadays, especially since the advent of the padded mittens and footies that are worn by many, if not most, contemporary martial arts practitioners. Wearing pads and other such protective devices not only inhibits the development of this fine skill, it encourages participants to use brute, uncontrolled technique. Since they're wearing armor they're not overly concerned with running into their partner's attack (and remember - he's wearing pads, too...). Real martial skill goes right down the stool in the name of safety.

I say, "get a grip." It should be understood from the outset that engaging in a vigorous martial arts program is likely to result in many minor injuries (split lips, black eyes, bruises, strawberries, and the like) and the very real possibility of serious ones. It's simply the nature of the beast. I have never used protective gear in my schools and I've been teaching martial arts for over 50 years. To this day, I've never had a student seriously injured. Not once. It's simply a matter of proper training with the right attitude.

BOARDS DON'T HIT BACK...?

 by Phillip Starr

In the classic martial arts movie, “Enter the Dragon”, the famous martial arts actor of the day, Bruce Lee, faced off against the opposition's main axe-man who began the match by tossing a board into the air and breaking it with a quick thrust. “Boards don't hit back”, Lee sneered...and then went on to pummel his foe into the ground. Another well-known martial arts figure once stated that, “Bricks and boards give a resounding thwack, but bricks and boards don't hit back.”

True enough. I've heard the same thing from numerous martial arts teachers over the years but I always wondered if they'd ever considered that heavy bags and striking posts don't back, either. I realize that they were saying simply that the ability to break various objects with the bare hands and feet are not necessarily indicative of one's martial skill in so far as fighting is concerned, but then...neither is striking the heavy bag. I think that people who makes such statements are missing the point. After all, silhouette targets that are used by firearms enthusiasts don't shoot back, either...

They would likely argue that hitting the heavy bag fosters the development of strong technique (if it's done correctly... and a great many people use it incorrectly). I think I would counter with the same argument regarding board and brick breaking. More importantly, the breaking techniques promote the development of a strong spirit and teach practitioners how to extend their yi (mind, intention, will...), which isn't always the case with using pieces of equipment like the heavy bag. Different training devices assist in the development of different aspects of a chosen martial discipline; there is no single piece of equipment that helps to develop all of them.

The legendary Masutatsu (“Mas”) Oyama, founder of the Kyokushin style of Japanese karate, emphasized the importance of the breaking techniques because he regarded them as invaluable aids in the promotion of a strong spirit. Although he said that they can be used as a sort of barometer by which we can measure the power of a given technique, the main idea was the development of an indomitable spirit and it is this point that so many contemporary practitioners miss.

If you fail to make a particular break, it's because:

• Your technique is flawed one way or another

• You failed to extend your yi properly, or

• Your spirit is weak

  
  
  

Or any combination thereof. All of these things are necessary for the development of real fighting skill. At the same time, you can hit the heavy bag incorrectly (which is something that many people do everyday without knowing it), you can strike it without extending your yi (ditto), and it does not necessarily reflect a lack of spirit. So there.

The breaking techniques were not intended to be used as a form of showmanship. Back in the old days it was practiced primarily in the training hall, out of sight of the public at large. It was when the martial arts were brought to the West that these practice routines were used to enthrall audiences. The idea snowballed and before long, we had people performing all kinds of breaking techniques that had little to no value as far as training goes, but the public loved them! Of course, the same happened with freestyle sparring and the demonstrations of forms.

So, to those who say that breaking techniques are without value, I say, “take a closer look.” You'll be surprised at what you find...

BEGINNER'S MIND

 by Phillip Starr

Tsutomu Ohshima, one of Gichin Funakoshi’s last students (and now a senior instructor of Gichin’s legendary Shotokan style of karate) tells a story about his teacher that illustrates the importance of the basic techniques of the art. Originally a schoolteacher in Okinawa, Gichin had introduced karate to Japan in 1923. He passed away in 1958. In his last months of life, Ohshima would literally carry him up and down stairs whenever the master was scheduled to give demonstrations. A few days before his passing, Gichin was sitting up on the edge of his bed practicing the basic forefist punch. He turned to Ohshima and said, “I think I’ve finally got it!” Ohshima wept.

Mr. David Lowry, in his excellent book "Moving Toward Stillness" relates a story about the late kendo (Japanese swordsmanship) master, Mori Torao. Master Mori had studied his art under men who had had to use the sword in actual combat. Needless to say, the training was extremely severe; in fact, prior to WWII the art was often referred to as gekken which means "severe swordsmanship." Mr. Mori taught in the U.S. back in the 60's.

A friend of Mr. Lowry's attended a clinic conducted by Master Mori and arrived early. There he found the legendary Master already in his keikogi (practice uniform), preparing for the class. Mori asked the young man if he would train with him for a while. The young man held Mori in awe and was thrilled with the request. Now he would get the chance to see advanced kendo techniques and learn from the legendary master! He was shocked when Mori asked if he might practice shomen uchi which is a frontal strike learned by every kendoka (kendo student) in his first class. "I still don't have it right," Mori explained.

Students who are still in the junior stages of training envy their seniors who are learning the more advanced forms and techniques of our art. The instructor may call out a cadence and force them to practice the most basic punches and kicks, but you can bet that the juniors are watching (out of the corners of their eyes) their seniors in the corner practicing the advanced techniques and forms and longing for the day when they will learn them. They tend to judge progress by how much they've learned; how much they've acquired.

Several decades ago, a good friend of mine named John Hutchcroft, who trained in a style of Okinawan karate told me that students of that particular system never said, "Yes, I know that form," or "I know this punch." I asked why. He explained that to say that one knew the form or technique indicated that one had truly mastered it. Instead of saying that they knew a given form or technique, they would say that they trained or worked it.

It's a small matter of semantics, I know, but it does indicate how seriously these people were about training and true understanding or mastery of technique.

The legendary founder of Kyokushin karate, Masutatsu Oyama, once said that after 1,000 repetitions one could say that one could perform a given technique. Only after 10,000 repetitions could one say that one had mastered it. He was slightly more generous with forms; after 1,000 repetitions one could say that one had mastered a given form.

The legendary Xingyiquan teacher, Hong-I Xiang (who passed away in the 1980's), was known to practice his pengchuan (the basic punching technique of Xingyi) daily. Even after more than six decades of training, he focused on constant practice of the most fundamental techniques. Wang Shujin, one of the most famous twentieth-century exponents of Baguachang was known to train daily in the system's most fundamental form and exercise, the Single Change Palm.

Any given martial art system is finite; limited in scope and curriculum. There comes a time when there are no more new techniques or forms to learn. Having explored every road, the student finds him or herself with only one choice; to go back to the beginning. In this sense, the road is circular and the last teaching is also the first. The greatest secrets lie within the most fundamental techniques and movements. However, they cannot be grasped by those who have not yet traveled the whole length of the road or path.

In my school in Omaha, I had (amongst other things) framed Chinese calligraphy, the characters for which meant, "Beginner's Mind." This was not intended so much for junior students as it was for the seniors. Once one has "gone full circle," one must come back to the original "mind" of a beginner. Only after coming full circle and back to this stage can one truly grasp the more esoteric teachings of the art.

There is a saying that tells us, "The greatest secrets lie within the most fundamental techniques and movements. However, they cannot be grasped by those who have not yet traveled the whole length of the road or path."

Of course, there are some who, having reached a lower grade of black belt, assume that they have come "full circle." Puffing out their chests, they are proud of their accomplishments but the truth is that they have not come "full circle." They are still traveling on the "road." Those who have traveled its full length do not puff out their chests and rarely speak of their accomplishments. They have, after all, come back to the stage of "Beginner's Mind"; a blank slate upon which they will write and draw.

WHY LEARN GRAPPLING?

 By Phillip Starr

Anyone even vaguely familiar with the current martial arts scene will immediately recognize the term, “mixed martial arts.” These disciplines refer to themselves as “mixed” because their repertoire consists of a variety of both percussive and grappling techniques. This, they claim, makes their “art” more effective both in and out of the competition ring.

I have to agree with them on that point; in my opinion, a given martial discipline must necessarily include both percussive and grappling techniques in order for it to be effective on the street. The renowned judo master, Gunji Koizumi (“Father of British Judo”, who also established the Budokwai) said, “Any martial artist who relies strictly on percussive techniques is doomed to failure.” He was right. The opposite is equally true; any grappling art that fails to teach effective striking techniques (known as “atemi waza” in jujutsu and aikido) is likewise incomplete.

Why did Master Koizumi make such a statement? Aren't percussive techniques more likely to take the fight out of an opponent than a grappling technique? Well, it depends... on many things. Anyone who's ever been in a couple of good barroom scraps will tell you that regardless of how much training you have in punching and kicking, you'd better be able to handle yourself at extremely close quarters – under conditions that are considerably less than optimal for striking and kicking. There's a technical martial arts terms for people who are unable to do this. It is DOGMEAT.

Now, I'm not saying that karate or taekwondo enthusiasts should train assiduously in some of the better-known judo/jujutsu throws such as the shoulder throw, spring hip throw, and the like. But they DO need to learn some simple but effective throws/takedowns to complement their percussive skills. I should mention, by the way, that such grappling techniques have always been part and parcel of the karate repertoire and are to be found in certain katas. The older, original form of taekwondo also included a number of grappling maneuvers which, sadly, seem to have been erased from their modern, sport-oriented curricula. On the other hand, martial arts such as Shorinji Kempo are about half percussive and half grappling.

Although many throws are intended to damage or even kill one's foe, most of them are intended to place the hapless receiver in an untenable position (that's an indefensible position for you rednecks out there). The aggressor is thrown and then struck instantly. To do this quickly - especially in combat - requires great skill, which is not something that can be acquired quickly. Moreover, grappling also necessarily includes a number of joint-twisting techniques. Many throws utilize such techniques as entries to the throw; resisting the throw will result in a broken bone... but going along with it may not allow the receiver to fare any better.

In China, the arts of grappling are referred to as “shuai-jiao” (which is tricky for me because “shuei-jiao” means “go to bed/sleep” and my wife was often perplexed when I got the two mixed up...). Training is extremely rigorous but it produces high-spirited, rugged fighters. Qin-na is the art of joint-twisting, seizing, and choking. It is said that if you are to effectively apply such a technique, your skill must be at least three times greater than that of your enemy. Nonetheless, there's a time and a place for everything and my students train with them very thoroughly. The odds of effective application are greatly increased when preceded by a sharp blow that produces sharp pain...

So, the idea of “mixed martial arts” is nothing new. All traditional martial disciplines were and are, mixed. If they weren't, they wouldn't have survived to the present day.