Getting Back To Basics

     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 made it a point to arrive early in the hopes that he might be able to see the legendary master training.  Once inside the gym, the young man 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, Hung-I Xiang (who passed away in the 1980's), was known to practice his bengquan (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 Baguazhang (and my teacher's classmate) was known to train daily in the system's most fundamental form and exercise, the Single Palm Change.

     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.

     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.

Getting Back To Basics

     Tsutomu Ohshina, 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 turnedto 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 Xingyichuan teacher, Hung-I Xiang (who passed away in the 1980's), was known to practice his bengchuan (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 Palm Change.

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.

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.

Got Qi?

     Over many years I've spent a great deal of time visiting with numerous martial arts practitioners and listening to their ideas regarding the acquisition and application of intrinsic force.  Recently, I've also spent time on various martial arts forums doing the same thing.  And overall, one thing is very clear...most of these people have no clue as to the nature of qi or how to express it in their chosen martial discipline.

     The nature of qi is elusive.  Over the generations there have been many explanations, debates, and outright arguments regarding this very subject.  Everyone has their own opinions and ideas.

     But one thing is certain; skilled internal stylists are capable of generating uncanny force with seemingly little physical effort.  Some can withstand very heavy blows to most areas of the body without injury or discomfort - and without relying on tensed, hardened muscles. 
     This same kind of skill has been demonstrated by long-time practitioners of various karate styles, who have gone "full-circle" in their training.

     Most martial arts beginners dream of acquiring this kind of power but they have no idea how to go about doing it.  The same thing is true of a good many martial arts veterans.

     So they start out trying to imagine generating or emitting vital force when they practice their basic techniques and forms.  And...nothing happens.  They huff and puff and keep at it but the result is always the same.  Nada.  After a time, many of them simply give up on their quest and that's the end of it.

     Learning to execute fajin (emit power/vital force) isn't something that just naturally happens if you keep repeating the same movement over and over.  To be sure, some qi is emitted whenever you make any kind of movement but emitting a concentrated force requires that you practice correctly and progressively.  That's what this lecture is about.

PRACTICING CORRECTLY
     Applying fajin isn't magic nor is it the result of lengthy periods of lofty meditation (although that can help - but more about that later).  You can't just fire off your techniques and hope that someday it'll "happen."  It won't.
     Power is emitted through our physical bodies and our physical bodies are governed by certain laws of physics and principles of kinesiology.  So, the first thing we need to acquire is correct position.  That is, how to stand correctly (in accordance with the applicable laws of physics and principles of kinesiology) when we execute techniques.  This is often achieved through repetitious training in various forms of what is known as "zhan-zhuang" (stake standing); static postures that are held for lengthy periods of time to help the student learn how to properly align the (part of the) body.  It ain't easy, believe me.  Nay, it's bloody well painful!
     Most students loathe this training not only because of the discomfort involved, but because it appears to be relatively pointless!  After all, they reason, how can you develop a stronger punch or kick when you spend so much time standing in weird, static postures?  And many will walk away.  They have shallow minds and weak spirits.  They should trust their teacher and do what they're told.
     For this training, a good instructor is a must.  He can quickly spot any "kinks" in your posture and correct them.  Fajin is much like getting water to gush out of a hose.  If the hose has any "kinks" in it, the water cannot come through very powerfully.  "Kinks" in your posture will prevent force from being powerfully emitted through your technique.  Thus, zhan-zhuang.
     At the same time, these static exercises strengthen and toughen the legs and hips - a necessary prerequisite for being able to deliver truly powerful technique.  They also promote the develop of a very strong yi (intention, will) which is another necessary ingredient in the development of fajin.

     The second aspect of correct training involves movement.  This includes not only footwork, but also forms of body shifting and turning.  It has to be done correctly so that no "kinks" are created when you move in a given fashion.  Only then can power be emitted easily.  Again, this involves exercises that can be more than a little tedious but consider that learning to stand in a static posture correctly is one thing; learning to maintain correct posture while you're moving is a whole different game.  It's going to take a lot of practice.

     The third part of correct training is your actual technique.  It has to be executed exactly so, using the appropriate laws of physics and principles of kinesiology to your best advantage.  If your technique is incorrect or sloppy, fajin is not possible.  It's like putting very expensive fuel in an old, piece of junk car.  It won't run any better.  It's still junk!  This is why practitioners of some forms of martial arts cannot perform fajin; their techniques are terribly flawed.
     You may think that your technique is ultra-spiffy but only your instructor can tell for sure.  You have to learn and practice them slowly, making sure that everything is just right...then develop speed from there.  Actually, speed will develop naturally as the technique is made sharper and cleaner.

PRACTICING PROGRESSIVELY     Learning martial arts and developing real power is like making tea.  It takes time.  It can't be hurried.  Any attempt to hurry the process will only ruin it and you have to start over again.

      First, learn to stand and then move correctly.  As you're doing this, you'll be taught new techniques so you must pay close attention and practice them correctly as possible over and over and over.  Don't worry about power or speed - those will come naturally in time.

     You'll also learn various forms of qigong.  These are crucial to developing fajin and they have to be practiced progressively.  The main idea is that you must first clear the (internal) pathways of chi so they are unobstructed.  This is accomplished largely through regular practice of breathing techniques (which can be done as a form of meditation) and also through exercising certain postures.  If the main pathways are obstructed, you won't be able to fajin, even though your posture, movements, and technique are correct.

     Once the channels are clear you must learn to draw energy up through the soles of your feet as you perform your techniques and movements.  Power comes through the soles and is emitted through the striking surface of whatever bodily weapon you're employing (so long as posture, movement, and technique are correct).  And you have to learn to relax as you execute your technique.  That is, you must not use any more (muscular) force than is absolutely necessary.  This may sound fairly easy to do but it'll require a good deal of practice.    

     Don't concern yourself with trying to emit fajin right away.  It's going to take a while before you get the external (posture, movement, technique) right.  Your instructor will let you know when you're ready to begin training to fajin and there are some two-person training methods that you'll practice over and over.  The skill develops gradually; it doesn't happen all at once.  You must be patient and study yourself and your technique.

     And as you go through these processes you'll find one glitch after another - some large, some small - but glitches, nonetheless.  It's a never-ending process; constantly striving to perfect your technique, constantly polishing out smaller and smaller glitches.  A lifetime may not be enough.

Dress For Success

     Many years ago there was a book entitled "Dress For Success", which enjoyed considerable popularity. The author (whose name I can't recall) noted, among other things, how one's attitude was affected by the manner in which one was dressed. It sounds a little wierd, but over the years I have found many of his assertions to be true and it's one of the reasons I insist on students wearing a proper training uniform.
     In general, it can be said that the condition of one's practice uniform reflects one's attitude towards training. If it looks like a used kleenex; if it's torn and in need of repair, or if the salt stains (from yesterday's or last week's sweat) haven't been washed out, it is a fairly accurate indication of how one regards oneself, one's school, and one's training.


     A students who pays a lot of attention to detail; a student who is a stickler for sharp technique and who aims at perfection will usually wear a uniform that is clean and pressed. You could almost cut your finger on the creases in their sleeves.


     At the other end of the spectrum is the student whose uniform has been wadded up and shoved into a practice bag for a couple of days. It has more wrinkles in it than an elephant's butt and his attitude towards training will tend to be lackadaisical. His technique and form often leans towards the sloppy...like his uniform.


     And then, of course, there are a lot of in-betweens.

     Training in street clothes is common in many internal Chinese schools and I think this actually has an impact on their (the student's) approach towards training. Casual. That's how they often regard it, but training time should be anything but casual. One must concentrate and give a full 100% of one's attention to it.


      In the old days (and even in modern China) most training was conducted outdoors. People gathered in parks to practice and so they naturally wore their everyday street-clothes. That's why most kung-fu stylists wear shoes.  But I think this kind of thing has had a negative impact on (Chinese) martial arts. For one thing, street-clothes don't hold up very well to the rigors of strenuous practice. So, the teacher has a choice; he can water down the training so that the students don't damage their clothes (and maybe themselves), or he can go ahead and conduct a vigorous class and end up with a bunch of half-naked students.


     Due to the heat and humidity (especially in southern China), many kung-fu stylists prefer to wear training trousers and tee-shirts. Such clothing won't hold up in our training. Tee-shirts don't stand up to grappling practice. There are some who will argue that "in a real fight your opponent won't be wearing a heavy practice jacket", and that's why they prefer tee-shirts. Okay. So let's do the techniques and grab the tee-shirts. Watch what happens. Or we can just grab meat and execute our throws. But then, a lot of students wouldn't be returning to class.


     The reason the heavy jacket is worn is NOT to accomodate the thrower in the execution of his technique; it's to PROTECT the receiver - so the thrower doesn't have to grab a fistful of meat in order to perform the throw.  If the receiver insists on wearing a tee shirt or regular street-clothes, it leaves the thrower in a quandry. Does he rip his partner's clothes to shreds? Does he dig into his partner's flesh to perform the throw? Or does he water down the technique?  This is why I require all students to wear a full uniform in class.

     However, the main thing is that the overall condition of the practice uniform is an indicator of the regard a person has for training and even for him or her self.

Gripe, Gripe, Gripe!

     I used to think that several of my instructors really had it in for me. It seemed that no matter what I did or how hard I tried, they always had to make a correction. Some seemed to constantly gripe about whatever I was doing. I remember doing a form in front of one of them and I felt that I'd given the best performance of my life. The teacher said simply, "That was awful." Then he proceeded to complain about almost every movement I'd made. Sometimes his correction amounted to nothing more than moving my hand or foot a couple of inches, but he acted like it was something really important.


     Little did I know that it was.


      Several of my teachers seemed to ignore certain students. I wondered why the teacher wasn't correcting them instead of me. Their movements were much worse than mine; in some cases they were downright pitiful but he rarely said anything about it. I asked one of my teachers about this odd phenomenon and he replied, "(So-and-so) doesn't try. Doesn't listen. Doesn't practice. So I just don't care. If I didn't care about you, I wouldn't correct you." And that said it all.


     It's not easy for an instructor to gripe and whine at a student who he likes; who he feels has a lot of potential, and with whom he feels a close bond. He knows the student will often not understand why he complains about such minor details and the student may feel that the instructor is picking on him, singling him out in front of everyone else. It's because the instructor cares. If he didn't care, he wouldn't say anything at all.


    The teacher's time and experience is very valuable. He's been where you're going. Usually more than once. It's very disheartening to correct a student only to have him make the same error over and over again because he isn't listening or trying. In the end, the teacher simply stops wasting his time and energy. However, for students who do try and who do train hard, the instructor is full of energy and extra time.

     I remember one student I taught years ago who paid little attention to what I was trying to teach him. He never trained at home, either. This made class a very difficult time for me because I was constantly being asked (by him) about material that he should have already learned and practiced thoroughly. I couldn't give much attention to the other students because of this. One day, I ordered the group to begin practicing a technique that they'd learned several weeks earlier. As usual, the student in question approached me and asked how to perform that particular technique. "Weren't you here when I taught it the first time" I asked. He told me that he had been, but he'd forgotten how to do it. That translates as "I haven't been practicing." So I told him, "Well, just watch the other students. You'll figure it out." And that was that. He finally dropped out of class altogether which was something of a relief. I had stopped caring whether he learned anything or not because he had obviously stopped caring, too.


     Teaching is a tough job. An instructor takes time away from his/her family and his own training time to teach others. It is rare to find an individual who is willing to act so unselfishly. He/She spends time poring over class schedules, watching the progress of each student (who tries) and providing encouragement when times get tough - and not just in martial arts training (I have often felt like a psychologist or marriage counselor, vocational counselor, and even a car mechanic), scheduling exams and praying that nobody fails because that's a supreme bummer for any teacher, and on and on. All of this is done in his/her spare time away from class.


     During class, the instructor pours out energy as he/she instructs the students. It may not look like it, but it's true. It can be exhausting work physically, mentally, and emotionally. But he/she does it because he/she is devoted to helping others just as he/she was helped by his/her teacher; to transmitting the knowledge and skill which he/she possesses to others who are willing to work hard to get it. So when a student doesn't try, it's discouraging as well as irritating. Ultimately, the teacher stops trying to teach people who aren't willing to try, to sweat, to push themselves.


     I can well imagine what would have happened if I'd told my teacher that I'd forgotten a particular form because I hadn't worked on it for a long time. God forbid! I think the earth might have opened and swallowed me up! That would have been preferable to facing the unbridled wrath of my teacher! I am certain that he would not have agreed to show me the form again. I would have been told to "watch the other students" and try to pick it up from there. We were expected to train regularly on our own; not just to maintain a given level of expertise, but to actually strive to improve what we had learned. If we did not do this, the teacher would know.


     Any instructor who's been at it for very long can instantly spot a student who hasn't been training at home. It takes only a few seconds. Kind of like the child who thinks he's pulled something over on his parents, only to discover that they already know about it...and he wonders how parents know these things? Do they have eyes in the backs of their heads? Are they telepathic or something?


     Yes.


     So are martial arts teachers.


     I've had some students who felt that the fact that they paid tuition entitled them to unconditional instructional, regardless of how hard they tried. Wrong assumption. Their tuition paid for my time in class. If they couldn't keep up with the class because they weren't training on their own, that was their problem...rather like paying for a college class and then not studying on your own time. The teacher doesn't care. He is paid to teach. That's what the tuition is for. It's YOUR responsibility to learn and do whatever you must to learn it thoroughly. If you refuse to do your homework and put in the extra time required to learn the material, that's your problem...not the teacher's.


    Learning has always been a two-way street. The teacher must teach to the best of his/her ability. The student must do his/her best to learn. If either side fails to meet their obligation, the process breaks down.


    The Yiliquan training program was designed over a period of many years of research and experimentation. It works supremely well...but only if the students adhere to the training regimen as outlined by the instructor. It is a progressive program. Training is never haphazard. Many martial arts schools have classes which go something like....a little stretching followed by a few basics (which vary from one class to the next). Then we do a quick form or two (just for the exercise), and then sparring. Wasn't that fun? Good. That's what we're doing next time, too. Kind of like an aerobics class. And although I think aerobics is a great form of exercise, it isn't martial arts (sorry for any Taebo people out there...).


     Yiliquan classes and training are very structured and progressive. It requires that students train on their own time. Otherwise, progress is extremely slow and when progress gets very slow, people lose interest and give up. They feel like they're not getting anywhere and they're right. But it's usually their own faults. They won't be taught more advanced material because their bodies and minds aren't ready for it - they haven't been training as they should. So they get stuck in a rut and before long, they fall by the wayside. Your instructor undoubtedly remembers scores and scores of classmates who fell by the wayside, many of them because they failed to train correctly and make progress.


     As I've said before, the world is full of failures. Do not seek to add to their numbers.


     Whether or not you succeed in your chosen martial discipline is not up to your instructor. It's up to you.

Bring It On!

     One day, as I was walking up to the building where I conduct my Yiliquan classes,  I noticed two of my die-hard students standing outside talking. One of them was relating stories which I had told him about the legendary karate master, Mas Oyama. I joined the discussion and provided them with perhaps a few new insights into the man and the nature of real martial arts as opposed to much of what we see today.


Speaking of the UFC (Ultimate Fighting Challenge).........


    In the mid -1950's, Masutatsu Oyama was very interested in popularizing karate in the U.S. With a well-known judo teacher named Endo, he toured 46 states and gave dozens of demonstrations. However, he also utilized another ploy to gain recognition while also demonstrating the great power of his art. He would set up a boxing ring and a prize of $1,000 was offered to anyone who could prevent him from knocking them out for 60 seconds!


     That's right. Sixty seconds.


     A thousand dollars was a great deal of money in those days (probably comparable to ten or even twenty times that amount nowadays). And Oyama would happily take on all comers. He engaged several professional wrestlers as well as the usual street-fighting "tough guys" and even professional boxers.


     Nobody ever collected the money. In 46 states.....!


     Oyama would later say this his toughest opponent was a pro boxer; not because the boxer could hit hard (although I'm sure he could), but because his quick footwork enabled him to dance away from Oyama and avoid his sledgehammer punches. The time limit was getting close and Oyama hadn't been able to hit this fellow once! So he feigned exhaustion and the boxer sneaked up in the hopes of landing a solid punch (by the way, no gloves of any kind were used in these bouts).
     Imagine the fellow's surprise (and horror) when Oyama snapped up and struck him with a reverse punch. End of fight. Oyama's striking knuckles were the the stuff of legend and he only needed to land one blow to end a confrontation. It would be quite literally akin to getting hit with a couple of ballpeen hammers.

     While we all enjoy such stories and imagine the scenario of dozens of "tough-man" Americans doing their best to cold-cock this little Japanese guy.....and receiving a religious experience instead, we need to bear in mind that this is not too far removed from today's "UFC" bouts. Except that nobody ran around in little tights.... And yet, we no longer see this kind of formidable technique.


     We watch contestants from every kind of martial discipline compete in these events.  From Jujitsu to Sumo to Karate and Kung-Fu to just plain tough streetfighters, they all jump in and give it a whirl. I see karate stylists being tackled and beaten. Kung-Fu stylists are pinned to the floor. Sumo practicioners are beaten to a pulp.

???????????


     What ever happened to real martial arts?


     I don't have to guess at what would happen if a young Oyama walked into that ring. After all, he was the first to do it in the U.S. and he never lost a match. Unlike the young Brazilian jujitsu exponent who won a few UFC events (by the way, his family owned the event at the time), Oyama fought and won several HUNDRED matches. He performed in 46 states. If he only fought five opponents in each state, that would give him 230 bouts!


     And he never lost. He never won on a TKO (Re-read the deal above - he had to knock you out or you'd get the money). He knocked out every opponent! Every one.


     Why don't we see this kind of skill nowadays? Two reasons that I can think of......


(a) Those who posses it aren't going to jump into a circus and show it off. That's not what they're about. 

And,


(b) Very few people are willing to train that hard nowadays.


     Oyama trained very, very, very hard. For years. Throughout his youth he trained with the intensity of a man possessed. He did a thousand sit-ups a day along with a thousand push-ups. In his weight training, he would bench press his own body weight once for each year of his age...three times a day or more. Instead of a standard striking post, he used young trees (sans padding) and would strike them 1,000 times with each hand every day...until the tree died and then he'd find another one. He did his forms dozens of times daily. He meditated under ice-cold waterfalls, ran several miles daily, and practiced forms in cold streams in waist-deep water. This kind of training he endured for three years while he lived alone on a mountain.


     When he came back to civilization, he wanted to test the strength of his thrust and he struck a large streetlamp post. He was disappointed because it only swayed! He'd hoped to break it. Imagine THAT punch striking you in the face. It'd only take one.


     Oyama never studied boxing. Or wrestling (although he was quite good at judo). Or homemade karate forms. Only traditional karate. And he never lost.


     So to our UFC people who insist that "traditional" martial arts don't really work, I have this to say.....


     Phthththth!

The Traditional Way

      In a recent conversation with an old friend I was told that within the past few years there has been a movement back towards "traditional martial arts."  However, a senior student told me that, in his opinion, many of the "traditional" schools aren't really training in the "traditional way" anymore.  Huh. 

 

     Even more recently, I was congratulated on being able to trace my martial arts lineage.  I've never been much of a stickler for establishing one's pedigree because in the long run it doesn't necessarily mean much.  I've known a good many "blue bloods" who weren't worth a damn when the chips were down and more than a few "mutts" who I'd be more than happy to have on my side should a situation ever go south.

 

     When I served as National Chairman for the AAU Chinese Martial Arts Division I traveled the length and breadth of the U.S. and met a good many of the nation's foremost kung-fu "leaders."  Naturally, all of them could trace their lineage back to the nth degree and many of them looked down their noses at anybody who coudln't.

 

     Now, I've always been pretty much a pudding taster - like in the saying, "The proof of the pudding is in the eating."  Purebred or not, what mattered to me then and what matters to me now is whether or not a practitioner can make his stuff work.  Does he really know what he's doing and can he make it work or is he just going through so many empty (but traditional) movements?  Therein lies the truth of it.

 

     I also recently read an editorial in a martial arts magazine that stated that "bending the truth" about the

origin of one's martial art system is actually considered traditional in the Orient.  The author was right.  I mean, look at some of them:

• Zhang Sanfeng (Chang San-feng) is said to have originated the art of Taijichuan although there is no concrete evidence that he even existed.
• The founder of Baguazhang (Dong Haichuan) allegedly learned his art from a Daoist hermit who was living up in the mountains.  This is a favorite fable and many kung-fu styles point to enigmatic hermits as the originators of their arts.  It makes you wonder if there was some kind of conspiracy going on with a bunch of hermits...
• Xingyichuan points to the legendary general, Yao Fei, as it's originator.  This is a second favorite fable.  Yao Fei is revered throughout China and although he died at a fairly early age, he's been given credit for having originated several kung-fu schools, including Eagle Claw.  Very creative fellow...
• In Japanese martial arts, more than one school of swordsmanship credits their origin to ghosts or goblins who, for some obscure reason, decided to teach certain warriors their special technique
   
    And so on-

     I'm reminded of a scene from one of my favorite movies, "Monty Python and the Holy Grail", when King Arthur is trying to explain to a group of peasants just how he became king...that Excalibur was given to him by the Lady of the Lake.  And the peasants make disparaging remarks about why it's not logical to base a system of government and leadership upon a story wherein "some watery tart lobs a scimitar at you..."

     Hilarity aside, they have a point.  As funny as that entire scene might be, we, as martial arts enthusiasts, base entire martial arts systems on similar tales.

     Now, I'm not going to say that these kinds of things can't happen.  I know that they can.  BUT -  let's try to keep these stories to a minimum.  In Asia, lineage - the past - is everything.  Confucianism, which spread all over the Orient, stresses the importance of one's lineage (whether it's one's family lineage, martial arts lineage, or whatever) and subsequent obligations to ancestors.  

 

     So.  Back to the point I was making at the beginning of this lecture... I believe that a "traditional" school should practice in the "traditional way", more or less.  I think that that's what makes a school traditional (or not), regardless of their actual lineage.

     Certainly, it's fine to employ training methods that may not have been used back in the day - but the old ways of training and the attitudes involved therein are what made the martial arts what they were and what they should be.  Our martial arts ancestors didn't have the nicely made heavy bags that we enjoy, nor did they have many other pieces of modern training equipment.  If they had, they almost certainly would have used them.  But it's the spirit with which they'd use them that makes the difference.

 

     To me, it's the spirit in which training is conducted that determines how "traditional" a school may be - not the sheepskin upon which a lineage is written.