Knockouts and Take-Downs

I got knocked out for nine minutes once, setting a record in our school that has not yet been broken. A fourth degree black belt who was also a professor of English Literature and Language at Furman University was explaining to me how to punch correctly. I had my eyes fixed right on his fist while he was talking, and as he stepped in, he assumed I was going to step back. I didn't. The last thing I remember was the unique weightless feeling I had when my feet left the floor, and I remember when I heard a loud crash I knew it was my shoulders and not my head hitting the wall where the flags were hung. I lay there for nine minutes with my eyes open, yet unable to move or speak. The professor from Furman stayed right over me, his face terribly worried, pleading with me to answer him, asking me to follow his finger with my eyes if I could. (I could.) At last after nine minutes I suddenly gagged, let out one sob, looked up at him and said, "Comma?"

I told this story to the group at dinner one night. One fellow told me about the time that he decided that now that he was a black belt, he was going to settle the score with the guy who had single handedly bullied and controlled him and just about every other boy in the local high school for four years. It was a noble but somewhat rash decision, and in about three seconds of issuing the challenge, the new black belt realized he was outgunned and was going to get thrashed yet again. Just as the bigger guy swung the last punch, the other young man thought-with perfect coolness and detachment-"My, what a large fist he has." And then, Bam! It was over.

Another man, Bill, is now a sixth degree black belt, and his wife Anne has her third degree. They told me about a time when he was just at first or second degree, and Anne was not yet a black belt, and they were still engaged and not yet married. Bill had just won first place at one of our old style tournaments (full contact with no equipment other than cups and mouthpieces), and he and Anne stopped at the Waffle House in Simpsonville afterwards. Because Waffle Houses are made of glass, everybody driving by could see Bill's car in the parking lot and then just look in to see if he was in there. So people were coming in and out to congratulate him on some great fights and to ask him who won what in which divisions.

With all the coming and going, they were there for a couple hours, and most of the talk at their table was Martial Arts talk--rather loud as everybody was excited and happy. One man who was there didn't like the talk and the carrying on. I guess it made him feel threatened or something. So he followed Bill and Anne to the cash register and said something to Anne that he shouldn't have said. Bill got angry, but Anne asked him not to fight, so he ignored the man, and then the man said it again.

As Bill took the change from the cashier he negotiated the balance between keeping Anne happy and not allowing that kind of language towards his fiancée'. He looked at the guy and said, "If you want a fight, all you have to do is follow me outside."

"I got a knife in my boot that'll cut you down to size," the man called after him as he walked away with Anne.

"You heard me," Bill said. "If you want trouble, just come outside. Otherwise, go back to your table." And he went outside, stepping around a small motorcycle that somebody had parked up on the sidewalk that led to the front door.

He never looked back until the door behind him crashed open. Bill is about six foot two and very powerful, with very fluid hips and strong legs. All in a motion he turned and threw a military style round kick, driving it through with the hips and striking the man dead on the chin-as the man was reaching for his boot. I've seen Bill break three boards with this kick, and he's knocked out people in competition with it.

It flung the man back into the glass wall of the Waffle House-scaring the daylights out of the people in the restaurant. As Bill explained it, he didn't get mad until after he hit the guy with the kick, and then he just got madder and madder.

Without really noticing it, Bill skirted around the motorcycle on the sidewalk, grabbed the guy's shirt front, and punched him. Then he punched him again and realized he'd better stop. SO he grabbed the shirt front with two hands and swept back in a strong stride backwards to throw the man down-never seeing the motorcycle behind him.

Bill stepped back so hard and fast that his shoulders went right over backwards when his legs hit that motorcycle. Nobody knows why, but that thing must have been anchored. It stayed upright as Bill did a back flip right over it. His feet went straight up above his head and came down on the other side, and he landed face down right on the hard black top of the parking lot.

The first thing he heard was Anne's frantic, "Bill! Bill! Are you all right?"

He sat right up and exclaimed, "Hey! That guy's got a knife! Where is he?" He had a strip of skin hanging loose from his nose, and two other shorter strips were peeled down his forehead-one over each eyebrow in a straight line pointed down.

Then Anne started laughing. Between his own daze and the blood in his eyes, Bill didn't even see the guy for a moment. When he spotted him, he saw that the man had been flung over the motorcycle with him-but had landed further away. With Bill grabbing the shirt front that way, the shirt had been pulled halfway up the man's arms and over his head. The guy got up on his knees with the shirt up over his head. He was so dazed and groggy he didn't even know where he was or why it had gotten so dark.

Bill scrambled over to him, jerked the shirt down with one pull, and cocked back his fist. The guy looked even worse than Bill did. He'd been hit three times AND been somersaulted over a motorcycle onto pavement.

"I-I got a gun in my car-" the guy began, and Bill yelled, "Do you want me to hit you again?"

"No," the man said.

"Then go back into the Waffle House!"

And the man did.

Some people get knocked out by beginners, and some people get knocked out by masters, but Bill was the first fighter we knew who'd been knocked out by a motorcycle.

My own record for being knocked out the longest has never been broken at my school, but it was tied once. We had a black belt guy who I will call Rich. He started classes way back when the school was first started by our late founder, Billy Hong. Rich had a lot of talent and a lot of dedication, and for years he was the acknowledged top student. He went up through fourth degree black before the effects of age started settling in.

Regrettably, Rich thought himself somehow vested with a little more authority than he actually had. He sometimes slapped people when he sparred with them-especially women and teen-age students. I heard about this but never knew it otherwise, because for some reason he never slapped me. Maybe he just never got around to it. Nobody told the instructor because nobody wanted to tell him. The people who got slapped were too proud to complain. I know that Anne told him to his face to never slap her, and he did not, but he told her that all of us women had poor guard positions.

Anyway, Barry is a friend of mine that I've mentioned before in these articles. Barry held first brown at the time-within six months of black belt. From the day he'd started, Barry had shown tremendous promise and ability. He'd already won a string of tournaments and often visited other schools to spar with their black belts. But Rich had never felt intimidated by him. I think that was his downfall. A little more respect would have maintained his edge over Barry. But then, with a little more respect, he never would have slapped anybody at all.

Barry is not a fiery person, and I've never seen him threaten anybody or yell or even boast. He keeps his mouth shut and does what he's decided to do. He was sparring Rich, and they were only going about half speed, so Barry let his hands drop slightly. Rich slapped him and told him to keep his hands up. Then he told Barry that Barry's front kick was a ridiculous opener and could never be thrown fast enough as a straight on kick against an experienced opponent. Any good black belt, Rich told him, would see a leading front kick from a mile away. Barry picked up the pace of the fight so that Rich could not talk as much. After a few turning kicks they broke apart, and Barry came in with that front kick opener. Bam! I don't know--maybe Rich actually did see it coming like he said he could. I don't think he can remember much about it.

The instructor was-of course-furious with Barry. It was the only time I have ever seen Mr. Hong's successor really red in the face angry. Once they got Rich on his feet and out to the hospital, everybody but Barry was told to leave. And then the doors were locked, and whatever was said was never repeated outside those walls. But we all knew Barry was in trouble.

The girls tried to act like they were sorry Rich had to go to the emergency room to be checked for concussion. But everybody knew one thing for sure: nobody was going to be slapped any more.

My one claim to greatness in a fight happened more or less by accident-or perhaps instinct rather than skill. We had a guy named Jeff who was a brown belt when I started at Hong's as a white belt. (Bear in mind that we have four degrees of brown belt.) As I advanced through the belts up into brown, Jeff only tested once. He told me he was in no hurry. According to him he wanted to develop slowly and precisely into a black belt.

But after about a year even I figured it out: Jeff liked to spar the new black belts and win out over them as a brown belt. I had enough to worry about with getting ready for black belt to worry about Jeff, and I hardly ever thought about what would happen if I should get my black belt.

But the day came: I tested for black and passed. Jeff was second brown (second gup or second kyue). On my first night in after getting the coveted belt, he pointed right at me and said, "I'm going to spar YOU, tonight."

Right away I kept up the black belt front and said, "So?"

But I prayed through the whole class. I'd seen him really thump on black belts before. Jeff wasn't a big guy but rather wiry and agile. I'm slow-strong for a woman, but not a very agile fighter. Jeff liked to throw people to the floor and could cuff them on top of the head-those elements are humiliating.

I complained to God through the entire class, and at last it was time to spar. Jeff was smirking. I kept a look of bored patience on my face while inwardly I was eating my heart out. But then something happened inside me. I got really scared as I realized this guy was going to humiliate me. And something inside me suddenly knew that if he intimidated me I would lose right from the start. It didn't even occur to me in words. I just knew it. I suddenly froze into complete stillness, but my nerves were on a razor's edge. Yet everything inside me was absolutely still, as though all of me were listening for something.

I think that poor Jeff was over confident. He moved but he didn't move much. Before I even knew what was happening, I saw my own foot way far away from me. I didn't see it move; I didn't feel it move. The kick was just suddenly there, and it caught Jeff on the hip as he rose up on the balls of the feet (too much) to come in.

A hard downward straight kick against the hip of a slender and wiry man can knock him off his feet, and this one sure did. In fact, Jeff rolled between two other sets of fighters. That part seemed to be in slow motion as I watched. My mouth was hanging open, but I closed it as he looked up-confused and amazed.

In fact, as I realized that he was absolutely stunned, I thought, "Now he's really going to kill me." And then I realized I had taken all the wind out of his sails, and I heard myself order him, "Why are you lying there? Get up and fight!"

He got up, and the rest was a piece of cake for me. I had no illusions. I was sure eventually he would spar me into the ground. But not that night. And as it turned out, his job moved him to Ohio two weeks later. So it remains my one glorious fight.

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