T.T. Binkley
“Enter boldly, for here too there are Gods……”
These words of Heraclitus should form the motto written on the door of the headquarters of the World Traditional Karate Organization. Don’t jump to conclusions, the editor of Shotokan World (who happens to have a vested interest in the WTKO – he’s the Chairman!) did not bribe me to begin in such a way it’s just….well, I couldn’t help myself. I’ve just spent the most illuminating day of my karate life in New York City. Forget all that tosh I wrote about videos and watching them for hours on boats pretending to be doing research and kidding yourself that it’s a form of training - as I write there’s not a muscle in my body that hasn’t just discovered its real purpose. Why is it that we never find what we seek and yet stumble upon pricelessness by sheer fluke? The truth is I’d just left Europe in hot pursuit of an actress I’d fallen head over heels for in ST Tropez of all horrid places. I had to stop over in the Big Bagel for a night en route to the City of Angels where I was going to resume my wooing of the aforementioned ingénue. Well, obviously she had other plans, as I wouldn’t be wasting my time on this computer seeking solace and distraction from the god-dam phone, which refuses to ring. Perhaps she never got my messages but…she seemed so keen…did I err on her schedule? Was it LA or SF where her agent lived? Her cell-phone must have been stolen! Christ! Someone might have told her my age! I feel hopeless and stupid but .…I digress; I’ll continue the story.
I was in one of those moods on my one night in NYC when I wanted to talk shop, that is karate, but wasn’t sure if I actually really and genuinely wanted to train right after crossing the pond on a commercial flight. I had the best of intentions, you know, my gi was rolled up in my bag, etc, but, gosh darn it, what a shame - it was Saturday night and there weren’t no dojos open. Whew! I couldn’t exactly take a class at Mr. Mori’s ‘cos there wasn’t one at that time and besides they have less warmth there than Parisian waiters do at midnight in the cinqieme and no doubt wouldn’t have let me in to train anyway (after all, I’ve said heinous things about encouraging youth and originality), so I decided to invite the Chairman of the WTKO, John Mullin, for a drink at my hotel. I told him which one and he said, “woah, c’est tres haute-luxe” (or words to that effect) and decided to join me. To be honest I’d never spoken to John above and beyond the usual stiff and semi-chummy ossing that goes on when you recognize someone but have no idea what to say to them at the start of a karate class. Anyway, we began by chatting about his commitment to training and he gushingly told me of how he can’t wait to get to the dojo each day in order to flesh out this point or work that muscle into its proper role, or how his stretching must take priority this week because his keage in Sochin is finally starting to hit the spot. Now, I’ve been around a bit and seen my share of tired old karate geezers in their 40’s (even 30’s?) talking about deserving respect for what they once did (which naturally no one living can remember) and yet here was no spring chicken (sorry John but I know that hitting 50 must be a VERY distant memory for you) who was brimming over with a schoolboy’s enthusiasm and talking about the TEACHING aspect having positive ramifications for the real business of training. We gabbed on and on. I had no idea of his fondness for very expensive brandy and several hours later feeling its buoyant effects, I expressed my regret that I’d be unable to train with him during this trip as my flight was leaving the following morning. “Umm, when do you fly?” he asked innocently. Devoid of any guile, I replied 11:30. “Excellent! You can train after all, we’re meeting at 9 a few blocks from your hotel”. Forcing a grin I surreptitiously glanced from my snifter to my watch and felt my throat go dry. I said yes but was thinking of the mot de Cambronne. I’d heard mention that the WTKO execs worked out together.
Of course I’d trained a couple of times with these guys before but in group classes fer crissakes where I could blend in with the crowd and when I hadn’t just spent 10 days wining and dining and making a fool of myself on the Riviera, and here I was about to train with the four key figures in their private instructor class. Although I’m a coward, I still have some pride and showed up to what I thought would end in ridicule and unwanted bruises (remember I thought I had a hot date that evening). Well, boy was I in for a surprise. Sure the training was physically demanding but, and here’s the rub, not a thing was done that wasn’t part of a seemingly master plan of progression and understanding. Richard Amos (clearly the main inspiration and in charge of the training) kept barking essentials and led the discussions on the whys and wherefores but the remarkable aspect was the evolutionary attitude of the group as a whole. Certain kata details were dropped as insignificant due to the relationship of the body’s need to refine and the meaning of the movement itself; techniques were chiseled into what became obvious core principles that cut through nonsensities dismissed merely as habit; applications were thrashed over with rapid-fire references to so many sources (I was only vaguely aware of) that the mind spun, and all the time these guys were sweating buckets and checking up on each other with good natured criticism. I naturally lapped it up but contributed no more than saying oss about a thousand times while making mental notes to change everything I’ve ever done (that’s 40+ years of traipsing all over slugging it out with the brutes) because, folks, I’d been brought “the word”.
I feel peculiar writing this with no cutting censure, which is totally out of character, but these boys (well the oldest IS several years younger than I) impressed me no end.
In view of my current and unplanned solitary circumstances I can even forgive the sore ribs/stomach/chest/forearm (and one perfectly circular purple point in the very center of my chin courtesy of an Amos gyaku-zuki) I received during the 20 minutes of jiyu-kumite as we warmed up. My first shock was expecting to be handled with kid gloves by VanVeen whose mae-geri, with grave naivety, I thought I’d block. I just winced again as I recall the pain that shot up my arm, down my spine and made my toes go numb. Later on I missed completely an equally strong ushiro-geri from Amos and braced for the imminent rib crunching but at the last moment it was pulled and merely grazed my gi. Perhaps VanVeen would’ve controlled his kick too, had I not grossly misjudged my ability to parry it. I was allowed a rest but still felt very much alert and a part of it and kept my eyes skinned. Amos was having a hurried word with Mullin (why didn’t they feel the need to rest?) before commencing at full pelt; Serricchio was now with VanVeen and chuckling as he wrapped him up with assorted, well….what can only be described as a bunch of figure of eights followed by a lanyard hitch and a sheepshank. Did I say warm up? We then got on to the serious business of kihon, kata, questions, more kata and on and on and before I knew it I’d missed my flight, my dinner and my chances of recaptured youth with a beautiful, sweet thing.
However, all was not lost. I’d discovered that traditional karate is truly a Darwinian process and not just dumbly doing what you were told 30 years ago and, that knowledge is tormenting in the extreme: I now no longer have an excuse not to improve!