Keel-Yawl

Looks like I will become a student again. This time, it will be in martial arts. I have had a smattering of instruction in Tae Kwon Do, nasty little tricks taught by a few friends, and more recently Brazilian Jiu-Jitsu. There was also a miniscule amount of hand to hand training while I was a volunteer for Uncle Sam, but not enough to count (does Friday afternoon Kung Fu Theater?). Yes, that’s right, a military man. I spent six years in the Navy, working as a policeman for the United Nations. We just had to wear those disco bell bottoms instead of fancy pants with utility belts. Who in the hell can sing Y.M.C.A. properly, without the appropriate attire? But I digress.

A friend I work with recommended I take a little trip over to the town next door and check out this little school that offers multiple martial arts styles at a reasonable rate. Said gentleman’s daughter is dating one of the instructors and aforementioned father was impressed with previously disclosed boyfriend’s exhibited character (That was politician for - he liked the guy).

“First two lessons are free”, he says. Bastard knew that would get me all excited. So tonight I decided to cart my butt over to the school and let me just say ahead of time, I am glad I did. “Why?” you ask. Well just hold on a minute and let me tell you.

Driving out to the place, I passed it twice. When my friend told me the address and suite number, I automatically assumed that it was in an office park of some sort. A few phone calls and hanging my head out the window to scream obscenities at people who don’t put address numbers on their buildings later, I found it. Not an office building at all, but a warehouse. Now you uppity types can sneer if you want, but driving up to a martial arts school that his housed in a warehouse is a point in their favor, in my opinion. You see, I dislike pretentiousness. You see some schools of the martial variety that are all flashy posters, bright lights, neon signs, ‘We are card toting members of 15 martial arts associations’ airbrushed on their windows, and have an ATM machine just inside the front door. To put it mildly, they suck a big one.

So I get out and approach the building to find the exterior door propped open by a citronella bucket. Any of you in the south will know why. For the rest of you, the bugs down here are big enough to require clearance to land. Entering the dojo, my first impression was a good one. The room had tall ceilings, a large mat covering otherwise unpainted cement floors, old pictures of past students and friends of the instructors, various weapons, and the faintest odor of honest sweat.

The younger gentleman, who was to be my instructor for the night, met me with a firm handshake and quick appraisal – more positive signs. We chatted briefly of my past martial experience and what my expectations were for the class. I told him I would like to watch the class proceedings first and possibly join in later. With a nod he returned to the mat and his students. Given the choice, the class chose to work with the rattan sticks. Let me explain, tonight was a class in the arts of the Filipino Combat System. I watched as the sensei worked with the students in showing various techniques with the rattan. After he got his charges working on drills, he again asked me if I would like to join in. I agreed with a grin and kicked off my sneakers and socks, removed the plethora of tools from my cargo shorts and joined him on the mat.

I am not shy in saying that I don’t know something when I don’t. So after picking up a stick, I informed him that I really didn’t know any techniques in the FCS and I would love it if he just started from the very beginning. In this instance, that would be the proper way to hold the stick and we could go from there. He was an excellent teacher, and that is saying a lot. I have found being accomplished at a skill or set of skills, does not necessarily make one an accomplished teacher. He was overly gentle at first, which I informed him with a grin that he could work the maneuvers on me and if the pain approached my threshold, I was very familiar with the tap technique (tapping out). He nodded and stepped it up by increments as we went along. By the end, he was twisting, locking, turning, and dropping me like a vow of celibacy on a sultry Mardi Gras night.

No, I am not a masochist, but if you can’t show me that something will work on someone fresh through the door, I am not interested in what you have to teach. I was full of questions and he answered each to my satisfaction. Another plus for me, is the entire time he spent with me, he never lost track of where his students were and what they were doing. He would give them verbal instructions to correct a technique and would often excuse himself to step in and teach by showing where he felt it was needed. The pauses didn’t bother me in the least because being the nosy redneck that I am, I followed him and listened to what he had to say.

Before I knew it, time was up. We shook hands again, bowed, and took our conversation off the mat. My positive impression only increased when I inquired about prices. The gentleman quoted a price and I tried not to show my shock. I wondered if they were able to make any money at those rates (silently – I am not a complete moron) and my questions were answered when I was told that if I wrote a check that I should just make it out to the warehouse owner. That’s right, they just wanted to make sure to pay the rent and they were satisfied with whatever was left over to divide between the instructors. Let me tell you, it can’t be much. That ain’t just saying you have love for the art; that is walking the walk and a huge positive in my little southern book.

Just to cover all of my bases, I posed an inquiry to the wondrous folks over at the Animal List and I don’t truly expect to hear anything negative about this group. So unless some piece of drastic information comes my way, I will be joining up and working off the rest of this baby fat.

Keel-yawl! (That’s a southern karate yell, you hippy)

Talk to ya soon.