Mastery = Making the Basics Second Nature

I ascended the mist-shrouded mountain, the home of the Master of All Combat Arts, Ancient and Modern. As I toiled higher, I knew the question I must ask him: What must I do to achieve mastery in the art of self defense?

I knew I would find him robed in the traditional, ancient garb of his people, but I heard him before I saw him. His voice carried on the cool, mountain air as he intoned a song his folk have sung for many generations.

      The man is blest that hath not lent
         to wicked men his ear,
      Nor led his life as sinners do,
         nor sat in scorner's chair.
      But in the law of God the Lord
         doth set his whole delight,
      And in the same doth exercise
         himself both day and night.

I espied him, sitting on the flat top of a boulder, wrapped in his Scottish great kilt. I did not want to interrupt his devotions, so I waited at a respectful distance until he finished singing Psalm 1.

"Ye have absented yourself from my abode for quite a while, lad." The twinkle in his eyes belied the reproachful tone of his words. "What brings ye here this morning?"

"Well, sir, I've been involved in martial activities for some time, now, and I'm wondering how much more I have to learn become a real master."

"'How much more,' ye say?" He raised a thick, dark eyebrow that demanded clarification.

"Umm, yes. I want to know how many more techniques . . . er, skills I need to learn so as to have mastered an art."

"Hit me."

"Sir?"

"I said, 'Hit me.'"

I knew better than to argue, so I snapped a palm heel strike to his chin. SLAP! His palm intercepted mine. He said, "Verrry good, Clodhopper! It would take a wee lass weeks of practice to hit that well."

Did I ever tell you how good he is at sarcasm?

He went on. "Almost every art introduces the most important skills very early in training. As the student learns more techniques, he must also keep practicing the basics. Learning all those techniques does not make him a master; mastery of the basics does."

"So, I need to master the palm heel strike."

"Train yerself to deliver it not only standing, but sitting and lying in bed. Train yerself to strike out the open window of your car -- both driver's and passenger's sides. Train to strike around obstacles and any other way you can imagine. Train by yerself, train wi' a partner, but train until you master that one skill."

"Okay, I'll practice that one skill."

"Not by itself, Clodhopper. Also practice one kick and one joint lock the same way -- from every position and every angle. After you master those three skills, add three more until you master them."

Then, he led me to his rocking chair and had me practice delivering palm heels with power from that unstable base. Finally, the time had come for me to descend the mountain, and I had plenty to think about on the way down.

I still had the principle of mastering the basics on my mind when I ran across this quote from Ken Hackathorn on FaceBook:

One of the most interesting things that I continue of learn as I study real world shootings is the fact that the degree of difficulty is not particularly high. Most shootings / shootouts require pretty straight forward skills. Running, jumping, rolling and other antics that are popular in the movies rarely come into play for real. Most of the time, it's just a simple matter of alignment and trigger press.

Steve C. had posted it on his timeline. I guess it goes to show that the basics matter most in just about everything.

In Case You Wondered . . .

I've posted a few of my fiction pieces on this blog about the Master of All Combat Arts, Ancient and Modern. In case you were wondering why I made him a Scot, here's just one example of the traditional Scottish warrior spirit.

http://www.scotsman.com/lifestyle/heritage/scots-war-hero-sir-tommy-macpherson-dies-at-94-1-3598468

"His most fearless act came during the same deployment. He confronted the leader of a 23,000-strong column of battle-hardened troops, led by an SS Panzer division, persuaded them they were outnumbered and outgunned by Allied forces, and forced them to surrender."

The Combat Master's Christmas Tale

Over the years, the nature of my work required that I spend too many Thanksgivings and Christmases in lonely, empty buildings away from my wife and children. In spite of that -- or perhaps because of it -- Nativity Day has acquired a taste of nostalgia and longing such that I can identify with those who must spend the day away from those they love most.


I dedicate this story to all of them. I hope I remember it well enough to do them the honor they deserve. Further, I hope that each of you will find something of your own story in it.


Some, no doubt will think my story is an empty fabrication: a mere fancy of my tired, old and idle mind. But such people cannot know that the Nativity Day atmosphere which I breathe shines bright with promise and weighty with hope. 


The ignorant will say it's magical, but its power draws on something much deeper and more powerful than magic. The word miracle comes much closer to describing it. In the Nativity celebration, life surpasses legend, and we find that we embrace more freely those things that ought to be. 

*****

It was the eve of our Nativity Day celebration, and for once, the mountain was shrouded by blizzard instead of mist. The weather had been clear when I started out to bring a small gift to my teacher, the master of all combat arts, ancient and modern. As I climbed, the snow fell softly at first, then the flakes became so thick and the wind gusted so strongly that it became nearly impossible for me to see my way.

White flakes started to crust the thick, full beard of the hardy Scot as he thanked me for my present. Then he said, "Ye'll not be going home in this weather, lad. Come with me."

He led me to his well-concealed stone cottage, and welcomed me into his home that was so much like its builder and owner: austere, yet sturdy, honest and warm. The heat of the fire and a couple of tankards of mead made the silence between us feel easy and friendly.

I watched the warrior follow his nightly ritual. First, he field stripped, cleaned and oiled his M-14. Then he did the same with his Model 1911. He hung them in their places above the mantel.

Then he dressed the edge of his claymore with a pocket hone, oiled it and hung it over the mantel where the warmth would drive away any moisture. Finally, he turned his attention to his dirk, but when he finished with it, he laid it by his side, for since his wife died, it was the only companion he took to his bed.

When he finally spoke, the combat master's Scottish brogue was low and sonorous. "Clodhopper, this night reminds me of a Christmas eve ever so long ago . . . " Then he told me this tale:

The enemy hated our faith and made war on us to snuff it out. My companions and I were fleeing a force that outnumbered us twelve to one. I was wounded, and my pace slowed my brothers-in-arms so that we surely would be caught. 


The ground lay bare that December 24th, but the chill wind bit deeply as the sky darkened. Well knew I that the enemy needed no snow to track us, for the blood that dripped from my wounds left trail enough to follow.


Finally, I insisted that they go one way and I another. They would not have done it, had I not outranked them, and even then they almost stayed. But for the beginning snowfall, they probably would not have left me alone.


I finally prevailed by insisting that the snow would cover both our trails, and I could hide much more easily alone. They were a stout bunch who hated to leave me, and they would doubtless have stayed, had they known the true extremity of my weakness.


With the last of my strength, I hacked off some pine boughs with my claymore and dragged them under the low-lying branches of a pine tree. Then, I scooped out a nest in the deep, insulating carpet of pine needles, rolled up in my great kilt, and pulled the pine boughs over me, expecting that I would not live til morning.


The snow fell deep and fast, covering my blood trail and the tree that provided my shelter. Chills and fever took turns on me, that night, and at some point I heard the heavy boots of those who hunted me crunching through the snow mere feet from my hidey hole. The echo of their curses sounded in my fevered brain long after they had passed.


Then, at some point, I must have slept. I must have slept, for I had the strangest dream . . . if, indeed, a dream it was.


In my dream, I stood in a vast hall filled with many tables that fairly creaked under the load of a great and hearty banquet. About each table sat such a company of men as has never gathered in this life.


They reminded me of my companions -- good, true, honest and faithful men -- warriors all. The men were a merry lot as they ate and drank, but their laughter was not rude and their manner was courteous, filled with mutual love and respect.


Then I espied at the head of the hall, a dais that supported a wondrous manly throne of rich, carved oak. Upon the throne sat the King, beholding with sincere approval His warrior host.


Realization dawned upon me that I stood in the Hall of Valiant Warriors who served the true and rightful Warrior King. Pagan warriors had heard of the place, and they corrupted its beauty and simplicity in their myths of Valhalla, but now I stood in the actual midst of the great warrior-servants of the true King.


And how shall I describe Him, Clodhopper? Authority without arrogance . . . dignity without pride . . . and His eyes filled with the kind of compassion you find only in those who have suffered much. 


Then my eyes fell upon His wrists and the deep scars from the nails that had wounded Him in His battle for the souls of men. On that day, a Roman spear pierced His side, but the dark lord's lance shattered into splinters against His mighty Soul.


Now and then, one or another would rise from this table or that and bear a plate of food to the dais and bid the King eat. He received the offer with grace and affection, but He, Himself, did not even once take a morsel of the great feast.


I started at the voice of one I had not noticed beside me. "Welcome, Mac."


"Y' know me, then. But you have the advantage, for I know you not." 


"You may call me 'Ben'."


It amazed me that one of these mighty men should recognize one such as I. Even more amazingly, he assured me that he not only knew me, but that he and some others had eagerly awaited the chance to trade stories with me.


Before I could answer, the hall grew suddenly quite still. The men's gaze followed that of their King to the far end of the hall, where a pitiful, naked, bedraggled wretch limped through the portal.


No square inch of the man's body was without some laceration, bruise or swelling. Some wounds looked fresh, but others stank from putrefaction.


I watched in wonder as he tried to approach the King's dais, but his strength failed him. He collapsed to the floor in an aisle between two rows of tables.


Two warriors closest to where he fell rushed to him, one on each side. I thought that perhaps they would carry this beggar out of their assembly and away from the sight of their King. Instead, the most singular thing happened.


The mighty men gingerly lifted the beggar to his feet, and with their arms under his, conducted him slowly to the King. They treated him with the tender gentleness that you may have the privilege to observe in men of great courage and strength.


As they did so, the King stood to His feet, and every man in the hall arose and snapped to attention.


When they came to the foot of the dais, they stopped at a crystal fount filled with clear, pure water. There they bathed the beggar's wounds and the purity of that water healed his flesh. Clotted blood, bleeding wounds and putrefying sores shrank away and became faint battle scars, much like those borne by all the mighty men in the hall. 


Now I knew that he was not a beggar, but a soldier most recently fallen in the service of the King. He knelt before his sworn Sovereign who said, "Well done, good and faithful servant. Enter thou into the joy of thy Lord."


At that, his fellow-warriors draped him with a great kilt just like those worn by everyone in the company, and the King presented him with a sword and a shield. "These you shall bear for me in the great and final day of battle."


I turned to my companion, "Tell me, Ben, why am I here. Like yon man, I entered wounded and filthy, but I do not feel a part of this company."


"It is not yet your time, brother. You have come here because although you must continue the fight, we do not want you to battle on without hope. There is a seat reserved for you here, and one day you shall feast among us as we gather strength for the final victory."


The words "final victory" chased round and round in my fevered mind as consciousness slowly forced itself upon me. Thick snow blanketed the forest that long ago morning of December 25th. I arose from concealment, still weak, still fevered and sick, but alive and filled with renewed purpose and devotion, for I had seen a wounded and broken warrior honored by the King.

My teacher fell silent after the story, and so we sat again, both of us lost in thought. Then suddenly, "So, Clodhopper, tell me now a story of your battles. I long to hear of a great victory you've won.

I cringed with shame. "I have no great victories, and no real battles to recount. That's not what my life has been like at all." He did not say a word, but only fixed me in his gaze until I spoke again.

"All right, you want to know what my life is really like? I'll tell you a typical story from when I was a young believer."

The year after I surrendered my own life to the King, I accepted the challenge to carry my Bible to school every day, as testimony to my faith. My biology teacher saw my Bible, and he singled me out for ridicule in front of the class.


One day, he even falsely accused me of vandalizing a nature trail that he had made -- again, in front of the class. I never engaged the man in battle, and after that year, I had only limited contact with him.


At the end of my junior year, he proctored an exam I was taking. I finished it early, and to occupy myself, I wrote out John 14:1-6 on the scratch paper along with a little poem I had memorized. As I looked it over, a shadow fell across my desk, and the biology teacher stood over me.


He picked up my papers, no doubt thinking that I had smuggled some crib notes into the exam room. He stood there and read the Scripture passage and the little poem by R.C. Trench:

   Weep not for broad lands lost,
   Weep not for fair hopes crossed.
   Weep not when limbs wax old.
   Weep not when friends grow cold.
   Weep not when death must part thine
   And the best loved heart,
   Yet weep, weep all you can.
   Weep, weep because thou art a sin-defiled man. 


Then the unbelieving teacher said, "Interesting," and returned my papers to the desk. Later, during my senior year, he exacted petty revenge upon me for whatever crimes he imagined I had committed against him.


At that time, he made me look and feel a fool, and he humiliated me in front of others. 


I tell you this story because it's fairly typical of my life. So often when I try to stand for what's right and true for the sake of my King, others have put me down, I've lost a job, or been mocked and scorned.


I cannot pick up a sword and go after these people. It's not the way my life has fallen. My story is not like yours, a tale of taking part in great battles and facing deadly enemies with rifle or blade.

The combat master fixed his eyes upon mine as he asked, "Did you rejoice?"

"What?"

"Did you rejoice when the teacher humiliated you?"

"Uh . . . well . . . no."

"Acts 5:41 tells us that after the authorities had publicly  beaten and humiliated the apostles, they rejoiced that they were counted worthy to suffer shame for His name."

I remained silent as he continued. "You must understand that the deepest wounds a soldier carries, no mortal eye can see, and no human surgeon can heal. Though you've not fought with weapons such as hang on my wall, you carry deep wounds of that sort, as well.

"Forget not the King's cross. He lifted no material weapon, and He suffered shame and humiliation for our sakes. And it looked for all the world to see as though He suffered a great defeat amid the scornful laughter of those who mocked.

"And yet, though it appeared a loss, it turned out the most decisive victory in the War of the Ages -- a great strategic victory that the King won naked, wounded and alone without rifle or sword.

"That is why He honored that poor, naked and broken warrior in my dream. Because that warrior followed his Sovereign.

"As our King won the great strategic victory, so you and a multitude of your brothers have won many tactical victories in His name. Those victories may have looked like defeats --they may not have even looked like battles -- but they were victories nonetheless because His cross supports and affirms them.

"One day the sheer weight of those victories will crush what remains of the Kingdom of Darkness, and all the world will know our King's reign of peace, justice and truth. In that day, you will need no medals, for your scars will tell the story of your battles and how you emerged victorious.

"I have known many warriors, and I have trained many pupils through seemingly countless years, and many times I have looked at one or another and thought to myself, 'This one reminds me of the honored warrior in my dream.'

But tonight, Clodhopper, tonight I fancy that the honored warrior looked a lot like you."

I had nothing more to say, and it was just as well, for the lump in my throat was too large to let a single word past.

*****

That's how  I remember one particular Nativity Day eve that I spent away from my loved ones. I missed them that night, but I would not trade my experience in the combat master's cottage for anything. Anything except maybe to hear the King say to me, "Well done . . . ."

It's a funny thing, how I've thought of my family during the Nativity celebrations when I could not be with them. Yet, those holidays when I am with them, I also cherish the lonely times, when the kind words and good wishes of a good, true and strong friend shone in my darkness like a beacon from the King.

Tonight, I will be in church with my wife and youngest daughter. I will listen to Christmas favorites played on Celtic harps by young women in lovely dresses. But my thoughts and wishes will also be with the lonely warriors who, away from home, struggle in the dark with enemies seen and unseen.

Please accept my wish to you, dear brothers and friends, for a most happy and blessed celebration of the King's birth. And if you feel lonely, defeated, wounded or downhearted in any way, please remember this as the Christmas eve that you climbed the snow-capped mountain and waited out a blizzard before the fire of a warrior whose heart is as great and strong as the mountain he calls home.

And if you ever doubt the value of your efforts, remember that after you listened to his story and he listened to yours, you heard him say, "Tonight, I fancy that the honored warrior looked a lot like you."

Clodhopper

The master of combat arts, ancient and modern who lives high up the mist shrouded mountain often refers to me as "Clodhopper". Some of the younger readers may not recognize that this term of affection(?!) originates in a tongue-in-cheek allusion to the 1970's East-meets-western TV show, Kung Fu.

My tartan-clad combat master does not give Buddhist sound-of-one-hand-clapping type advice, but he does have a certain offbeat sense of humor. Whence the appellation Clodhopper.

The following clip will make all clear.

Call Me Madam, 5

Continued from "Call Me Madam, 4" (or click here to start at the first episode in the series)

The story so far: High upon the mist-shrouded mountain, I have sought out the great master of combat arts, ancient and modern to inquire about the place of love and marriage in the life of a warrior. I told him that I wondered if a warrior might not be better off if he did not have a wife to worry about. The combat master pointed out that even Jesus, the archetypal Warrior-King has a bride. I respond in my customarily smooth and articulate fashion.

". . . but . . . uhhh . . . ."

The master patiently prods. "Yes, Clodhopper?"

"Didn't soldiers in ancient Israel get an exemption from battle if they were married?"

"You are referring to Deuteronomy 24:5 where it says that a man who has taken a new bride will not be called to war?"

"Um . . . yes, I think so."

"Well, the passage also says that the exemption lasts for one year. After that time he is liable to service in Israel's militia."

"Then why is he exempt for a year?"

"Scripture says it's for his wife's sake, not his. In addition, after a year he should be a better warrior."

"Why is that, Master?"

"Because he will have more to fight for. He has invested a year in his married life and he leaves behind she who is flesh of his flesh and perhaps even a wee bairn of his own blood. He will now fight not for house -- four walls and a roof -- but for his home."

To be continued

Call Me Madam, 4

Continued from "Call Me Madam, 3"

The story so far: I have journeyed to the mountain lair of the Master of Combat Arts (Ancient and Modern) in order to find the place of love and marriage in the life of a warrior. I have told the master the story of how I met my own wife, and the master now speaks.

"It's a charming story, Clodhopper. What's the point?"

"Well, Master, I love my wife . . ."

"Good."

". . . and I wouldn't trade her for anything . . . "

"Also good."

". . . but sometimes I wonder if I might not be a better, more devoted and more efficient warrior if I were single."

"Sometimes I wonder about you. You made two good points and then followed them up with an utterly stupid conclusion. Clodhopper, whom do you serve?"

"Why, Jesus, the Anointed King, of course."

"And what mighty Warrior is the Captain of Lord's hosts."

"Again, Jesus."

"And on behalf of whom does the Warrior King do battle?"

"Uh . . . His Church?"

"Yes! And what figure does he use to characterize His Church in Ephesians 5?"

Silence as I desperately try to remember what's in that chapter. Then the master speaks, as if to a very slow child.

"Come, Clodhopper, it starts with a 'B' . . . [pause] . . . rhymes with 'hide'."

"Oh. Bride?"

"Indeed, the Church is our King's bride. Do you think having a bride detracts from His prowess as a warrior?'

"No . . . ."

"And do you think you're somehow better than the King, that you should not follow His example?"

To be continued

"Call Me Madam", 3

Continued from "Call Me Madam", 2

The story so far: I have made the trek up the mist-shrouded mountain to ask the great master of ancient and modern combat skills about love and marriage as it relates to the warrior. I told him about how my mother & I watched "Call Me Madam" in 1968, and I aroused his suspicion that I might be some kind of pansy by singing "You're Just in Love" from that [musical] movie.

"Well, Master," I continued, "A couple of days after we watched the movie "Call Me Madam", I went with a group of students on a summer missions trip to Mexico. We distributed literature, held meetings, and came down with 'Montezuma's Revenge'.

"I even preached through an interrupter . . . er, interpreter in a one-room schoolhouse."

"Missions is good, Clodhopper, but is there a point to all this?"

"Yes, there is. I met this girl who was also on the missions team. She made a  big impression on me. So much so, that when we got back to the 'States, I called home to tell my folks.

"Well, my mom & dad were not home, & my brother answered the phone. I asked him to give a message to our mother, and I quoted the song. I said, 'Tell Mom that I smell blossoms and the trees are bare.'"

"You're not going to sing again, Clodhopper!?" It was more a command than a question.

"No, no. I'm not going to sing (but any readers who missed the song can find it in my previous post). But, anyhow, my mom & dad knew what the message meant: I had met a girl - someone special."

To be continued

"Call Me Madam", 2

 Continued from "Call Me Madam"

So far: Recently watching "Call Me Madam" has motivated me to ascend the mist-shrouded mountain in order to ask the great master of ancient combat arts about love and marriage in a warrior's life.

The master raises himself to the fullness of his imposing height, folds his arms and stares at me critically. Although the Model 1911 that he always carries is hidden in the folds of his great kilt, the two-handed sword  slung over his back and the dirk in his stocking give him a menacing appearance as I begin my story.

"In August of 1968, I went to Mexico as part of a student summer missions team. A couple of nights before I left, my mother and I stayed up to watch the movie "Call Me Madam" on television."

The master rolls his eyes and says, "I hope you're not going to give me a detailed account of your life since 1968."

"No . . . no, of course not. Anyway, there was this song in the movie . . . "

"It's a MUSICAL???" The master eyes me suspiciously.

"Yessir, it's a musical. And Ethel Merman & Donald O'Conner sing this duet: 'You're Just in Love'. . . Let me sing it for you."



Long pause as the master just stares at me. Finally he says with an arched brow, "You're a nancy-boy, aren't you?"

"No," I protest, "Really, I'm not." The master lets me continue, but the suspicion in his eyes does not diminish.

To be continued.

"Call Me Madam"

After a trip to the chiropractor, I am able -- with difficulty -- to ascend the mist-shrouded mountain that the master of ancient combat skills calls his home. As usual, I find him sitting on a large rock -- doesn't he have a house or shelter or something around here?

I see he is clad in his warrior people's traditional, flowing garb  -- a great kilt. As his eyes meet mine, I realize that he knew I was coming long before I came into sight.

His voice reminds me of Sean Connery as he speaks. "Your stalking skills are improving. Today you sounded like only two or three elephants crashing through the brush."

"Thank you, Master. I have come to seek wisdom about love and marriage in a warrior's life."

"Good topic. A warrior must choose a wife wisely, for if he should lay down his life in her protection, he must not waste his sacrifice. What brought this to mind, Clodhopper?"

"Master, we watched Call Me Madam last night, and it brought back memories of decades past."

"Can you tell me about it without putting me to sleep?"

"Yes sir, I believe I can."

To be continued

The Master Warrior's Land

As I climb toward the peak, I stop often to rest. Why does the Master Warrior insist I meet him in such difficult places? Then I glance down at my expansive midsection, and I wonder no more.

I seek the wisdom and the warrior spirit of his ancient land -- a land with terrain not unlike this. As I draw near the craggy peak, I hear him chanting. It's a traditional song, beloved by his people.

I try to approach quietly . . . respectfully, but his trained senses know my approach. He speaks. "Come. Stand before me, Clodhopper."

I see him, standing relaxed but straight and strong in spite of his advanced years. He wears the venerable war garb and weapons of his ancient land: great kilt, claymore and dirk. He is the Master Warrior.
Last Saturday, I went to the Greenville Highland Games and Scottish festival. Merrianna, my youngest daughter and I ate haggis for the first time -- very good, but then again I like steel-cut oats without sugar for breakfast. That was just one highlight.

Another was the bagpipe bands. At any time of day, you could find small groups of pipers playing. The sound of the war-pipes provided a constant background to the day's activities. I love the sound of them.

For me, though, the best part was watching the medieval warriors from the European Martial Arts of America (EMAA). They were impressive. They used real weapons (not sharpened, but still able to wound) in their unchoreographed fighting exhibitions.

The temperatures rose into the high 90's, and still they performed. I liked talking with them, for they displayed knightly courtesy and wit. I could clearly see their camaraderie and their love for historic combat arms.

Dame Jennifer regaled Merrianna & me with some entertaining stories. She spoke of how Celtic wives and mothers knew the combat arts and tutored their children in fighting techniques. She also revealed that the EMAA teaches unarmed self defense. And I was pleased that their approach has definite similarities to my own.

Sir Teahawk offered me a welcome drink of ice water. And Sir William gave me one of his organization's promotional coins because I cheered for him in the contests. A more courtly group of medieval warriors I have never met.

As we watched them fight, Merrianna said, "Daddy, look." A burly man with a bushy black beard walked by, dressed in a bright plaid kilt with a big two-handed broadsword slung across his back. O, for a land where men walk freely about, armed or unarmed, as they please. Later, I paid way too much for an authentic carbon steel Culloden dirk, but it was a souvenir, and souvenirs are always overpriced.

All the way home, I could hear in my head the pleasant drone of bagpipes. Merrianna said she could, too.

"Master Warrior, I have been to a gathering that makes me homesick for a place I've never been, a land of haggis and tartans and warpipes and fiercely independent men who toss the caber, fear God and sing the Psalms."

"In that case, Clodhopper, there is hope that you may yet become a warrior."

Movie Fights

ME: "Tell me, O Master Warrior, can I truly learn anything from watching movie fights?"

MASTER WARRIOR: "Yes, Clodhopper. You can learn choreography."

As the master warrior indicates, movie fights are not generally like real fights. If you recall the "Sucker Punch" series, you realize that real life confrontations are usually abrupt, brief and brutal. And whoever hits first, wins.

Movie fights are scripted for entertainment, not to instruct you in self defense. Like professional wrestling, they present exhibitions that showcase the participants' slick moves. You have to comb through a mountain of old films to find anything that resembles real fighting.

A favorite fight scene from my childhood came from the movie Bad Day at Black Rock, starring Spencer Tracy as a one-armed WWII vet. In it, he absolutely destroys the bully played by Ernest Borgnine. It's not all that realistic (especially the final windmill throw), but I like it because Tracy's character uses some actual WWII combat techniques -- notably, the judo chop or edge of hand blow.

Here's the scene:

Another fanciful feature of that fight is that Spencer Tracy keeps waiting for Ernest Borgnine to attack him rather than finishing the fight. Some people might think that's the fair and honorable thing to do, but if orcs were fair and honorable, you wouldn't have to defend yourself in the first place. In a street situation you must quickly neutralize the threat to a degree sufficient enough to make a safe escape.

Recently, lt (who is my barber and my friend) sent me a link to a fight scene from Cloak and Dagger. It's a spy thriller from the 1940's starring Gary Cooper. Fritz Lang, the director, did not shoot a fight scene like one you'd see in today's action movies.

You see no wide, looping punches, nothing really slick or impressive. Just two men, struggling to kill each other with their bare hands (okay, a gun and a knife appear, but they don't really come into play). It's gritty and nasty and brutal, and it has more realistic elements than the fight in Bad Day at Black Rock.

Here's the video clip:

Whoever scripted this scene also knew something about WWII combatives. The Tiger Claw to the eyes came straight from W.E. Fairbairn's Get Tough. So did Gary Cooper's use of the Judo Chop (Edge of Hand Blow). The bending fingers, stomping and kicking give the impression of desperate men looking for any opening to take the other out.

It's not neat or slick or pretty, but real fights aren't, either. The drama comes not from cinematically appealing techniques, but from the desperate, anything-goes, life-or-death struggle itself. I do question whether the two-hand front choke would be the real fight ender, since there are so many ways to break free. On the other hand, fighting mano a mano is exhausting, and it's possible that whoever runs out of gas first has nothing left to make even an elementary escape.

ME: What do you think of movie fights now, O Master Warrior.

(Master Warrior feints a kick to the groin, and when I flinch, he delivers a dope-slap to my head.)

MASTER WARRIOR: I think you need to spend less time watching movies and more time practicing, Clodhopper.