Legends of the Martial Arts Masters

by Susan Lynn Peterson

  Onami took a wide straddle stance, slowly rocked up on one foot, then dropped the other with a force he hoped would make the ground shake. Across the ring, his opponent was doing the same. Stamping the ground this way drove out any evil that may be lurking in the ring. Onami hoped it would also shake loose some of the growing fear rumbling in his belly. He picked up a handful of salt from a basket in the corner and scattered it in the ring, saying a quick prayer for safety. Then he moved to his side of the ring and squatted, arms stretched wide. The gyoji in charge of the match signaled with the colorful fan he held in his hand. The two wrestlers moved to the center and crouched, their knuckles in the sand that covered the clay ring.

  Onami knew he had to win this match. He hadn’t had a victory in a long time, a fact that caused him great shame among the wrestlers of his stable. “I can’t lose this match,” he told himself. “I can’t lose. I have to win.” His opponent charged, interrupting Onami’s inner pep talk. Onami charged back. Quickly, almost automatically, he reached for the band around his opponent’s waist. He felt it in his hand, but then his fingers slipped as his opponent shifted his weight. “I have to move,” he thought as he felt his opponent’s leg hook behind his own. He shifted ever so slightly, and that was all his opponent needed. Onami felt his feet go out from under him. A huge cheer went up for his opponent as Onami hit the hard clay of the ring.

  “I don’t know what the problem is,” Onami said to his friend Takagawa the next day at practice. “I do fine here at the school. But when I get into the ring, I can be dumped by rikishi half my size.”

  “All you can do is keep working,” his friend said. “It’s only a bad case of jitters. If you practice hard enough, it’s bound to go away sooner or later.”

  “I thought so, too,” Onami said. “But that was over twenty losses ago. If I don’t get a win soon, the Master is going to dismiss me from the stable.”

  “That kind of thinking is going to get you into trouble,” Takagawa replied. “You can’t do anything about yesterday or tomorrow. Let’s just practice today.”

  The two friends squared off in the ring. Onami charged and easily pushed his friend from the circle. Other students climbed into the ring with him, and he pushed them out as well. Finally Onami’s teacher stepped into the ring. Onami bowed low in respect. But when the opportunity presented itself, he twisted his teacher off balance and dumped him on the ground.

  “Why can’t I wrestle this well in the ring?” Onami muttered to himself as he returned to his room after practice. “Why can I defeat anyone, including my teacher, in training, but the moment I step into the ring, I can be defeated by any beginner who steps in with me?”

  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.

  Robert Trias is known as the “father of American karate.” As a sailor in the Uni
ted States Navy, he was the middleweight boxing champion for that 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 martial artist. In 1945, he returned to the United States and opened America’s first commercial karate school in Phoenix, Arizona. Later he became a highway patrolman in Arizona and is credited for adapting the tonfa, an Asian martial arts weapon, into the L-shaped police baton 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?”

  The Three Sons” is a traditional legend. No one is sure where it originated or whether it is a true story. People in many countries and from many cultures tell it.

  The Three Sons

  Once there was a great sword master. Among his pupils were his three sons. The sons were proud of their father and enjoyed studying with him. They put in long, hard hours mastering his art.

  One day an old friend and training partner from the master’s younger years came to visit. He too was known throughout the land as a great sword master. The two men sat together in the master’s front room, drinking tea and telling stories.

  “My friend,” said the guest to the master, “I would like very much to meet your three sons and to have them show me how they have progressed in the way of the sword.”

  “Certainly,” said the master. “I will call them.”

  The master walked to a mantel where several large, heavy vases stood. He took one of the vases from its place and balanced it on top of the door so it would fall when the door opened. He then called the name of one of his sons.

  “In a minute, Father,” the son called back from the garden, where he was practicing with his sword. He was in the middle of a difficult move. With a few more tries he would get it right. Five minutes later he looked up from his practice and remembered that his father wanted him. Sheathing his sword, he dashed through the hou
se.

  The two men waited in the front room. They saw the knob of the door turn quickly and the door fly open. The vase on top of the door fell and hit the son squarely on top of his head. The son let out a roar and drew his sword. Before the vase even hit the floor, he had sliced through it, shattering it into a hundred pieces. Only then did he see that his “attacker” had been one of his father’s vases. He sheathed his sword, smiled sheepishly, bowed to his father and his guest, and began cleaning up the pieces of the vase.

  “He is fast,” the guest said.

  “Yes, and strong,” the father replied.

  “Do you think that someday he could become adept with a sword?” “Yes,” the father said smiling at his son, motioning for him to sit and join them for tea. “Someday, perhaps.”

  The three sat together talking for a few minutes before the father rose, took a second vase from the mantel, and balanced it over the door. He called the name of his second son.

  “Yes, Father,” the second son called from the garden, where he had been practicing with a few friends. “Excuse me, guys,” he said, bowing to the students he had been practicing with. Then he sheathed his sword and walked down the hallway to the front room.

  The master, the guest, and the first son saw the knob turn and the door open. The vase fell from its place. The second son spun out of the way, his hand on the hilt of his sword and ready to draw. Only then did he see that it was his father’s vase that had fallen. He dove and caught it before it hit the ground. The vase still in his arms, he bowed to his father and his guest. He then walked over to the mantel and replaced the vase exactly where his father always kept it.