That’s Don on the left, he was one of the house-mates in the four story bachelor pad that we all shared. Each guy had his own floor. Don was
into Gong Fu, while I was training in Tae Kwon Do in those days. We used to
spar in the living room, which was too small to really let loose. Sometimes we
would run around the lake, carrying weapons, in the middle of the night. We
always paused down in Lake Anne Plaza, to spar.
That was in the mid 1970’s, so occasionally there would be a bunch of stoned hippy kids, about ten years younger than us, still hanging out, draped boneless over the long stairs that descended down to the water’s edge. Don and I both dressed out in full Gis, his brown, mine white, with bare feet to better help us pause and fight. The first time we came running silently into the plaza and started hitting sticks, the sound reverberated like rapid-fire shots off of the two story half circle of store-fronts that faced the lake. Those semi-comatose kids on the stairs immediately sprang to full alert, and almost shit themselves. Three AM and a white guy in a white gi was battling a black guy in brown, both in full uniform, swinging fighting sticks and seemingly trying their best to knock each other TFO. Of course we were just two friends out sparing, but those guys had no clue.
Over time, they became excited for our fairly regular appearances on warm summer nights, often giving us a round of applause that also reverberated around the plaza. Shots and applause. It sounded more like the ovation of a sick crowd at Ford’s Theater than 10 or 12 guys who were just happy to have something going on other than staring at the water for another month or two, wondering what they were going to do with themselves when the weather turned cold.
This picture was taken for an article in the local paper that highlighted the growing interest in martial arts at the time. Right after this shot, Don stood up and I busted him in the nose. It was completely my fault, failing to properly check my punch. He bled down his uniform as I repeatedly apologized for my klutziness. Don just laughed it off.
He knew that, as in life itself, when you mix it up, shit happens .
That was in the mid 1970’s, so occasionally there would be a bunch of stoned hippy kids, about ten years younger than us, still hanging out, draped boneless over the long stairs that descended down to the water’s edge. Don and I both dressed out in full Gis, his brown, mine white, with bare feet to better help us pause and fight. The first time we came running silently into the plaza and started hitting sticks, the sound reverberated like rapid-fire shots off of the two story half circle of store-fronts that faced the lake. Those semi-comatose kids on the stairs immediately sprang to full alert, and almost shit themselves. Three AM and a white guy in a white gi was battling a black guy in brown, both in full uniform, swinging fighting sticks and seemingly trying their best to knock each other TFO. Of course we were just two friends out sparing, but those guys had no clue.
Over time, they became excited for our fairly regular appearances on warm summer nights, often giving us a round of applause that also reverberated around the plaza. Shots and applause. It sounded more like the ovation of a sick crowd at Ford’s Theater than 10 or 12 guys who were just happy to have something going on other than staring at the water for another month or two, wondering what they were going to do with themselves when the weather turned cold.
This picture was taken for an article in the local paper that highlighted the growing interest in martial arts at the time. Right after this shot, Don stood up and I busted him in the nose. It was completely my fault, failing to properly check my punch. He bled down his uniform as I repeatedly apologized for my klutziness. Don just laughed it off.
He knew that, as in life itself, when you mix it up, shit happens .
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