The Thrills and Spills of Kenpo Karate

It was a glimmer of light in the darkness of my middle school misery.  A neighbor boy was taking karate and somehow I got invited to come along and see what it was all about.  It was in the basement of a church in Paoli, Indiana which was one town south of ours.  The Sensei was the owner of a local radio station and the epitome of manliness with his black belt and black 70’s ‘stache.  My first impression was seeing him stand in front of the class in the classic horse stance yelling out commands as rows of fellow middle-schoolers punched the air with a loud synchronous “KEE-YA!”

I was duly impressed with the spectacle and told my Dad I wanted to join this group of warriors-in-training.  I ordered my gi and went shopping for an athletic cup with jock strap holder.  To be honest, it was the cup that had me most stoked.  When your boy-bits need full protection it’s about to get real.  So the neighbor boy’s Mom picked me up and drove us to my first official class.  It was winter time and the tile floor of the church basement was cold on our bare feet after changing into our gi’s in the bathroom.  The cup was tested for proper placement with a firm rap from my knuckles.  

That first class ended with a Simon Says-type  competition to execute the move yelled out by the Sensei without delay or error.  There were about 15 kids there and they were falling like flies.  The winner of this game would get a cool iron-on for the back of his gi that included two large Chinese characters that denoted we were practicing “Kenpo Karate”.  It was down to just me and another kid when I punched instead of kicked.  I was disappointed but not deterred.  A week later I was ultra-focussed and able to win my iron-on badge of excellent obedience.

This was the era of the late 70’s/early 80’s when safety was not foremost in anyone’s mind, especially when it came to male children.  At times the Sensei, or his adult brown-belted assistant, would have us put our backs against the wall in a seated position and keep us hanging there until our stomach muscles and legs started to burn and spasm.  But wait, that’s not all!  They would then come around with a wooden club and hit us in the stomach with it to further toughen us up.  KEE-OUCH!

Another example of this was when he would have us all stand in a large circle with our arms held out to our sides parallel with the ground.  When he stood in front of you you had to stand perfectly still and accept getting punched in the stomach with a loud KEE-YA to try and dissipate the blow.  Some of us flinched and fell backwards when he appeared to begin his strike, so he would wait for us to recover in order to receive the full benefit of his punch.

And then there was poor sweet Benjy.  He was a skinny freckled blonde boy with a disarming smile that made everyone love him.  He stood bravely before the Sensei with a closed wooden door about 3 feet behind him.  The Sensei did not even wait for Benjy to mentally prepare himself but immediately launched into a skip with side kick that lifted Benjy up off the ground and carried him through the air, body hitting the door, and slumping to the floor like a rag doll, dazed.  Our eyes were the size of ping pong balls.  He killed Benjy!  But then Benjy let out a good natured groan and slowly got back up on his spindly legs while holding his stomach, a sheepish grin on his face.

My turn was coming.  It was another night and we were sparring against each other when I found myself in the middle of the circle with the Sensei as my opponent.  I did not think it was going to be a particularly fair fight, but when my name was called there was no walking away or leaving for that matter.  It was winter after all and I was barefoot in only a loose fitting white uniform with jock strap.  So, we stood facing each other and he gave the command to bow.  He bowed, I bowed, and that’s when it hit me.  

What hit me?  Well, his foot to be exact.  Apparently it is an unspoken rule in karate that you must never take your eye off of your opponent.  When I was at the depth of my bow looking down at the floor he snap kicked his foot straight into my abdomen.  I immediately collapsed to the floor unable to breathe.  I was making some kind of gasping gargly noise with all the breath knocked out of me.  I thought I was going to die because no matter what I did my lungs would not fill up with air.  The Sensei took a knee beside me and kept telling me to “breathe out” which seemed counter-intuitive, but I tried and after what seemed an eternity I found I could breathe again.

Another activity that had the potential to end badly was the “leaping over all your fellow students” exercise which I loved.  It started with a piano bench sitting next to a mat which you jumped over head first, landed on your hands, tucked your head, and rolled.  After everyone finished jumping the bench a student was instructed to get on all fours next to the bench and you would jump over him and the bench.  This was repeated by adding another kid, etc.

There was a tall and lanky boy who I’ll never forget.  He did not look particularly coordinated walking around the church basement-cum-dojo, but when he took to the air to jump over the obstacle his legs would fan out into a Y-shape as his body made a high arcing curve.  When he landed he could execute a perfect tuck and roll up to a standing position in one fluid motion.  It was a thing of beauty and grace that I never tired of watching.  

As each student added himself to the line of bodies to jump over the excitement in the room grew.  At about 5 bodies the number of volunteers quickly dwindled until at 7 bodies the beautiful swan diving student gave up and there was only me left to attempt it.  I backed up almost to the entrance at the far end of the room and took off running as fast as I could across the basement floor.  When I reached the bench I launched myself nearly vertical over the students, aiming for just past that last kid.  It was not pretty but I cleared them with nothing to spare and my “roll” was more like a land, head tuck, body slam and bounce at the far end.  I was willing to attempt 8 kids but I believe the Sensei sensed disaster and ended the exercise.

Returning to the subject of sparring, after several weeks of classes we got to put on boxing gloves and were paired up to fight.  I was facing the neighbor boy whose Mom was giving us rides to the classes and when Sensei said “fight!” I fought!  I pummeled the poor kid, releasing all my pent up anger and frustrations on him (there was no lack of that in middle school).  He had this frightened look in his eye that seemed to be asking me to let up or show mercy, but Sensei wasn’t having it.  “Get your hands up!  Fight back!” he yelled.  But then the neighbor boy started crying and the match was stopped.  

That may have been my last class because I lost my ride soon thereafter and there would be no transition for me from white belt to yellow belt that a few others had recently made.  Now as an adult and parent I can only surmise that my beat down of the neighbor boy was directly responsible for him quitting and/or his mother no longer giving me rides, though at the time that thought did not even cross my mind.

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There are a few other loose ends of memory that need to be tied up before I finish.

The adult assistant (who was a brown belt in Kenpo as I mentioned earlier) was highly skilled in the martial arts, even more so than the Sensei it would seem, and had likely studied other martial arts as he had an old faded black gi.  During classes he would sometimes walk around working his nunchucks at a high rate of speed which was one of the coolest things I’d ever seen.  

When we did an exhibition at the halftime of a Paoli High School basketball game he further wowed us with a crazy flying kick.  He had two men stand on chairs and hold a piece of wood between them at their head level.  It was well above his own head and nearly level with the basketball rim.  He was rather short but he ran and leapt into the air and extended his leg with a high kicking motion busting the board in two sending the pieces flying!  

It was a few years later when I was in high school that I learned he had been shot and killed in a bar.  Apparently he had gotten into a fight with someone and they knew they were outmatched and so pulled a gun and shot him.  As the song says, “for all those born beneath an angry star, lest we forget how fragile we are.”

And not too long after that I learned that poor sweet Benjy had prematurely passed as well, riding his dirt bike in the country, body thrown one last time and killed at the age of 16.