“One More Round…”

The title is an excerpt from Rocky V, where the main character, tired and beaten down by a younger opponent, stands up one more time and asks him for “one more round.” Widely panned by audiences and critics alike, I never really understood all the hate Rocky V received and in some cases, still receives. While I agree that it wasn’t the greatest out of the series of movies, it still had a reasonable storyline and some decent fight scenes. What struck the biggest chord for me in watching this movie, was how Rocky and his family basically came full circle; having gained riches through being a world boxing heavyweight champion to losing everything and moving back to the rough streets of Philadelphia where he got his beginnings. It’s an important life lesson and certainly one that wasn’t lost on me in my youth.

What’s even more extreme, is Rocky Balboa, a stand-alone movie released in 2006 that sees an aged Rocky living a life without his beloved Adrian and running a small bistro. Because of the rising unpopularity of the current reigning champ, an exhibition fight is set up between the champ and Rocky himself, bringing him out of retirement for one final foray in the ring. What’s a bit difficult in watching this movie is recognizing an aged Rocky, in his 60’s, going to town training like he did in the original Rocky movies. For old dogs like myself, it’s reminiscent of the old training montages you’d see in the original Rocky films; solid training music, working out, sweating, putting in a maximum effort to put on the best show for the crowd. It’s definitely motivational albeit a tad unrealistic. It reminds me of the recent fight between Mike Tyson and Jake Paul. Although the fight in Rocky Balboa showed significantly more substance and heart than the Tyson vs. Paul fight did.

The point to all of this and where I’m going with this post, is that much like the alpha lion stepping back from the pride so a new alpha can take the lead, there comes a time when one begins to realize that the fight is over. That the long hours of hard training and combining martial arts into one’s daily routines for maximum training and efficiency have started to pass. And eventually, one needs to recognize that there can’t always be “just one more fight.” Eventually, one needs to recognize that the last fight really was just that; the last. That’s probably the biggest and most difficult obstacle for a martial artist to face; realizing that one’s karate journey isn’t at an end but needs to significantly change to accommodate the needs of the practitioner. This recognition doesn’t come easily and is often only learned through hardship and injury.

My experience came rather painfully and roughly about three years ago. Granted, at the time, I weighed nearly 30 pounds more than I do now, and my gut definitely played a role in my speed and ability to execute techniques. I had joined a local karate dojo in the hopes of training in the dojo environment and connect with some like-minded practitioners. And with this particular dojo, I found just that. It’s without a doubt the only dojo that I found that managed to show as much interest in my style as I had in theirs. I was treated like a student as opposed to an invitee, and the instructors had as many questions for me as I had for them. It was almost symbiotic, from the karate standpoint, and I grew to enjoy training. But i did notice that it was difficult for me to keep up. Given that we were at the tail end of the COVID pandemic, it was also very difficult to breathe, since all the practitioners were required to wear face masks WHILE training. But I was getting a strong sweat going, working out and learning some new forms. I was in glory. Until I wasn’t.

I definitely started to notice that recovery time took a lot longer. I was tired and slept more during my down time and I started having difficulty finding the motivation to attend the dojo. I kept going, because I’ve been trained never to quit or give up. But I’d be lying if I said things got EASIER, the way they usually would or should. Rather, they started to get harder and more exhausting. As a result, I allowed my anger at the situation to fuel my motivation and keep pushing me harder. The penultimate event that changed my way of thinking came on a Sunday, of all things, on a day when we usually didn’t have classes. We had a weekend seminar, with several high-ranking instructors visiting the dojo to put on the seminar and provide instruction. Starting on the Saturday, it was a wonderful event. Everyone worked out hard, broke a solid sweat and enjoyed themselves. On the Sunday, we started the morning out with another workout and some instruction. Then, came the sparring…

As part of an instructional exercise, the lead instructor had two students face off within a ring. They would spar until the instructor either called one of them out, or one of the two managed to land a strike, which would eliminate the one who got struck. Then, a fresh opponent jumped in. In order to understand why this activity was a bit of an issue for someone like me, you need to understand my mindset. In my head, all the knowledge is still there. The techniques, training and muscle memory are all just as intact as the first year I trained in a dojo. As a result, and much like the aged dog growling in the corner, I’m often of the opinion that I can still respond and move just as fast as I used to. I would be proven quite wrong. I was called into the ring and sparred against my first opponent. Got him out. Second opponent, out. Third opponent? Fuckin’ out… I was on fire and became overconfident, feeling I still “had it” and couldn’t be topped. Then, one of my counterparts (in rank and experience) stepped into the ring next and everything went to shit.

While engaged in a rather spirited exchange back and forth, I overconfidently threw a left-hand hook punch that should have landed. However, my opponent ducked, redirected the hook punch and responded with a very well-placed uppercut punch straight into the lift side of my rib cage. An explosion of lightning burst from behind my eyes and my left side seized from immediate pain. Mercifully, the match was called and I stepped out, since the technique landed against me. I managed to maintain my composure long enough to walk to the edge of the circle and kneel on the floor. Once my body rested downward, the pain became aggravated, since the weight of my body was now adding stress to the injury. I realized at that point that something was very, very wrong. A doctor’s visit and some x-rays later, and I had three fractured ribs. I was on pain killers for quite some time after that.

The experience taught me several important lessons for the future. Not least of which included that the time had come for me to start slowing down and recognizing that fighting someone the same way I did twenty years ago wasn’t likely. And that in any fighting art, overconfidence and vanity can get you injured, or worse. It took several weeks and many pain-filled sleepless nights for the ribs to mend and the muscle wall to heal. After that, I made the conscious decision to continue my training in the privacy of my home. Part realization, part embarrassment, my karate journey has been a solitary one, ever since. This doesn’t mean I won’t still train with others. It simply means that I’m not trying to pretend I’m still a 23-year old black belt who is still in his prime. And that’s the important key to all this. I’ll never stop training. Martial arts is a life-long journey. But the way I started that journey can’t be the same way it ends. I’m getting older. My body is changing. And some of the amazing things I could do with karate decades ago are not the same things I can do now. And we all get there. Realizing is just one important aspect of the journey. An important piece of the puzzle. Food for thought… ☯️