Posted on May 13, 2010 - by Jennifer

Karate Kid? Reflections on my first martial arts tournament

On May 1, 2010 I competed in my very first martial arts tournament, the JW Spring Classics in Maryland.  I’ve spent several years studying with Sensei Carol Middleton at the D.C. Self Defense Karate Association in Columbia Heights but I was not sure how my training and preparation would stack up against other martial artists from a range of schools.  We had spent weeks preparing, with our fellow students as mock judges, perfecting how we would enter the ring with our heads up and our eyes forward, bow to the judges, and execute our forms with loud “ki-ups”, crisp head turns, and low stances.  We had also prepared for tournament-style sparring – learning about legal and illegal contact, the nuances of the point system, and how to “sell” a point.  As the tournament drew closer, I had mixed emotions.  I don’t, by nature,  love to perform.  So, I was apprehensive but I was also ready to stop preparing and just do it already!  I also wanted to get the first tournament over with since “firsts” always involve the fear of the unknown.

I slept poorly the night before the tournament and woke up feeling frustrated and disappointed that I was not at my best.  I made a bagel and packed it in foil to take on the long car ride.  I debated about whether to drink coffee and, if so, how much?  I opted for just a few sips so that I could avoid a caffeine headache but not be over-stimulated.  The tournament was held at Oxen Hill Senior High School and heading into the school’s large fieldhouse and seeing the polished wood floor took me right back to traveling to play basketball in junior high and high school, and that feeling when I entered the opposing team’s gym and didn’t know quite what to expect.  How big would our opponents be?  How strong?  How well-prepared?  Would they be  welcoming or intimidating?   My stomach churned.  Although I am 35, I felt 13.

I had been told that the wait would be long and it was true.  Children compete first and there are multiple age groups and multiple types of forms, plus sparring.  So, we sat and watched.  First, we watched the tournament organizers struggle to set up rings and assemble the correct number of judges.  Then we watched children of multiple age and skill levels compete.  One thing that astonished me was the variety of uniforms.  Our school wears the traditional white and, as a fairly petite woman, I must admit that I don’t feel super suave in the baggy white pants and lose fitting gi top that I’m always struggling to keep in place during class.  But at the tournament, all around me where children and adults in a dazzling array of blues, and reds, and blacks, and yellows.  And they had unique styles.  Some had dreadlocks and others spiky mohawks.  One woman in flowing black robes performed with her long black hair down, flying with her as she moved.  A teenage girl in what looked like blue silk pajamas leapt in the air and landed in a splits.  A group of African American teenagers stood tall and looked proud and in crisp, red uniforms.  A young indian boy seemed to slice the air with his precision movements.

Our studio holds weekly classes in an elementary school gym with a floor that coats our feet with dirt, and the occasional large cockroach scurrying by.  We lug our mats, and targets, and weights out every class and then put them away, stacked neatly to avoid the punishment for not doing so – extra push-ups.  In the summer, sweat drips down my face and the inside of my uniform.  I do not feel glamourous.  I do not feel like the beautiful flying assassins in Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon.  I feel very  earthbound.  In spite of the yoga practice that gives me better than average flexibility, I am in my 30’s and things do not move as easily as they do for the teenager next to me.  I’m athletic and strong but martial arts seem to amplify every weakness.  My front kicks would be harder and faster if my abs and quads were stronger.  My roundhouses would be higher if my inner thigh muscles were more flexible.  I feel like for everything I do right there are a million things I do wrong.  My front punch is strong and fast but my knuckles are not aligned.  I turn my hip over on my sidekick but do not get my toes far enough down. Our sensei does not hesitate to point those things out.  It could be a finger out of place.  It could be a slight shift of weight.  We are corrected, and corrected, and corrected again.  And we are expected to be patient, to try again and again until it is exactly right.  We are challenged to go faster, but slow down inside.  We are expected to be strong but also to flow.  We are challenged to remember complicated sequences of movements, barked at us in Korean, and when we are still struggling to learn both the individual movements and the sequences, we are asked to go faster, to execute more precisely, to keep our heads up and our gazes steady.  When we feel like screaming in frustration, we are asked to remain calm and try again.  There are few experiences during the day that are as challenging to my ego.  There are few experiences that make me doubt myself more, that frustrate me more, that make me more aware of my limits and my frailties.   I feel like there are so many details that I could never possibly perfect even the most basic of the traditional forms, that require only down blocks and punches.  And yet, I go back.

At the tournament, there was a lot of confusion about assembling the ring for the adult women.  We were herded this way and that.  We were asked to present tiny cards that had our school, age, and rank to first one set of judges and then another.  But, finally a ring was assembled and the forms competition got underway.  Forms are a pre-determined sequence of blocks and strikes in multiple directions, and they go from the most basic to the most complex.  As a lower belt, my form, Kebon 1, is very basic, with a combination of downward blocks and front punches, performed in all directions.  Because the form is simple, the judging is in the details.  Randomly, I was assigned to perform second.  And as I watched the first competitor, I was struck by her lack of intensity.  All the movements were right.  But there was no fire in her eyes.  I vowed that, whatever happened, I was going to project as much strength and confidence as I could muster.  I would give no outward sign of my pounding heart.  Using a technique from my yoga training, I breathed slowly and deeply to keep calm and tune out the activity around me.  Our ring was right next to another ring, as is often the case at tournaments. And people were spilling into our ring as I entered.  But, I was determined not to be distracted.  I walked purposefully, head high, as if I had walked into a ring a thousand times.  I remembered not look down.  I met the eyes of every judge as I bowed in and told them my name, school, and form.  And when I began to move, I was aware of nothing but the blocks and punches and stances I was executing. Even when a child, not paying attention, ran through the ring, I did not miss a beat.  On my final move, I got in my lowest stance and gave my most intense finishing “ki-up”.

I finished my performance, I exited the ring and sat down to watch the remaining women perform.  I did not know my scores.  Two women were called back to perform again because they had tied.  I assumed that they must have tied for first.  So, mentally I prepared to graciously congratulate the winner.  When they called all of us back to the ring, they started to arrange us in order by score.  I was put at the end.  In spite of my efforts to be calm and unflappable, I did experience a jolt of surprise.  I assumed I had not won but I was not expecting to be last.  I reminded myself that this was my first tournament, a learning experience, and that I had no place to store a massive trophy!  It was not until they actually put the massive trophy in my hands that I realized I was on the end because I was first.  Another jolt of surprise, followed by excitement and gratitude.

I cannot say I have spent much time since then gazing at that trophy but I have looked back several times at the photos taken of my first place performance.  I was not perfect.  But when I look at the photos,  I am actually kind of amazed at the precision of my body and the steeliness in my gaze.  The woman in the photos is someone I don’t entirely recognize but I like her.  She is confident but more than that she is focused.  She does not second guess.  She is proud of her strength.  She moves mindfully and purposefully.  She projects an outer fire but an inner calm.  I would like to be her more.  And that, perhaps, is what keeps me returning to martial arts.