There was an attempt to…know Kung Fu (Part 1 of 2)

Chapter 1: The Karate Kid

I was six years old and my parents were looking for an activity to get me out of my head and move about a bit more. I had shown no interest in sports, and I was a small and frankly nerdy child. In their infinite wisdom, they decided that learning some form of martial arts may be a way for me to stay fit, learn self-discipline and to teach me skills that may help protect me when the inevitable bullying would start in later life.  And so I became a student of karate.

In my head, I pictured emerging from the class being able to break planks of wood with my bare hands, perform flying roundhouse kicks on gangs of criminal assailants and even to get a chance to swing a nunchuck or two. It turns out that the reality was much more mundane, and involved significantly less waxing of cars or painting of fences than the movies had led me to believe.  The majority of the classes were all about learning new and interesting ways to whack someone with your feet and hands, and putting these moves together in choreographed routines called “katas”.  As it turned out, I quite enjoyed this.  There were, however,  two unescapable elements I distinctly remember not enjoying; gradings and combat.

As the lessons progressed, there was a chance to level up, which was known as grading. An external assessor would visit and determine if your skills were up to a requisite standard, and if you passed the test, it would result in receiving a different coloured karate belt in acknowledgement of your prowess.  However, my grading instructor was the most intense individual I have ever known in my life, and he absolutely terrified me.  He was a short and advancing in years, but he gave off distinct vibes that he was as hard as fuck. During these grading sessions, he would stalk the pupils around the dojo,  silently judging you with a glowering menace, like the Paul Hollywood of the martial arts world. Every now and again, he would casually walk up to a pupil and firmly grab an arm or leg, and move it ever so slightly into what he deemed to be the 100% correct position, never saying a word the entire time.  It made me so nervous that I remember skipping at least a few of these grading sessions, preferring to stay at my current level rather than dealing with the stress of facing Mr Miyagi’s evil twin. 

After spending the majority of time kicking and punching air, portions of the classes were dedicated to trying out these skills on real-life opponents in the form of your fellow students. I’m generally against putting myself into situations where I’m going to feel pain, and whilst contact was kept to safe minimum, the fear of getting hit would be overwhelming. My most successful bout occurred one time when, as the signal was given to fight, a surge of adrenaline kicked in and I just started screaming “AAAAGGHHHH!” whilst moving towards my opponent and unleashing a flurry of punches. This unhinged element of surprise worked to perfection once and once only. Subsequent opponents would catch on to my “Crouching Tiger, Screaming Nutter” technique, and simply step out of my way, before landing a few killer blows to win the contest. In truth, these blows did not need to be too lethal or too near me- I tended to employ the “fainting goat” defence to preserve my fragile features and end the torture quickly.

Compared to my other attempts at having a hobby at this age, I actually kept up the classes for a few years, to the point where I was one step away from getting that prized milestone in martial arts, the infamous black belt. Then, despite being so close to this goal and for reasons I genuinely can’t remember, I suddenly quit. I was never to don the angry white pyjamas again. Or so I thought….