Tuesday, October 03, 2006
Moving on
Today I had to go into the Tae Kwon Do school where I spent more or less every waking moment of last year and tell them I was leaving the school. The reason is not any kind of dissatisfaction--though I was dismayed to find, when I returned from China, that they had pretty much overhauled everything and changed to a "mixed martial arts" curriculum--but simply that it's time to move on. The big news I haven't put up here--mostly because anyone who'll bend an ear has heard more than their fill--is that following my teacher's return to Florida for a year, more or less the entire competition team I trained with has jumped to her old master's team out in Astoria. But this is no ordinary team.
To being with, their shirts are emblazoned with the Olympic rings. This is not pretense. This is the goal. Master Suh both fought on and coached the national team--recently. He's not older than 35. Three of the team members, all girls, fight for the US National Team (which is only eight men and eight women). Tashi Sherpa, 5'3", 110lbs, would fight for the US, only he's not a citizen. He's Nepali, so he fights for them. Looks like a 12-year old, hits like an iron bar. Top fighter in America in his weight class. My first class, I watched Tashi and one of the girls (who competed this weekend at the Pan Ams in Colombia) more or less try to kill each other. Tashi got tagged in the eye. Tashi went berserk. Fights do not last much more than three minutes. After three minutes you can barely stand, and you feel drained by the hangover from a sudden adrenaline surge. This fight went on for ten minutes. They were hurling each other to the floor, slamming each other in the skull, crashing into the walls--almost entirely without pads. Remember we are talking the best fighters in the country--the most accurate, fast and powerful. It was terrifying. Tashi, it appeared, had something he needed to get out of his system. After Master Suh finally ended the bout, both fighters were heaving from exhaustion. And in his speech as we bowed out, he drove the point home. Most end-of-class speeches are relatively congratulatory: "good job today, good workout, you're all coming along well."
This speech was quite to the point: "Are we playing golf?"
Class: No, sir!
Suh: Are we playing tennis?
Class: No, sir!
Suh: ...you are going to get injured. You are going to break bones. Bones heal.
This is the best school in the country. A year or two there and I can be fighting internationally It's a murderous workout. One recent training session featured half an hour of intensive cardio (as do all sessions), followed by "hogu drills." A Hogu is the chestguard. A hogu drill is one in which you and a partner slam each other full force in the gut--for an hour and a half. I repeat, an hour and a half. Hundreds of kicks. But what of the chest guard? It is of little consequence; I could kick you through a mattress and you'd feel it. That practice was a little hard. And by a little hard, I mean I really thought I was going to die. Small consolation that my partner looked to be in a state about as woeful as mine. It's like Chinese class, frankly--suffering is how you learn. To join this team is to accept that purification through pain is the only worthwhile path. The question before me is, am I content to be simply good? Or am I willing to work for something more?
Heh. Throw down, suckaz.
To being with, their shirts are emblazoned with the Olympic rings. This is not pretense. This is the goal. Master Suh both fought on and coached the national team--recently. He's not older than 35. Three of the team members, all girls, fight for the US National Team (which is only eight men and eight women). Tashi Sherpa, 5'3", 110lbs, would fight for the US, only he's not a citizen. He's Nepali, so he fights for them. Looks like a 12-year old, hits like an iron bar. Top fighter in America in his weight class. My first class, I watched Tashi and one of the girls (who competed this weekend at the Pan Ams in Colombia) more or less try to kill each other. Tashi got tagged in the eye. Tashi went berserk. Fights do not last much more than three minutes. After three minutes you can barely stand, and you feel drained by the hangover from a sudden adrenaline surge. This fight went on for ten minutes. They were hurling each other to the floor, slamming each other in the skull, crashing into the walls--almost entirely without pads. Remember we are talking the best fighters in the country--the most accurate, fast and powerful. It was terrifying. Tashi, it appeared, had something he needed to get out of his system. After Master Suh finally ended the bout, both fighters were heaving from exhaustion. And in his speech as we bowed out, he drove the point home. Most end-of-class speeches are relatively congratulatory: "good job today, good workout, you're all coming along well."
This speech was quite to the point: "Are we playing golf?"
Class: No, sir!
Suh: Are we playing tennis?
Class: No, sir!
Suh: ...you are going to get injured. You are going to break bones. Bones heal.
This is the best school in the country. A year or two there and I can be fighting internationally It's a murderous workout. One recent training session featured half an hour of intensive cardio (as do all sessions), followed by "hogu drills." A Hogu is the chestguard. A hogu drill is one in which you and a partner slam each other full force in the gut--for an hour and a half. I repeat, an hour and a half. Hundreds of kicks. But what of the chest guard? It is of little consequence; I could kick you through a mattress and you'd feel it. That practice was a little hard. And by a little hard, I mean I really thought I was going to die. Small consolation that my partner looked to be in a state about as woeful as mine. It's like Chinese class, frankly--suffering is how you learn. To join this team is to accept that purification through pain is the only worthwhile path. The question before me is, am I content to be simply good? Or am I willing to work for something more?
Heh. Throw down, suckaz.
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