Achtung baby

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.”