The Fight

The Decision

I have never enjoyed fighting. So why am I in the martial arts? It makes very little sense, I know. The martial arts had a wonderful way of fulfilling my mind, body, and soul. It was never about the fighting for me, it was about physical, spiritual and mental alignment.

It appears that the sport itself (not necessarily our dojo) has become a bit more tournament-centric than it was previously. Maybe this is attributed to the rise of Mixed Martial Arts (MMA), maybe it’s because winning fights are becoming more and more students’ end goals. Or maybe, and likely, I just never cared to notice the significance of fighting. Our dojo has never put a lot of weight on tournaments. We understand that it is something that benefits us, as a mental exercise, and we learn a lot about ourselves when participating in competition. It also serves a great opportunity to spar with other martial artists outside our dojo, so we can learn and adjust our techniques to be better. It has never been a rank requirement in or dojo. In fact it’s never really been mandatory in our dojo. To me, it’s usually the last thing on my mind when practicing. 

After class one night, I had asked Sensei III about the upcoming tournament details as I planned on filming the students participating so we’d have some updated videos for our website. He proceeded to ask if I was thinking about competing. I hesitated and said, “I dunno, I’m not ready.”

           

“I think you’re ready.”

            “I guess I could do kata.”

            “Do it!”

To give you some background, kata (forms/routines) was always my forte. I won first place, even against the boys, in kata. My favorite kata to perform is Empi Sho. Empi Sho translates to “Flying Swallow” or “First Elbow Form.” It is recorded that this kata was first performed in Okinawa around 1895. This form has serious roots; it’s unarguably a traditional kata, which is why I think I am so drawn to it (history nerd). This kata, in its essence, is elegant and resolved and I adore that balance. I concluded my karate career at the top with Empi, and I figured why not start back with Empi. I don’t think Sensei III was surprised by my choice. Sensei III has also won many tournaments with this kata. I chose Empi not because I won with it before, but because I performed it near the end of the first chapter of my martial arts career and thought it appropriate to perform it again at my new beginning. In the martial arts circles are such an important representation of a karateka’s journey, so a lot of my decisions are based on this “full circle” philosophy.

This is a difficult kata to perform. My choice definitely proves challenging, as the stances are very deep, requiring impeccable balance and unwavering strength from the core. Two things I still have to re-master. Trying to train my body back into this kata has proven incredibly difficult and frustrating. I of course could have chose a less difficult kata, but the symbolism behind Empi for me holds more weight. I’d rather lose with Empi than win with any other kata.

Sensei and I also decided that a bo kata could be fun for the traditional weapons category, so Tsue Sho No Kon Bo was added to the list. Fighting didn’t even cross my mind, especially at this point. It has been twelve years, and I hadn’t sparred with anyone since my return to the dojo. I am the type of person that really likes to be prepared when taking something on, and the final decision to participate in the tournament only gave me 2-3 weeks to prepare. The decision to perform kata alone was surprising to myself since I would have preferred 2-3 months prep time as opposed to weeks. The idea of entering a tournament after over a decade terrified me on its own, never mind feeling ill-prepared. In short, I suppose when it gets down to it, I intended on losing. The point of participating was to throw my hat back in the ring so I could desensitize myself to my surroundings and the experience. In my mind it was just kata, after all, I could handle a two minute routine.

So when Sensei III (who I will refer to simply as Sensei for this article) asked me if I was going to fight, I was somewhat bewildered. I told him I didn’t think I was ready and he assured me that he thought I was. I had only been back a few months but he said my “mechanics” were still present and I was more ready than I thought I was. I was very hesitant. After a long pause, I replied, “lets spar in class next week and I’ll see how it goes.”

I went home that night to see which division I would be fighting in. With my asthma still such an issue Sensei and I agreed that point sparring was the way to go for me (as opposed to continuous sparring which requires more cardio). After entering all the needed details on the tournament website (e.g. age, weight, rank), the category I had been searching for displayed. My heart sank to my stomach; the age group was “18-29.” I thought, if I fought myself at age 18, I’m pretty sure 18 year-old me would win. Sensei, adamantly disagreed.

Sensei explained that experience and wisdom could work in my favor and that I am stronger now and I was at 16. In a true Mr. Miyagi-like moment, he said, “I wouldn’t have told you to fight if I didn’t think you could fight. Your biggest challenge is mental. You need to think of this as a learning experience and getting back into it as opposed to going in trying to win, because you’re a natural competitor. Use this to gage where your fighting style is at now and what work you need to do.” What can I say? He knows his audience, I love to learn, and everyone knows that. So, somewhat reluctantly yet hungrily (an odd paradox to be amidst), I agreed.

Preparation

Next class, I had to fight a very tall 21-year-old guy. First fight in twelve years and I am fighting a young lad who actually really enjoys sparring. Even worse, I have always, and I mean always, hated sparring really tall people because their reach throws me off. When I go in I get tangled and lost in their flailing arms in feet, which, depending on your competitor, can be very painful. Since I have lost a lot of my speed, I am unable to get out as fast as I used to, putting me in a really bad position strategically. In short, this fight was my worst nightmare. Regardless, the rust needed to be broken off, and really there was no one else to spar, it was time. I was way too in my head before even going into it. I didn’t remember the tournament rules, my equipment wasn’t broken in yet, and Sensei conditioned the crap out of us for the hour preceding. I was already tired and my legs a bit shaky. Before I knew it, I found myself in three thirty second rounds, i.e. not point sparring, so my asthma of course acted up a bit. Oh well, it was time to sink or swim. I ended up flinking, I think. I snuck a couple good hits in, definitely took a few (he was wearing boxing gloves so it was hard to miss), and at the end of it, I still felt completely out of my comfort zone. I did things I never used to do, dropping my hands, not making eye contact, fighting linearly. These are all things I know I shouldn’t do, but its like I froze, without actually physically freezing. I was discouraged. The rules had also appeared to change a bit, which I didn’t know going into the fight. I was fighting a blue belt, and contact to the head was a huge no no if you were a brown belt fighting anyone below purple belt, back in the day. I took a few to the head and figured out way too late that this had changed and I could have been going after his head the entire time. I tried reminding myself that it was my first fight in twelve years and to ease up on myself, but my type-A personality interfered and I beat myself up…for days. I had bruises all over the place, which I usually don’t mind but I was getting weird looks at work. It’s a contact sport, obviously, but I never remembered having this many aches and pains after a fight, then again, I am twelve years older. I wanted to back out on the competition, but, I made a commitment and I wasn’t about to break it.

I felt as if my brain was performing some kind of mental gymnastics the entire time leading to this competition. It was hard for me to focus on anything else. Usually, I would have taken 2-3 months to prepare in terms of diet, exercise regiment etc. My previous strategy going into these tournaments was to only participate in one event each tournament, so that my preparation was solely focused on the one thing at hand, whether it be fighting or kata. However, since the name of this game was participation and jumping back into the game, why not participate in all three events. I was not as prepared as I would have liked to be but this wasn’t about winning, it was simply about doing. Or so I kept reminding myself (driving my wife insane along the way).

Two days before the tournament, I woke up completely stiff in my lower back while something pulled on the right side of my neck/shoulder. We tried heat, ice, ibuprofen, and nothing was really working. I am still not even sure what I did, it could have been as simple as sleeping wrong. I’ve had trouble with my left shoulder all year, and Sensei (who is also a PT) has been treating the left side. It was remarkably better, just got a bit locked up here and there, nothing he couldn’t fix. But now, my right side screamed mutiny but nothing, and I mean nothing, was going to stop me from doing this tournament. The suspense and anxiety surrounding this event had been way too much to bear for me not to go through with it now. But really body?! REALLY?! So I decided to focus on stretching and healing to prevent further injury and so I could be loose and mentally strong for the tournament.

I am an academic, so I of course researched video footage of the previous year’s event. The “point sparring” looked like its own specific-style on its own. Competitors were wearing these odd silk pajama-like uniforms with no obi (belt), hockey-like helmets with facemasks, and were dancing around in a circles leaving their entire torsos wide open. This made no sense to me. “Why are you hopping like rabbits in silk pajamas leaving your main target area wide open?” Sensei assured me not to worry and that I’d be fine. Of course, I continued to freak out anyway psyching myself out. “What did I get myself into?”

While watching the weapons forms and empty-hand forms videos from the previous year, I saw what I expected to see, a lot of flash, music and gymnastics, which is irrelevant to our style so I simply ignored them. Our forms categories were all traditional, so I incorrectly assumed that I had nothing to worry about because why on earth would I be up against someone with a stainless steel bo, twirling it around their neck? That wouldn’t happen in the 1800s, so its not traditional and therefore I won’t be competing against it in a traditional category. This Monus Ponus logic would prove erroneous.

The Thursday evening before the tournament (same day I woke up stiff) the entire class was dedicated to preparing for the competition. The days prior I had asked Sensei question after question about the rules, technique, etc., as a result of my first fight and my research of last year’s videos. He circled us up at the beginning of class and talked us through the rules, what to expect, etc. Then he created two stations, one for sparring and one for kata.

One of the Assistant Instructors and I started working on weapons kata. More nerve wracking than actually performing the kata, is determining your introduction to the judges while making sure you “walk the walk” when approaching them, and also bowing to your opponents when appropriate. It’s a lot to remember, especially when your anxiety is high. The “unwritten rule” is you must state the following:

• Your Name
• Your Style of Karate
• Your School
• The Kata you are performing and
•  Ask permission to begin

We worked on our introductory paragraphs, practiced bowing and walking in aggressively and of course practiced our forms giving each other feedback. We were performing the same kata so this was awesome to work on together.

Then we moved to the back of the dojo working on our open-hand kata, so for me and was Empi time. I tried something wholly different to start of the kata. When watching the videos of the 2013 New England Open, all of the karateka rush through their katas. There are two theories on this, 1) when going fast it’s easier to show power and speed and 2) speed masks poor balance and technique. Since everyone, including my own fellow karateka, was performing their katas very quickly, I decided to take an alternate approach.

Sensei was intrigued. “I’ve never seen the opening done that way before.” I hesitated, concerned he didn’t like my interpretation (bunkai). He proceeded, “I like it a lot, but there is a something missing that I think could really make it stand out.” So we picked apart the opening of my kata, tackling every head snap, hand movement, foot position, posture and transition. It was amazing. By the end he said, “I’d love to see you do that for a promotion.” This was a glaring indication that Sensei was pleased, therefore, so was I. He then instructed, “You guys need to spar though, so lets get to it.”

So I quickly switched gears. I fought my fellow Assistant Instructor and did much better than the last time. Of course, mentally, I was way more prepared to fight her, as 1) we had sparred a bunch of times in the past 2) we are similar in that we aren’t big on sparing 3) I knew it would be very controlled since we both have old injuries and 4) she is shorter than me, which gave me some pseudo-confidence (clearly I put way too much emphasis on height, something I am working on). It was a great match up, I felt good about going into tournament, until Sensei instructed me to spar the tall 21-year-old blue belt again. We had been working solid for almost two hours, I was exhausted, this wasn’t going to be pretty.

I was mad at myself for the last fight, so I tried to be smarter in the second fight.  I utilized my shin and knee to protect my core, which proved very effective (as indicated by the numerous bumps and bruises on my leg the following morning). I even got a 45 on him and definitely scored a point to his side. I was more aggressive, despite the fact I was exhausted. After that fight I understood that I was still not even close to where I wanted to be, but I was improving. For point sparring, he really didn’t get many points, as my defense was much smarter. But navigating around the long limbs was something I still needed to improve on, that and my really horrendous posture. If it were continuous sparring, he still set the tone of the fight, something that I am striving to rectify within about a year. Still, it was better than the previous fight, a small victory I needed to remind myself of.

The entire commute home from class, which is one hour, I recited my introduction to the judges: “My name is Mallary Cutler. My style of Karate is Okinawan Shorei-Ryu. I study under Sensei III and represent the X Dojo. The kata I will be performing is kata Empi-Sho. Do I have your permission to begin?” Pretty sure I was reciting it in my sleep that night as well.

Sensei instructed me to wear a white uniform, to my disappointment. I am true Bostonian athlete in that I am insanely superstitious. I’ve only won when in black. I am also a typical female, my butt was going to look huge in white pants and black is way more slimming, lets be honest. Despite this fashion crisis, I of course was going to wear what Sensei requested. I quickly ordered and overnighted a new white ghi (uniform). After thinking about it, only brown belts and above get to wear black, and since the other two competitors weren’t brown belts yet, I would have been the only one in black, which could present a feeling of disunity. Also, if we were truly going for traditional, I wasn’t going to add any school patches on the sleeves. I was going pure white, so all that was needed was a good, crisp ironing (thank you again Rita and Amazon).

I had worked from home the day before the tournament, knowing that I needed to ice some wounds and stretch intermittently throughout the day. When performing kata, I of course get nervous but at the end of the day I feel I have more control over kata than I do sparring, so kata doesn’t elicit a lot anxiety from me (usually). Fighting however, for me, is about 90% mental. So I used an old trick of mine, a true escapist’s strategy. Watch great fighting/karate films/series to get me pumped up. So, I watched the Karate Kid films, The Fighter, and all of season 18 of The Ultimate Fighter (yes the infamous Rousey vs. Tate season) while I stretched and iced. Suddenly, I found my zone.

My zone is silent and focused, so those around me don’t usually know what to do due to the stone-faced expression on my face. Its almost a meditative trance. This was my wife’s first experience with me in this state. I am a pretty chatty person, so my somewhat stoic silence definitely led to some raised eyebrows. I finally explained, this is just how I get before a fight; she of course just kept the ice, ibuprofen, protein bars and water coming and didn’t ask any questions. Her support was unwavering.

When finally in this state, it’s a point of acceptance, I’ve trained and done all I can do, I have no more control over what happens during this competition, so its time to trust my body and just get it done. What helped me reach this point of acceptance was what I remembered from past tournaments. Competition is entirely contingent on the judges. They may not like you from the get-go for whatever reason, they may be in a blind spot where they don’t see points, and they may just never warm to our style of martial arts. That doesn’t change who we are as karateka or how we represent our school. Its truly not about winning, its about doing our best, making Sensei proud, and representing our school with the utmost class and character. It’s about striving for perfection, pushing beyond our boundaries. I was as mentally prepared as I was going to be.

The Tournament 

We left at the crack of dawn to arrive early so we could sync-up with the other karateka from our school (and Sensei). Only three of us were competing. We quickly registered and got settled. Lucky for us, our rings were all side-by-side, making the day much easier to navigate, which was a true blessing. These events can become massively chaotic and disorganized, so your Sensei can easily end up running across the entire room back and forth for an entire day. This triumph was well received at the beginning of our day, we knew how lucky we were to have these locations side-by-side.

Weapons

Since I was the only one in the “advanced category” I would be last for each event. Ah the suspense of waiting...my favorite. I watched and cheered on my fellow karateka in an attempt to forget the lingering anxiety and suspense that had taken hold of me. My first category was Traditional Weapons Forms. To my dismay, there were only two other competitors, two young men one of which, was holding a stainless steel bo and couldn’t have been more than eighteen years old. We would all be performing bo katas. Both boys were in black, I was jealous.  None of our schools were CRANE or NASKA certified so the order to which we were to perform was determined by a drawing of our names. I would be second. Not my favorite position out of three performances. I’d rather either set the tone by going first or leave an impression by going last. Regardless, it wasn’t going to matter. 

The boy with the traditional heavy bo went first. His kata was wonderful; his traditional form showed that his balance was steady as his stances were firm, though not necessarily deep. His strikes and kicks were crisp, I truly could not find any errors with his routine, the pace and rhythm was wonderful and he was a pleasure to watch. As he bowed off the mat and turned to me, I bowed to him and him back to me. As I stepped onto the mat I quickly realized, this was it. My first performance in twelve years awaited me at the center of that mat. I marched towards the judges, reminding myself of the introduction. But, as the three judges (who were all older bald white men) stared at me the anxiety got hold of me and I mucked up the intro. I asked for permission to begin, then quickly followed up with the name of my kata. This was a big oops moment, one that cost me. Though it’s an “unwritten rule” really you should indicate which kata you’re performing before asking permission to begin. The kata itself felt terrible. The anxiety owned me. But when I walked off the mat, and bowed to the next competitor, I felt I secured second place at least. The next kid’s appearance, with the stainless steel bo, cut off ghi sleeves and t-shirt, suggested that he was anything but a “traditional” karateka (which is why I thought I had second place). His performance was exactly as expected, flashy. He whipped his bow around like it was a color guard routine, had super high stances due to more gymnastics moves than karate moves, and then proceeded to fix his uniform before bowing to the judges. I have no problem with routines of this type, it is simply a different style, my problem is that this routine should have been in the “open creative forms” category not the traditional category.

When the three of us approached the judges for our scores I was one point away from the boy with the traditional bo kata, no doubt attributed to my botched introduction. I felt content with the judge’s decision between him and I. However, stainless steel bow boy got first. I can’t say I was surprised; this has happened tons of times where these students who clearly belong in the opens forms category sign up for the traditional category and win over the judges with the “flash” despite the traditional context of the categorization. It’s a gamble to try this approach as the outcome could go either way, but this kid appeared somewhat calculated in what he was doing. After speaking with him briefly I felt his decision to sign up for this category was deliberate and he knew exactly what he was doing.

I quickly went over to Sensei who was clearly very happy with my performance. We talked; he really thought it was between me and the other traditional student, but we were both aware these things happen. In his eyes, it was a very tough call between me and the other traditional kata, which is all that really mattered to me. It wasn’t until I saw the recording of my kata that I realized that the kata looked way better than it felt. I was sharp and firm. In fact, it looked pretty good. My stances could have been lower and I should have gone all the way down to my knee instead of attempting the more advanced mitsurin-dachi (jungle stance) at the climax of the routine, but overall for my first performance in over a decade, it was a success. I saw glimpses of my old self and Sensei was incredibly happy with the performance, so it was a win all-around.

To recap, for the traditional forms I won third place (last place). I was given a ticket for a third place trophy. This trophy irked me, as it was reminder of how corrupt these tournaments can really be. Though it also reminded me that I would rather lose being true to my style than win at any cost. This was a lesson I had learned with tournaments a long time ago, this experience was merely a reminder of an already learned lesson, so I quickly put it out of my mind and moved on.

Kata

It became apparent after the first category that there were no other women in my age and rank group. I was curious if this was going to be the case for traditional forms and sparring as well. I looked around, and the place was swarming with black belts. My fellow female Sempai (assistant instructor) encountered a similar issue only having one or two competitors in the intermediate age 30-40 category (she is a purple belt). We agreed that many women our age are black belts or just starting out, so this in-between rank is tricky. I noted this analysis and pocketed it as motivation for me to work faster towards Shodan (first degree black belt).

Our suspicions proved accurate. There were no others to compete against for traditional forms. The judges tried persuading other women to compete against me, but they were all of lower rank, so no one wanted to go against a brown belt. However, we still get scored, so my goal was to get my best possible score. Since I was going to win first place by default, I wanted to feel as if I “earned” that first place spot. So, for this performance I would compete against, well, me. And that’s my favorite kind of competition.

I walked up to the judges and this time I didn’t muck up the introduction (winning). I took three deep breaths and began. This kata felt way better than my weapons kata. It felt solid, and I knew my face said it all, I was in the zone, until... there is one part of the kata where I bring the left leg up off the floor, and pivot on one foot (the right foot) while bringing that left leg back across my body. I’ve done this a thousand times but this time my foot dropped to the floor and my reaction gave away that this was a mistake. I should have just gone with it, improvised, the judges wouldn’t have known. Regardless, I got on with it and went out as strong as I could, knowing my fear had materialized. I made a mistake and worse my reaction gave it away. When I approached the judges for my score, to my relief, I got the same score from all three judges “99.99.” One-tenth of a point away from perfection, and clearly, I knew where the mistake was. Being me however, “if I just didn’t drop that foot!” Even Sensei said, amused, “I can’t believe you dropped your foot in Empi.” I was handed my ticket for my first-place trophy. Discouraged, I said, “great the only thing worst then losing is winning by default.” Sensei laughed and replied, “You got a 99.99, and for your first performance in that long, are you kidding me?” Point taken.

Sparring 

The last category was approaching. I had mentally prepared myself to fight for the entire two weeks leading up to this event, and after all that mental preparation, I was left with no competitors. My buddy from the dojo tried to convince her competitors to let me into their category (women, 30-40, intermediate) but they were all of lower rank, so they did not want to fight a younger brown belt (understandable). There was however, this one yellow belt from Canada (my age group) who was in the same predicament as me. They offered us an exhibition match. She would win regardless because it was her category we’d be fighting in (I won first in my category by default, which again was frustrating). The Judge looked to me and said, she agreed but you know, be careful. I assured him my control was pretty much unrivaled. 

Yellow belt is a step above white belt in most styles, so really I went into this fight at like 30%. This was this girl’s first tournament ever. She drove seven hours just to have no one to fight, this really put things into perspective for me. Since she was going win regardless I decided I’d put in just enough to make her try for it, but at the end of the day, I was going to let her win. No use showing off for an exhibition match with a beginner, I wanted this to be a good positive learning experience for her, so we went into and had a great time. I let her score a couple points, then I’d come back to “catch up” so she had to work a little harder for it. She was ecstatic by the end of the fight gave me a huge hug and then we chit chatted a bit. She came from a kick boxing background (which explained why she kept leaving her entire chest open the entire match), but she was lovely and it was an honor to be her first official match.

So, with two obnoxiously large 6’ tall first place trophies and a third place trophy, we left. There was a lot of time to reflect on the way home. In short, what I learned from this particular experience is apparently showing up is half the battle. At the end of the day that was the objective of this tournament. Show up, perform, rip-off the Band-Aid, which is exactly what I did and Sensei was happy with my performance, which was an added bonus.

Reflections

I watched a lot of tape of the tournament that weekend so I could compile some highlights for the dojo website. After watching hours of tape, I know where I can improve for next time: deeper stances, mix up the rhythm a little bit more in Empi and watch my posture when sparring. Sensei was of course right, this was an excellent learning experience. He was also right about my mechanics and instinct still being there. Coming back into the dojo at such a high rank originally made me uncomfortable, I felt like I didn’t deserve it for some reason, like I had to prove myself to everyone else. But after watching the tape over and over, and talking to Sensei about my overall analysis of all the performances and fights, I finally realized that I am still rank even after my long hiatus for a reason, and that reason is not because I brought home ridiculous trophies or won a fight.

I am seeing more and more glimpses of the martial artist that I want to be. When returning to class after the tournament, I finally felt that I was in the right place, at the right rank, and secure in my place in the dojo for the first time since my return. In talking to Sensei the epiphany revealed itself, despite my long absence, I see things others in the dojo do not see (yet), I analyze technique in a way others cannot (yet), and I perform in a way that others do not (yet), because of my experiences, because of my obsession with technical accuracy, because of my penetrating questions, ultimately, because I am rank. He explained to me the purpose of rank structure, why each of us is at the rank we are, and why I am right where I am meant to be even after twelve years .

Winning fights and tournaments has never determined rank in our dojo, and now I remember why. It’s not about winning fights and bringing home trophies. Advancing in rank is about pushing ourselves past our limits and improving our character in the process. This tournament helped me to realize, I am exactly where I am supposed to be and that the only person I need to prove anything to is myself. The fight is not with others, the fight is with myself, to be better, and to be as close to perfect as can be by learning from my mistakes. So with the Band-Aid officially ripped off, the next challenge awaits that will push me beyond my own physical, mental and emotional limits: promotion to the next kyu.

Apparently I can "win" in white.