LESSON LEARNED

I gave a seminar at ACS Karate in Tempe, Arizona the first part of May, several years ago, and had an opportunity to relive the past and remember a lesson that was given to me.  All lessons come with a price tag.  Some lessons are paid for by check or credit card, but the most valuable lessons can be free, even though free lessons can often times put a serious dent in your ego.  One of the attendees at my weapons clinic was someone that I had not seen in decades. We started jabbering away, getting each other caught up on our respective lives.  George Holmes, who is now a karate instructor in the Phoenix area, was displaying his phenomenal memory by recounting in detail every tournament that he had ever fought in, bringing back memories of the ‘old days’, suddenly I got a flash of déjà vu.  I remembered that George was someone who had taught me a valuable, painful, humiliating and ‘free’ lesson long ago.

In the mid-seventies (I was very, very young) I had met with some success, in California and Nevada, on the tournament circuit in the black belt division, kumite. I liked to scrap and the banging and clanging that went on in the upper divisions suited me to a T. Now I know that some readers are thinking that this is one of those, ”the older I get, the better I was” stories, but I had really won a lot of fights. In fact, I was good enough that I, and some of my dojo mates, were sponsored by a restaurant chain (which is a whole other story because the business in question was Sambo’s). I was feeling pretty darn sure of myself when it came to fighting.  Actually I was cocksure. I was buying-bigger-hats cocksure.

There was a tournament being held in Carson City, Nevada and I entered it with a feeling of certainty that I would win my division.  After all, the tournament was in my backyard and I didn’t have to travel far, so I would be rested.  In addition I had beaten everyone that was going to be fighting in this local tournament.  I trained as I normally did, hard. So I can’t put what happened at the doorstep of poor training.  Some of my wife’s family had come to town to see the sights, and I told them to come to the tournament and as soon as I fought for grand champion we would show them around the area.  I did mention ‘cocksure’ didn’t I?

So the stage was set; a large group of my in-laws were in the stands, looking forward to seeing me open up a large can of ‘whuppin’ on everyone. I certainly did not say anything to them that would make them doubt the outcome. In fact I’m sure I said just the opposite.  I was warmed up and ready to mete out punishment (there was little or no protective gear worn then, and contact was given a great deal of latitude; if you weren’t bleeding or knocked out, it wasn’t contact).  I don’t remember who my first opponent was, but I remember meeting mine, as well as my relatives, expectations, and finishing the fight quick. The next opponent I drew was George Holmes.  Now George and I came from different dojos, different systems, different towns, different everything. We had tangled before and my thought process was simple (I know, I know). “No sweat”, I said to myself.  “Done it before, going to do it again. Whuppin time!”

I don’t have George’s memory, so I can not give a blow by blow account of every facet of our match, but I do remember a look of determination on George’s face that I had not seen before. And I remember thinking that something was different, after our first no-point clash. The difference was, I was looking at George as a victim, he was looking at me as an opponent, and a not very bright one at that.  He was fighting someone that he had not beaten before, I was fighting the old George.  Have you ever heard the expression, “beaten like a red-headed step-child”?  Does “whipped like a rented mule” sound familiar?  Well, after the third or fourth clash I was thinking to myself, “this guy is sooo not impressed at all by my reputation.”  He was not following my fight plan.  He was not doing the same techniques that he had done before, and worse yet, he was winning. That was not my fight plan.  The curtain closed on the one technique that I recall to this day.  George faked a back fist and swung his hand down for a ridge hand to my very surprised groin.  I vividly remember seeing the look of glee on the face of George’s instructor (which was hard to do because he was madly jumping up and down in celebration), and I also remember the look of dismay on my instructor’s face.

Speaking of looks. My brother-in-law wore a smirk that did not come off for years. Well the short of it was that I got to show the in-laws the local sights much sooner than I had planned.  I ate humble pie and it left a very bitter taste in my mouth, and the ‘free’ lesson was to never, never, let my ego run away again.  The funny thing was that in all of the reminiscing that George was doing, when we were catching up, he never once mentioned kicking my butt.

So remember, when you are patting yourself on the back, strutting around like the cock-of-the-walk there is a George lurking around the corner to humble you. And when you start to get a big head about your perceived abilities, there will be a George waiting to slap your fat head down to size. And your ‘George’ will do it for free, just like mine did.  The one difference between a paid for lesson and a free lesson is that the freebie should always require a thank you.

Thank you George, thank you brother, thank you Sensei for the lesson well taught and learned.