Decade Four – the 1980s

The Carolinas, Colorado and New York

From Classical to Eclectic

4.1     Be All You Can Be

C-130 going down the strip

Airborne Daddy gonna take a little trip

Stand up, hook up, shuffle to the door

Jump right out and count to four

The Army motto in the 1980’s was “be all you can be,” and my second assignment after OCS was to a unit that gave me that opportunity — the 82nd Airborne Division at Fort Bragg, NC, where I was immersed in four years of a rich, challenging, and sometimes dangerous training and operational environment. While in the 82nd I met another lieutenant named Miller who had trained to the brown belt level in Taekwondo. After we started working out together, several of the other soldiers asked if we would start a club and teach Taekwondo to the unit. I felt like it was a great idea and I approached the battalion commander suggesting that we allow interested soldiers to substitute martial arts training for their regular PT a couple of days a week. To my amazement, he said he thought such training had “no correlation to military skills.” To this day, I am dumbfounded how anyone of position, rank and experience in the US Army could come to such an absurd conclusion. But then, that battalion commander was not exactly the brightest bulb in the chandelier[i]. So, we were relegated to training after duty hours in an abandoned building we signed for from the supply officer. It all started off well enough, but we were competing with soldiers’ off-duty time, so eventually our attendance began to dwindle, and we ultimately had to give up the club after only a few weeks. This experience provides a classic example of what happens when the leadership of any organization, be it military or corporate, will not get behind martial arts training for its employees. How foolish to not make available “company” time for developing precisely the kind of mental and physical discipline the leadership of the organization claims to want in their people.

            I also got a chance to play “bet your bars” with this same commander in an incident that would test my indomitable spirit. New arrivals to the 82nd Airborne Division, officers and enlisted alike, were expected to undergo a hazing ritual called the “prop blast.” The term prop blast was taken from the name of the wind that hits a jumper upon parachuting from a prop-driven aircraft, e.g., a C-130. Basically, it was a semi-annual, all-day, (usually weekend), fraternity-like hazing that consisted of strenuous physical exercise amid continual quizzing on details of airborne operations, all amid an attempt to get and keep the soldier as drunk as possible. During the inquisition toward the end of the day, if the “board” (the guys running the event) asked you a question and you answered it wrong, you were expected to take a swig of “grog” – a mixture of various alcoholic beverages. The intent was to get the soldier drunk and stumbling about, answering more questions wrong, while continuing to push the booze. All of this occurred to the amusement of other soldiers who had previously passed through the ritual. When I did not attend the first prop blast, I found myself called before the battalion commander the next Monday morning.

            “Lieutenant Brewer, you were not at the prop blast this weekend,” the lieutenant colonel declared as I stood at attention before his desk.

            “Roger, Sir.”

            “Why?”

            “I don’t consume alcohol, Colonel.”

            “Do you think you’re too good to participate in unit morale events?”

            “No, Sir.”

            “Then I will expect you to be at the next prop blast,” he declared.

            “Respectfully, Sir, I cannot and will not attend a unit event where I am required to drink alcoholic beverages.”

            “So, we won’t be seeing you at Stable Call [the cavalry term for an after-duty drinking session] on Friday afternoons in the O’club? Is that what you’re telling me?”

            “No, Sir. I am not saying that. I have no problem with coming to Stable Call. I will simply order a soft-drink or an iced tea.”

            The battalion commander eyed me like I was an alien recently landed on the lawn in front of the headquarters. 

            “So,” he said slowly, “you are telling me you won’t attend the next prop blast?”

            “No, Sir. I have no problem with the physical aspects, and I will gladly answer the questions when quizzed. But I will not consume alcohol. Now, if the colonel will provide a non-alcoholic ‘grog’ from which I can drink, I will fully participate with the unit.”

“I’m not sure I trust a man that doesn’t drink,” he declared, then shook his head in disgust and dismissed me from his office.

            I attended the next prop blast, went through the hazing and the questioning, and when I answered a question wrong, I was sent to the “grog.” But the unit had provided a ‘special’ grog just for me. To this day I have no idea what was in it, but it was nasty. It was alcohol-free, but it was at least as disgusting, if not more, than the alcoholic grog the rest the unit was forced to drink. I still have my prop blast certificate of graduation/completion.

  • Lesson Learned:  Sometimes in life your indomitable spirit will be tested not by your ability to defeat punches and kicks, but by your willingness to stand up for what you believe in and to suffer the consequences of doing so.
Figure 4.1.1: Deployment to the Sinai in the early 1980s

With our failed attempt at a unit dojo, I was again relegated to a combination of solo training and the workouts I could get with my Special Forces friends over at the JFK Center. I found the latter workouts to be fascinating from the standpoint of encountering people who, like I, were searching more for what worked than for what looked pretty. Over the course of my time in the 82nd and with the 18th Airborne Corps, I went on some deployments (Figure 4.1.1) to places I will not specifically discuss, and I did things I cannot and will not talk about.

Shortly before I was to leave Fort Bragg for training and a new duty station, a non-combat incident occurred that tested everyone’s spirit and our sense of invincibility within our unit. A young lieutenant in our unit with whom I was friends had been on leave to visit his family. I will call him Keith. Keith was a good soldier, being tactically and technically proficient. He had only recently qualified for a Senior Parachutist Badge having successfully completed the required number and type of parachute jumps. He had a lovely young wife and a child less than six months old. As they were driving back to the post returning from leave, on a two-lane highway not 50 miles from Fort Bragg, a drunk driver veered over the centerline and struck them head-on. Keith was killed instantly, but his wife and child escaped alive. The sorrow and sadness in our unit was palpable. This was not supposed to happen to a paratrooper. We were taught to believe that we were ten-feet tall and bullet-proof. We had convinced ourselves that we were invincible. Keith’s death was not even the result of a combat action. We were all in disbelief. The family made funeral arrangements for Keith back at his home of record, but they had also arranged a viewing at Fort Bragg for his friends and fellow soldiers. Keith’s wife approached me an hour before the viewing. She handed me his Senior Parachutist Badge.

“Jim,” she said, fighting back tears, “Keith would want you to pin this on him.” The lump in my throat was the size of a grapefruit. But I agreed to the task.  A few folks said some words over Keith at the viewing and they all stood in silence as I stepped forward to his open casket. He lay there so young, so recently full of life, and I fought back tears as I pinned the badge on the left breast of his dress blue uniform. Then I stepped back and saluted him. Looking back on that event today, I still ask myself a question. How do people, who have no hope of the next life, achieve indomitable spirit in this life?

  • Lesson Learned:  It doesn’t matter how young you are, how well trained you are, how big you are, how strong you are, how fast you are, how talented you are, or how successful you are. It doesn’t matter whether you have a black belt, a white belt, or a JC Penney reversible belt. We are all just one distracted, inattentive, or intoxicated driver away from having our entire life changed or ended in a split-second.

[i] To say this lieutenant colonel was a jerk would be an understatement. I shall not reveal his name, but he commanded little respect from the men in the unit. He called in each new officer and showed him a blank Officer Efficiency Report (OER). He would point to the silhouette of the lowest rated block on the OER and declare, “This guy has a mustache.” Guess he hated mustaches, even those worn within regulation.

4.2      My Introduction to Tournaments

Figure 4.2.1: During my time in Indiana in the early 1980’s I appreciated the value of a strong, well-placed sidekick. Thirty-five years later, I still do.

Eventually, I left Fort Bragg and attended various types of temporary duty training. One school was at Fort Ben Harrison, Indiana, where I discovered that the post had a “karate” class. And after talking with the instructor one day, I decided to attend. Even though I would only be in Indiana for three months, my time working with this instructor in Taekwondo served me well (Figure 4.2.1). It was here I got my first exposure to martial arts tournaments. I had, of course, read about tournaments in the magazines that had been my staple of information over the years, and I knew about the exploits of Chuck Norris and Skipper Mullins and Joe Lewis. But even though it was the mid-1980’s and tournament competition had been going on since the 60’s, I had never participated in, or even attended, a karate tournament.

My instructor, a Captain whose name I do not recall, was reasonably talented. He seemed genuinely interested in the students, but he also demonstrated a particular interest in his students competing in an upcoming martial arts tournament there in Indianapolis. When he asked us to compete as part of our training, I am sure a large part of my willingness to go along with his request was my curiosity as to how my own abilities would stack-up against others in a competitive environment. So, I diligently learned my required Chon-ji forms, practiced free-sparring with the class, and dutifully plopped down my entrance fee on the day of the tournament. I remember my first sensation upon entering the large gymnasium complex that hosted the event.

This is like a circus.

There must have been a couple of hundred competitors, which is small by current standards, but at the time it seemed massive to me. This was an “open” tournament, so in addition to folks dressed in relatively normal karate uniforms, I saw people in silky kung-fu outfits with frog buttons, red gi tops over checked pants, and a couple of gi bottoms topped by sleeveless “muscle shirts.” Everybody was stretching and practicing and whizzing around in seeming disorder. No wonder I thought it a circus! Our instructor led us to an area where we began to do some calisthenics and stretching, and then after checking-in our team with the judges, he explained the order of events and the line-up for the fighting and forms competition.

My first exposure to tournament martial arts featured me fighting some guy about 6’ 3” and 225 lbs. The idea of “weight categories” was a joke at this tournament. Over the years that followed this debut, I never understood why I always seemed to draw the “Incredible Hulk” as my first opponent! We were briefed by the referee, shown the judges in the four corners of the fighting area, each holding two colored flags that corresponded to the green (his color) and red (my color) flags tucked in the back of our uniform belt. I was later to understand this was a classic “point” karate scoring methodology, but I confess that at that moment I was just wanting to break the ice and get on with the match. So, admittedly, I did not listen very closely to the referee. We bowed in.

“Hajime!” (begin) the referee shouted, dropping his hand in a chopping motion to signal the start.

We both stood there almost motionless for perhaps five seconds, until my opponent’s instructor called for him to attack. He responded and threw a front kick which I side-stepped, but I left myself out of range for a counter. He quickly closed the distance and threw a lunge-punch that skimmed past my shoulder.

“Mate!” (Stop) the referee shouted. First, it felt awkward to stop the fight, and secondly when the referee began pointing sequentially to the judges at the corners for their renderings, I stood there in shock.

“Point Green.”

 “No point”

“Point Green.”

“No point.”

Then the referee said, “I saw punch to the chest, POINT FOR GREEN.”

What in the world is going on here? That blow scarcely touched me and was so lacking in focus it would not have hurt if he had hit me with it squarely!

“Starting positions!” the referee announced, the two-minute clock on the match continuing to run.

So that’s how it’s going to be! I learned quickly, and the next time he tried one of those punches, I blocked it, side-stepped and actually hit the man three times. Now, I did not hit him very hard, but after awarding me an unmistakable point, the referee said, “Warning to Red for excessive contact.”

Excessive Contact?  That tap on the body? You’ve got to be kidding!

And so went my introduction to tournament karate. I prevailed in the match, moving on to my next opponent, but I came to the rapid conclusion that this was little more than a game of tag. We were not allowed to grab, we were not allowed to sweep, and we were not allowed to execute take-downs. I defeated my next opponent quickly. He was slow and never seemed comfortable in his own movements. But I lost the next match to a very fast fighter. I admit to being “scored upon” with his quick, jump side-kick and fast punches, but I was struck by the fact that the man who defeated me demonstrated zero power in this techniques. What he did do that bothered me was bounce around like a prize fighter, and I fell into the trap of mimicking his timing and I let his actions distract me.

  • Lesson Learned: Whether it is a tournament competition or a fight for your life on the street, never let your opponent dictate the rhythm and timing of a confrontation.

Forrest Morgan puts it this way in Living the Martial Way, “Develop the ability to feel and exploit the rhythms of your opponent … Learn to time their cycles, yielding to their yang and attacking with your yang just as they return to yin (94). But me trying to understand the concepts of yin and yang at that point in my martial arts journey would have resembled a pig staring at a wristwatch.

Next in this tournament came the forms competition. I watched contestants do Chinese forms, Korean forms and Japanese forms, often to the cheers of their teammates and fans. I remember thinking, how can these judges evaluate that soft, circular, flowing Chinese form against that hard, snappy Shotokan form? Isn’t that like comparing apples and oranges? To this day, I still do not have a satisfactory answer to that question. However, when my time came to compete, perhaps the judges had seen all the strange forms they could stand, for they seemed to appreciate my simple, direct, Chon-ji Taekwondo form without the fluff. They ultimately awarded me 2nd place in my division that day. I do not recall what form I did. But I recall the satisfaction I received with the award, even if I was suspect of the judging criteria.

Despite my limited success, I recall thinking at the time how showy and superficial the whole thing seemed. I had observed way too much strutting around and calling attention to oneself. But if that is how I felt, then what was I doing there? Maybe people thought the same thing about me. My disappointment in the behavior of some participants in this tournament, and in a couple of others I observed over the years, led me later to write an article for TaeKwonDo Times entitled, “Martial Arts Show-offs.” In the article I pointed out how it diminished the image of martial arts training when tournament competitors pranced around indignantly, making sure they were being seen, noticed, and appreciated in all their regalia, and acting like they thought they were rock stars. Here is my question for us all: Is going out of your way to make sure everyone knows you’re a bad-ass martial artist just another form of non-verbal bullying or threatening? I am not suggesting that we, who have dedicated our lives to the physical and philosophical study of self-defense and martial arts, should apologize or attempt to keep secret our skills and interests. Such a call for inaction would be hypocritical given that I’m writing this book! If someone asks me about my background and interest in the martial arts, I don’t lie. If someone sees a brochure about a Chin-na seminar on my desk, I don’t freak-out and offer some 1960’s herb-driven disclaimer of “I’m just holding it for someone else.” I don’t sneak around like I think I’m a ninja warrior. But on the other hand, I don’t wear my dobok, or gi, or uniform out to the middle of a parade field or do kata (forms) in a busy park at lunch. I don’t break concrete on the back porch in just the right position for the neighbors to see. I don’t wear my uniform out of the training hall and stop by the local pizza parlor for supper. (I admit it. That is one of my pet peeves. It makes me crazy to see students wandering around Walmart® in their uniform before or after class.) On the other hand, when I was on duty away from home, or when I am traveling in retirement, I seek the most isolated spot I can find to workout. Hotel rooms are usually too small, so I sometimes get up and go down to the pool area at 5:00 a.m. in the dark before everyone else gets up. I am not afraid to be seen, I just refuse to make being seen the point. I am simply suggesting that, when it comes to martial arts training and conversations, ask yourself a couple of questions, as I do, on a recurring basis. If any of these questions make you squirm, they probably should.

  • “Why am I doing or saying what I’m doing or saying, at the time and location that I’m doing or saying it?”
  • “Does it reflect well on my art and myself as a person?”
  • “Is it designed to help and inform others, or to just make myself look good?”

 After Indiana, I went to a follow-on assignment to Fort Carson, Colorado. So, at this point in my life, I had a devoted wife, two young daughters, a new-found purpose in the military, and I was forging an identity as a professional soldier and a warrior. I was testing my martial arts skills against others and exposing myself to new ideas, styles, forms and techniques in my quest for indomitable spirit.

4.3   A Veritable Cornucopia of Martial Arts Delight

Sometimes in life you find yourself afloat in a rich environment for learning, and it is often not until you have left that environment that you realize just how special it was. When I arrived for duty in Colorado, I affiliated myself with the Judo and Karate Academy of Colorado (JKC), a martial arts training facility that featured four disciplines: judo, karate (Isshin-ryu), taekwondo and jujitsu. The school fell under the overall leadership of Sensei Bob Salay (Rokudan). Sensei Salay, a well-respected instructor teaching since 1958, had for years been involved in both judo and the early United States Karate Association (USKA). He had helped to coach the 1980 US Olympic Judo Team and worked with the Air Force Academy judo programs. The JKC school featured top instructors in each discipline who taught different arts each night of the week. A student was expected to enroll and pursue advancement in one program, but after a period of learning fundamentals and establishing a strong foundation, students were encouraged to sample other disciplines. And so it was that I renewed my taekwondo training under Sensei Allan Milton (3rd Dan), and I soon received my First Dan in taekwondo under his and Sensei Salay’s mentorship. We had several strong black belts in that program (Sensei Milton among the best) setting a solid example for those of us in training. This was a traditional school, so the taekwondo program drew from the Chon-ji forms that were characterized by long, deep, rooted stances which helped us to develop power. Sensei Milton resisted adopting the emerging Tae-gu taekwondo forms that featured higher stances (e.g., the “walking stance”), for they seemed more oriented toward sport or what would ultimately become Olympic taekwondo.

            But for all my taekwondo training and the joy and satisfaction I received from it, I found myself constantly drawn to attend class in the other disciplines. Nothing reduces the ego and places a taekwondo warrior’s mind at “re-set” quicker than being slammed to the mat for an hour by an experienced judoka (Figure 4.1.1). And our judo program was just the venue for my re-education. It was overseen by Sensei Salay[i] — a strong, quick, fire-plug of a man. I relied on my Hapkido training to help me hold my own, which I sometimes did reasonably well; but most of the time I got swept and tossed around like a chew toy, particularly by the advanced students. I learned again the value of grappling, groundwork, and how to fall.

Figure 4.1.1 Shoulder Throw in Judo Class at the JKC

            When I was not visiting the judo classes, I would slip into the Isshin-ryu karate classes where I was particularly impressed by the quick, direct, no-nonsense footwork and hand techniques. The stepping and punching in this art seemed very efficient, with Isshinryu using a fist that differs from other styles in that the punch is oriented and thrown vertically with the thumb in the 11 – 12 o’clock position. I began to wonder whether the traditional corkscrew ‘karate’ punch that I had spent years learning was really the best choice in every circumstance? Was it even the best choice in most circumstances? That question would vex me for years to come. But the JKC offered even more. When I really wanted to expand my parameters, I would attend the ju-jitsu class and participate in smooth, flowing techniques that used the aggressor’s strength against him. I stood before a veritable martial arts banquet table, and I confess to shamelessly gorging myself like a glutton.

[i] Over the years I lost track of Sensei Salay, but I believe him to have taught for a while in Las Vegas before retiring to there in 2000. Sensei Salay, a pioneer in martial arts in the US, died February 14th, 2019.

4.4   Ordering Out for Chinese

Sometime in 1986 I met a martial artist at Fort Carson who I will call “Tom.” The first time we worked out together, I got my introduction to the Chinese art of Wing Chun kung fu. Just as I continued to sample the four disciplines at the JKC, I immediately asked Tom for private instruction so I could learn the kind of hand-speed and in-close fighting technique that he performed so effortlessly. Parallel with his instruction, I began to read every source on Wing Chun that I could find, and I became interested in the life and training techniques of Bruce Lee. Tom’s skills, I reasoned, would be an effective augmentation to the arsenal I had been developing over the years. I had good, strong kicks as most taekwondo stylists do, and my Hapkido background gave me grappling skills. But upon closing the gap, or getting inside, I sometimes felt at a disadvantage when fighting individuals with quicker hand techniques. From Tom I learned some of the fundamentals of Wing Chun, adapting to my own style the “gates” for defense. I particularly enjoyed chi-sao or “sticking hands” to learn how to turn contact into advantage, and I was impressed with the vertical punch for speed and direct attack to the upper body. After working with Tom, I found myself employing Wing Chun traps and strikes when sparring at the JKC. My colleagues there were not used to what I was doing, and they did not like getting tied up in-close and punched in the face. Where in the past I would have fought everyone at side-kick range, I began to look for opportunities to close inside, sometimes even inviting a roundhouse so I could block it and step inside. So effective were the techniques I had learned from Tom that Sensei Milton soon noticed.

            “What are you doing, Jim? Where did you get those techniques?” he asked one night after sparring. I explained what I had been doing and where I had been training, and I half expected to be chastised and told not to be bringing that into the do jang. But to Sensei Milton’s credit, he was a man who preferred learning and passing on what worked more than in some well-meaning, but flawed, adherence to a particular “style.” In fact, he encouraged me to share what I had learned, and even collaborated (Figure 4.4.1) on a two-part article for Inside Kung-Fu magazine where we examined the similarities between Isshin-ryu and Wing Chun, and Shaolin Long-fist and Taekwondo. 

[Figure 4.4.1: Brewer and Milton show comparison in styles]

By being so open-minded, Sensei Milton taught me the value of an eclectic approach to training. That acceptance, coupled with my study of the philosophy of Bruce Lee and others, led me to the concept of “absorbing what is useful.”

…it’s not how much you have learned, but how much you have absorbed from what you have learned. It is not how much fixed knowledge you can accumulate, but what you can apply alively that counts. (Little 114)

The essence of jeet kune do, an approach to martial arts that Lee conceptualized and taught, is reflected in these tenants:

  1. Research your own experience
  2. Absorb what is useful
  3. Reject what is useless
  4. Add what is specifically your own (Little 114-115)

It was about this time I first read Zen in the Martial Arts by Joe Hyams (Bantam, 1982), and I began to explore, in depth, the connection between the physical skills and the philosophy of life. I was off and running on what would become a life-long warrior’s journey of self-defense style and technique blending. I would merge eastern self-defense and martial arts philosophy with my own western, Judeo-Christian world view. All of these would be building blocks for the indomitable spirit I seek.

4.5   Step Out of the Way, Son, and Let Me Run This Thing

Perhaps it was the very fact that I had been exposed to an eclectic view of the world that I was so disappointed by what I saw and experienced at Fort Carson’s Ironhorse Karate Tournament the first year I participated. The “Ironhorse” competitions consisted of several military-related tests of physical ability and skill in a post-wide competition at Fort Carson, CO. Karate was one of the events. Upon the request of some of my fellow soldiers, I entered the competition to represent our unit (Figure 4.3.1).

[Figure 4.3.1. The author competes in forms and prepares for weapons kata at the Ironhorse Tournament in 1985]

            Of course, I drew a 6’ 4” young lieutenant as my first opponent in free-sparring.  I won the match, but I injured my ankle in the process, leaving me slower and vulnerable in the next two matches. Somehow, I managed to prevail in the second, but I lost the third to an excellent opponent. I resisted the urge to adopt the crane stance like Daniel-son did in the Karate Kid movie released in theaters the year before. I just hobbled around and lost. But once again, what concerned me most were the rules of the game. Because it was a point-tournament, with no strikes to the groin, no sweeps, no take downs, and only “light contact,” this tournament was still, to a great extent, a game of tag. Something seemed all wrong about a martial arts tournament on a military post being relegated to “touch” techniques that had no resemblance to physical combat. So, I decided to light a candle rather than curse the darkness. As Foghorn Leghorn might have declared, “Step away, I say, step away from it, Son, and let me run this thing!” And the next year I did just that — I volunteered to run the Ironhorse Martial Arts Tournament myself. And you can bet there were some rule changes.

            First, I obtained a large, circular wrestling mat. Secondly, I changed the rules.  Some of my modifications were:

  1. Punches to the face were allowed with medium contact. (mouthpieces required)
  2. Everyone was required to wear hand and foot pads, head and mouth protection and groin protection given that groin techniques were now allowed – medium contact. (How is “medium contact to the groin defined? If the guy doesn’t get up, it is MORE THAN medium)
  3. Sweeps, throws and take-downs were allowed, and points scored if the attacker followed up with a scoring technique within 1-2 seconds.
  4. No attacks to the joints and no blind techniques (that couldn’t be stopped or controlled) were allowed

Since I was not a competitor this year, I had the luxury of enjoying the effect of the rule changes on the participants. Fighting stances suddenly began to reflect reality. Guys stopped bouncing around with their fists in front of their faces and everyone’s guard visibly dropped several inches once they realized that groin contact was allowed. What I call the one-foot ballerinas suddenly stopped dancing, for fear of having that support leg swept from beneath them. Six years later I would read of a similar view of sparring in Living the Martial Way.

            “Realistic free sparring is, to the extent safely possible, unconstrained by rules. We warriors aren’t concerned with scoring points, we’re concerned with learning to win in actual combat. And combat has no target area restrictions. Never constrain your sparring by not punching to the face or kicking to the groin. More importantly, don’t constrain your partner from doing so, or you’ll never learn to defend against those attacks” (67).

That year’s Ironhorse Tournament was, by general agreement, the closest in years to a real fighting competition. There were even fewer injuries than in the previous “touch and go” point tournaments with all the restrictions on technique. When someone stepped on the mat in my tournament, he knew he had better protect himself. It was not “mixed martial arts” (MMA) such as we have today, and I was far from visionary. But it was considerably better than what the soldiers had previously experienced.

            Of course, we still had our share of show-offs in the forms competition. We still had to put up with the ones who suffered from an extreme need to be seen and praised. (What was that line from Billy Bob Thornton’s character in the movie Tombstone? It was “like playing cards with your sister’s kids.”) I could do little to stop that other than having a long talk with the participants prior to the beginning the tournament. However, it did little good with the some of the people, or what I call the paranoid schizophrenics with the inferiority complex – they’re afraid everyone’s not talking about them! But I tried. What direction the tournament took the next year after I left Fort Carson I have no idea. But for at least one year, I tried to make a difference. That would be the one and only tournament I would ever run, and I would find myself becoming increasingly disillusioned with the whole “karate tournament” scene.

4.6   Don’t You Hate Getting Taken Down a Notch

That’s life (that’s life) that’s what people say
You’re riding high in April
Shot down in May
But I know I’m gonna change that tune
When I’m back on top, back on top in June (“That’s Life”)

            Working out in that thin Colorado air probably had me in the best physical shape of my life, and just when things should have kept going well, I ran into a set-back. While deployed to a REFORGER exercise in Europe, I began to have fever and chills. I remember laying in my sleeping bag and shivering all through the night during one of the coldest winters Europe had experienced in almost a hundred years. When, after two or three days of misery, I finally went to sick call, the doctor told me I had a kidney infection. He handed me some penicillin horse tablets and sent me on my way. I eventually improved, and I had been back in the States all of two days when I woke up in the middle of the night doubled over in pain. My wife, a registered nurse, knew immediately that I needed to get to the hospital, so she started to call an ambulance. But I refused. I don’t need no stinkin’ ambulance! Here was a skilled medical professional telling me exactly what I should be doing, and I was rewarding her insight and professional skill by acting like a macho idiot. So what did I do? I drove myself to the hospital. How STUPID was that? I could have been killed, or, even worse, I could have killed someone else if I had passed out at the wheel. Macho morphs into foolish at some point, and I was well into the latter category when I did not listen to my wife that night.  But I did attempt to control my breathing and I tried to keep my heart rate and blood pressure down. In those days we did not call the breath control in the martial arts “tactical breathing,” as it is sometimes referred to today. LTC Dave Grossman and Loren Christensen, in their book, On Combat, describe the benefits of combat breathing, and that night it may just well have kept me lucid enough to get to the hospital without causing a six-car pile-up. “Tactical breathing is really nothing new. The yoga, Zen and martial arts community have used breath control for centuries (329).” It slows your heartbeat, reduces the trembling in your hands, can lower your blood-pressure, deepen your voice so you can speak more clearly, and “bathe [you] with a powerful sense of calm and control.”

The technical term for the procedure is autogenic breathing, but in the warrior community it is typically called tactical breathing or combat breathing…In a life or death situation, we know[i] this simple exercise can be a true revolution in human development” (Grossman 330)

Grossman speaks of one martial arts instructor and two police officers who used it in the middle of a heart attack. Well, LTC Grossman, even though I was not having a heart attack, I believe it made a big difference for me. When I was seen in the emergency room at Fort Carson, my white blood cell count in the 30,000’s, and since they did not know what was wrong with me, they anticipated the worst. It turned out that the penicillin they gave me in Germany had successfully masked what had been a bad appendix. The appendix had now ruptured, so instead of getting a short appendectomy scar if it had been treated in time, I got the “full monty” (exploratory laparotomy) all the way down the belly from the solar plexus to the pubic area. They just opened me up, took every thing out, removed the appendix, hosed-down my “innards,” and put them back in. Then they stapled me shut like a shipping box. After the operation I tried to get my mind around how long it would take me to recover and what effect this would have on my training. They had, quite literally, cut out my power.

Exploratory Laparotomy: The incision is then continued through the subcutaneous fat, the abdominal muscles, and finally, the peritoneum. (Exploratory)

            For the martial artist, the tan tien (“hara” in Japanese and “tan den” in Korean) is considered the center of power and balance in the body. Centered perhaps two finger-widths below the navel, it is the point at which the warrior focuses his energy and power and grounds or roots his movement. And mine had been split in half like a ripe summer melon. As soon as I got through feeling sorry for myself, I began to put together a way back. Not long after my Marine doctor plucked out the stitches with the equivalent of a pair of needle-nosed pliers, I began a thirty-day convalescent leave. Slowly, a little more each day, I tried to regain the ability to flex my abdominal muscles. Sanchin[ii] breathing was out of the question for the immediate time, but the principles behind it – concentration, focus, centering of one’s power – remained constant in my mind, and I am convinced these concepts helped me short-cut the recovery process. However, danjeon breathing, from Hapkido, I did find both doable and effective. I also figured I needed some kind of physical goal to work toward, so I decided I would do some landscaping! In retrospect, this was the second ridiculous and dangerous action of this painful period. Again I did not listen to my wife, and again I transitioned from macho to stupid by taking on a type of heavy physical labor less than two weeks post-op. After major abdominal surgery I had no business shoveling decorative rock out of a wheelbarrow. But I took it slow, steady, and managed to avoid re-injuring myself or damaging the doctor’s repair. In fact, while I should have chosen a less strenuous road back, in some ways the effort helped me regain my strength enough to begin doing forms slowly and deliberately. You will notice throughout this book that I have a love-hate relationship with forms. I alternate between appreciating them and finding them burdensome. Bruce Lee, no fan of traditional forms, found them to be “vain repetitions which offer an orderly and beautiful escape from self-knowledge with an alive opponent (19).” However, in my recovery I found forms very helpful, and I was in greater need of careful healing than “self-knowledge” with an “alive opponent.” I began focusing on using my abdominal muscles as the weeks passed, employing dynamic tension in increasing severity. And within two months I was working out in the school on my own at first, and later with the rest of the class. I worked on some weapons forms (Figure 4.6.1) with bo and sai, and I avoided direct contact and any sparring for another 3-4 months.

[Figure 4.6.1 – I worked solo on some weapons forms to gradually regain power, balance and focus]

 It was during this time that I learned to accept what I could and could not do, and what I might possibly never again be able to do. It occurred to me during my recovery that a person ought to consider aging and changes to his physical capabilities when selecting a martial art in which to train. Learning extremely athletic or unusual fighting styles in your youth is somewhat like getting a massive tattoo on your back or arms. It may look amazing when you are nineteen, but it may not be nearly as appealing or effective when you are sixty.

  • Lesson Learned: When considering a martial art or an approach to self-defense as a young person, pick something that wears well with time, so you do not have to learn a different art when your physical capabilities change.

[i] For more reading on combat or tactical breathing, see LTC Dave Grossman and Loren Christensen’s book On Combat (2004) by Warrior Science Publications.

[ii] More recent studies have called into question the safety of “sanchin” breathing, particularly if not conducted correctly. Some have suggested it go the way of knuckle-hardening and straight-leg sit-ups as a technique that can create long-term damage. For more information, take a look at: http://uechi-ryu.com/sanchin-breathing-are-you-hurting-yourself/

4.7   Traveling, Training, and Blending Styles

My recovery from major abdominal surgery tested my quest for indomitable spirit. But all things considered, I weathered the physical insult of the ruptured appendix reasonably well, and within six months I had basically regained my strength and focus – just in time for a mission to Central America. I cannot and will not discuss exactly what I did on that mission. I am not trying to play Secret Squirrel; it is just part of the agreement. I will tell you that parts of it were harrowing and parts of it were exciting. During some of the down time while I was there, I worked out with a fellow soldier stationed at Task Force Bravo on Palmerola Airbase (Figure 4.7.1).

[Figure 4.7.1– Palmerola Airbase, Hondouras.]

He had trained in Hapkido and the two of us spent several days swapping techniques and executing kicks into a focus mitt. On another occasion I learned of a karate class that was meeting in Comayagua and I made my way into town. Using my limited knowledge of Spanish, I managed to find the school and the instructor on a night the class was meeting. There was no more than a half-dozen students the night I showed up, and they were meeting in a small room with a stone floor and one light bulb precariously swinging from an extended, frayed cord. These karateka were clearly surprised to find this American emerging from the jungle to crash their class. To their credit, once they realized I was neither joking, nor there to spy for the government (theirs or ours), they welcomed my participation. It may have been in the middle of nowhere, but it was a martial arts class, and I enjoyed communicating in the common language of self-defense. Unfortunately, by the time I returned to Colorado I had a keepsake from my time in Central America: a case of fungus on my feet and arms.

  • Lesson Learned: There are some places you will train where you ought to keep your shoes on.

            During the latter part of my assignment in Colorado Springs around 1986, I began researching an article for one of the martial arts magazines, and my efforts led me to a man named Matthew Bayley[i]. He ran a self-defense school in Colorado Springs and I was impressed by how he approached various styles of martial arts and took from them that which worked best. At the time he referred to his eclectic style as Fung Mung Suse, literally translated as “dance of the weapons edge.” Bayley’s blended art emerged from his training in taekwondo, hwarang-do, wing chun kung-fu. and ballet. Yes, I said ballet.

Most people don’t understand that ballet … is the dance form of fencing. We teach that the body is the weapon and the mind is its edge. We “dance” the opponent into awkwardness and strike very precisely when he is most vulnerable (Brewer “The No Nonsense”)

I made careful note of how Bayley had adopted and modified the bong sao or elbow block and other aspects from Wing Chun to become an effective ingredient in his overall approach to self-protection. Gone from his system were the deep stances and elaborate traditional blocks that move across the width of the body and take so long to develop. In their place were techniques borrowed from Western boxing, e.g., slips and parries, designed for efficiency, speed, and limiting exposure. His concepts mirrored the techniques I had success with during my taekwondo matches at the JKC. Here was another experienced martial artist “absorbing what is useful,” and coming to some of the same conclusions I had reached from an independent direction. I had to believe we were both on to something. “A fixed system,” Bayley said, “forces students to adjust to the system. An eclectic program adjusts to the needs of the students.” Rather than teaching his students to believe in a system, Bayley’s goal was to teach them to believe in themselves. The more I read and studied, the more such an approach made sense. After all, the venerable instructor, Professor Wally Jay, had created his highly effective Small Circle Jujitsu™” by combining elements from classical jujitsu, boxing, wresting, judo and other arts. And while Small Circle Jujitsu™ is today recognized as a complete jujitsu style on its own, it certainly did not begin that way (“History of Small”). Then, just before leaving Colorado, I read the book of Bruce Lee’s philosophies The Tao of Jeet Kune Do (1975), published after his death by his wife, Linda. “If you want to understand the truth in martial arts,” Lee argued, “to see any opponent clearly, you must throw away the notion of styles or schools, prejudices, likes and dislikes, and so forth. Then your mind will cease all conflict and come to rest (20).” That book, together with what I had seen and experienced during my years in the Rocky Mountains, helped shape my view of the warrior ethos and martial arts for many years to come.

[i] Matthew Bayley has since relocated to Vail, Colorado where he is listed as “a professional empty-hand and firearm close-quarter combat instructor … (and a) … a post-certified defensive tactics instructor for law enforcement, an NRA Basic Pistol, Personal Protection, and Range And Safety Officer, as well as a certified Range And Safety Officer for the 4-H. Matt Bayley would seem to epitomize the idea of the modern martial artist being the master of the weapons of his time.

4.8    Carolina On My Mind

While serving in Colorado, the Army had picked me up on an Order of Merit List and graciously decided to send me to graduate school with a follow-on utilization tour at the United States Military Academy (USMA) in West Point, New York. And against the advice of my then-brigade commander, and sometime presidential candidate and national defense consultant, Wesley Clark[i], I took them up on the offer. So, in 1987 I began studies at the University of South Carolina in Columbia where I would spend the next two years. My family and I felt very much at home in Carolina, and once we got moved into a community and found a church, we quickly met some wonderful people during our stay there – great Americans who have remained some of our closest and most treasured friends for life.

            I nosed around for weeks, visiting karate and taekwondo schools in Columbia, and searching for a place to train. Perhaps my reticence to join a school was because I had been spoiled to the rich environment in Colorado Springs. Maybe I hesitated because my own philosophies were running more toward an eclectic blending of styles; but whatever the reason, I never found a place I felt comfortable. I worked out in a couple of schools, and they tried their best to make me feel welcome. First, I was not interested in returning at that time to only working in taekwondo. Secondly, even if I did return to that style, most taekwondo schools were gravitating toward the tae-guk forms instead of the chon-ji forms. I was not particularly interested in learning an entirely new set of forms, particularly at a time when I was coming to doubt the true value of practicing forms altogether! By examining other approaches to self-defense, I had come to realize that it was quite possible to become a skilled fighter and efficient technician outside the realm of traditional martial arts training and the forms associated with them. The evidence was too overwhelming to be ignored: the world was full of competent warriors who had never done (a) a Heian kata in karate, or (b) Chung-gun in the Chon-ji system of forms, or (c) tae-gu sam jang or Koryo in taekwondo poomse (the latter being yet another term for forms). My mind was in mid-pendulum swing from an early appreciation and understanding for the need for forms, to the belief that forms might quite well be a waste of time. The pendulum would swing back to a better appreciation of forms in the years to come when cooler heads and wiser teachers prevailed. But at that point I had come to believe that the primary reason most martial arts schools seemed so obsessed with forms was to provide a quasi-empirical measurement for advancement in rank instead of what would otherwise be a totally subjective evaluation.

Looking back on it, that was a rather harsh indictment. But forms, it seemed to me back then, had been an all-too-convenient series of gates that students must negotiate to get to the coveted black belt. I suppose I had seen too many students wearing brown belts that could not manage to execute a yellow belt form with any power or balance. Certainly, the whole tournament showiness debacles of the 1980’s had left a sour taste in my mouth. With the late 80’s and early 90’s beginning to feature forms set to music, people setting their weapons on fire to do a kata, and near-psychedelic uniform choices, it is no wonder I had doubts about forms training. And so, intellectually I over-reacted and decided that I did not need forms and would not affiliate with some martial arts school obsessed with the kata of the month. In retrospect, that was a mistake. But you could not tell me that then. My mind was made up. And I so hate to be confused by the facts when I have made up my mind.

            So, I thought about turning my backyard into a dojo, and I continued seeking out practitioners of other styles and working out with them whenever possible. However, if I’m honest, I just allowed myself to lose the edge on my techniques because I was not doing much of anything regularly, other than some gym workouts and some church-league sports. I fell victim to one of the biggest self-delusions to which experienced martial artists and warriors (particularly black belts) succumb. I convinced myself I could coast on the skills I had developed without regular training. I conned myself into believing that I was still capable of defending myself at a high level of competence based solely on the result of my past work.

  • Lesson Learned: Relying on martial arts inertia or depending upon the lingering effects of past training accomplishments or rank attainment in the martial arts — even when coupled with continuing “interest” in the philosophical aspects of self-defense—is no substitute for blood-vessel popping, knuckle-busting, sweat-slinging training in the context of other martial artists.

            While in Columbia, quite by accident, I came across some individuals affiliated with the YMCA. They asked if I might be willing to teach a 6-8 week course on self-defense. My study load was heavy, but I had the urge to give back a little of what I had been privileged to learn, so I agreed to the task. As I planned and outlined the course, I realized there was no way I was going to make anyone proficient in personal combat by meeting with them for 90 minutes two times a week for eight weeks. At best I could show them some simple, direct techniques that might buy them time in an assault, or create an escape path, or gain the attention of bystanders. But what I could do was raise awareness of the times, locations, and circumstances where assaults generally take place. I could have them role-play some scenarios and examine what might and might not work. I determined that rather than the course being eight weeks of just punching and kicking the air and striking shields, I would seek to expand their situational awareness and get them to thinking about their risk before an incident happened. Thus, the course I offered three times during 1988-1989 became a combination of conflict avoidance techniques, situational awareness coaching, and some actual striking and escape techniques, i.e., palm heels, elbows, knees, simple escapes from the grab, etc. After each course, students would say something akin to, “Well, I really like what you taught me, but isn’t there something in writing I can take with me to review in the future or share with my friends and family?”

I realized that I needed to codify what I was teaching, and also conduct some deeper research on crime statistics, threat behavior, and victim behavior. Rather than declaring something to be true based primarily on my own experience, or anecdotal oral history in the dojang, I needed a solid foundation of evidence and facts. It was here that I began to research and write what became my first book-length work, a non-fiction effort entitled The Danger from Strangers: Confronting the Threat of Stranger Assault (Plenum 1995). I closely examined Bureau of Justice statistics, FBI research and statistics, and studied the work of others in the field of conflict avoidance, rape avoidance, self-defense, and resistance against assault. But the work of the government bean counters and academicians was not enough to make me comfortable with dispatching advice in this book; so, in addition to the cold statistics, I took a more direct, personal approach to uncovering the facts. How better to discover and reveal the actions or behaviors that attract criminals than by asking the criminals themselves? For several months, I made time within my academic writing toward my degree, to set up interviews with convicted criminals and victims. I asked the criminals questions like, “At the time of your crime (rape, robbery, etc.) what was your victim doing?” I asked the victims, “At the time you were attacked, and just before your attack, what were you doing?” I looked for patterns in the answers and balanced them against government statistics, which led me to draw some conclusions about behavior and the likelihood of assault. It would take me several years of continuing to collect information before I would publish this book, yet I found the confluence of my martial arts training, research, and writing to be personally rewarding during my time in South Carolina.

[i] Colonel (at the time) Clark meant well in counseling me against the move. I explained how I planned to get my graduate degree in English and then take a utilization tour teaching at West Point. “You’ll ruin your career,” he growled in a way only those of us who worked for him can fully appreciate. “You need to stay with troops,” he declared. But I was unmoved. I knew what I wanted out of life and my Army career, and it did not have to be the same thing he wanted. I dug deep for indomitable spirit, and he relented and supported my decision.

4.9   A Confederate in General MacArthur’s Court – West Point

When I finished my graduate work in South Carolina, I moved to my assignment with the faculty of the Unites States Military Academy at West Point, NY. My wife and I loved the area, steeped in history, and I found the intellectual environment to be stimulating. My wife found nursing work nearby in obstetrics and quickly excelled in her profession, while I threw myself into lesson plans, classroom teaching, and cadet counseling. I found a cross-fertilization between my teaching in the martial arts and my teaching at USMA (Figure 4.9.1). Instructing there, particularly as a non-West Pointer, was a privilege; and I found that the daily discipline demanded of the cadets, and the academic rigor required in the class work, drove me into greater discipline as a soldier and as a writer. I have shared previously how, for me, writing is an extension of the focus that I have so long practiced in the martial arts, so it was here that I continued researching and writing The Danger from Strangers.

[Figure 4.9.1: The author with guest speaker — the late country comedian Jerry Clower, circa 1991]

            From the academic standpoint, I taught English Composition and Literature in the classroom during the spring and fall, and Leadership and Tactics at nearby Camp Buckner during the summer. I also had opportunities to lead some special enrichment programs, studying military history and literature at important battlefield sites (Figure 4.9.2).

EPSON MFP image

[Figure 4.9.2: Major Brewer (second from the right) instructs cadets at Shiloh National Military Park. It took indomitable spirit for Civil War infantry to make nine successive charges into a row of cannon spitting grapeshot and canister into their ranks.]

 I loved interacting with the cadets, both in the classroom and outside it. My wife and family enjoyed walking down the mountain from “Stoney Lonesome” and attending Golden Knights football games in the fall. My oldest daughter would graduate from high school and my youngest would finish middle-school there. And, of course, I had to find a martial arts environment to be fully satisfied. So, I determined to work with the karate club at USMA. The “karate” club at West Point during those days was a progression beyond the Close Quarter Combat (CQC) Training (Figure 4.9.3) or Combatives required of every cadet (generally in the first year). Unlike CQC, the club was designed around competition and tournament performance. The cadets in the club traveled to karate tournaments and represented the school. That is not unlike today, where currently the mission of the cadet-run West Point Martial Arts Club continues to be training highly motivated and talented cadets in sport martial arts to win collegiate tournaments.

[Figure 4.9.3: Ray Wood teaches Close Quarters Combat (CQC) class at West Point, 1991]

During my assignment there (1989-1992), the West Point Karate team was loosely organized around Tang Soo Do/Moo Duk Kwan. I say “loosely” organized because it appeared that the martial art style governing the club/team depended upon:

(a) the style of the faculty member assigned to sponsor the program (which changed every three years or so),

(b) any outside instructors brought in to teach, and

(c) the variety of martial arts styles the cadets had trained in prior to arriving at West Point.

But the focus at that time was clearly tournament fighting rather than street self-defense. Given my reticence about tournaments, it is a little surprising I participated with the team at all; however, I did periodically train with them. I was neither a coach nor an assistant coach. But I did share techniques with them, benefit from the cardiovascular workouts, and I enjoyed that “fellowship of like minds” I have described previously. On a couple of occasions, I accompanied the team to tournaments (Figure 4.9.4), offering what advice and counsel I could as they fought to represent West Point. It was at West Point, however, where I did learn a valuable lesson about training, aging, and the need to compete.

[Figure 4.9.4: Members of the West Point Karate team following a competition circa 1991]

One evening I returned to our quarters after a practice with the team. For some reason that night I had broken one of my cardinal rules: I never leave the dojang wearing my uniform. I always change into civilian clothes prior to departing the building. Whatever the reason for my heresy, I came in the front door of our quarters and my wife saw me in the foyer. There was not a dry tread in my uniform.

            “What in the world have you been doing?” she asked. I gave her one of those ‘isn’t it obvious from my clothes’ looks that went unappreciated. In reply she gave me ‘the stare.’ (Don’t tell me you married guys don’t know about the stare.)

            “Working with the karate team,” I replied, starting for the kitchen for something to drink.

            “Stop. Stop,” she said as she approached me. “You look awful.”

            “Thanks a lot.”

            “No, seriously, Jim. I think you over-did it.”

            I grabbed for some Gatoraide®. “Nah, I’m good.”

“Come over here a second,” she said, deftly taking my pulse as she led me by the arm to a nearby mirror. “Take a look at yourself.” My face was pallid and drawn looking. “You do not look healthy. Your heart rate is still elevated.”

“I’m okay.”

“What kind of training were you doing?”

“We did a lot of free-fighting tonight.”

“So, you were sparring with a couple of cadets?”

“No,” I replied. “All of them.”

“All of them?” she said. I just shrugged my shoulders.

“It was a round-robin kind of thing.”

“Do I need to tell you that you’re not nineteen years old anymore?”

“No.”

“You’re a forty-year-old man, Jim,” she said. “You don’t have to compete with the nineteen-year-olds anymore. You could die of a heart attack.”

She then handed me my Gatoraide®, shook her head, and walked away. I stood there for a few minutes, re-hydrating and just staring at myself in the mirror. That exhausted man looking back at me seemed to say, “You know, Son, she’s right.” In that moment, on that night, standing there listening to my wife and looking at myself, I came to a very important realization.

  • Lesson Learned:  There comes a point in your martial arts life that you may need to recognize the toll that time and aging takes, and you should be prepared to adjust how you train.

I was in decent shape for a forty-year-old man, working out in the gym several days a week, swimming, playing basketball, doing some high-reps weightlifting, etc. But I was still a forty-year-old man. And a forty-year-old man does not have to do what a nineteen-year-old does. Their bodies are different, thus their training needs are different. My wife’s chastisement led me to do some research over the next few months and I discovered some studies showing that as a person ages, they can get as much out of three days a week in the gym or in a martial arts class as a younger person can get out of five days a week. After that episode, I changed my routine. I still went to the gym, just not as often. I still trained with the cadets and sparred with them, just not all of them on the same night. Because God was kind enough to grant me health and longevity, I would discover years later that a sixty-year-old man does not have to do what a forty-year-old man does. One common theme you may have noticed throughout this book is this: of the two members of this marital (not martial) union, it is my wife who seems to more regularly apply common sense and reason in matters of health.

Sometime during 2008, almost twenty years after I had participated with the cadet karate team at West Point, I was on temporary duty (as a civilian) at Fort Leavenworth, KS. I was stuck in a painfully long, mind-numbing meeting replete with facts and figures, presented in endless Powerpoint® slides discussing intelligence training and how to replicate the threat. After a couple of hours, we took a break. I was walking toward the coffee when a lieutenant colonel approached me.

“Major Brewer!” I glanced in the man’s face and then noted his name tag. “Do you remember me?” he asked. I hesitated. “You used to kick me around at the karate club back at West Point.” Over the next few minutes of our coffee break, I had a great reunion with the young man. He told me how much he had enjoyed the training, how he continued to train, and he made me proud to have been associated with him. West Point was, and still is, a tough academic, behavioral and leadership crucible that tests young men and women right down to the bone. The demands on their intellect, moral code and spirit are intentionally high so that only the best advance to lead other young men and women in combat. West Point had challenged and tested this man’s indomitable spirit. His martial arts training had supplemented his learning and allowed that young, wide-eyed cadet to reach the rank of lieutenant colonel; and he still appreciated what the experience had done for him. Now, I did not train that much with the karate team. In fact, I was sporadic, at best, in my work with them. And I have already noted that I was neither club sponsor, team coach, nor assistant coach. But his words reminded me how important it is to treat people you meet with respect, and to impart tactically and technically correct information to them along the way. Because you may just meet them again.

  • Lesson Learned: No matter how briefly your life path may cross that of a student in the martial arts, your influence (positive or negative) may well last a lifetime.

[1] To say this lieutenant colonel was a jerk would be an understatement. I shall not reveal his name, but he commanded little respect from the men in the unit. He called in each new officer and showed him a blank Officer Efficiency Report (OER). He would point to the silhouette of the lowest rated block on the OER and declare, “This guy has a mustache.” Guess he hated mustaches, even those worn within regulation.

[1]  Over the years I lost track of Sensei Salay, but I believe him to have taught for a while in Las Vegas before retiring to there in 2000.

[1] For more reading on combat or tactical breathing, see LTC Dave Grossman and Loren Christensen’s book On Combat (2004) by Warrior Science Publications.

[1] More recent studies have called into question the safety of “sanchin” breathing, particularly if not conducted correctly. Some have suggested it go the way of knuckle-hardening and straight-leg sit-ups as a technique that can create long-term damage. For more information, take a look at: http://uechi-ryu.com/sanchin-breathing-are-you-hurting-yourself/

[1] Matthew Bayley has since relocated to Vail, Colorado where he is listed as “a professional empty-hand and firearm close-quarter combat instructor … (and a) … a post-certified defensive tactics instructor for law enforcement, an NRA Basic Pistol, Personal Protection, and Range And Safety Officer, as well as a certified Range And Safety Officer for the 4-H. Matt Bayley would seem to epitomize the idea of the modern martial artist being the master of the weapons of his time.

[1] Colonel (at the time) Clark meant well in counseling me against the move. I explained how I planned to get my graduate degree in English and then take a utilization tour teaching at West Point. “You’ll ruin your career,” he growled in a way only those of us who worked for him can fully appreciate. “You need to stay with troops,” he declared. But I was unmoved. I knew what I wanted out of life and my Army career, and it did not have to be the same thing he wanted. I dug deep for indomitable spirit, and he relented and supported my decision.