“I'm not a star like you,” I said, “but if I enjoy being with that person, I don't worry about their ulterior motives. If you worry about it, the only person getting depressed is you.”
Steve McQueen was probably more open with me than with most people, but the emotional wall that he built to protect himself precluded much personal vulnerability in our relationship. Although we were good friends, we rarely allowed our conversations to go beyond racing, motorcycles, cars, and the martial arts.
We both loved doing special things with our boys, though, and when my sons, Mike and Eric, were only eleven and eight years of age respectively, Steve and I took them to Indian Dunes outside Los Angeles and taught them how to ride motorcycles competitively, with the stipulation that they ride them only on dirt and never on the street. The boys agreed … reluctantly. Eric, especially, took to racing motorcycles. As he grew older, his passion for racing took different forms, including offroad motorcycle races, racing cars, trucks, and even racing on the NASCAR western circuit, winning that division in 2002.
I enjoyed my role as a martial arts teacher and assumed that the financial matters were being well cared for by our new owners. Unfortunately, I was wrong; my business affairs were in shambles. While they had expanded the number of schools, the company that bought my schools had no notion of how to operate a personal service business in which decisions have to be made immediately. My partner, Bob Wall, and I tried to tell them what they were doing wrong, but they refused to listen to us. Bob finally got fed up, sold his interest in the schools, and went into the real estate business.
By 1973, the owners of our schools were in deep financial trouble and had lost more than a million dollars. They sold the schools to another group, which, in turn, sold them to an individual who was more interested in siphoning off the assets than increasing the income. He told me that the schools would be bankrupt within a few months.
Although I had no fiduciary responsibility at that point, I didn't want the schools that carried my name to be associated with a bankruptcy, so I asked the new owner how much was owed. He admitted that he was $140,000 in debt, a staggering sum in 1973. “You take over the debts and you can have the remaining seven schools,” he told me.
I made the deal with him, but because of my lack of business acumen, I neglected to include a clause in the contract saying that I would be responsible only for those debts listed in the bill of sale. That was a major mistake.
I sat down with a notepad and tried to devise a plan of action. I figured that if I sold five of the schools for $25,000 each, that would bring in $125,000. I had a little money saved that would make up the difference, so I could still keep two schools and keep the Chuck Norris Karate Schools solvent.
I contacted my black belts, who were running the five schools I hoped to sell, and asked each one whether he wanted to buy the school he was managing. All five jumped at the chance to own a karate school. Each one of the new owners agreed to put down $5,000 and pay me the balance at $500 a month.
I called the creditors and explained the situation. I told them I didn't want to go into Chapter 11 bankruptcy and promised personally to pay them a hundred cents on the dollar if they would give me some time. Most of them were amazed at this offer and were willing to accept the deal. They realized that if the schools declared Chapter 11, I'd be required to pay only ten cents on every dollar owed. I reiterated to the creditors that I didn't want to file bankruptcy, and thankfully, they were willing to work with me. They agreed to let me pay them off by dividing the $2,500 I received each month from my black belts between my creditors.
The black belts made regular payments. Everything went smoothly until I was suddenly hit with an additional $120,000 in bills, including unpaid payroll, state, and federal taxes the previous owner had neglected to tell me about. The IRS said that if I didn't pay a minimum of $12,000 that I owed them, they would close all the schools immediately.
I couldn't afford an attorney, so I went to a business friend of mine, showed him the books, and asked for his advice. “Go into bankruptcy,” he said. “You don't have a chance to bail out of this.”
I was completely broke, but bankruptcy was not an acceptable option to me. I sold my last two schools and raised $10,000. George, my stepfather, was able to lend me $1,000 which gave me $11,000. But I still needed another $1,000 to make the minimum IRS payment.
When I told Bob Wall about my problem, he said he didn't have any cash, but he did have a $1,000 line of credit on a credit card. He borrowed the money from it and gave it to me. I had no idea how I could repay George and Bob, but I was determined to find a way to pay back every penny.
Meanwhile I had to move out of my office. My friend, Larry Morales, came by to help. He brought a pickup truck and a couple of employees. I mentioned to Larry that I had four desks that I wanted to sell for a hundred dollars each. Larry said he knew someone who might be interested and took the desks away with him. Two hours later he returned with $400.
“Wow! That's great, Larry. Who bought the desks?”
“Oh, just some guy who really needed them,” he replied nonchalantly.
A couple of months later, I visited Larry at his machine shop. As I walked around, I looked up at his loft and saw my four desks stored there. I realized that he had bought them himself to help me out, even though he was struggling in his new business and was hard-pressed just to make ends meet.
True friendships are based on gestures such as Bob's and Larry's. They came through when I needed them, and I have never forgotten it. It gives me tremendous pleasure to know that today both of my friends are successful businessmen.
I sold my last two schools, as well as my beautiful new Cadillac, and used the money to pay my creditors. I told the creditors about the unexpected tax problem and asked them for more time. I told them that although it would take a little longer to pay them off, I'd make sure that every cent was paid. They were fine with that.
To meet my personal overhead, I gave seminars and taught private lessons. Although I didn't regard it that way at the time, losing the schools and beginning to teach privately was a pivotal point in my career. I probably would never have done a movie had I not made that shift in direction. But that didn't mean it was easy. Far from it!
I was still broke. I was determined to hold on to our house for as long as possible, but I wasn't making enough money to cover even our basic household expenses. I didn't know how much longer I could last.
Dianne had been incredibly supportive throughout the entire ordeal. Ironically, we depended on each other and worked better as a team more through the tough times than we had during the glory days following the sale of our schools. The problems may have cemented us together in a way prosperity never could have. Indeed, we spent four years fighting to save our karate schools, and they may have been the best years of Dianne's and my marriage.
One night I asked Dianne, “What's the worst thing that can happen? We'd just have to start over again. Is that really so bad? When you look around and see the problems other people face, ours seem minuscule.”
Dianne agreed.
Then an amazing thing happened. The producers of The Tonight Show called. They wanted some information about one of my private students, Phil Paley, the youngest black belt in America. Phil was a handsome, tow-headed, nine-year-old who was small for his age but exceptionally good at karate. We were invited onto The Tonight Show, where we did a demonstration, and after the demonstration Johnny interviewed Phil and me. I've done many talk shows over the years, but Johnny Carson's was the best. He was extremely funny, but he was also knowledgeable about the subject of karate. He asked all the right questions— ones to which I knew the answers—allowing me to come off as the premier karate expert in the country.
Bill Marr, a prominent businessman in Norfolk, Virginia, who owned the Yellow Cab Company there, as well as several other businesses, saw the Carson show. He telephoned me the next day to say that his young son was taking karate from a Korean ins
tructor and that he was coming to California and would like to meet with me. “I may be interested in purchasing a karate school franchise,” Mr. Marr told me. I didn't know what that entailed, and since he was just coming out to inquire, I didn't consider it a big deal. But I told him that I'd be glad to meet with him and answer any questions that I could.
When Bill and I met in my office, he asked me why I thought people wanted to study karate. I explained my belief that when a person says he wants to learn karate, he is really saying, “Make me a more secure person.” I told Bill, “The positive concepts the student develops make him feel better about himself. I motivate students to work hard physically and mentally. At the same time I try to instill in them a philosophical approach to life that will be of great personal benefit.”
Bill was interested in my concepts, but he wanted to check out other schools around the country. He promised to call if he wanted to make a deal. Two months later he called back and said that he preferred my system to the others he had investigated. He wanted to buy a franchise, incorporating my teachers and teaching methods.
After we struck a deal, my brother Aaron and Rick Prieto, both black belts, went to Virginia Beach to open two new Chuck Norris Karate schools. They continued running them for five years, inspiring and motivating their students so well that the schools flourished. Bill Marr's schools became some of the most successful karate schools in the world at that time.
The money I received from Bill helped Dianne and me get out of debt and back on our feet. Although I had lost my schools, in time I was able to pay back the creditors every cent I owed them. It was a long, difficult process, but one that was well worth it, financially, emotionally, and ethically. One day I ran into the businessman who had advised me to go bankrupt. When I told him what I had done, he shook his head and said, “I would have bet a thousand dollars to a doughnut that you could not have done it.”
But I had, and now I felt as though a million pounds had been lifted from my shoulders. I was ready for some new challenges.
CHAPTER 13
HOLLYWOOD STARS AND OTHER HIGH-PROFILE STUDENTS
I began teaching karate to celebrities quite by accident. Dan Blocker, a gentle giant of a man, was a star of Bonanza, one of the most popular programs on television in the sixties. Dan played the character Hoss Cartwright. Dan had seen me compete in an All-Star Team Championship in Long Beach in 1970, so he asked me to come to his house and teach karate to his five children, each of them with a name beginning with D, including Dana, Dirk, and David. My class at Dan's house soon expanded to include some neighbors' kids as well.
Dan invited me to lunch with him at Paramount Studios where Bonanza was filmed. There he introduced me to Michael Landon, who played Little Joe Cartwright in the series and later went on to develop and star in the television classic Little House on the Prairie. Michael asked me to teach him karate along with David Canary, who was also in the series. Michael had been an Olympic-class javelin thrower in his younger years and was still in superb shape, as was David, who was a professional dancer. I enjoyed teaching them, and they were both excellent learners.
Michael invited me to join him on a television show called Name Droppers, similar to What's My Line? The show consisted of guest celebrities, a panel of nine people, and contestants. The panel was to guess which celebrity was involved with which contestant. I was introduced as either Joanne Worley's driving instructor, Glenn Ford's son-in-law, or Michael Landon's karate instructor.
The celebrities were then asked questions and, by their answers, tried to throw the panel off. Only one panelist picked me as Michael Landon's karate instructor. Most of them thought I was Glenn Ford's son-in-law. I did a few more contestant-type shows and got a call from the producer of the Dinah Shore Show, asking me to demonstrate some karate on live television.
Dinah's guest was Lucille Ball, and the producer wanted me to do something that would shock Dinah and Lucy but at the same time be humorous. I worked out a little gag with my wife Dianne, who was to be planted in the audience the day of the show. Dinah and Lucy didn't know that Dianne was my wife.
The plan was for me to do a few karate moves and then pick someone out of the audience to show how easy it is to learn some simple karate techniques. Pointing at Dianne, I asked, “You there, would you please join me on the stage?”
Dianne pretended to be surprised and reluctant, but eventually she made her way out of the audience and onto the stage.
“Let's say a man has just tried to grab you,” I said to Dianne. “Here's what I want you to do.” I demonstrated a technique, and Dianne acted as though she didn't know what was going on. “OK,” I said. “Now let's see if you can do it.”
We went through it once slowly. Dianne, who was obviously nervous, stumbled along hesitantly. “OK, now, let's do it for real,” I said.
I started to grab Dianne, and she reacted like a whirlwind, blocking my hands, chopping me full power in the neck, punching me with all her might in the stomach, uppercutting me on the chin, and then kicking me hard in the groin! I dropped to the floor. The punches hadn't really hurt me, but that last kick connected! I was in real pain.
Dinah and Lucy were in total shock but no more than I was! The audience roared with laughter, yells of approval, and applause.
When the show was over, I asked Dianne, “Honey, why in the world did you come at me full bore, instead of with light contact as we had rehearsed?”
“Oh, I don't know. I got so nervous, I forgot what I was supposed to do!” she said.
“Well, you almost killed me!” I said.
Bob Barker, host of the television program Truth or Consequences, saw Dianne and me on Dinah Shore's show and called to ask if we would do some karate on his show. Dianne was thrilled! Not only was Bob her favorite television personality, but he had gone to school with her father in Mission, South Dakota. We enthusiastically agreed to do a demonstration on Bob's show.
We rehearsed our routine and went on Truth or Consequences. The same thing happened again. Dianne came at me with full power, repeating what she had done before, including the punishing kick to the groin.
I asked her later, “Dianne! Why can't you control yourself?”
“I don't know why,” she answered demurely, “but when the camera starts to roll, I just lose it. I get nervous and overly excited.”
Bob was so pleased with our appearance that he asked me to come back on his show four more times. During the breaks we always talked about the martial arts. One day he asked if I would teach him. “I'd like to stay in good physical shape and learn to defend myself,” he explained.
I agreed wholeheartedly and was glad to have another high-profile student.
Bob was trim and strong and took to karate instantly. He became so enthusiastic that he converted his garage into a gymnasium. I soon found that Bob and I had a lot in common. Like me, he had grown up in a small town and married his childhood sweetheart. Despite the fact that he had been a star for many years, he was, and still is, one of the nicest people I have ever met. He is as patient and pleasant in person as he is on his current show, the long-running The Price Is Right. In his case, what audiences have seen on TV for so many years is his true persona, despite what some of the Hollywood gossip shows purport.
Years later Bob was still able to perform many of the karate moves I taught him. He put his martial arts abilities to good use in the golf farce, Happy Gilmore, in which he beat the daylights out of a fellow. Although the movie contains unnecessary profanity and sexual innuendo, I laughed uproariously at Bob's performance.
The manager of the Osmond family contacted me and said that Marie, Donny, Alan, Jay, Merrill, Wayne, and Jimmy wanted to take karate lessons. The Osmonds proved to be one of the most disciplined and athletic families I have ever encountered. The entire family was health oriented, and each member was in excellent condition.
When they weren't on the road, the family studied with me three times a week. After a one-hour private lesson, mos
t students are ready to call it quits, but the Osmonds were just beginning to warm up.
They had been training with me for about a year when they prepared to do a road tour. They wanted to incorporate a karate routine in their stage show, and asked me to choreograph it. The act I worked out had Donny breaking boards and Jay and Alan doing a fight scene set to music.
They had been on the road for about three weeks when I received a telephone call from Alan. “Chuck, I broke Jay's nose in the fight scene!”
“How did it happen?” I asked.
“We were getting so good at it that during each show I kept getting closer and closer with the kicks and punches,” Alan explained. “But one kick got too close, and there went Jay's nose.” The Osmonds were scheduled to perform two shows that night, so Jay went backstage and stuffed cotton up his nose to stop the bleeding, then went out and finished the first show. He repacked his nose and went on to do an entire second show, as well, before going to the hospital to receive treatment. Maybe that's why Jay's nose is still crooked to this day!
A year later Donny and Marie signed to do a weekly variety show called The Donny and Marie Show. Donny asked me to be a guest on the first episode, and I agreed. Donny and I did a karate routine and kata (a formal exercise) in unison that led into a choreographed fight scene. That first show was a big success, and The Donny and Marie Show quickly became popular with a wide audience, as were all the television specials the Osmonds did over the years.
The family stopped studying karate with me when my own career interrupted their lessons. They refused to train with anyone else.
Against All Odds: My Story Page 9