Legends of the Martial Arts Masters (3 page)

He hung is head in shame and puzzlement as he shuffled down the hall. “Onami!”

Onami turned at the sound of his name. “Yes, teacher,” he said.

“I want you to talk to someone who can help you with your wrestling,” his teacher said. “Tomorrow morning you will present yourself at the Zen monastery. There you will ask for a man named Hakuju. Do what he tells you.”

“Yes, teacher,” Onami replied wondering what a man at a Zen monastery would know about sumo.

The sun had just barely poked above the horizon the next day when Onami knocked at the monastery gate. A young monk answered and took him to the temple where a thin old man sat in meditation. The young monk left, and Onami waited. The old man’s body was still, silent. His face was a picture of complete relaxation. Yet despite the coolness of the morning air, perspiration ran freely down the old man’s face. He was obviously engaged in some inner struggle Onami could neither see nor sense.

Eventually the old man opened his eyes, rose, and turned to Onami. “You are Onami,” he said.

“Yes,” Onami replied bowing deeply. “Your name means ‘great wave.’” “Yes.”

“I hear you are not so great in the dohyo. I hear a tiny splash could push you over.”

Onami cringed but said nothing.

“Would you like to become a great wave, pushing over everything in your path?”

“I would,” Onami replied, “more than anything.”

“Then kneel here,” the old monk said, motioning to a small kneeling bench. “Close your eyes. Meditate. Picture a big wave.”

Onami knelt, closed his eyes. In his mind he saw a wave, a large wave. It crashed on the beach before him. He wondered if he was becoming a better wrestler yet. He opened his eyes.

“I’ve seen the wave,” he said rising to his feet. “What do I do next?” “Next, you see the wave,” Hakuju said motioning for him to kneel again. “I will be back this afternoon to check on you.”

Onami knelt and closed his eyes again. In his mind he saw the wave. It rose and fell, rose and fell. Onami heard its thunder, saw it crash on the beach. All morning he watched the wave. And all morning he wondered how the wave was going to help him become a better wrestler.

That afternoon, Hakuju returned. “Have you been picturing a great wave?” he asked.

“Yes, sir,” Onami replied.

“Tell me about it,” Hakuju said.

“Well,” Onami began, “it’s large, and it’s covered with foam, and it crashes on the beach.” He paused, not sure what else to say.

“It sounds like a pretty small wave to me,” Hakuju replied. “I told you to picture a big wave. I will be back at sunset to check on you.”

Onami closed his eyes. The wave in his mind grew. It rose high above his head, crashed at his feet. Onami smelled the wind off the ocean, tasted the salt on his lips. The power of the wave shook the earth around him, filled him with its echo.

Onami was deep in his meditation when Hakuju returned that evening. “Tell me about the wave,” he said.

Onami paused, not sure what to say. “It shakes the earth when it crashes. It’s frightening, but it’s also beautiful. It’s more water than I have ever seen in my life,” he said.

“It sounds like a pretty small wave to me,” Hakuju replied. “I told you to picture a big wave. I will be back at sunrise to check on you.”

Onami was disappointed. In a way, though, he was pleased to have more time to spend with the wave. He closed his eyes. All night the wave swelled and grew. Its sound was deafening inside Onami’s mind. Suddenly, it leapt forward and picked up Onami from where he had been sitting on the beach. In its core, Onami rolled and tumbled until he came out the back of the wave. Sputtering water, Onami paddled to keep up, struggled to catch the wave, to become part of it. The wave picked him up and carried him, filled him with its power. It washed through the temple, carrying it away. It washed through Onami’s school, carrying it away. It washed over the dohyo where Onami competed, carrying away the great roof and all Onami’s competitors. Nothing could stand in the path of this great wave.

“Onami!” Hakuju’s hand was on his shoulder. “Onami, it’s morning.” Onami opened his eyes. Salt water rolled off his forehead. He blinked it back, surprised to see the temple still standing. The ground all around him was dry.

“Tell me about the wave,” Hakuju said.

Onami broke into a huge grin. “I’m not sure I can,” he said. “You should have been here. It was . . .” he paused, not sure how to describe the experience.

“Go home,” Hakuju said. “And remember next time you step into the ring that you are Onami. You are the Great Wave.”

Onami’s opponent squatted opposite him beneath the great roof of the dohyo. Onami looked around. In his vision, the wave had carried all this away. “I am Onami,” he said to himself. “I am the great wave.”

The gyoji signaled with his fan. Onami felt the swell inside him. He crashed into his opponent, flowed over and through him, pushing him easily out of the ring. The judges gave the signal. He had won the match.

R
ober
t Trias is known as the
“father of American karate.
” As a sailor in the United Sta
tes Navy, he was the middle
weight boxing champion for tha
t branch of the service. During
World War II, he was stationed
in the British Solomon Islands in the South Pacific.
There he studied karate and
Hsing-I with Tung Gee Hsing, a Chinese ma
rtial artist. In 1945, he retu
rned to the United States and opened
America’s first commercial karate schoo
l in Phoenix, Arizona. Later he
became a highway patrolman in Ar
izona and is credited for adapting
the tonfa, an Asian martial a
rts weapon, into the L-shaped police bato
n that law enforcement officers use
today.

 
The Hard Way to Find a Teacher

Robert Trias popped his opponent with a quick jab to the chin, followed by another, and another. His opponent danced back, shook his head, and grinned. He moved in and shot an uppercut under Trias’s lead arm but missed him by crucial inches. Trias slipped the punch and drove a glove into his opponent’s ribs. The bell rang. The two men hugged each other, thumping each other’s back with their bulky boxing gloves. They stepped through the ropes out of the ring.

“Geez, Robert,” his opponent said, tugging at the laces of his glove with his teeth. “Every time I climb into the ring with you I come out feeling like a punching bag after a hard day.”

“You got a few good ones in, too, Tom,” Trias offered.

“Yeah, right. I think one was off your arm. And the other hit your shoulder, was it?”

Trias grinned, rolling his head from shoulder to shoulder. Boxing made him feel good. He took a swig of water from a bottle next to the ring.

“Serves me right for stepping into the ring with the Navy’s top middleweight,” Tom muttered, rubbing his jaw. “Every time I fight you I learn something, though. In another twenty years you’d better watch out!”

Trias ran a towel over his regulation Navy haircut. Even the spring in Solomon Islands was hot, and a lot more humid than his home in Arizona.

“Mr. Trias?”

Trias turned to see a small Asian man make his way to the ring. “I’m Robert Trias,” he said.

“Pardon me for disturbing you. My name is Tung Gee Hsing. I understand you are a master of American box.”

“Boxing,” Trias said. “I’ve won my share of rounds.”

“I myself am a student of Hsing-I, an ancient style of self-defense. I would like to teach you in exchange for lessons in American box . . . boxing.”

“Thanks, but I do pretty well at defending myself already,” Trias winked at Tom, who grinned back.

“Just so,” Hsing replied. “That is why I would like to study with you.”

“Thanks, but no thanks,” Trias replied. “I have my Navy duties and my training. I really don’t have time to take on a student. See you ’round, OK?”

“Yes. Yes, that will be fine,” Hsing nodded, then turned to leave. When he had gone, Trias turned to Tom. “Strange fellow. Ever heard of Hsing-I?”

“Nope,” Tom replied. “But I’ve heard that some of those Chinese boxers fight like tigers.”

The next afternoon, Trias was skipping rope in the gym when the door opened and Tung Gee Hsing entered. Hsing took a seat on a bench in the corner and watched quietly. Trias put away the jump rope and began working out on the heavy bag. Dust puffed from the stitching with each blow. Somehow, though, his timing was off. Trias felt Hsing’s eyes heavy on his back. It made him nervous. Finally, he turned and walked to the bench. Hsing stood.

“Are you here to ask for boxing lessons again?” he asked. “Yes,” Hsing replied. “And to offer to teach you Hsing-I.” “I told you I’m not interested.”

“Yes, you did.”

“Then why don’t you just leave?” Hsing bowed and left.

The next afternoon, when Trias entered the gym, there was Hsing waiting for him. He bowed to Trias and smiled.

“You don’t take a hint, do you?” Trias commented as he dropped his gear on the bench next to Hsing. Hsing just smiled. “Maybe the direct approach will work. What will it take to get you to leave me alone?”

“Would you like to fight?” Hsing asked.

“Me? Fight you? No offense, but you’re hardly in my weight class. You’d be at a disadvantage.”

“It’s fine. Hsing-I doesn’t use weight classes.”

Trias shook his head. “If I beat you, will you leave me alone?” “Certainly,” Hsing replied.

“Then let’s find you some gloves,” Trias smiled.

“Thank you, but that really won’t be necessary. Unless you would prefer . . .”

“It makes no difference to me either,” Trias replied. “But why don’t you put them on anyway. They’ll protect your hands. Tom,” he called out to his training buddy, “Call the guys outside, would you? They might want to see this. It looks like we’ve got a match between me and our persistent friend here.”

Trias danced around his opponent, sizing him up. Hsing stood steady but light on his feet, shifting stance ever so slightly to adjust for Trias’s position. Trias jabbed; Hsing slipped it. He jabbed again; Hsing dropped under the punch and tagged Trias’s ribs.

Trias’s eyes grew wide. The punch didn’t look like much, but the force rattled through him. He drew a fast, deep breath and looked at his opponent. Not a hint of satisfaction, not a hint of any emotion crossed his calm face. OK, so it was going to take more than jabs to get this guy’s attention.

One, two, three. Trias sent in a volley of punches. One, two, three, four. Hsing was blocking and slipping some of his best combinations. The punches that did land seemed to be swallowed up by his body without hurting him at all. So the guy was good. But could he last? Trias picked up the intensity. Try as he might, he could not land a thing. Finally in desperation he set up a punch to the jaw that would blast through any defense. One, two, three, four, blast. The punch flew in like a bullet, and landed on thin air.

Trias caught his balance in time to see Hsing’s glove completely fill his field of vision. Another punch caught him in the gut, and another on the side of the head. His feet went out from under him.

Trias’s vision cleared, and he saw Hsing’s hand extended. He grasped it and pulled himself up. Trias looked at the small man as he stepped through the ropes and left the ring. He had never seen a combination like that. He’d never seen anyone who could evade punches like that. Frankly, he’d never seen a man fight like that. Silently Trias left the ring.

Hsing was in the corner removing his gloves. Trias pulled off his right glove and walked over. He extended his hand. “Mr. Hsing,” he said, “Will you teach me?”

T
he Three
Sons” is a traditional legend. No one is
sure where it originated or w
hether it is a true story. People in
many countries and from many cultu
res tell it.