Kick Someone or No Promotion

This will be the last installment of my remembrances of my time in the late 50s, early 60s with Sensei (now Sijo) Sam Brown.

At one point in my early days with him, I was passed over for promotion and had no idea why. As he’d become angry if anyone asked about belts or promotions (training was for the sole acquisition of knowledge, not belts), the results from a test were expected to speak for themselves.

A new student once made the mistake of asking how long it would take to earn a black belt. Sensei Brown jerked off his black belt, threw it in the guy’s face, and told him, “There’s a black belt. Take it and get out!” The guy left, without a black belt - earned or otherwise.

Sensei Brown eventually told me the reason for being passed over. He thought I was “too nice a guy”, going too easy with my partners. “If you don’t start kicking people, you’ll never be promoted,” he told me.

Hitting people had been a problem for me. I had an older brother and knew too well what that felt like be on the receiving end and got no pleasure out of making others feel as I had.

My view too was that hitting was easy. I wanted to hold myself up to what I felt was a higher standard.

One of the questions I’ve gotten over the years is “What’s the difference between a martial artist and a fighter?” To me, one difference was the level of control each possessed over their techniques.

A martial artist differed in that he possessed the ability to always control his techniques to a very fine degree, even when both he and his opponent are moving at full speed. A boxer, for example, is trained to always make contact. There is no reason for him to learn anything but how to hit someone as hard as he possibly can. But for a martial artist, there are occasions when control is the appropriate (and legally best) course of action. At times, we want to stop our punches or kicks just short of contact as a warning. At others, a quick jab to the nose is enough to change an attacker’s mind about the probable outcome of fighting you. At the other end of the scale, however, are those situations in which we must be capable of delivering deadly, board breaking, brick crushing, perhaps life-taking force.

As I said, hitting is easy. Having the skill to always determine the amount of damage you do, from none to terminal force, takes mastery. And that was my goal.

I later learned an old saying, “Karate is where you go to learn how to say ous.” For those not familiar with the word, ous (also spelled oos and oss) is an acknowledgement by a student or person of lower rank or position to do what is asked of them and do it to the best of their ability. (I won’t get into the disagreement relative to the use, origin, and/or meaning of the term here.) I always had an Ous Mentality, even before I had ever heard the word.

Although I didn’t want to hurt anyone, I always did as asked by my instructors. (And none ever asked me to do anything that was immoral or unethical. I would have left them had any ever asked something inappropriate of me.)

So I began targeting my techniques for light contact.

I’m not sure of Sensei Brown’s reasons, whether to make me tougher or to help me discover the following, but things changed after I started targeting my techniques differently – besides getting promoted. I found that when a sparring partner knew I would never make contact, he was free to completely ignore my techniques and hit (literally) me at will. It also allowed them to stay closer, meaning their attacks and counterattacks had less distance to travel, meaning they landed much quicker. That changed as soon as I started making contact.

And throughout the remainder of my karate life, I always used (and taught) what Sensei Brown had helped me learn.

When I began competing, I always tried to leave a great deal of doubt in my opponents’ minds about whether or not I’d control my techniques. I only actually hit an opponent and was penalized for it one time, at Professor Ralph Castro’s California Karate Championships in San Francisco, but they didn’t know that.

This approach became even more important when I became a national coach (under the United States Olympic Committee). I told my athletes the same thing – make your opponents think you’re not just going to hit them but hit them hard. This forced their opponents to respect their techniques, yielding more ground to make sure they were out of range, and making them counter in a more careful manner, slowing down their attacks or counterattacks. With greater contact generally allowed at the time, if our national athletes didn’t make their opponents fear their techniques, they’d be hit extremely hard, often with no penalty to the hitter. (I saw a foreign competitor get hit so hard in an international match, it took four surgeries to repair his face.)

I trained with Sensei Brown until I went into the army in 1962.

While in the military, I studied with several other people, all in different styles. (I’ll relay some of it later.) I came back with a black belt and opened a dojo on the opposite side of town, where I lived.

I don't even remember being aware Sensei Brown was still teaching. Someone had told me he had gone back to Hawaii. But he hadn’t.

He showed up at my dojo one day with some of his students. I wasn't there but Bob, my older brother was. Sensei Brown asked him what I would do if someone tried to bomb my dojo. I don’t remember what Bob told him, but he wasn’t one to be intimidated by anyone. (He took after my father’s side of the family, who were very large Scottish men. Bob later moved to Alaska so he could hunt grizzly bears.)

Sensei Brown also told my brother that he had instructed his students to be prepared for me seeking retribution. I didn't take the bomb comment too seriously, knowing his nature and the tough conditions under which he had been raised. But I was careful for a while just the same, as he and the military had taught me to be. But I didn't expect any explosions. I also didn't understand why he thought I'd try to seek retribution or what I could possibly have to seek retribution for. I still had a great deal of respect for him, as I do to this day. But my rank was in a different style and my last instructor had asked me to open a dojo, which I did.

We operated in the same town for many years and never had another meeting or incident. And I’m glad we didn’t because I learned a lot from him.

He taught me many things, both directly and indirectly, in addition to the technical things we’ve discussed.

Some (or maybe a lot) of Sensei Brown’s perpetual defensive awareness rubbed off on me. Never let anyone know when you’re ill or injured. Check out anyone who enters your dojo. And training while injured or not feeling your best toughens you for having to continue fighting after being injured in a real fight, as is inevitable.

I leave him… and you for reading my ramblings… with my deepest thanks.