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EXCERPT FROM THE BOOK:
MOST PEOPLE TALK BULLSHIT
- One Primate's Search For Intelligent Life
Cold Showers and Yoga's
Not Working, So How About Judo
A
life-long friend of mine named Jon convinced me to take up Judo.
The first time we were exposed to it was while watching Mr.
Chang conduct a Judo class at Valley Forge Shopping Center; To
Jon and I, what he did seemed like magic. After he was through
with his class, he invited Jon and me to come in and chat with
him. We ended up trying some of our best single and double-leg
takedowns on Mr. Chang, but he was able to sweep us high into
the air without the use of his hands. Thankfully he did use them
to grab us on the way down in order to ease our fall. Mr. Chang
reeled us in hook, line and sinker.
Jon and I both took Tae kwon do and Judo twice a week. In
addition, Mr. Chang gave Jon and me private lessons each
Saturday. He taught Tae kwon do to Jon, (Jon was so frigging
fast), and private lessons of Judo to me, for free. He gave the
free lessons to us because he thought Jon had the potential to
be a world class Tae kwon do player. He also felt I had the
potential to be world class Judo player—or so he told us.
I was
so fast and strong at that age that I could literally beat most
of the other judo students, all of the brown belts and most of
the black belts. I could literally pick up the opponents with
superior skill so quickly and slam them into the mat before they
could employ any technique.
I remember my first private lesson. Mr. Chang looked like a
Korean Chales Bronsen and was very polite and spoke in a deep
but quiet voice. He also had a very thick Korean accent and had
the usual trouble pronouncing L’s and R’s.
Closing the curtains to the viewing window, he would smile and
simply say, “I don’t want people to see how I break you.” Then
he would lock the door while looking back at me, chuckling, “I
lock the door so you can not escape."
Then he turned up the music really loud and said, “I turn up the
music so people won’t hear your scleems (screams)”, as he
continued to chuckle. I thought Mr. Chang was funny, yet during
those sessions I was always nervous. The first time he did this
the fear centers of my brain were amply stimulated.
Several times when Mr. Chang and I tussled, he would chuckle and
say, “Now I will send you to your Jesus (He was a Buddhist).”
Mr. Chang had a very developed sense of humor, though a bit
devilish.
The Saturday private sessions always pushed me harder than any
of the wrestling workouts I had been forced to endure. Mr. Chang
never showed mercy. I believe he just wanted good sized, rugged
men to fill in as practice dummies. Looking back, I realize I
spent a lot of money to get my ass kicked.
Mr. Chang kept telling me that a lot of power comes from proper
breathing, that most potential power comes not only from
breathing properly, but also around the navel area.
Trying to show off my knowledge I said, “Oh, you mean that that
is where our center of gravity is, our main fulcrum.”
He smiled as if he knew what I was doing and said, “Yes, it is
the center of gravity and the center for hip throws, but it is
also a power source center.” I had trouble understanding what he
meant.
I said, “You mean like in yoga?”
He grunted, “I don’t know about Yoga.”
You
Are Strong Like Bull! Now I Send You To Your Jesus!
I knew whatever he was talking about was working for him.
Whenever we practiced, he would toy with me as if I were a doll.
Mr. Chang was my height and built stocky. He wasn’t as strong as
me and never demonstrated that he was much faster. However,
when we practiced, I would use all the speed, strength, and
endurance I could muster, but to Mr. Chang my efforts seemed
almost unnoticeable.
The entire time he laughed joyously, his voice almost singing in
delight, as he’d say, “Good, velly good! You are strong… strong
like bull!”
After being thrown, and strangled a half dozen times, I would
stand in front of him, my whole body trembling from total
exhaustion, lungs gasping hungrily for air, my entire body
drenched in so much sweat I would be standing in a pool of it.
Mr. Chang however, would be breathing slowly, deeply, and
easily, with only one bead of sweat on his forehead to show for
his effort. Except for mussed hair, he always looked fresh as a
daisy.
Smiling and tapping my navel with the palm of his hand, he would
say, “Your power is here. Focus and breath like this.” Then he
would show me how he breathed. He told me, “Practice whenever
you get chance.”
Whenever he thought I was dogging it, he would throw me to the
ground, putting a choke lock on me. He rarely knocked me out, as
that would have been too merciful. Instead, he choked me until I
looked like Vito Corleone’s main hit man, Luca Brazio getting
garroted. My face would be bloated and purple, eyes bulging and
tongue lolling out as my chest suffered involuntary spasms.
Before I passed out, he would allow enough blood and air in to
keep me conscious. I was always afraid that he would someday
have a mental breakdown and actually kill me, accidentally or
not.
In my mind’s eye, I could see him holding the phone in one hand
and my ghee twisted around my throat in the other, saying,
“Hello Mrs. Chimera, I am solly to say, yowl son is dead!”
Over the years I have often thought back to these lessons with
Mr. Chang and various other instructors. I never did become a
dangerous marital artist. I had too many things working against
me that kept me from achieving any level of proficiency. Some
were out of my control, but most were my own fault.
I was
not as consistent as I should have been. When injured, I could
have worked my body and learned things to do around the injury.
The biggest stumbling block was my pride, which kept me from
taking chances, because I wanted to win. Taking chances leaves
you open to failure (and winning). Ultimately, and ironically,
by not taking chances, the end result was that I failed
completely. In the final analysis I paid good money to provide
my instructors a willing practice dummy. What a deal!
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