A Faithful Karate Lesson

It was cramped, sure it was cramped. On this day, it felt like the whole world was there. The dojo looked like it had a maximum capacity of 20 people, yet there were at least 30 spectators alone. It was a particularly hot day, this Saturday afternoon. Every three months, one Saturday, a precious Saturday, was taken out of my life. Instead of having fun outside with my neighborhood friends, I was taking a test.

The overcrowded group of parents had divided themselves up into those that pretended they were paying attention, those that didn’t bother paying attention, and those that were invested so heavily in their kid’s karate test that they could have just come from Vegas and had money on the line.

Amongst the crowd were my parents. I was only eight or nine at the time, but I knew all they’d accomplish at this point in my life. They were immigrants from Ukraine who came to the United States with only 100 dollars, and a kid (my brother). Fulfilling the “American Dream” meant relying on principles like sacrifice, hard work, and fearlessness. Those are the same principles that karate was teaching me and the ones that I, coincidentally, didn’t abide by on this pathetic day.

At this point, the important tests were over. The quest for an orange belt was close to complete. My karate kid career started, like it does for anyone, with a white belt, before I worked my way up to one with one stripe, then two stripes, and finally three. No more stripes. Today, I had the chance to move on to the next color. I had completed the Kata, a detailed choreographed pattern of movement that my instructors were judging me on. I didn’t mind the Kata. I thought my technique was there and although I was nervous, I’d say I put on a quality performance.

Our instructors were done judging us and the opportunity to advance to a higher belt ranking was becoming a good possibility. In fact, I thought it was pretty clear that I had passed my 4^th karate test and that the rest of the day would unfold nicely and more importantly, quickly. I might have even had some time to catch up with the neighborhood kids. I was wrong. After a few more tests, involving some more style and technique, it was on to fighting.

They had us put on our protection consisting of vests and headgear. Afterwards, we sat in a circle and listened to Shihan Shunji Watanabe, our chief instructor and a real life Mr.Miyagi, as he explained the rules we were to follow. We were then paired based on our belt rank and age. Size, not so much. The scene began to look like something from Fight Club, but the only difference was this wasn’t a hallucination. I was actually about to fight someone many times my size.

When I saw who I was going to fight, only one thought came to mind: How do I get out of this? Our turn to fight was creeping up very quickly. I’d turn to my parents and think they’re about to watch me die. I had to come up with something because we were next.

“I will give you the best Pokemon card I have, if you let me win,” I said to my opponent, who was sitting right next to me.

After a few more mutterings about which card it would be, he agreed. It was that easy. I was going to win the fight, and not die. I found a way to save myself from embarrassment.

“Nobody could believe it, honey,” my mom told me on the car ride home. “He was so much bigger than you but you were not scared at all. All of the parents were so proud of you, Evan.”

That’s when I started to cry. Disgusted with myself, I explained why I really won and I found myself back at the dojo within minutes. My parents made me admit to Shihan that I bribed my way to winning the fight. It was the most shameful thing I’d ever have to admit. Amidst my parents, that had done everything the right way with sacrifice, hard work, and fearlessness, and Shihan, I had to reveal that I was no David upsetting Goliath.

There was no rematch and my consolation prize was that everyone ended up knowing what I did. On our way back from our second visit to the dojo that day, I thought my parents would punish me until the end of time. But instead, they were proud that I admitted what I did, and they trusted it would never happen again.

The pathetic day turned out to be a life-altering one as I’d go on to win many fights in tournaments from New York to Baltimore, always keeping this day in my mind as a guiding lesson.