What Keeps a Middle Aged Man Practicing His Martial Art?

I started taekwondo when I was forty years old. I am now 45 and still practicing—and this even though I got my blackbelt. Even though I live in a small town with the dojang I attend being the only martial arts school around, I have seen many would-be students start and then quit. I have even seen several who put in the time and effort to obtain their black belt quit practicing. After having seen all this quitting, I have to ask myself, why do I continue?

I understand that five years in the martial arts isn’t very long, but as an adult who has achieved the most common goal—that of earning a black belt—and having no other clear goal continuing on is something of a wonder to myself. I’ve been thinking about what would seem to me to be the most typical reasons a grown man would continue in the martial arts. These are listed below.

Self-defense—Unarmed self-defense is a good thing for anyone to know. Most everyone would agree with this. Even so, most don’t practice any form of it. While it is good that I practice self-defense I have never been in a physical altercation in my life and my daily habits rarely take me into situations where I could reasonably foresee a situation where practicing self-defense would save my life. Fear of physical altercation is not what keeps me practicing self-defense.

Competition—Although my dojang is closely associated with Olympic Style taekwondo schools and with people who have Olympic aspirations, at forty-five I am far past the age where I can reasonably dream of making the Olympic team. There are other, less lofty, competitions, but the over-forty competitive ranks are thin and in my opinion competing in those ranks would be rather meaningless. I do like to spar in the Olympic Style because it is challenging and fun, but competing in official competitions just isn’t important to me. Competition does not keep me practicing taekwondo.

Teaching—I would love to gain the experience and right to open my own school and teach. I have the highest respect for outstanding teachers in any field, not just martial arts. The idea of becoming an outstanding martial arts teacher is very appealing to me, but in my current situation it is not a viable option. I have eight children. The youngest is just one years old. These children need food, shelter, and insurance. I live in an unpopulated, rural area that can barely support the school that I attend. Opening a martial arts school is a very risky venture on any level, but gambling the welfare of my family on the success of a school would be a bad gamble. This is especially so since there is not room for another school where I live and I don’t want to move. I do have the opportunity to teach within the school I attend, but due to my job and the long distance I commute I can only get in one or two hours a week. Becoming a great martial arts teacher is still a dream, but not one I can yet find a way to realize and is not what keeps me practicing taekwondo.

Delusions—Quite often I have seen middle aged men and women at various martial arts events who appear, well . . . strange. They strike me as living some sort of Bruce Lee dream. It is okay for the young to pursue the arts and it is okay for the old to teach and mentor, but when the older appear to be in pursuit of the martial arts it comes across like the forty-five year old man with the comb-over in the Porsche. It hurts me to admit this, but I know that I came across this way as I worked my way through the colored belts. I was super enthusiastic and devoted to my martial art. In the dojang I scurried about just like one of the young children—I was the same as them, just thirty-eight years older. As I look back, some of the enthusiastic memories make me shake my head a little in embarrassment, but even so I make no apologies. Although I still love taekwondo, the naïve notions that supported my over-enthusiastic behavior are gone now and I see only the hard work that lies ahead to maintain the skills and knowledge I have obtained. Dreams of becoming a super action hero are not what keep me practicing taekwondo.

Why?—Now that I have pushed aside the most assumable reasons of why I, a middle-aged man, keeps practicing taekwondo I want to look at some of the less assumable, but more accurate, reasons that keep me practicing.

Family—I have several children who practice taekwondo. I have never been able to sit back and watch my children do anything. I can never resist the temptation to join in with them. Whether it is juggling, chess, parties, computer games, or what not I want to do these things with my children and not just watch them. It was watching my children in the dojang soon after my wife enrolled them that got me interested in taekwondo in the first place. Now we all practice taekwondo together. Taekwondo is a family thing. As long as it promotes a healthy family lifestyle I have a reason to practice taekwondo.

Health—I am in so much better heath today than I was before I started taekwondo. My endurance, flexibility, and general strength are much greater. I have shed many an extra pound. Although practicing taekwondo doesn’t give me all the exercise I need, it gives me the motivation to engage in a personal exercise regime that includes many activities that increase my health. It is true that I could lead a healthy lifestyle without taekwondo, but I can find no other activity that engages my imagination like taekwondo does. As long as I feel it is increasing my health and quality of life I will keep practicing taekwondo.

Friends—Beehive Martial Arts has become a second family to me. I like the people I work out with. More than like them, I care about them. My association with my instructor, his family, and the other students adult and young alike enrich my life. As long as I get this enrichment I will keep practicing taekwondo.

Happiness—Taekwondo workouts make me happy. Other exercises do not. I ride bike. I lift weights. I run. I swim. But although these are good for me and I am glad I do them, they do not make me happy like a taekwondo workout does. A taekwondo workout includes much more than just exercise. There is the military structure of being pushed by an instructor mixed with acts of respect and honor. There is the wide range of physical activities that include forms, techniques, calisthenics, sparring, not to mention more creative activities. There is the camaraderie of fellow students cheering each other on as we work through things that are difficult for us. All of this put together brings a happiness to my heart and I leave after each workout with a smile on my face and a feeling of health and life. As long as it brings me happiness I will continue practicing taekwondo.

As mentioned at the beginning I have been practicing taekwondo for only six years. This is just a short period of time. The things I have said will have much more weight if I am still practicing taekwondo in another six years. I sincerely hope I will be because I cannot imagine my life being better if I am not. There are many things that could happen that could get in the way. I could be injured. The school I attend could close (and there are no others around). The school could change hands and I might not get along with the new owners. The list could go on and on. I know that ideally the martial art needs to be in my heart and that I can practice taekwondo on my own, but realistically I know that without a dojang to encourage me, my ability to seriously keep practicing taekwondo will be substantially curtailed. In the future, my reasons for practicing taekwondo may change. But for now, the above reasons are carrying me onward and making my life a more wonderful experience.

Siren's Song

May 1 2006

Dear Dojang,

An interesting phenomenon occurs here in the mission schedule. During the week I have only one day I can really write letters, and this is typically so busy with writing, chores, errands, and other tasks of “preparation” that I might have only half an hour for a given letter. Now, I can hardly write a decent letter in that time and it will take me several sittings to complete the letter: so, in one letter taking one hour, two weeks might easily pass by. And so, despite my efforts I find that far too long has passed by between this and my last.

Things go well here. Still located in Casper I’ve put over 720 miles on my shoes during my work here. Though it sounds like quite a bit of walking, it no longer seems strenuous. At times it is downright pleasant, walking through warm sun or quiet evening with the continual Casper breeze blowing by.

But now that the challenge of long walks and aching legs, of tender fee feet threatening to blister has gone and is no longer daunting, I found a new threat has snuck in: that of complacency. The walking has become such a matter of routine, such a comfortable part of the schedule, that we do it more and more. If we are not careful we find ourselves spending more time walking than anything else. When we are no sure what to do or where to go, we might walk. Even, sometimes, when the opportunity arises to try something new or to save time, missionaries might put it aside in order to continue in the comfortable familiar. Every taekwondo practitioner knows the name of this: a comfort zone.

Comfort zones are a dangerous thing and they have a way of sneaking up on you. Like the Sirens in Greek Mythology, it’s easy to be mesmerized by the song and lulled away to destruction—or, in this case, uselessness.

But I have found that there is a great solution: that‘s what our leaders are for. When companions can’t slap each other out of the daze we have a district leader to watch us from a little distance and push us when we start to coast. And he has zone leaders to APs to Mission President and so on up the line.

In taekwondo comfort zones are just as sneaky and every bit as dangerous. I can think of three major zones that I had to get through to come the short distance I have in taekwondo, and I think everyone deals with more or less the same ones in the road to blackbelt.

The first is that of starting. Facing this identical problem in a different sphere, I think I can say I have a full understanding of what difficulties and concerns an instructor goes through with new students. Regardless of which background someone comes from you can be sure that these will be something new and “uncomfortable” for them upon joining a martial art. To pull through this the investigator must catch a glimpse of what it could mean to them—be it health, fellowship, competition, or a childhood dream—and then be willing to make the commitment and the change.

For me, I think this one wasn’t as hard as it is for some people. I saw what I liked, I knew what I wanted, and the support and leadership was instantly there.

The second comfort zone comes somewhere along the path to blackbelt sometimes early and sometimes a little later. For me it was almost exactly half-way: blue belt. Some people might pass this zone more than once on the way up. It happens when the student begins to develop some skills and starts to find out what he or she is “good at”—at least enough to start leaning on these talents and coasting. As with all of these zones, people often quit here. They can’t figure out how to change gears. This zone cost me several months of training.

Getting through the “middle zone” meant remembering why I had started in the first place. I had to pick up the same “tools” that I had used to pull through the first time and add to them the knowledge of what it had come to mean to me. I realized that it had come to mean a lot.

That re-forging experience carried me a long way and the things I had to realize have become driving forces. They carried me through to the last.

This last one is tricky, and maybe meets the siren metaphor most truly.

It is said that the blackbelt represents the vast unexplored reaches of space. For many passing through those zones and breaking through the colorful atmospheres they feel they are done: having made the trip out they are done and ready to make re-entry into their old comfort zones. When I meet those who have done this who say, “Oh, yeah, I got a black belt once,” I’m not sure what to do—whether they are to be laughed at or cried for. What a waste.

But there is another threat: that upon reaching space we will find ourselves adrift without direction. And this threat is most dangerous because it is a constant; at any moment we may find ourselves running low and then we are in danger of losing direction.

This is the very moment when we need most to take up those things that carried us through before and brandish them anew; and add to them continually, growing in purpose and plain moo-do spirit. And this is the time I have seen that we need each other the most, to boot each other out of our ruts and pull each other out of the zones.

I hope things are going as well for you in the dojang as they are here. I continue to go through my forms daily and to stretch two or three times a day. I guess that the push-ups I’m doing must be for Clory and McKayla now that Stormy has made it to blackbelt.

Though I’m a long time from seeing any of you, your letters and news continue to boot me out of any ruts and keep me practicing. I hope you are retaining the same love and passion for the art and the dojang that I do.

Until next time,

Keep your kicks high and your spirits higher!

Your black belt in a suit,

Elder T.S Anderson

First Battle

I was a white belt when I sparred in my first tournament. I remember it well. Unfortunately we recorded the entire thing on tape. White belt sparring is ugly sparring—kind of a brawl with the legs and a lot of pushing. This is especially true in the over 35, heavyweight crowd. It may be humorous to those watching (if they can stand the embarrassment of it), but to the white belts in the ring it’s dead serious.

I was 40 years old and about 250 pounds. I was big, but kind of a wimp. Never before had I been in a fight where blows had been exchanged. It didn’t take more than angry words aimed my direction to intimidate me. In spite of all this I found myself on that fateful day geared up sitting on the edge of the ring. I was terrified. I knew that they didn’t allow people to kill each other at these tournaments. I knew generally that injuries didn’t amount to more than bruises. Knowing this just didn’t matter. I was going to get in the ring with a stranger who was going to rain physical blows upon my person . . . and knockouts were allowed. The way I saw things, it all added up to a fight for my life.

When my turn came I went to my side of the ring where my coach met me. I had never met this person before although I would get to know her much better later. I’m not sure how she became to be my coach that day. She sat me down, looked me in the eye, and said, “I know your opponent and he kicks hard.” Those are just the words I wanted to hear. Forfeiting the fight never occurred to me, but passing out was still on the card. My head was spinning and I was already breathing hard. She had sparred my opponent a week before at his dojang and knew personally how hard he kicked. She gave me some advice, none of which got past the wall of fear in my brain, and then the referee called me out on the mat.

My opponent was a mean looking red head. He was shorter than me, but a stocky, strong looking man. As the referee stood in his front stance with his hand between us I transitioned completely into survival mode. This wasn’t a contest to see if I could get through his defenses and score points. No, he was going to attack me and I had to survive somehow. The thought of winning by points never entered my mind. If I could walk out of the ring I would be a winner. When the referee gave the command to “Begin!” the world began to whirl. I can’t remember details, but I know we circled each other exchanging loads of ugly roundhouses, push kicks, and what may have looked like back kicks if you turned your head sideways and squinted. The break came between rounds and my coach sat me down and gave me some advice none of which I could hear over the sound of my heart and my gasps for air.

The second round went much the same as the first round. I fought for my life throwing as many kicks as I could and receiving what seemed like more. Just about the moment I was ready to pass out from exhaustion and let my opponent finish me off the referee jumped in and the match was over. What a feeling. I was still alive. I was still standing. I don’t think you can imagine how surprised I was when the referee raised my arm as the winner. I hadn’t just survived—I had won!

I almost floated out of the ring. My elation didn’t come from winning, but from honorably completing a contest that I had greatly feared. Many people I know have been in fights while growing up. I had never thrown a punch or had one thrown at me my entire life. Being attacked was a nightmare scenario for me. For me, this match wasn’t just a sparring contest--it was me meeting one of my greatest fears. When the match was over I was a different person. The world was just a little bit more manageable. I walked a bit taller wherever I went.

My heart sank a bit when I was told that because I had won this round I had to fight another match for the division championship. It was my first opponent’s big brother. Somehow I came out on top that time too. When I watch the video with my kids they laugh because all during both matches my hands, clenched in fists, are shaking quite visibly. They showed how scared I was. But being afraid doesn’t matter to me. What matters to me was that in spite of my fear I had entered the ring and unflinchingly fought my best

Brokeback Taekwondo?

I really look forward to my TKD workouts in the evenings. Sometimes you wouldn’t know it by looking at me or even by listening to me when I arrive, but I do. I work 50 miles north of my dojang and have to drive straight to the dojang from work. Often I am a little late depending on whether I was able to get out of the office on time and if the traffic was running smoothly. I depend on my family and fellow TKDers to bring my dobok and gear with them when they come in. They are coming in from 10 miles to the south of the dojang. As you can tell we live out in the boonies and making appointments isn’t easy. What doesn’t help is the fact that we have eight children. This fact can complicate the simplest plan. So what does all this have to do with “Brokeback TKD?” Hang on, I’m getting there.

Like any serious martial arts practitioner who has hard workouts I have to wash my dobok between each workout. Again this wouldn’t really be a problem except that we have mountains of laundry at our house and finding what you need isn’t always easy. In the mornings rush to get my kids to school and get myself 60 miles to work I don’t have time to mount an expedition to find my TKD clothes in the mountains of clean laundry. I depend on one of my kids to mount that expedition for me during the day, put my TKD clothes into my bag, and then bring it with them when they come into their earlier classes. There have been times when my clothes have not arrived and I found myself sitting on the sidelines watching a great workout instead of participating in the great workout.

Yesterday it was my nine-year-old daughter who mounted the expedition for my TKD clothes. She searched valiantly and found what she thought were my black Hapkido pants which I sometimes wear with my white TKD top. She was quite proud of herself for not letting me down and having my bag ready. However, when I ran into class a couple of minutes late, as usual, and pulled my clothes out of my bag in the changing room I noticed that my black pants were of a thinner material than I remembered—and they had pockets. Clearly my young daughter had made a mistake and these weren’t my black hapkido pants. I was very disappointed thinking that I was going to miss another good workout. But then I thought that at least I could try them on. If they fit acceptably I could still get in my workout. I was pretty certain they were my wife’s, but they were black and most likely no one would notice. To my surprise they fit. Well, it wasn’t a good fit—they were a little short and they were tight around the calves, but the elastic waist stretched out to fit my waist. I did notice that they were a little tight in the crotch and I wasn’t going to be able to do any high kicks, but I wasn’t going to have to miss the workout!

As I walked out of the changing room I noticed everyone was getting their sparring gear on. That made me feel even better about making the workout because I don’t get enough sparring in. I was right, no one noticed I was wearing my wife’s black dress slacks. I had to strap my shin guards on the outside of the pants because they were too tight around the calves to go over the shin guards. Again no one seemed to think anything of this. We did some line sparring to start things out. I liked the way the slacks felt. No, it wasn’t because they brought out my feminine side, but because they were so light. They gave me the illusion that I was kicking faster.

When we finally got to free sparring I fought a young green belt and taught him a thing or two about being predictable and rushing in to attack. When the Sabunim ended the match I walked off the mat feeling pretty good—I had kicked more than I got kicked. The endorphins were kicking in inside my brain. It was then that my luck ran out.

A female green-stripe who had watched from the sidelines was motioning frantically to me and whispering. I couldn’t figure out why she was whispering in such a noisy place. I thought maybe she was trying to give me some advice or something. I didn’t want to hear any advice from a lower belt and just looked her way and nodded even though I hadn’t heard what she said. She was motioning to her backside and pointing at me. What? What could she possibly mean? I grabbed at my backside not knowing what I’d find. I admit I raised my eyebrows when I felt, not the nice dressy material of my wife’s dress pants, but the not-so-dressy feel of my underwear. I had ripped my wife’s dress pants. This was no little rip in the crotch, this was a chasm from the crotch to the calf. I don’t know how everyone else missed it. Maybe they hadn’t missed it and were just being kind, but on the other hand I’m pretty sure they all would have burst out laughing if they had seen it.

“Mr. Jerman,” I said. He was on the mat getting ready to spar a young student. “I won’t be able to spar you later. It wouldn’t be decent.” He caught on pretty quick and gave me a thumbs-up—and a grin. Now everyone laughed. We have a pretty close school and everyone is comfortable with each other. At least the Laverys weren’t there. They would have rolled on the floor and wet the mat with tears of laughter. I got lucky and Mrs. Jerman found an extra pair of Mr. Jerman’s pants that I was able to put on and still get in my sparring match with Mr. Jerman. It sure didn’t help much with the laughter when I came out with the “Superior” logo that was supposed to be on the front on the back. It just wasn’t my night.

My daughter told my wife all about the night’s proceedings when we got home. She was horrified. It wasn’t so much that I had ripped her nice dress pants as much as it was that I was able to get them on in the first place. That is a miracle. She is only 5’3” and I am 6’1”. I am 230 pounds and she is a lot less. It was a miracle that I was able to pull them on. Or maybe it was just a horrible accident waiting to happen. Whatever it was, I will never forget the night I wore women’s clothes to Taekwondo. I don’t suppose the rest of the dojang will either.

Letter from Blackbelt in a Suit

February 25, 2006

Dear Dojang,

It has a nice ring to it, doesn’t it? “Dear Dojang.” How are things going Mr. and Mrs. Jerman? I regret not writing sooner. I’ve been meaning to for a long time, but have had difficulties managing my time with these schedules; I only have a few hours on one day of the week to write.

So, what was the Sabonim perspective of the tournament? From my “sources” I heard and got the impression that it was an overall good experience, with some very tough competition. What schools attended and which of our students competed?

Thus far I think I’m doing all right here. I am able to do a full stretch daily and go through my forms 5 times a week. And I’m doing push ups like a red-belt. I’m going for 100 per day, though not in one try yet.

It’s a little cramped doing them here in our little living-room, but it was nice at the MTC, where there was a large gym. The first time there I went through all my forms on the empty volleyball court; after that I had complete strangers calling me “karate kid” in the lunch hall and dorms.

Another great thing about the MTC was the 6’6” door ways; after 4 hours of sitting in a classroom, kicking the top of a door frame felt great.

Things are quite different here. Whatever muscles walking uses, they get a workout here; on normal days we walk about six miles. The eight inches of snow make it interesting, too. I often find myself thinking of Mr. Jerman in Iraq. I’m gaining a new appreciation for what he did and how much effort it takes to keep any TKD up. Of course things are much easier here. I don’t have long marches, screaming drill sergeants, or people trying to knife me.

I find I am going into TKD withdrawals. There is nothing to kick and my companion is too nice a guy. And I can’t go sizing up the people on the streets because I’m trying to figure out how to talk to them about the Gospel. Envisioning how to boot them in the head just wouldn’t be very Christ-like. So instead we have dogs. There are tons of dogs here. About 80% of the houses here have dogs. I haven’t been able to kick any of them yet, but I sure have been thinking about it. When I get back I’ll have to start a dog defense class—it could be called “kick the poodle!”

Things have been going great here, and I love the work. As you know, I’m a pretty focused person and I’m not the home-sick type. But the times I feel it the most are when I’m stretching in the mornings. It turns out this gives a lot of time for thinking and my thoughts always drift back to my second family and my second home.

Taekwondo has become a big part of my life. It has become part of who I am. Looking back I realize that TKD is a big part of why I am now here, and I am regularly reminded of the things I’ve gained from it. Taekwondo prepared me for this more than I could have imagined in the last 3.5 years. I have never understood those who see it as a threat to their faith or religion; it has only strengthened mine.

As missionaries we are called to stand as representatives and witnesses of God. For some this is a very difficult change, but less so for me. I have already learned to stand tall and keep my head up; to act with honor and respect. Yes, I will always be improving on these, but the only real change was that of a dobok for a suit, and a blackbelt for a tie.

We strive to show courtesy in every action and word; as Mr. Jerman said, I am learning the true meaning of service.

When we teach, we must do so with integrity. It is impossible to teach or even talk effectively otherwise. Any loss of self-control as a missionary would be inexcusable though there are plenty of opportunities for it when we are dealing with drunks, the willfully ignorant, and slammed doors.

Perseverance has become daily fare now at least for me. I’ve never had to work something like 10:00 am - 9:00 pm before and it’s an experience. But knowing how to “suck it up and drive on” has really helped, and things that probably would have worn me down before are okay now. Tired as I may be at the end of the day, I am happy to rise in the morning and see what God has in store for me.

But the tenet which has come to mean the most to me here is “Indomitable Spirit.” Of course, “spirit” takes on a whole knew meaning in the work of God. I have found that Indomitable Spirit is made up of faith and hope, two of the three great virtues spoken of in Moroni 7, and which we need always in the work.

So, how is everyone? Are there many new students? I certainly miss my “second family.” I wish I could see everyone again. How are those Hyung forms coming?

Well, until next time. My thoughts and prayers are with you.

Keep your kicks high and your spirits higher

Elder Anderson

Your Blackbelt in a Suit

Wasatch Junior TKD Championship

This past Saturday, on January 28^th, there was a junior Olympic style TKD tournament sponsored by Competitive Taekwondo of Lindon, Ut. I believe it was TaraLyn Sorenson who was the organizational power behind the event. They had a tournament last year that was so well run it impressed everyone I knew. Their success must have gotten around because it seemed they had double the amount of competitors this year. I believe the number was over 200.

There were three matted rings with qualified, paid referees. They used electronic scoring. The pairings were solidified before the tournament day arrived so there was no last minute juggling that can make a tournament a nightmare for everyone. The competitors were given cards to wear around their neck that told them which ring they were to compete in forms and spar in and which match number they were. All they had to do was keep an eye on their ring where the match number was clearly displayed. It worked very well.

The sparring was exciting to watch. It was that fast, all-out, hard kicking kind of sparring that, although rather sloppy at times, was much more fun to view than the more cautious and slow paced Olympic level sparring.

Even the under 12 categories had some fun matches to watch. There were tears and some matches had to be called because one of the opponents lost the will to fight. One young fellow vomited on the mat. I’m not sure if it was illness, nerves, exhaustion, or just eating too much before the match. The featured match from BMA, though, is Manuel. First I need to speak about a kid in his division from another school. This kid (I will call him Jose) wiped the floor with two others he fought. He accidentally kicked them in the face four or five times even though no head kicks in this division and pretty much had them in tears. He was good. But Manuel (Batmanuel as I like to call him) went in on his first fight and clobbered his opponent with fast round houses and back kicks. I yelled out once, “Do a double, Manuel,” and he immediately landed a double roundhouse. Mr. Knowlton, his coach had to call him off and tell him to save his energy for the next fight. In his next fight he had to fight Jose. I was a little worried because I didn’t know if the sudden shock of fighting someone his own caliber would fluster Manuel. It didn’t. It was a hard fight, but Manuel never flinched. He didn’t seem to know that the other kid was as good as him. By the end of the fight the other kid was backing away defensively from Manuel. Manuel’s sparring was a thing of beauty for a 10 year old.

The 14 to 17 year old black belts put on quite a show. There was blood and knockouts. One girl went through three fights and took them all and looked great. Megan from Black Diamond nearly stopped her, but her opponent got in the last point just as the clock turned zero. The score ended at 13 – 12. There was a young man there with Olympic aspirations from Vo’s who finished one fight in 15 seconds. The referee began the fight and the young man landed all three kicks of a lightning fast triple, another roundhouse, and then a back kick that doubled his opponent over. That all seemed to happen in about seven seconds. That was it, the opponent wisely bowed out of the fight. I say wisely because his next opponent didn’t bow out until he got knocked out. In spite of the fact that he was taking a terrible beating he went after the young man from Vo’s with a little skill and a lot of courage and determination. He took fast triples to the gut. Wicked crescents to the head, and powerful back kicks to the gut. He got his mouthpiece stripped from his face with an axe kick. His helmet was nearly kicked off his head, but he wouldn’t give up. Then, even though the young man from Vo’s was up by 25 points, he lured his opponent into the corner and knocked him out with a spin heel to the face.

The young man from Vo’s really put on a show and I was impressed until I started thinking about it. As I watched the tape enthusiasm for the match diminished. The winning young man’s demeanor while on the mat was one of great arrogance and his apparent desire to destroy his opponents using far more force than was necessary was distasteful. He attacked his opponent as his opponent was trying to strap up his helmet (it had come loose). Sure, he hadn’t called time-out and it was legal for him to do so, but he was already up 15 points and there was clearly no danger of that lead diminishing. That attack wasn’t an example of wanting badly to win, but of wanting badly to humiliate your opponent. Then the final knock-out kick was just too much. Sure, his competitor was coming tentatively toward him to throw a kick, but to defend with a knockout kick when you are up by nearly 30 points is petty. Yes, it was legal, but if you didn’t know the score you would have thought the winning competitor was fighting a close fight for the gold medal in the Olympics instead of an honorable opponent in a local tournament who was trying to maintain his self-respect by fighting to the end of the match. I don’t know who the losing opponent was, but I was impressed with his courage and commitment to finish with as much effort and skill as he could find.

Every competitor needs to fight to win and the better competitor should win. This young man from Vo’s was definitely the better competitor, but it was disappointing that he showed no grace of character during his exhibition. Grace of character is not required in winning competitors, but when I see it I know I’ve seen something worth remembering. This exhibition wasn’t.

It Didn't Get the Better Of Me!

I keep a journal for each of my children so that I won't forget what they were like as children. Below is an entry in one of my daughter's journals.

January 15, 2006

Dear Clorinda,

You tested for your black stripe yesterday. You did so well and I am so proud. You know all of your forms very well and all of your techniques. It all seems to come pretty easy for you. You had to work pretty hard through the test. You got a little red-faced, but didn’t show the fatigue I would have shown. It seems like you can go forever.

Things got a little tougher for you when it came to breaking your board. You were breaking a full size board. You first technique was a hammer fist. You hit it very hard three times, but it wouldn’t break. Then you tried an ax kick a couple of times, but again it wouldn’t break. I could tell that your hand and your foot were throbbing. Mr. Jerman had you take a break then. You went over and quietly cried in Mrs. Jerman’s arms for a couple of minutes while others did their breaks. Finally Mr. Jerman had you come out to try again. You tried once again with an ax kick and it didn’t break. Mr. Jerman asked you if you wanted to keep trying or if you wanted to quit. You said with a teary voice that you didn’t want to quit. Your right foot was hurting so you switch to your left foot. You tried again and you snapped the board. You were so happy and I was so proud of you.

Later I was talking to you and I said that the board had gotten the better of you. You quickly said, “No, I got the better of the board!” I had meant that it had gotten the better of you at first, but that you hadn’t given up. You were right, though--that board didn’t get the better of you! You are so small and boards have always been tough for you. I think this is the first full-size board you have ever broken. I love you. Dad

Mixing the Old with the Young

My dojang is in a small town. By small I mean the town has no more than 3000 people in it. This small town is much like other small towns. Families are fairly important here and the families are dedicated to the usual social sports: football, baseball, basketball, and soccer. These sports follow the traditional model—kids on the courts or the fields and parents sitting on the sidelines watching. In the martial arts it isn’t much different. You see the kids on the mat and parents sitting on the side looking rather bored. I’m not sure why we hold to this model so zealously. It’s like we don’t give our kids enough credit to be able to recognize that we make them work hard physically when they are young so that they can earn the right to sit around and get fat when they are older like us.

One thing that is different in the martial arts is that it makes a place for adults if they choose to participate. Sure, in larger towns there are some adult basketball and soccer leagues, but these are only for ex-high school and college jocks who come to the league with loads of experience. I can’t imagine a beginner of just average athletic ability joining one of these leagues and finding a spot on the team let alone a warm reception. This can, and does, happen in the martial arts. I know from my own personal experience.

I began taekwando at 40 years of age and was definitely of non-jock stock. But I found the warmest welcome in that little dojang. The instructor and fellow students made me feel like I was honoring them by being there. They always welcomed me when I arrived and shook my hand with a bow before I left. Of course they did this to everyone else too, but that didn’t take the special feeling away from me. Make no mistake, even if he did make me feel honored the instructor didn’t take it easy on me. I was pushed to the point of collapse with the rest. Many times I got knocked off my feet during sparring while collecting numerous deep bruises. I was constantly corrected while learning my forms and I did my “corrective” push ups, mountain climbers, and tap jumps with everyone else. But still, I felt special.

What makes my martial arts training so much more engaging is the fact that I am in the same class with people less than half my age. I know that not all dojangs would mix the adults with teenagers—I don’t know that I would even recommend it—but due to our small population density there in Central Utah (far more horses than people) we can’t realistically field separate teenage and adult classes. There just aren’t enough bodies. Mixing adults with teenagers has its drawbacks, sure. It’s hard for many average adults to keep up with the teenagers. In reality this has no effect on the quality of training for the adult, but it can be a little intimidating and depressing. Watching the younger, skinnier students throwing jump spin hooks or axe kicks that break the sound barrier when mine don’t reach freeway speed can make me wish for my younger days. But when I remember that I’m not expected to be as good as them, but just as good as I can be I’m okay with this.

What I get out of working out with the younger students is an invigoration that just makes my day. Their youth and energy feeds my (older) youth and energy. When I see them do things I can’t do it inspires me to try harder and in trying I do things I couldn’t do before. But even more importantly I find it’s what I have to offer the teenagers that inspires even more. We are a small dojang and we know each other well. There are a lot of family connections. I find myself caring about the progress of each teen in and out of the dojang. I’ve felt them respond to my encouragement during tough workouts and I’ve enjoyed fun discussions with them after the workouts. Not always, but often, I feel their respect for my experience as an adult. It is the mat and the fact that we are on it at the same time brings their and my world together even if just for an hour.

Of course there are a few other adults in my dojang and working out with them brings me great pleasure, too. They understand my aches and pains. They understand my frustration with my lack of stretch. Most importantly they understand how difficult it is to take up the martial arts as an adult and to humble yourself to be told what to do by your instructor and do it with kids who are almost always better and faster. They also understand the joy of working out with your own children and having that bonding experience. For whatever else martial arts may have to offer that other activities don’t, this opportunity to mix the old with the young is one that I have come to truly appreciate.

Too Old and Slow for Taekwondo?

In my head I’m facing my opponent. He looks dangerous in his gear—black helmet, hogo red side out, black teeth guard. He has that “You’ve bit off more than you can chew” look in his eye. He appears to be about 23 and 185 pounds. He comes at me with a front leg leading double roundhouse and a kihap that sounds like a wild Indian of the old West. Nonplussed I leap into a jump back kick and connect solid with his chest. He is stopped, but only for a moment. He jujins and moves to throw a neck-breaking axe kick, but I am ahead of him—I’ve leaped into a jump spin hook and I feel nothing but the sponginess of his helmet against the bottom of my foot. I land nimbly on both feet to see him collapse to the floor. He is still conscious, but incoherent from the tremendous speed of my kick. The referee gives the eight count and then raises his hand to me. I’ve done it again and rip my helmet off sending my sweat flying. My family, friends, and dojang mates scream my name and I graciously bow in their direction.

I wish that it isn’t just in my head where this happens, but it is. As it is I am a forty-four year old father of eight children. I have never in my life been very athletic although I’ve always participated in various sports. In sixth grade a girl beat me in a 50 yard dash. That was devastating. In high school a cheerleader dead lifted more weight than I was able to. I wasn’t so devastated then. I guess I was getting used to it. In softball I had to be satisfied with hitting the ball just over second base. There are no grand slams for me, but at least I generally got on base without forcing any other outs. While playing on my church basketball team I dreaded it when someone passed me the ball. I think they generally dreaded passing me the ball, but sometimes there was no other choice. So how did a middle-aged, non-athlete like me find himself in taekwando? That would be where my wife and children came in.

Did I mention I have eight of them? My wife has a friend who put her child in taekwando. My wife took advantage—or was taken advantage by—one of those “Three free lessons!” ploys and took several of my kids in. She was excited about what she saw and called me the next day to tell me all about it. “Ty quon who?” I said. I had never heard of it. I wasn’t interested. Martial arts were for the movies or for those weirdoes you meet every once-in-a-while who thinks they can levitate and block bullets with their bare hands. But my wife kept after me and after a couple of days I agreed to stop by the school on the way home from work to have a look. I came home nervous that night. No, I came home afraid. I was afraid because I knew that I was going to join. I knew I was going to join because I was afraid—I was afraid of taekwando. I saw them kicking. I saw them doing forms. I saw them sparring. It was terrifying, but I knew I just had to do it. I needed to do it. It called out to me and told me that it was what was missing in my life. I signed up the following week.

So there were my four older kids and I going to class. My kids looked natural there on the mat. It’s like taekwando was created for kids. Taekwando doesn’t look like it was created for adults. Do you know what I looked like at forty years old, 250 pounds, 6’1”, in a white belt, standing at choon bi with a bunch of kids? I looked like a man who wanted to learn to levitate and to block bullets with his bare hands. But I didn’t care. I was doing one of the craziest and most exciting things I had ever done in my life. My instructor made me feel special, not stupid, for doing what I was doing and I was ready to learn anything he was willing to teach me. I wanted the black belt. It wasn’t just the black belt, but I wanted the legendary skills that black belts are believed to have. The day came and I tested for and received my black belt. That was a day I will never forget. That day also marks the date that martial arts became more difficult for me. It was after that date that I started questioning what I was doing in the martial arts—especially in Olympic taekwando where competition is a major factor.

After the bright glow of that special day died away I was able to look around and take stock of my situation. I was 43 years old. I was a big fellow with short legs. I was a non-athlete. The only thing I could do fast was talk. I had earned my black belt sure enough. I had learned my techniques. I had learned my forms. I had controlled my fears and sparred in several tournaments. I had put in the years of work. But in spite of all this I had to fight feelings of depression as I watched lean teenagers fire off roundhouses that break the sound barrier and float on air as they delivered jump spin hooks. My frustration was almost debilitating when I went to sparring classes where the oldest person present was half my age and ten times faster. Even while wearing my hard-earned black belt I felt like a white belt as their kicks rained down on me and I kicked nothing but air. And what was I after these experiences? Just a little older and slower. It occurred to me that perhaps I was just making a fool out of myself like the middle-aged dad who tries to take on teenage mannerisms in order to look younger. I wondered if maybe I could be using my evenings better than by spending them at the dojang trying to do things that the young could do well.

In spite of my frustrations and doubts I decided to compete in an international tournament. I had never competed at the black belt level. The idea scared me to death. But to validate myself and the black belt I had earned I reasoned that I needed to prove to myself that I had the courage to get in the ring in a tournament setting with another black belt. I didn’t need to win, but I needed to show no fear and to fight as hard and as well as I could. Of course I wasn’t stupid. I knew that at an international tournament they would be strict about keeping us in our age and weight class. I didn’t need to worry about being paired up with a 185 pound 24 year old black belt. Putting myself in the tournament ring with someone like that would be foolish. But still I had met plenty of strong, healthy 40 year olds at the gym and knew that I might draw an opponent who could make those four minutes on the mat miserable for me. I met my goals at the tournament—I showed no fear and I fought as hard and well as I could and I came home a happy man. It was through this experience—not just the tournament, but everything that led up to it--that I found the purpose of taekwando in my life.

When I made the decision to go to this tournament I knew it would probably be the only national or international tournament I would ever compete in. I wanted to make the best of it. I went into Rocky mode. Beginning two months before the tournament I was careful about what I ate. On non-taekwando workout days I did aerobic workouts and lifted weights. On taekwando nights I worked out with focus and determination. On Saturdays my 19 year old son, also a black belt, put me through some grueling, private workouts at the dojang. It was after one of these workouts while driving home still soggy with sweat that I realized how happy I felt. It was the time spent with my son. It was the exhausting workout. It was the approaching date of the tournament and the incentive that it was giving to my life. It was the entire process that was making me feel happy and alive. What would I be doing if I weren’t working out and exercising and driving toward a frightening goal? Watching TV? Puttering around the house? Whatever it was it wouldn’t be something that was as good for me and making me as happy as taekwando.

Did it matter that even after all this work I still wasn’t any better or at least much better than the mediocre, middle-aged taekwandoist I had been before all this started? No, it didn’t matter one bit. My happiness wasn’t based on the skill level I was achieving. If being happy in taekwando means you have to be as good as the successful 19 year old competitor then taekwando is a shallow activity with nothing to offer the world but a little entertainment . What was then and still now is making me happy with taekwando is simply practicing it! Do I want to get better at Taekwando? Do I have hopes of getting better? Yes and yes. But it isn’t the getting better at it that matters in the end. It is the doing it while trying to get better.

I have to drive an hour from the office in the evenings to reach my dojang. That hour drive after eight hours of demands at the office often leave me tired and a little ornery by the time I reach the dojang. As I stiffly get out of my car the thought of going into the dojang is not appealing. I need to go home, put my feet up, and read the paper. But I do go in and an hour later it never fails that I come out filled with energy and a smile on my face. It doesn’t matter if it was forms, or techniques, or sparring—the activities brought me back to life.

Currently, in addition to working for my second dan I am teaching now at my master’s dojang. I love teaching. It almost brings the same level of happiness that my own workouts bring—almost. Perhaps every young student that I teach will surpass me in taekwando ability due to their age natural ability. But none of them will ever surpass me in the happiness I feel during and after my own taekwando workouts. That is the beauty of taekwando and any martial art. Although individuals might not be equal in ability, the martial art gives the same level of happiness and life back to all practitioners—old and young alike—who practice with the right attitudes. Taekwando is good for me. It makes me happy. No matter how slow and old I get, I plan to keep practicing it until I can no longer stand.