What’s up? I was feeling a bit under the weather last week. Had a slight headache on Friday, and before I knew it, from Saturday onwards, my week was spent taking cough medicine and ensuring lots of rest. You needn’t worry, I’m through the worst of it. For some reason, this brought back some memories, which I’d like to share.
I was around 15 or 16 and still practiced karate back then. The previous four to five years, this particular martial art had become somewhat of an obsession of mine. I took pride in going to as many lessons as possible, and tried to give my best effort each and every time. Everything else became an afterthought, as I spent my free time to increase my strength, flexibility and endurance – all in service of becoming a better fighter.
That day, I was about to take an exam to earn my brown belt. I’d worn my blue belt for the longest time: the blue was slightly fading, and the cotton was fraying along the edges. That belt had gained me entrance to train alongside some great fighters, but some of the top classes out there were restricted to brown belts and up… and I still wanted to get that black belt one day – even if only for bragging rights. The point being, while I didn’t care much about what colour belt I wore, there were still one or two reasons it mattered enough to take the exam.
It should’ve been an easy job. But shortly before the exam, I came down with something, either a heavy cold or a mild flu. So, there I was, wearing my best white kimono, already feeling exhausted before the exam had even started. Each time, the instructor shouted out a series of moves he wanted me to do. The first couple of minutes went alright, but soon I felt the shortness of breath taking its toll. The illness was sapping away at my strength. Ten minutes in, the white kimono had become drenched with sweat, which usually only happened when truly going all out. I saw it through, but I might as well have stayed home, ’cause I went home still wearing my trusted old blue belt that day.
Looking back, it didn’t matter. It was the beginning of the end either way. There are much better martial arts out there, I realized, and you can get in great shape just by going to the gym. There’s no need for this cult-like atmosphere, with the kooky lingo, bizarre uniforms, and all of the other nonsense that you have to take seriously if you go down that route. I didn’t see the point in it anymore. Mostly, I guess I just didn’t want to admit to myself what had already happened: I’d fallen out of love with the sport.
It took some time, but one day I was just lifting weights in the garage, no longer concerned some overweight 55-year-old black belt, walking around on his bare feet wearing white pyjamas, thought my zenkutsu-dachi stance wasn’t good enough. Some say: winners never quit and quitters never win. I disagree. Sometimes you win by quitting. Food for thought.
Kind regards
Vincent J. Dancet