The art of karate is known for its power, speed and agility, depending on the style we’re talking about. But one of the most impressive aspects, at least for me, is economy of motion. A lot of fighters today kind of “poo poo” this striking system, mainly because their sphere of experience centers on one-on-one, consensual confrontations. Two dudes circling each other, hands up, ready to go. Bobbing, weaving, ducking and waiting for an opening. But original forms of karate were not designed for this type of scenario. It had a lot more to do with close-quarter fighting, often against a weapon and often against more than one person.
While forms such as boxing, savate, (French kickboxing) and even MMA involve two athletes engaged in a fight to see who is the best, non-sport karate systems train individuals for the reality of street fighting. Not that the sport fighter couldn’t easily win a real confrontation, because he or she probably can. Because they spar, hit and get hit all the time and perhaps because of the competitive edge, a sport fighter is a formidable opponent. The guy who taught me how to box, Jerry Macillis, was a six-time Golden Gloves champ who grew up in New Jersey in the 70s. He once told me that in his neighborhood, there were two ways to survive; sell drugs or box. And I know boxing gave him the edge in his many street fights. His fight name wasn't “Gorilla” for nothing.
Jerry and I met because he saw me kicking the bag one day in the gym and he asked me if I wanted to spar. He had actually just returned from a two-year tour in Korea where he studied tae kwon do. Now, Jerry was a pretty big dude, I’d say six feet tall and about 230 lbs. He didn’t exactly “float like a butterfly,” and his kicks were fairly easy to intercept. But get close enough for him to punch you, and it was game over. So, we made a deal; I’d teach him karate style kicks which were far more applicable for his huge frame, and he’d teach me how to box. But Jerry really didn’t need to know how to kick; his boxing skills and sheer mass made him a very scary man. He understood how to use his body and his punches were devastating and final. After our first sparring session, I realized I would never want to get into a real fight with a man like that. As time went on, I realized, I probably wouldn’t have to.
I started learning martial arts back in the late 70s and there was general mystique about these “secret” fighting skills. Watch any martial arts film from the 70s an 80s and you’ll quickly understand how much the average person did not understand about real training. Jumps, spins, lots of big, circular movements. Lot’s of flash and fancy moves. And, complete crap. Now, I entered into my training with these images in my head and I wanted to be the next Chuck Norris or Jackie Chan. Like many before me, I was drawn to the cool stuff; jumping, spinning crescent kicks, huge (and very noticeable) striking techniques, big and bulky throws that would never really work on a non-compliant person. And when I first started to train in karate, I brought a lot of that nonsense with me. That is, until I met a couple of real-world karate practitioners who, like my buddy Jerry, helped me to understand how much I really didn’t know. The best lessons are often painful ones. They tend to leave an impression.
If you stay in martial arts long enough, you realize that all the stuff attracted you in the first place is actually pretty superfluous and unnecessary. More importantly, your skills begin to narrow and your scope of knowledge becomes very focused. And while I’ve seen this in other martial arts, the impact it has had on my own karate training continues to surprise and interest me. Let’s take the standard karate punch, the twisting corkscrew punch known as seiken, for example. I can teach just about anyone how to punch this way in about two weeks of consistent practice. The mechanics are simple enough; and I can give you plenty of verbal and tactile cues to get you functional in a fairly short amount of time. But you won’t appreciate the simplicity and accuracy of this unique form of striking for a long time. Like, years. In all honesty, it took me about 20 years to really hone and perfect this punch. A lot of punching air, striking makiwara boards and sandbags. A lot of kata. Nearly 40 years later, I’m still learning. But now, this punch is second-nature to me and it is my “go to” in most self-defense scenarios. Through years of dedicated practice, I’ve learned economy of motion. It’s a straight line, after all; the quickest path between two points. And here’s the rub: it took me over 20 years to understand how to use it. And, I’m still not satisfied. That’s karate. At least, it should be.
Of course, there is a life lesson here. What if we got rid of all the superfluous things in our lives and focused on the most important aspects? People wouldn’t have to go to college for four to six years if they only had to focus on their vocation. We wouldn’t scroll our days away on our smart phones; we’d soak up every minute with the people we love instead of filling our minds with useless things. We’d understand economy of motion, realizing that while it seems twisty and turning at times, life is a fairly short and straight path. We’re born, we live and we die. We don’t have a lot of say in the first part, but the way we do the second part has a lot to do with the last. Like the seiken punch, I’m still learning. My lack of self-discipline shows itself at times, and I still get distracted by the swirling, shiny circular stuff. So, I regroup and start doing the reps and bring myself back to center. It’s been almost 60 years, and I still have a lot to learn.
That’s karate. That’s life.
Dave Magliano
Tatsu Dojo
Jissenkan Budo
Dojo Cho