In the professional ranks competitors fight for three rounds, three minutes each, similar to professional boxing. Early in the first round, Delgado hit me with a spinning heel kick, cracking a bone in my jaw and dropping me to my knees. My adrenaline level was so intense, however, that I hardly noticed the pain and went on with the bout!
I used a judo sweep to take Louis's legs out from under him. He crashed to the mat with arms outstretched to break his fall. As I dropped down to punch him, my knee landed on his arm and cracked a bone in it. Neither of us knew the extent of the damage, however, because we kept fighting until the match was over, and I was declared the winner. We rode to the hospital together. My broken jaw had to be wired shut, and Louis had to have a cast put on his arm. We didn't look much like karate champions as we exited the hospital that night.
Although winning the pro title was satisfying, I realized that the most gratifying part of my martial arts career was working toward my goals. Winning the small tournaments in the early stages of my career had been just as exciting as winning the World Professional Championship. More and more I was coming to realize that the rewarding part of life is the journey, not the destination.
At the height of the Vietnam war, both of my brothers, Wieland and Aaron, enlisted in the US Army. As a veteran myself, I understood their desire to serve, and I concurred with their decision to enlist. Aaron was stationed in Korea, and Wieland was sent to Vietnam. As Wieland headed off to Nam, I hugged and kissed my brother and said, “I'm going to miss you. Be careful.”
In 1970, I was refereeing a tournament in California when I heard an announcement over the loudspeaker, “Chuck Norris, you have an urgent call.” I hustled over to the phone.
I recognized the muffled voice of my mother-in-law, and she was crying. “What's wrong, Evelyn?” I asked her.
“Your brother, Wieland, has been killed in Vietnam.”
If I had been kicked in the stomach by a dozen karate champions at the same time, it could not have impacted me more. I staggered back away from the phone as though that would somehow make Evelyn's words untrue. It didn't.
I hung up the phone, moving in what felt like slow motion. For a long time I couldn't function; I simply sat in shock, thinking about my little brother, Wieland, my best friend whom I would never see again in this life. Right there, in front of anyone who cared to see, I wept uncontrollably.
When Wieland had been twelve years old, he'd once had a premonition that he would not live to be twenty-eight. Wieland died on June 3, 1970, one month before his twenty-eighth birthday. I learned later that Wieland had been killed while leading his squad through dangerous enemy territory. He had spotted an enemy patrol laying a trap and was trying to warn his men when the Vietcong cut him down.
Our youngest brother, Aaron, received an emergency leave from the Army, permitting him to come home from Korea, where he had been stationed. The US government also made arrangements for Wieland's body to be shipped home for the funeral. I tried to help my mom with all the details, supporting her through the horrible shock of knowing that her son was coming home, but she'd never again hear his voice, see his smile, or recognize the sparkle in his eyes that seemed to light up a room. Only someone who has lost a loved one in such a manner can know the pain that our family felt.
Although God has blessed me with a wonderful, large family, I still miss my brother terribly. I think of Wieland often and am comforted only by the certainty that one day I will be giving him a great big hug in heaven.
CHAPTER 11
MATERIAL WINS; EMOTIONAL LOSSES
Bob Wall and I had formed a partnership in 1967 to operate my martial arts schools. With me as the chief instructor and with Bob's organizational skills, we soon had three prosperous martial arts schools. By 1970, we were doing so well that a large corporation offered to acquire our business and open hundreds of other Chuck Norris Studios nationwide. Bob and I discussed our options and decided to sell. We figured that 2 percent of hundreds of studios was better than 100 percent of three studios.
Bob and I received $60,000 apiece for our studios and a $3,000-per-month salary. I was to continue running the instructional program, and Bob was to head the sales program. It was the ideal situation. We could still be involved with the students while somebody else handled the business and paid us to do what we loved.
When Dianne and I received our check, one of the first things we did was to purchase a new home in Rolling Hills Estates, a secluded residential area of Los Angeles. I also bought a gold Cadillac. With a regular income and sixty grand in the bank at thirty years of age, I felt flush with cash! There's an old saying, “Easy come, easy go,” and I was about to discover exactly what that meant.
Most of us are tempted to think that when things are not going well in our personal relationships, material things will make up for the emotional lacking. But getting more or nicer stuff rarely improves a struggling relationship. I know it didn't for Dianne and me.
By 1972, Dianne and I had already begun to develop divergent interests, and it was becoming increasingly clear that our relationship was in trouble. We argued more frequently, and neither of us was happy with what we saw happening in our marriage. We separated, and Dianne took our boys with her. I was devastated at their departure and plunged into a depression. Nothing I tried filled the void in my life. My family was gone, and God seemed a million miles away. I was lonely and miserable but determined to pick myself up and go on with life.
Four months later Bruce Lee telephoned me one morning. He said that two pictures he had made in Hong Kong were big box-office successes. He wanted me to be in his next film, Return of the Dragon, which he was also going to direct. “I want you to be my opponent. We'll have a fight in the Coliseum in Rome,” he crowed with excitement. “Two gladiators in a fight to the death! Best of all, we can choreograph it ourselves. I promise you the fight will be the highlight of the film.”
“Great,” I said. “Who wins?”
“I do,” Bruce said with a laugh. “I'm the star!”
“Oh, you're going to beat up on the current world karate champion?”
“No,” said Bruce. “I'm going to kill the current world karate champ.”
I laughed and agreed to do the movie with Bruce.
I had never been to Europe before, so I asked Bob Wall, my good friend and karate school partner, to go with me. When we arrived at Leonardo da Vinci Airport in Rome, Bruce Lee was waiting with a camera crew to photograph us getting off the plane. Bruce wanted to use our arrival footage as an insert for the film. Since Bob had come with me, Bruce decided to use him in the film, too.
It had been two years since I had last seen Bruce, but he was as cordial as ever. He was not embarrassed by male affection, and he gave us each a warm hug before he led us to a waiting car.
For the scene in the Coliseum, Bruce wanted me to look more formidable as his opponent. I weighed about 162 pounds to his 145, and he wanted me to gain at least twenty pounds. Fortunately, I have a very slow metabolism and can put on seven pounds in less than a week if I cut back on my workouts and don't watch my diet. I said, “Hey this is great! I get to go on an eating binge at company expense!”
Bob and I spent two weeks sightseeing like typical tourists. We took daylong walks, visiting such shrines as Saint Peter's Basilica, the Vatican, the Trevi Fountain, and the beautiful gardens at the Villa Borghese.
I found a favorite restaurant where I could load up on pasta and Italian ice cream, the best I had ever tasted. Almost every night we ate at the Tavernia Flavia in Trastevere. I started adding pounds almost immediately, packing on the extra weight right on schedule.
Bruce and I went to the Coliseum to check it out for our big fight scene. It was an eerie feeling standing with him in one of the tunnels leading out into the arena. I was reminded of movies like Spartacus, in which Kirk Douglas fought in the arena. And I was humbly awed by the thought of the real fights to the death that once took place regularly in the Coliseum for the entertainm
ent of the Roman populace.
The Coliseum was more impressive and much larger than I had imagined. We sat on a weathered stone seat in the vast arena and talked our scene through. Bruce made notes on camera angles. He planned our scene as though we were two gladiators pitted against each other. Since we were doing our own choreography, he asked me, “What do you want to do?”
I demonstrated the techniques that I thought would be interesting, and he worked out his defenses. Then he attacked me, and I worked out my moves. It took us only one long day to put the fight scene together.
The scene, which came at the climax of the picture, took three days to film. It was difficult and challenging but tremendous fun. Although a novice director, Bruce knew what he wanted and how the camera operator should photograph it. I played the heavy in the picture. Luckily Bruce didn't make me out to be that bad a character. When he killed me at the end of the fight, he placed my uniform and belt over me, very ceremoniously and respectfully. As Bruce had predicted, our fight scene became a classic. To this day you can ask almost any martial arts student their favorite movie fight, and they will recall the fight scene between Bruce Lee and me in Return of the Dragon.
Bruce, Bob Wall, and I flew to Hong Kong to film the remainder of our scenes. On the day we arrived there, Bruce arranged for all of us to be guests on the most famous local TV show, Enjoy Yourself Tonight, Hong Kong's version of The Tonight Show starring Johnny Carson.
I was asked to demonstrate some martial arts. I started by kicking a cigarette out of Bob's mouth, broke some boards, and then Bob and I did some sparring. I hit Bob in the chest with a jump spinning back kick that sent him flying across the room. Everyone gasped, but Bob just got up and shook it off.
When we finished our demonstration, the host of the show wanted to see the pad Bob was wearing to protect his chest.
“What pad?” Bob asked him, as he opened up his gi top. The mark of my foot was on his chest.
The next day, in a local paper, someone challenged me to a fight. Bruce was amused by the story and read it to me.
“What do you think I should do?” I asked Bruce.
“Forget about it,” he said. “I am constantly being challenged. It's a no-win situation. All this guy wants is publicity.”
Nevertheless, Bob was upset. “I'm not starring in the movie,” he said to Bruce. “How about me accepting?”
“Go ahead, if you want to,” Bruce said.
Bob went on the same television show the next night. He told the viewing audience, “My instructor, Chuck Norris, has been challenged by a viewer. Now Chuck is a better fighter than I am, so I want you, whoever you are, to fight me first to see if you qualify to face him. Our fight will be held on this show so everyone in Hong Kong can see it because I'm going to beat you to death right here.”
The challenger, whoever he was, never showed up, and I was never again challenged in Hong Kong. We completed the movie, and Bob and I went back to our real lives as karate teachers.
I'd pretty much forgotten about the movie until it began showing in theaters everywhere. Indeed, Bruce Lee had discovered a winning formula in films. People were packing in theaters all across the continent to watch the action movie. Return of the Dragon had cost only $240,000 to make, and the film ultimately earned more than eighty million dollars worldwide!
When I returned home, Dianne and I decided to reconcile and give our marriage another chance. We worked hard at improving our relationship, and I poured myself into being a better husband and father. I deeply desired to have a better relationship with my sons, Eric and Mike, than I'd had with my father. I made a conscious effort to put my family first in my life. Naturally, I taught them karate, but I also attended all of their Little League games and was along the sidelines at every one of their football games and for every soccer game too.
We were an affectionate family, and even our boys were unashamed to show it. For instance, Mike was a star running back on his high school football team, but after every football game he'd run up into the stands where I was sitting and give me a kiss.
Once as I dropped Eric off at school, I noticed four of his friends standing on the curb. Eric leaned over and gave me a kiss before grabbing his books and hopping out of the car. As I started to pull the car away, I heard one of Eric's buddies taunting him, “Do you still kiss your daddy?”
I turned around to see Eric grab the kid by the collar and lift him off the ground. “Yeah, what of it?” he said.
“Oh, nothing, nothing at all.…”
Even today, as grown men, Eric and Mike are still affectionate to me. When we're together, we are quick to hug and kiss each other. We never end a telephone conversation without saying, “I love you.”
One afternoon Bob and I went to see On Any Sunday, a motorcycle-racing documentary starring Steve McQueen. When the film was over, I told Bob, “That Steve McQueen is one actor I really would like to meet.” I admired Steve McQueen immensely. He was my kind of man, a doer. He radiated strength and a strong image. Beyond that, I knew that in his off-screen life, Steve raced cars as well as motorcycles, and that intrigued me.
Bob nodded in agreement, and we let the subject drop. Yeah, right. Meet Steve McQueen. Even though we lived in Los Angeles, home to many film stars, it was rare to actually meet a famous actor in Hollywood.
Maybe someday …, I thought.
Soon after I returned home, I received word that my father had been killed in a car accident in Oklahoma. I sent a telegram to Aaron, who was still serving in the army in Korea. He arranged for an emergency leave, and he met me for the funeral in Wilson, Oklahoma. It was only then that we learned that our father had had cancer. Part of his throat and chin had been removed, and a tube had been inserted in his trachea to help him breathe. During the car crash, he had been thrown from his vehicle, and the tube in his throat had been dislodged. Although he survived the smashup, he died on the ground—due to suffocation because no one at the accident site was aware that the tube lying on the ground near my father was necessary for him to breathe.
It was a sad time for Aaron and me. Even though Aaron had been only five years old when Mom left Dad, and it had been years since the last time we had seen him, he was still our father. For the first time in a long while, I couldn't help wondering what an empty life our dad must have known. I determined in my heart and mind that I wanted to be there for my kids.
Following the funeral arrangements, I flew home to California, and Aaron returned to Korea. We both had a lot to think about on the planes that night.
CHAPTER 12
TRUE FRIENDS
I was about to start a class one day when the telephone rang. I picked it up and heard, “Hi, this is Steve McQueen. I'd like to bring my son, Chad, in for some private lessons.” I suspected someone was putting me on, although the voice sounded familiar. Nevertheless, I suggested that Steve and his son come by the studio in Sherman Oaks the next day.
I didn't mention the call to anyone in the studio because I wasn't certain whether McQueen would actually show up. At the appointed time, however, I heard a motorcycle roar up the street. One of my black belts who was standing by the window turned to me and shouted, “Steve McQueen just pulled up on a motorcycle!”
Dressed in motorcycle gear, Steve came into the studio, followed by his son, Chad, who looked to be about seven years old and was dressed almost identically to his father. They both carried their motorcycle helmets under their arms.
Steve introduced himself and got directly to the point. Chad had gotten in a fight in school, and Steve wanted him to learn to defend himself. I talked with Chad a bit to determine his willingness to participate in the process. He seemed to be a fine young man, so I agreed to teach him.
Chad was a quick study and easily picked up on some basic karate techniques. Steve came to a few of Chad's lessons and observed. One day Steve told me that he would like to take a few private lessons. Steve, too, took to karate quickly because he had excellent reflexes and natural athletic
ability. He was a born fighter, not afraid to mix it up with anybody. Once he made up his mind to do something, he went all out. His biggest problem in training was his lack of flexibility and difficulty with executing high kicks. We worked on those two areas for quite a while, and one day we came up with an idea that we hoped might help.
Steve's wife, actress Ali McGraw, invited Steve and me to join her at her exercise class in Beverly Hills. “We do a lot of stretching,” she said.
When we arrived, Shirley Jones and Susan Dey, stars of television's The Partridge Family, were already there. Ron Fletcher, the instructor, gave Steve and me a pair of flimsy skintight leotards to wear. One pair was pink and the other blue. I grabbed the blue pair. We went into the locker room to change clothes.
It would be an understatement to say we looked ridiculous in those outfits. Moreover, the tight-fitting leotards left nothing to the imagination. Steve looked in the mirror and said, “I'm not going out there looking like this!”
“Look,” I said, “if we just walk out there and act like we've been doing this forever, no one will even notice us.”
“OK,” Steve said reluctantly. He walked out of the dressing room first, wearing his pink leotard. As soon as he stepped out, I slammed the door behind him and locked it. Steve must have heard the door locking because he returned and began pounding on it, but I refused to let him in. I figured that by the time the girls got tired of looking and laughing at him, they wouldn't pay any attention to me.
A few minutes after I heard the laughter subside, I left the dressing room. Steve was sitting on the floor of the studio, talking to the women. I casually walked over and sat down next to him. I was right. The only one who even looked at me was Steve. But if looks could kill, I'd have been dead!
The class was fun for me because I was already limber, but Steve complained about his stiffness for days and, of course, my tricking him. During the time Steve was taking lessons from me, we got to be pretty good friends. Often we'd sit around after class, just talking candidly. One evening after a workout Steve surprised me by asking, “Chuck, how do you know if someone likes you because you're who you are or because you're a star?”
Against All Odds: My Story Page 8