Today is Wednesday. There was a time when Wednesday meant fight night. Not as in stay at home and turn on the pay per view.I mean real fighting. Get up off the mat, strap on some foam wrist guards and shin guards, buckle up a leather head mask and start wailing on your opponent until one, or both of you, fall down from exhaustion.
I miss my karate training. I miss the camaraderie. I miss the bumps and bruises. I miss learning intricate maneuvers with exotic names like: Clutching Feathers, Sword of Destruction and The Grasp of Death.
I also miss the instructors, who were mostly African American. Though now with the benefit of retrospect, I can’t help wonder if these esteemed black belts took a little too much joy in dispensing so much pain upon a bunch of affluent, soft-bellied, white Westsiders.
Not that I blame them in the least.
If it were me and I had the opportunity to “train” some students named Heidrych or Hans or Dieter, I think I would be hard-pressed not to exact a small measure of retribution.
“OK, class push-ups. Drop down and give me 6 million.”
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