“Boxing and bullfighting are elevated above other sports because of the blood that is in them.”

-       Ernest Hemingway (paraphrased from Death in the Afternoon).

 I have posted a few love letters on here over time. I was taken with the idea when I heard about ‘The Love Letters of Great Men’, courtesy of Carrie Bradshaw in ‘Sex and the City’. Let’s face it; we watch for blood. It’s not just ghoulish curiosity; it’s also for catharsis. And if you’ve been reading this blog for a while, you know that I don’t give a fuck about anything that isn’t bloody.

The following is presented for your delectation.    

Hi S,

I thought I’d send you a progress letter as to where I’m at. I think of you a lot, at particular times. I thought you might like to know.

I am really struggling to recover from my break up with J. I think I understand where it went wrong, but I find it difficult to accept. I did absolutely everything I could, and I believe that the reasons it foundered were beyond my influence or control. It isn’t that I didn’t do anything wrong; I did plenty and did my utmost to take responsibility and redress it. It is a truly horrible thing to see that you are responsible for the pain of someone you love.

I am trying to stay entirely permeable to the experience and the pain. My love for her was the greatest thing to come out of me; to dismiss it is to lose what is best in me. I also feel that if I suffer its full extent, then I will be redeemed for the failure, and will also learn how to prevent something from going bad in future. I do not believe I am suffering the concomitant problems that lurk behind the loss of true, profound love; for example, it hasn’t affected my self-esteem (I know you’re laughing at that one). I feel like I won some amazing prize with a mansion and a car and everything and just as I had moved in, someone from a government agency came around and showed me undeniable proof that I didn’t win at all. And I have to give it all up and move out.

I even have regrets as a result of my relationship with her. I have very, very few regrets – about anything – and it alarms me to feel them. It feels desperately unjust that things came down the way they did. And it is her way to turn her back on her past and discard it. I never throw away anything or anyone I have loved and it is agony to know that she has cast me away and created a crude, yet effective series of channels to cleanse her of responsibility.

Sometimes I find myself so upset I can be looking out a window streaked with rain and discover that I am crying. And this is when I think of you.

I am not sure how the brain works, but there was something about our relationship/friendship that transcended all the relationships I have ever had. I essentially close myself to people so the seams and weaknesses are concealed. But you had full access to all of me and the fact that I cannot have a relationship with you anymore is possibly my greatest loss to date.

You were always ‘there’; lonely Christmases and late at night and whenever else. At some of those times, you said things that have stayed in my blood like mercury. One was that I could never disappoint you, and the other was that you would always be there for me, no matter what. I instinctively believed you, in the same way I fell so deeply in love with J. And it seems I was wrong about both. I am currently back at the shrink, trying to figure out why I fell so deeply in love with her. What does such a decision, such instincts, say about me as a person?

I wonder about the way I placed my instinctive, automatic trust in you.

***

I don’t know if you know anything about deer hunting, but some shooters will walk miles into the forest and create intricate blinds in trees and on the ground for concealing themselves. They climb into these things and hide for days, sometimes weeks at a time; shitting in a bag, waiting for a deer to emerge. Often they will kill it with a telescopic rifle over such a distance that the animal will be struck by the bullet before the sound. Sometimes, the deer will run when the sound reaches it with the projectile already lodged in its heart.

Right now, I am running. I wonder if, when I stop, I will be dead.

I am lucky enough to have Christian Ennor holding pads for me. He is among the best pad holders I have worked with; he is systematic and understands not only how fights work, but how to train for them.

One of the things I admire most about him – other than his insight into the intricacies of fighting – is his physical courage. He always positions himself in such a way that I can get maximum leverage and power into my strikes, which is always at his expense. That kind of self-sacrifice is emblematic of the very best trainers.

He is also proof that a great trainer needs intelligence and insight, much more than experience.    

How old are you, mate?

36

How long have you been involved in boxing/martial arts?

I became interested when I was about nine or ten years old. I sat and watched movies of people like Jackie Chan; old Chinese ones with Bruce Lee,Van Damme. I loved it!

I probably started [training] with Tae Kwon Do and then Kung Fu, which I did for between eight and nine years. Eventually, I went to the Bob Jones Corporation and began training in Zen Do Kai and Muay Thai at 14. I stuck with that for about three years. I was still doing Kung Fu as well. At nineteen, I won the Australian All-Styles Championships in semi-contact at welterweight, which was 70kg.

After that, I started training with Sam Soliman at Underworld, and he asked me to become his full-time training partner. I was working at Underworld, too, doing personal training and taking classes.

Did you have any boxing fights?

Nope. No boxing fights! I just sparred with Sam and whoever else.

What’s your current involvement with Fightsports?

I used to be in charge of Sam’s strength and conditioning. I learned about it by doing courses; MMA strength and conditioning courses, as well as training with all different people.

What do you do now with fighters?

I work with boxers and kickboxers and specialize in their strength and conditioning. I help some of Paul Fyfield’s fighters, and I’m still involved with Sam, doing his strength and conditioning and some padwork.

Who else are you working with?

Mehmet Ceyan, Robbie Jankovski (Australian middleweight champ), and Eric Diamandstein.

What attracts you to it?

I love thinking, ‘How do I make this guy better?’ I can’t do it myself, but I know they can. I can see what they need. Becoming a boxing trainer wasn’t my plan – I thought I’d just be a PT. Then I started with Sam, and it just went from there.

Where do you think you’ll take it?

I have got to get my own gym. It’s hard in my current position; I have to earn money and fighters are the worst paying! Once I get a gym, I can start a fighter’s time to come and train. From there, I can organize classes and p.t. around that.

In 2008, I went to ‘Wildcard Gym’, which is Freddy Roach’s gym in Hollywood, California. I trained Sam there for the first 5 weeks; Dave [Hedgecock] did the rest. I saw Roach every day, and sat on the edge of the ring and watched and listened like a little boy taking lollies.

He was in there every day from 10am until 7pm. Most of all, I was impressed by the toughness of the fighters. Sparring was on every day at 11am; they’d turn up with kids, mothers, wives, etcetera and they would go to war. It was as good as watching a full pro card where every fight is the main event. My advice would be to tell any good young fighter to move to the U.S. You can make money fighting so you don’t have to work, which means you get good enough to make a career out of it. You just can’t match the quality of sparring, the amount of fights they’ll get, and the money that goes with it.

International Kickboxer Magazine, May/June 2013

Ramon Dekkers was the most significant Western fighter to wear the Mongkon. In fact, he and Rob Kaman can be credited with re-inventing Muay Thai in Thailand, its country of origin. He racked up a string of wins against the best Thais in the business and carved out an indisputable reputation in the process. The decision was unanimous; Dekkers was the first non-Thai to be recognized by the Thai press as ‘Fighter of the Year’ in 1992.

That achievement was topped earlier this year when the Thai Royal Family recognized him with an award for services to the sport, as well as appointing him the ambassador for all foreign fighters in Thailand. Again, on February 27 this year the world took notice. 43-year old Ramon died as a result of heart failure while riding his bike.

He is credited with 221 fights throughout the duration of a stellar career, winning 186 of them. In fairness, it must be remembered that his retirement was an on-again, off-again affair, and many of his losses occurred during that period. Toward the end of his career Ramon was so injured he couldn’t train, his left ankle having been surgically fused because of repeated breakages. He would hit the pads a couple of times to get his eye in and then fight.

Ramon had a date with destiny the day he walked into Cor Hemmer’s ‘Meang Ho’ gym in Breda, Holland. Dekkers was thirteen and had some experience with Martial Arts, having trained in judo and boxing. The instructor, Cor Hemmers, was teaching Muay Thai.

Hemmers himself had been a successful martial artist. He had trained and fought in both boxing and Kyokushin karate, eventually progressing to Muay Thai. In Thai Boxing, he had found an opportunity to bring both of those skills together. Hemmers had had 29 fights for 25 wins and, as a result of his experience, had developed a somewhat unique method of training and fighting. Ramon was perfectly suited to it.

Dekkers on left, Hemmers on right

According to Hemmers, boxing was the cornerstone of an effective Muay Thai or kickboxing style. The hands set the optimal distance to work at; from that distance, all other weapons will work effectively – that and the fact it becomes easier to land powerful kicks once your opponent is busy coping with your punches. This approach was the direct opposite of the traditional Thai style. Thai orthodoxy was built around kicking because the kick is a long-range, high-scoring weapon that allows you to inflict maximum damage from a safer distance.

Ramon made his debut at sixteen years of age, winning in trademark knockout style against a much older, more experienced boxer. He continued to build his reputation on the back of a spotless record. He won his first title at age 18; the MTBN Dutch Championship on 15 November 1987.

From there, made his way onto the world stage, meeting – and defeating – the best the sport had to offer. In Amsterdam, he defeated Namphon, the reigning Lumpinee champion, by points decision. From there, he found himself rematching Namphon at Lumpini stadium in Thailand. He couldn’t repeat the feat, however, and lost on points.

As many will know, the scoring system for Muay Thai is difficult for a Western audience to understand. The highest-scoring technique is dumping the other fighter on the canvas. Kicks and knees also score highly, while punches, unless they visibly injure the opponent, won’t score at all. Ramon struggled with the rules, but made up for it with his trademark combination of technique, power and aggression.

Thai fighters of that era had rudimentary hand skills at best. They were far more inclined to punch rather than box and generally didn’t waste much time at punching range. They were more interested in using punches to transition from long distance (kicking) to short (grappling, knees and elbows). This was all very well; Ramon proved the idea that if a man was powerful and skilled enough, he could knock you out in that dangerous middle ground. It is, after all, hard to argue with the judges’ decision when you’re lying on your back.

Watching highlight reels of Ramon makes the reasons for his dominance immediately apparent. His hyper-aggressive style and extraordinary power meant that his best opponents, such as Saengtiennoi ‘The Deadly Kisser’, were forced to match his awesome power and technique against their own durability. “He was a machine,” Ramon said of Noi. “He just kept on coming.”

Ramon met Coban ‘The Cruncher’ Lookchaomaesaitong on April 21, 1991. Ramon was knocked out by way of left hook, but was soon to avenge the loss when the two fought again. Between 1991 and 1993 Ramon fought Coban a total of four times, producing four fights which aficionados rate as the very best engagements in the history of the sport.

On the eighteenth of March 2001, Ramon fought Marino Deflorin in Amsterdam. It was an even contest until Ramon caught Deflorin and knocked him out with a left hook. Afterwards, he announced his retirement. As with most fighters it didn’t stick, however, and Ramon returned to the ring in 2005.

He took an MMA fight on a few days’ notice and lost by heel hook. From there, he participated in a number of K1 fights, notably tearing his right shoulder and being unable to punch before he fought Duane Ludwig. That aside, he still managed to floor Ludwig every round and walk out with a decision win, carrying his trophy with the only hand he could use.

Ramon busied himself after retirement by putting his formidable knowledge and experience to work as a trainer for both Team Dekkers and Golden Glory. He made his mark on fighters from around the world.

Paul Briggs, world Muay Thai champion and eventual world light-heavyweight contender was coached by his father, who went to great trouble to mail-order videotapes of both Dekkers and Kaman. Watching those tapes became both the basis of Briggs’ style and his approach to training. “Ramon had incredible technique and was strong, both mentally and physically. He didn’t flinch; he just absorbed all the punishment. Dekkers bought his own version of Muay Thai, rather than trying to be Thai himself. In doing that, he changed the sport.”

Ramon once fought in Australia, at Festival Hall in 1995. On the undercard was an up-and-coming champion, Anthony Vella. “He was the greatest ever,” says Anthony. “He took the sport to the next level, and inspired a lot of people. As far as Westerners fighting Thais, the Dutch did it first. They led the way. [Ramon] forced the Thais to change their game plan. Before that, they pretty much just kicked.”

Anthony counts meeting Ramon as one of the highlights of his career. “He came and congratulated me after my win. It was really inspiring.”

Ramon also had great impact on other trainers. Marcel Dragan first met Ramon at the Golden Glory gym in Breda in 2008 when he bought with him his talented heavyweight prospect, the shy but intimidating Raul Catinas.

“The morning training was over and Cor Hemmers introduced us to [Gokhan] Saki, [Alistair] Overeem, [Nicky] Holzken and [Errol] Zimmerman, who were drinking a cold juice at the bar. We talked for a while; Cor told us about the training schedule and then he left.

“I stepped into the gym with the feeling that I was in a temple where the Gods of War were worshipped. There was only one man, wearing a cotton anorak with hood, collecting the pads and shields left on the floor by the fighters. ‘Where can Ramon be?’ I asked myself, impatient to meet the European who defeated the best Muay Thai fighters in their own territory. While I was thinking about this, I collided with the shoulder of the man who was gathering the gear and whom I considered to be just an employee. The man apologized and turned around: it was Ramon Dekkers.”

Dekkers was the ideal coach. Not only did have knowledge and experience, his character meant that he was capable of being both tough when necessary and tender, also. One of his amateur fighters, Frank Van Der Korput, remembers him thus:

“My most fond memory of Ramon is when he tried to glue up my cut eyebrow. From quiet tough guy he instantly went into sort of a father-mode when he saw my bloodied face and guided me to a chair.

“I remember walking into his gym in the Pelmolenstreet for the first time, impressed by all the tough guys hanging around; the smell of stale sweat and Thai oil, and by how short Ramon actually was. He was always a bit quiet; he almost seemed too shy to talk about anything else than technique or training methods.

“Just being in his presence was a huge motivation to train harder though, to take more punishment and to dish out even more. I became a reasonably skilled amateur fighter and developed a passion for the sport. I got the confidence and felt I had the right to walk into dirty backstreet gyms all over the world.”

Frank attended Ramon’s funeral in his hometown of Breda, on March 7.

“I took the afternoon off work to attend. So did about 2000 other people. Quite a crowd at the funeral place; people from all walks of life came to pay their respect, people in shell suits next to people wearing Saville Row’s finest. A lot of prominent figures; Peter Aerts, Marloes Coenen, and other fighters. There was an airplane dragging a banner with a diamond on it circling the city that read ‘The Diamond 4Ever, Rest in Peace.’

“The ceremony itself was a sober event. The undertaker talked about Ramon’s life, achievements and death. In between some relatives spoke, also. When Ramon’s youngest daughter, Quinty, stood up and read out a last message for her father, the distinct sound of hearths breaking was clearly audible. Ramon’s brothers, Nicky and Carlo, also gave a brief talk about what their brother meant to them.

“Cor Hemmers, looking older and fragile, told the story about how he met Ramon’s mother, what it was like training young Ramon, what they achieved over the years, first in Thailand, later in the Netherlands and all over the world. Despite his fragile appearance, Cor made a strong impression. He was stoic in restraining his emotion.”

I had the honour of being trained by Ramon in 2008. I had great trouble concentrating and often frustrated him because I was suffering from a bad case of being star-struck. I had similar problems with Stefan Leko and Chalid ‘Die Faust’ Arrab, but with Dekkers, it was different. He was the sport; both his mode of training and because of the way his performances in the ring had changed it. It was as if he had re-created Muay Thai around him and the world had taken notice.

The first, most striking feature was his power. When I trained with him, he had been enjoying the good life and had probably weighed about eighty kilos. He punched and kicked as hard as some of the Golden Glory heavyweights and every time he hit me, I couldn’t even cover or check properly, let alone remember the combination. All I could think was, “Wow! I’ve just been hit by Ramon Dekkers!”

One night, we had to essentially cross Holland to attend a ‘Kickbox Gala’ to see Gokhan Saki and Errol Zimmerman fight. Ramon drove; I sat in the passenger seat and his step-brother, Nicky Hemmers, sat in the back. The Volkswagen GTI has a reputation for being a fast car; that night, Ramon proved it.

We overtook most of the traffic as if it was parked as Ramon wove his little white lightning bolt in and out of traffic. I sat very still and watched the speedometer. Nicky probably took note of how stiff and still I was, and, laughing, he explained that Dutch speeding tickets were a lot cheaper than Australian ones, and this was the way Ramon normally drove.

It seemed to me that you saw the essence of Ramon the man both when he was fighting, and when he driving. He was in control, and it wasn’t in his nature to worry. When we got to the fights, I got out of the car and had to prevent myself from kissing the bitumen.

“See? Safe and sound,” he said. “No problem.” That was Ramon. Faster and faster and faster.

Thanks to Mark Van Hogeloon, long-time Dekkers Sportschool member, for fact-checking and advice.

International Kickboxer Magazine, May/June 2013

Semmy Schilt is one of the most dominant champions in the history of fightsports. Standing at two-meters-twelve-centimeters and weighing somewhere in the vicinity of one-hundred-and-thirty kilos, he towers over not only his opponents, but also, the history of the sport itself. JARROD BOYLE goes to the mountain and comes back with the news.

How many fights have you had now, Semmy?

Fifty kickboxing fights and forty MMA.

How did you become involved in the martial arts? I believe both of your parents are involved in martial arts?

I did Kyokushin Karate when I was younger. Both my parents were doing it, but just for recreation, not competition. I started when I was eight.

Were you bigger than the other kids at that age?

Not so much. I was probably a little bit bigger. When I went through puberty, I became a lot bigger. Then, later, I grew again. But at eight, I was not particularly big for my age.

Are both your parents tall people?

No.

What did they think about your fighting?

They always supported me, but mum doesn’t like it too much! Dad watches. He’s always at big tournaments. Since I went onto K1, I’ve involved my father a lot.

It is said that height and reach is a great advantage, but it is not easy to learn how to use them. Did you struggle to learn to properly use your size?

With karate, it was okay. But when I started boxing at eighteen, it was difficult to use my distance. They always come close, when they fight. You just do it and concentrate on keeping distance.

You seem to have the hang of that with your push kicks.

I started a little bit late with push kicks. When I was free-fighting, I did not use much push kicks. I started to use them in Pancrase, and then in kickboxing I used them more.

How did Karate provide a grounding for you as a fighter?

Basically, it’s the mental discipline. It makes you the fighter that you are. I got my black belt when I was eighteen, back in 1993. I don’t practice so much, but I still teach.

Did it develop your sense of sportsmanship?

In my opinion, you have to have respect for your opponent. Without a good opponent, you cannot win. He has to respect you, because he cannot win without you.

Do you still wear the gi and run through the forest barefoot, like in the K1 pre-fight footage?

The Japanese love that! When I train kickboxing, I wear shorts. It’s not important to wear the gi. My style is karate; it’s in my heart.

How did you become involved in MMA?

Actually, I did a karate tournament. The style of karate – Gai Do Yuko – fights on the ground, also. You wear helmets and fight on the ground. That’s how I got ground techniques. When I was twenty-one, I did some judo. I won the Japanese tournament and became champion in that style. I was the first non-Japanese to win in eighteen years. From there, Yamata was in the audience. At that time, he was fighting for Pancrase. He said he couldn’t fight me because I wasn’t MMA. From that moment, I went into MMA.

Why did you return to ‘pure’ kickboxing?

Before K1, I never kickboxed. I didn’t like it too much, either. I preferred groundwork. At that time, K1 had problems with Pride. They did an exchange, so I could fight in either. Then, they had a conflict, and I couldn’t do either. My management said they thought it was better to do kickboxing, back in 2002. I only had a few MMA fights.

You had a successful career in MMA, but weren’t as dominant as you were in kickboxing. Why do you think that is?

My body is made for kickboxing and karate. I have an athletic build. A wrestler needs to be more compact. There was a time when I wished I was about 198 centimeters and 130 kilograms! All my kickboxing strategy is built on my size.

Have you done much boxing?

No. Never competed. I did not have the opportunity to do so. In karate, then kickboxing; boxing was not a logical step. I did some training when I was 19, but never to fight.

When did you begin training with Golden Glory?

I think I started at Golden Glory in 2000. I started with Dave [Jonkers] when I was 19. They contacted me, because they were establishing a team. They said, ‘You’re going to earn five times as much money as you do now.’ I wasn’t sure I liked that.

Why not?

I don’t like people who talk about money; I try to keep distance from those guys. Rolexes and gold chains. Then, they persuade me, you know? I was ‘King of Pancrase’ and found I was stuck. My management transferred me to the UFC.

You have had a long and successful relationship with Dave Jonkers. What is it that makes him such a good trainer?

I believe he is excellent at analyzing my opponents. When I have to go for a fight, I know my opponent. The game plan is always in place. He’s never got it wrong. In the last three years, it’s become more routine. ‘You know what to do,’ he says. Before that, Dave analyzed and predicted everything.

How do you structure your training? Do you train twice a day? How do you achieve such an exceptional level of fitness?

I used to train twice. I train only in the morning now. Before the K1 GP I would train twice a day. The last four or five weeks I’ve been training twice a day. In the morning I eat and go to gym for kickbox training. Bags, pads, drills with partners for one hour. After that, I do weight training. I stick to what’s traditional and basic. Sometimes I also take the cardio after that. Then, in the afternoon, only cardio.

What was your experience of K1 management? What were they like to deal with as a corporation?

Very difficult for me, I think. They could have built me much more than they did. They held onto Aerts, Hoost, Bonjansky; old champions. When I first came, it was Pride vs. K1. [They] never took me into the family. Also, they never contacted me after FEG went broke. They could have said something, I think.

What was it like fighting Errol Zimmerman, as your team-mate? You must have known him from a very young man.  

I never made a lot of contact with the Golden Glory team. I knew they were heavyweights and I’d have to fight them, so I didn’t want to get to close to them. It makes it harder to fight them if you like them.

I notice that Alexei Ignashov was your first loss. What was the fight like? What is your opinion of him as a fighter?

That fight was also in Holland. I didn’t want to fight that time. He was known for his knees. I had to fight in the ‘It’s Showtime’ organization, which was the same [problem] as before. I didn’t connect so well with Showtime. A lot of bad influences. I was really pissed off about that; that I lost.

I have pity for him; he is such a great fighter, but he has bad people around him. I think he’s in the wrong environment. He was a great talent; he could have been a really great fighter. His manager let him fight two times a month! The day after he fought me, he had to go fight in Pride

You have had an enormously successful career. Are there any other goals for you to still attain?

Yeah, of course! I want to be as successful an actor or a businessman. There are many ways to be successful. I want to be a good father for my son; a good husband to my wife.

Schilt goes period

Who has been your toughest opponent to date?

Myself. I’m the opponent. Before the fight, getting nervous, I’m the worst opponent. Once the fight arrives, it’s okay. But before that, I am hard on myself.

What are your plans for after kickboxing?

I hope I can do some movie things. Like Schwarzenegger and Stallone. Of course, the gym, also. I want the gym to be successful.

How did Ramon’s death affect you?

Me personally, it affected me a bit. I got to know him after his career. During it, I didn’t know him. In 2000, when I got into Golden Glory, I got to know him. I wanted to take an example from him and the things that he did. He always did seminars; talked about how he did what he did. I think me and Ramon connected. He was a bit like an invisible man; he is there, but he stays in the background.

The funeral was massive. It really touched me. At that moment, you feel vulnerable. You imagine, ‘It could have been me’.

Have the UFC come knocking?

It’s a very big organization. I have not had an offer as yet. People are talking, though. Dana White has not contacted my management. I think he thinks I’m a little bit too heavy for the UFC!

Congratulations on being signed to Bellator. What were the circumstances under which they contacted you?

Bellator has a whole bunch of managers and companies that supply pro combat athletes. They were looking to improve their heavyweight roster, and my name came up. They knew me; they had heard about my 8-fight winning streak. Actually, to date, I am on a 12-fight win streak altogether, which includes 11 wins by KO; that’s boxing, kickboxing and MMA.

What is the nature of the contract?

It’s a 6-fight open contract, which means I can do whatever I want. Its unbelievably good, and very good money.

What have you been up to last 12 months?

I’ve had 3 fights in Russia this year. 3 wins; all 3 were KOs. All three stoppages by strikes.

How’s your school, IMC (International Martial Arts Academy?

Awesome. We’re coming up to our first year. My family and I are still living upstairs. I do half my training, the boxing, kickboxing and conditioning here. I do my grappling and MMA training with Larry Papadopoulos in [Sydney] city at Boxing Works.

What’s it like fighting in Russia?

Awesome. Russia is a beautiful country. A stunning place.

What is their scene like?

They have a huge fight scene. It’s very popular; a lot of athletes and coaches. There are also lots of large, well-organised training facilities. Lots of different styles; sambo, boxing, judo, wrestling, and so on. It’s exciting to see a country so excited about combat sports. They also have lots of mainstream t.v. coverage.

What are your expectations of Bellator? Where will you be fighting?

I’ll be fighting in the US. Bellator is owned by Viacom. A lot of people believe it will be as big or bigger than the UFC in next couple of years.

Do you know who your first opponent will be?

Not sure yet; I just finished the paperwork today. I had to go through it with my lawyer and my manager.

How’s training?

I’m in the best shape of my life, and on my second-longest win streak. This is the most KOs in a row ever. I’m as surprised as anyone else! It has taken a bit to work out MMA, but I feel like I’ve got it. I feel confident with grappling, wrestling and jiu jitsu, and now it’s paying dividends.

How’s your body?

No injuries. I almost feel bad saying it.

Who are you training with now?

I do my MMA with Larry Papadopoulos, and my striking training with Barry Raff, a pro-boxing coach.

I’m currently ranked 23^rd in the world in heavyweight MMA in the unbiased rankings. Everyone else my age is either slowing down or retiring, and I’m doing better than ever before. I’m excited!

So are we, Peter Graham; so are we.

http://www.bing.com/videos/search?q=Tony+Awards+2013+Opening+Number&Form=VQFRVP#view=detail&mid=389947FAED23075F0206389947FAED23075F0206

I found a link on Facebook to Neil Patrick Harris doing a song-and-dance number to open the Tony Awards in New York. It was vaunted as the ‘best awards ceremony opener ever’, or some such hoopla. Conspicuously, it also featured a brief cameo from Iron Mike himself.

It’s testament to some kind of major cultural confusion that we can have one of the greatest American films of all time – Raging Bull – in which Jake La Motta is portrayed as a desperately dysfunctional animal who ends the film as a stand-up joke; a fat, puffy, broken-down shadow of his former self – and then see Tyson jumping around in a tux at the Tony awards and not connect the two.

If there’s one thing I (and this blog) HATES it’s a whining lefty wanker, like that chorus of twats that make up the audience of Q&A every Monday night. That said, it concerns me that many people don’t seem to remember that Tyson is not the big, funny guy in The Hangover. He’s not a cute joke.

The parallel between Tyson and La Motta is inaccurate in one respect; Tyson is probably the greatest heavyweight boxer of all time, and one of the greatest fighters in the annals of history. The ultimate marriage of raw power and sovereign technique. The word ‘awesome’ is not an exaggeration; the fight highlights in James Toback’s biopic, Tyson, left me speechless.

He’s also a convicted rapist, however. This is something that seems to have been forgotten the last few years. Tyson says toward the end of Toback’s film that if people wanted to see a bad guy, he’d show them the ultimate bad guy. I appreciate his motive, and Toback lays it bare, but surely it follows that if you choose to become the bad guy, you’ll end up in the can. In the same way he ceased to be a boxer when he bit off Holyfield’s ear, he became something other than a citizen and an athlete when he was convicted of rape.     

To find the name of the girl Tyson was convicted of raping, I googled and came up with ‘Yahoo Answers’.

Three posts, all men (interestingly enough) had written that Desiree Washington was a liar; ‘Mike swears blind and up and down he didn’t do it’, etc etc. While Toback very intelligently and skillfully allows Tyson to maintain his innocence, he stays well out of it and lets us contemplate the sophistication of the portrait.

To be honest, watching Mike caper about at the Tonys made me feel very uncomfortable; almost a little sick. There seemed to be this ghastly thing staring out at me, as blatant as that tattoo on his face, while the assembly of twats pranced and flitted around him.

I am sick to death of hearing the word ‘testosterone’ used pejoratively. Of being flailed with all this bullshit about ‘patriarchy this’ and ‘patriarchy that’. But I read about a Liberal Party function, a gathering of power-brokers who aspire to run the nation, which features a menu which ridicules our prime minister in terms of her sexuality. Love Julia Gillard or hate her, you damn well know it would never have been spelled out in those terms if that prime minister was a man.

Some other crazy bitch wrote into The Age the other day saying that the real reason Jill Maegher was raped and murdered was not because the system failed her, but because we live in a culture of rape.

‘What a fucking ridiculous thing to say’, I thought, and later that night, I’m watching Tyson at the Tonys.

Interestingly, one of the three ‘Yahoo! Answers’ concluded with the following:

“Just another dumb broad trying to cash out on an Athlete.”  

 Consider the number of women raped by drunk footballers when you read that.

I don’t know if Tyson did rape Desiree Washington. But I do know that he was convicted. The guys on ‘Yahoo! Answers’ might not believe it, but the trial jury did.

And while ‘culture of rape’ sounds extreme, the fact that Tyson has become a sweet-and-cuddly figure of fun is proof that something is very fucking rotten in Denmark.

“Young men love war and old men love it in them.”

-Cormac McCarthy,

The Crossing.

Phil Rothfield recently published an editorial in The Daily Telegraph that has gone viral on the Facebook pages of many of the people I know. It’s a pretty inflammatory screed, and I’m surprised any credible newspaper would publish it; the comment about ‘allowing’ women to fight on the card alongside men must have left feminists, along with fight-fans, scratching their heads.

The truth is that controversy sells papers, and this can be the only conceivable motive behind publishing something so ill-conceived. Many of the questions he raises could have been answered through his own cursory research: fighters are protected from blood diseases; blood testing is mandatory. Furthermore, describing any of the combatants on the card as ‘defenceless’ seems ridiculous to the point of laughter.

To suggest what happened in the cage on Saturday is illegitimate simply because it’s illegal outside of it is the same argument which should also ban motor racing. So too, the injuries. The film about the 1976 Formula 1 Grand Prix, Rush, depicts a driver being decapitated when his car careens out of control and slams under a barrier. The film also cites the statistic that drivers had a 25% chance of fatality every time they went out on the track. There haven’t been any deaths – or decapitations – in the UFC.

Not yet, anyway.  

The debate surrounding cage fighting and its legitimacy has great momentum all the same, and it keeps coming back to the question of why the spectacle of fighting draws such a huge audience.

Ernest Hemingway once wrote that boxing and bullfighting were ‘above’ other sports because of the blood that is in them. We need the ritual of fighting as a way of reclaiming the violence that is native to our species and expressing it in a safe context.

Furthermore, the Hunt-Silva fight is aptly described as the ‘best’ UFC heavyweight fight in the sport’s history not only because it marries exceptional technical proficiency with toughness and determination, it also shows both combatants united in a display of mutual respect at the end. The judges’ decision was better than accurate, it was just; that kind of courage and determination made both fighters the winner. They finished the fight as equals. This was not a squalid battle for survival. It was a contest that will elevate both men in the annals of modern-day sporting legend.

Carl Jung, one of the fathers of psychoanalysis, devised the notion of the shadow. The shadow is the aspect of the self into which the conscious mind pushes everything it considers undesirable and ugly. The subconscious doesn’t tend to take this lying down, however; anything repressed into the ghetto of the shadow tends to come vaulting out bigger, uglier and more unruly than before.

Fight-sports are, in part, a celebration of the darker half of our inheritance. Perhaps in the era of political correctness, figures like Mars and Athena have fallen out of vogue and are making their way back to take their rightful place in the pantheon. Indeed, the pantheon is not complete without them.

Look deep into the mirror, Mr Rothfield. If you look deep enough, you may see Hunt and Silva staring back at you.

“What a night. What can I say? Badr Hari is an animal. I was just too banged up to keep going. To my loving wife Silvia, my now-two little girls; you keep me strong.
“To my friends who have always been there for me, thank-you as you are all awesome. To my students at IMC Prospect: train hard and always do your best. Last, but not least, my fans; from the Kyokushin and Kempo karate people and the BJJ, MMA, Boxing And kickboxing fans who follow me and even the ones who do not or cannot, thank-you from the bottom of my heart.
“You are all part of who I am.”

Post-fight dedication from Peter Graham, taken from facebook, 30/05/14

I logged a post about Ben Edwards previously to this. I was assigned to interview him for the most recent International Kickboxer Magazine and, towards the end of our conversation, he came out with something profound. I had seen the Glory 16 video clip from which I knocked off the two photos, top and bottom, and they span a three second interval which illustrates the moment Ben went from fear to resolution, prompted by the camera that rolled past his dressing room. I didn’t know how to explain it exactly, but real art isn’t about giving readers an answer; it’s often about provoking the right questions. I quoted him, took the photos and left it at that.

I’ve been wondering what it was that snagged me about Ben’s comments and reading Peter’s post bought it leaping out of the box.

A friend and I have a long-running argument about sport versus art. He’s the heavy hitter, and he claims that sport is not art because it doesn’t communicate. He is probably a genius, and I found myself without an answer in my mouth at the time. However, it was burning away in my guts like a case of indigestion and, after some thought, I found that I could bring it out.

I’ve said before that sport generally – and fighting specifically – is about the communication of values. It demonstrates discipline, skill, courage and the will to pursue an ideological objective so urgent that it compels a fighter to leave the boundaries of comfort and physical safety a very long way behind.

There are two things essentially wrong with the way Australians view sport. One is the artificial dichotomy constructed between the sporting and artistic communities; they have far more in common than either of them realize. The other is that sportsmen are lauded as great human beings, but you don’t have to spend too long surveying the football codes to be disabused of that notion.

One of my favorite parts of fighting was having my gloves taped on. Once your hands are wrapped and taped, you can’t write a letter, or hold a baby, or even go to the toilet. You attain the purity of a wild animal; bent towards one thing only. In the same way, once you take the field, you are singular. It’s not that we forgive Wayne Carey for beating women or being a megalomaniac; it’s just that when he plays football, he becomes so much more.

I once came across the following quote from Ralph Waldo Emerson:

“In every work of genius we recognize our own rejected thoughts; they come back to us with a certain alienated majesty.”

When Edwards is seen in the dressing room, enduring the terrible wait for the contest, we see the moment his fear and doubt are transformed into resolved courage. When Peter Graham takes on Badr Hari, we see the hours of training and focused, structured suffering written in discipline, courage and skill. And no matter how far we are from that dedication or suffering ourselves, it presents to us a simple, tangible drama of our own more abstract daily struggles, however mundane and secret.

Peter’s facebook post – and Ben’s wait – are statements that contain an implicit question of their own. And the answer from those who watch is that when those fighters step through the ropes, they are a part of us.

Possibly one of the best parts.

International Kickboxer Magazine, May/June 2014

Shannon “Shaggy” King is a man whose biggest fight has been to strike the ideal balance between working and fighting.

“I’ve always been more of a businessman than a fighter,” says Shaggy. “I’ve never been able to fight full-time.” This was a significant part of the motivation for Shaggy to leave NTG and start up his own gym, Corporate Box.

“Because I had to work and fight, there was one fight I took where I was only able to train three times in the lead-up. I’ve set up Corporate Box so work comes first. I employ full-time pad-holders. That way, if you can’t make classes, you call in when you can. Our gym is 24/7. The problem with other fight gyms is that you either make it to class or you don’t.”

That said, Shaggy has nothing but praise for his former trainer, Nugget.

“At NTG, you 100% got the training. I think the three best trainers in the country are Preacher, Aaron Smith and Nugget. For two reasons: one, they live for it. The other reason is because they’ve had a lot of fights; [they have] been through every scenario. They aren’t thinking about what it is they are seeing; they can answer your question because they’ve experienced it.”

Shaggy sums up a good trainer very simply.

“The number one thing in a trainer is reliability. When you fight, there’s only one belt, not one for you and your trainer. That’s because the fighter is in the ring and actually does most of the work. But a good trainer is the one who makes it happen.”

Shaggy has learned these lessons well and now applies them himself as a trainer.

He began playing a range of sports, before becoming ‘a big muscly kid’ by his own admission, and eventually growing tired of weight training, also. One day, he rode his bike past a Zen Do Kai school and decided to go inside and take a look.

“I was training for about a month and had my first fight. I think I had two fights there and I moved on to NTG. I needed to find somewhere consistent.”

Shaggy found consistency at NTG, along with high-quality training. He remained there for many years, amassing a total of nineteen fights. During that time, he suffered a nasty interruption to his career – a broken neck.

“I was out one night with Preacher and it had been raining. I slipped on the gutter and fell on my neck. At first, I had a really sore neck. Then, I started to get pins and needles in my hand, and then the week after, I had them all down my arm. I went to the doctor after my thumb became paralyzed.”

The road to recovery was a slow one.

“They tried all different things for about four months, but it didn’t work, so I had an operation. In the end, they put four screws and a metal plate in my spine. I fought about two months after the operation.”

That doesn’t sound like the kind of outcome a doctor would have supported, but Shaggy says it was never considered a problem.

“The doctor said it was all okay. That’s is technology for you. Had I done it five years earlier, I would have been a neck brace and all kinds of other trouble.”

Shaggy’s first opponent back from surgery was Andrew Keogh on Evolution.

“I won the fight but to tell you the truth, it could have gone either way. I fought him again though, and it was clearer the second time.”

Shaggy was no stranger to surgical reconstruction, having damaged his hand fighting Simon Black.

“I KOed [Black] in the second round and shattered my hand. He was fifteen and ‘0’, I was fourteen and one, I think. I ended up with twenty-one screws in my right hand.”

That injury became the cornerstone of a strength.

“Because of the broken hand, I had to work on my left. I had developed it to the point where it’s now the more dangerous weapon.”

When asked if the power in his hands became an entree into boxing, Shaggy responds in a more matter-of fact way.

“Anthony Mundine was looking for sparring in Brisbane, so he had heard about me somehow and came to the gym. We hammered each other ! He asked if could come back, and I became a regular sparring partner. I met his manager, Khoder Nasser, and I decided to start boxing because I felt I did ok.”

It turned out to be a very successful venture, with Shaggy having seven fights for seven wins, all seven of which, until recently, came by way of knockout. The seventh win bought him a professional Australian boxing title at 69.85 kilograms. That win goes down as his proudest achievement in the ring.

“The fight was broadcast live on Foxtel. I burst my eardrum at the start of the fourth, and I was cut above and below my eye. I wanted out of there, but my corner weren’t going to let me and I didn’t want to give up, either. In the end, I KOed him in the ninth round.”

Shaggy’s involvement with boxing has grown. A number of NRL players have made successful ventures into the sport, training and fighting out of his Corporate Box gym.

“When Anthony Mundine had his Brisbane show, Sonny Bill Williams came here to train. Quade Cooper wanted to fight, and I was asked if I’d train him. I don’t train anybody, but I trained him and he enjoyed it, and so did I. He has a great work ethic. He’s had two fights now and he’s won them both. I think he’s absolutely awesome; he could easily be a full-time boxer.”

Shaggy has had a very successful foray into boxing, suffering his first loss – and subsequent loss of title – to Sam Ahsee in Orange, New South Wales. It was a very close fight with little, if anything, separating the two fighters.

“My next fight might be a mandatory rematch. We’ll wait and see what comes of that.

While Shaggy has made the most of his boxing experience, he’s still a Thai boxer, first and foremost. When asked to describe the distinction between them, his answer is simple.

“With boxing, the fighting is easy, but the training is boring. Most of the trauma in boxing is in the sparring, not the fighting. When [Anthony] Mundine comes here, he’s doing twelve rounds with three fighters and he probably does that three times a week. You don’t do that with Thai boxing.”

In addition, the styles are very different.

“You’ve got to move more in boxing; you need to be more rigid and tougher in Thai boxing. Thai boxing is more about damage. You can’t bring your head down in Thai either, because of the danger of being kicked or kneed in the head. In boxing, you can duck as much as you want.”

Shannon has fought in Thailand numerous times, with the pinnacle of his achievements being an inclusion on Thai Fight, the Thai promotion looking to bring Thai boxing to an international audience.

“I fought a Finnish fighter named Antero Hynynen. I had kidney stones the day before, at the weigh-in. I didn’t feel too good and discussed it with the promoter, but was shown the bit in the contract that said I’d have to pay five times my purse if I chose not to fight, for whatever reason. I couldn’t afford that, so I fought anyway. I lost on points.”

At the age of 36, Shaggy can lay claim to more experience than most, and is utilizing it in the same way he has identified in his mentors, Nugget and Preacher. He’s going to continue to fight, until his body gives him the signal.

“I’m feeling pretty good. I might not be as busy, but I think I’ll keep chugging along.”

Chugging along will require him to refocus the goal he has already achieved with Corporate Box, a gym with over sixty active fighters, which makes it the busiest gym in Australia.

“I need to figure out some way to set up the gym so I can turn into a full-time fighter. If I don’t do it, I’ll regret it. I don’t want to be one of those people who say, ‘would have could have should have.”

International Kickboxer Magazine, Sept/Oct 2014

Wes Capper has a lot to say about a lot of different things, but on one subject, he is unequivocal:

“I want to win a world boxing title.”

When Wes says he’s going to do something, it’s best to take him seriously. He’s always been a capable sportsman, expressing his athleticism through a range of different sports like football and rugby.

At the age of eighteen he was introduced to Muay Thai and got the opportunity to ‘throw a bit of leather’. He says: “I knew I’d found something pretty special; I wanted to dedicate my life to it for at least the next few years and find out what I could do.”

Since then, Wes has forged an outstanding career in both Muay Thai and MMA and recently turned his hand to professional boxing with a considerable degree of success. Some doubted his commitment, but Wes backed himself and struck out on his own.

“I wanted to go down a certain path and [some] people… tried to steer me a different way. Instead of creating barriers, I packed my bags and travelled to the US. I scraped together all the money I could and even borrowed money from friends. It was just me and my two bags; I didn’t even have any accommodation. I booked a one-way ticket and took off. ”

Wes started in Los Angeles and made his way to the fight capital of the world, Las Vegas.

“I was training and sparring wherever I could to pick up what I could along the way.”

Within three weeks, Wes had hit paydirt.

“I was riding from gym to gym on a pushbike, at that time.” One can only wonder if he was wearing his trademark propeller hat.

“One day, I turned up and there were about six of us waiting to spar; it was like an audition. They told three of us to go, and three to stay. Two days later, they chose me and [American] Mike Jones.”

Their eventual sparring partner was the Japanese boxer, 2012 Olympic middleweight gold medalist, Ryota Muratha.

“Three times a week we sparred. Then, they sent me to Japan to spar him until his pro debut.” Wes was able to rely on his previous experience with Japanese culture to cement his position. “They liked how polite and respectful I was.”

Afterwards, Wes made his way back to the US for more training and sparring in Vegas. From there, Wes returned to Japan for more sparring with Muratha, back to the US again and then, after six months of immersion in the cauldron of the Vegas fight scene, he hit the jackpot.

“I was training at the Top Rank gym when I met Miguel Diaz. He’s a famous trainer and cutman. I [had previously] met him in Japan; he’d just come from working with Manny Pacquiao. I had a chat with him. One day, I saw him down at Top Rank gym in Vegas. He said to me that I should be sparing well that day because ‘You never know who’s watching.’

“I listened to what he said and afterwards, two guys pulled me aside. They were the owners of Pochiro Promotions. They explained they were interested in having me as a part of their team. From then on, I was training and sparring between Top Rank and Pochiro Gym. They signed me before I left.”

A promotional contract is the holy grail of the professional boxer and a difficult thing to come by.

“It’s a totally different level over there,” Wes explains. “Sure, here in Australia you train hard and you push each other, but over there, those Mexicans, they don’t have anything else and they’re willing to die in [the ring]. If you get hurt, they’re going to try and put you away.”

Wes doesn’t seem to be at any great risk so far, with a pro record of five and ‘O’. His recent opponent, Roshawn ‘Two Gunz’ McCain, was dispatched by way of TKO during the second round.

A review of Capper’s career via youtube shows a couple of things; excursions into a breadth of disciplines, including amateur and pro boxing, Muay Thai and MMA. He is also clearly a very athletic fighter who has the ability to graft a wide array of skills and techniques into a fluid fighting style. His attitude to development is borne out by his outstanding record in all three. When asked to explain it, he puts it down to one main factor.

“The single most important thing, and the thing I’d tell any young kid wanting to develop, [is that] you have to travel around to different places and test yourself. You’ll always learn something. It’s good to be loyal, but the biggest improvements I’ve seen in myself – and others – are as a result of traveling around.”

Prior to his American adventures, Capper had travelled to Europe to see what he could discover.

“On the plane over, I was watching all these K1 and K1 Max videos, and when I got to Amsterdam, I went to Meijiro gym. Next thing, I’m skipping and there, on the other side of the mat, is Andy Souwer skipping. I was like a five-year old kid with ‘One Direction’.

It’s enough to make anyone’s propeller spin that little bit faster.

The experience of training in Holland had a lasting effect on Capper’s fighting style and approach to preparation.

“It changed me heaps. Straight after that, I went to Thailand and trained there for a month and had a couple of fights before I left. The Dutch really are masters of that kickboxing/K1 style. They are two totally different fighting styles.”

Given Capper’s degree of success, it would be reasonable for fight fans to wonder what prompted the move from Thai to Boxing.

“I was getting a little bit burnt out,” says Wes. “I was looking for the bigger fights, but kept getting offered rematches. I was sick of fighting the same people. [Since then] I’ve really started to blossom and enjoy my boxing.”

That said, Wes is quick to contextualize his boxing within the scope of something greater.

“I won’t forget my roots [in Thai boxing] and where I made a name for myself. But people grow and change and aspire to do different things and this is the path I’m headed on now. It’s also difficult to split your energy between three different things, especially given that the caliber of guys I’m fighting now are dedicating their energies to just one thing. It’s going well at the moment; I don’t want to mess that up.”

While boxing is taking off and he has won a promotional contract, Wes still has to attend to the details of daily life. Juggling work as a plumber and training as a pro boxer must present its challenges.

“That’s a good question – I don’t know how I do if half the time. I have to sacrifice a few hours during the day to go train. My boss is really good; I wouldn’t be able to do it without his help. I’m also working a bit of security on the week-ends and teaching a bit of kid’s swim training.

“The security work is at a nice venue. I tend to keep my head down and be a good boy; I wouldn’t want to affect any opportunities I may have in the future.”

Wes seems to have his priorities in order and is making things happen, one day at a time. There’s really only one question left to answer; does he still wear the hat with the propeller?

“Don’t be asking silly questions – of course I am.”

International Kickboxer Magazine, Nov/Dec 2014

Peter Aerts, like all ‘great’ athletes, is most often defined in terms of the length of his career and the titles he’s won. True definition, however, is a matter of establishing something in comparison with its contemporaries which, for a fighter, is in terms of their opponents.

The K-1 was the first successful tournament of its kind, part of the necessary evolution of combat sports away from styles like karate and taekwondo which are as much cultural artifacts as they are modes of combat. Few include ‘realistic’ combat as part of the syllabus, with Kyokushin karate being the most modern of them, primarily because all technique and training is channeled toward the ultimate test; full-contact fighting.

Even Kyokushin, however, is resolutely amateur and as a result, does not provide the true acid-test for stand-up fightsports. As with all things in a commercial era, the dollars of a curious public, that ultimately led to the phenomenon of the UFC, began with Kancho Ishii’s K-1.

Sam Greco, like Aerts, was one of the early stars of K-1. Sam fought Masaki Sataake as his first opponent, winning that fight by decisive knockout.

“Then the fun and games began with Mr Ishii,” says Sam. “He said he wanted me to fight Peter Aerts for my next fight. ‘Who’s he?’ I asked. I looked him up and discovered who he was. It was around that time that the t-shirts were coming out.”

Aerts made himself known to Sam in the clearest terms. Their first clash ended with Aerts taking the win by decision and their subsequent contest was decided by knockout.

Ernesto Hoost is hailed as the greatest champion of classic K-1, but for my money, that’s only because Aerts’ career had a shorter peak. Between the years 1991 to 1996, Aerts was the Michael Jordan of kickboxing. So dominant was Peter through these years that the K-1 advertising slogan became, ‘Who can Destroy Peter Aerts?’

He was not distinguished by great natural advantages, as many of the dominant fighters of the later era, nor was he an elegant technician the likes of Remy Bonjasky. He carved out his reputation with a seemingly supernatural acumen and a high kick that suddenly appeared to opponents like a bad dream.

Peter destroyed three of the world’s most dangerous opponents – Sataaki, Bernardo and Hug – in the course of a total six minutes and forty-three seconds of actual fighting in the 1998 K-1 GP.

Aerts and Hoost have fought on five occasions, with Hoost also claiming the extra win. That win was decided under highly unusual circumstances.

At the K-1 World GP in Amsterdam in 2006, Bob Sapp was to fight Ernesto Hoost, but ran out of the Amsterdam Arena. Aerts was present as a television commentator but agreed to stand in for Sapp at the last moment, despite not having trained.

He stepped into the ring in shorts borrowed from Semmy Schilt and managed to hammer his way through all three rounds, eventually losing by decision. While immensely entertaining, it was hardly a fitting closure to a long-standing rivalry between two of the greatest champions of the sport.

That rivalry is soon to be resurrected in Japan on the WKO ‘Kumite Energy’ show. With five fights between them, and three wins going the way of Hoost, we’re going to get to witness one of the greatest heavyweight kickboxing rivalries of all time, reinvigorated just one more time.

**

How many fights have you had now?

I don’t know; I’ve had so many.

What titles do you hold? What have you held?

I was World Champion in Kickboxing and Thai Boxing and I was K-1 Champion 3 times.

How did you become involved in the martial arts?

I wanted to be a Boxer when I was young but my mother didn’t want that. So I went to taekwondo when I was 12 and later I went to Kickboxing but my mother didn’t know what that was.

When did you start kickboxing? Was it a transition?

I went to Kickboxing when I was 14. I went from taekwondo to kickboxing.

Did you play any other sports at school?

I did a lot of sports when I was young, especially I played a lot of soccer.

What did your parents think about you fighting?

My father loves it and my mother want me to quit for many years already.

How did you end up at Chakuriki with Thom Harinck?

I wanted to become bigger in Kickboxing that’s why I went to Chakuriki.

How was it training with a former rival, Andre Manaart, at Meijiro?

Training with Andre Manaart was good, he’s a great trainer.

Who christened you ‘The Lumberjack’?

I was fighting in Aruba and won by K.O. and my opponent’s trainer called me Lumberjack and my fathers profession was a Lumberjack so that’s why I chose the name

Did you do much training with Bas Rutten? What was he like? He seems like a pretty crazy guy.

I trained with Bas Rutten when I was young but I was hanging around with him a long time. He’s a nice guy, a little crazy but we had a lot of fun.

Watersports with Bas and Peter… must be a Dutch thing.

How did K1 come to your attention? Where was your career at that time?

I was already fighting for Kancho Ishii before K-1 started

You were a big part of the golden age of K-1. Who were the memorable fights – and opponents?

I have a lot of memories about the old K-1, for me it was the greatest time of my life.

Did you know Mike Bernardo well?

Sure I remember Mike Bernardo; I fought him many times. He was a very dangerous boxer in the old time.

What are your memories of Andy Hug?

Andy Hug was a great person and a great fighter, it’s a shame it ended like this.

How do you recall your two fights against Sam Greco?

Sam Greco is a very strong guy. You always have to be sharp when you fight him because he always go all or nothing.

Is there anyone you wish you had fought?

Not anymore – I fought everybody.

Why do you think the Dutch have been so dominant in kickboxing?

Because we have many good gyms, and there’s a lot of competition in Holland with many galas.

How do you structure your training? Do you train twice a day? How do you achieve such an exceptional level of fitness?

I train 1 time a day because my recovery is not so good like the old times but I train shorter but very explosive.

How is your body? Do you have to cope with many injuries? Have you had much surgery?

In all these years I had so many fights, so my body got some damage left but with good doctors and training, I’m still in a good shape.

You once spoke out about fighters like Bob Sapp and their inclusion in the open weight tournament. What are your thoughts on it now?

It’s a shame those kind of fighters came in because they had nothing to do with kickboxing.

What made you stick it out after regulars like Greco, Bernardo, and the rest retired?

I love the game and nowadays, I don’t fight with the top anymore.

How did Ramon Dekkers’ death affect you?

It’s a big loss for the sport. He was a big champion and a friend of mine.

You have had an enormously successful career. Are there any other goals for you to still attain?

I want to stay busy with the sport; I got a lot of experience and knowledge.

Who has been your toughest opponent to date?

I had many hard fights and some fights i didn’t fight smart.

Cyril Abidi must have driven you nuts. What was it that made him such a strong opponent for you?

I fought with my heart and not with my brain.

What are your plans for after kickboxing?

Good things in the Kickboxing sport.

Blitz Magazine, December 2014

For Gary Palmer, martial arts have been part of his life for as long as he can remember.

“I started with boxing,” says Gary, “I grew up with it. I come from a boxing family. My grandfather was Dave Palmer, who was both heavy and light-heavyweight champion of Australia. He held several titles – that was back in the days when they weren’t so strict about weight; they let you fight up a division.

The Fighting Palmers: Billy, Dave and Ambrose

“My biggest thrill as a kid was going to his house and looking in his trophy cabinet, which stretched from wall to wall and from the floor to the ceiling. My prized possession is his gloves which he wore when he won his Australian title.”

Dave’s brother was Ambrose Palmer, famous both as an Australian boxer who held titles at middleweight, light-heavy and heavyweight as well as having played eighty-three games for the Footscray Football Club, between 1933 and 1943.

“He was also Johnny Famechon’s trainer when he won his world title in 1969.”

Boxing was part of the family heritage and his grandfather’s advice remains at the core of his practice today.

“Many of my tools came from my grandfather and father. ‘You can’t hit a moving target’, and ‘Soon as you plant your feet, you’re a target.”

Gary set about honing these skills at the local Police Boys’ Club in Paramatta, where some of the other influential figures of Gary’s early years were larger-than-life.

“The trainer was a man-giant named Gunther,” Gary remembers. “If you weren’t training hard enough, he’d push your partner out of the way and take over!”

Boxing is alive in many of Gary’s early memories.

“I remember sparring in the backyard with pop and dad. They were the best memories. My dad was away a lot in the Navy; I adored my grandfather. I really enjoyed those times. My dad’s ethics and standards have set the benchmark for everything I do in my life.”

These older role models made a significant impact on Gary. He also pursued a career in the military, eventually becoming an instructor of artillery.

Gary is seated far left

“I was an instructor in the school of artillery at Manly. ‘Bullshit castle’, we used to call it. My father was a career sailor in the Navy, and my grandfather had been in the army during World War Two. Having military parents meant they instilled a strict sense of self-discipline, self-reliance and respect. Treat people the way you want to be treated.”

Military life gave him direction by bringing him to a sense of his own calling as an instructor.

“I started instructing in the army in 1975 as a twenty-two year old,” he says. “It was a big buzz. I found that for me, being appointed as an instructor was a turning point, because I discovered leadership. It seemed to suit me. I enjoyed being in a position to help people.”

This is an unusual definition of leadership, but is at the core of the best instructors and teachers.

Army life also bought Gary to his experience of eastern martial arts.

“I played rugby and squash while I was in the army. Toward the end of the Vietnam war, I suffered a training injury playing rugby; my shoulder and elbow were smashed. A friend of mine was doing tae kwon do. This was during the seventies, when I was about twenty-three.”

Gary had been well-prepared for the rigors through his experience of contact sports.

“I loved it. It was hard training. I got broken fingers and toes! Then, when I got out of the army, around twenty-six or twenty-seven, family life took over.”

Some years later, Gary found himself returning to training after a family member was assaulted.

“I had a young family, and my then-wife’s sister was attacked at work. It led us back to wanting skills to protect our family and ourselves. We went back as a family venture; my wife and my two kids all went back together.”

“I’ve been training with Gary for twenty years,” says Wayne Morrison, long-time friend and fellow instructor in Chikara Kenpo.

“All the kids joined; he made us feel welcome. He’s thoughtful and family-oriented. Gary works to accommodate them as much as possible.”

That approach was successful; all three of Wayne’s children went on to achieve their black belts under Gary’s instruction.

“My original purpose [behind joining] was because my son was being picked on at school,” says Wayne. “Gary began by giving him a crash-course in defense; no retaliation.”

“He was a good-natured, soft sort of kid,” says Gary, “And he was being picked on by a group. Rather than starting with the white belt syllabus, I showed him how to break away from holds if someone put their hands on him, and how to get away.

“He came to class one afternoon and went straight up the back of the dojo and Wayne came to me and said there had been another incident. It turned out this time, his son had been suspended. The group had tried to attack him and he used a palm-heel strike to the chest.

“It sent the other kid flying into an air-conditioning unit and broke it. If anything, Wayne’s son ended up becoming someone to whom other kids who were being picked on would come to because they couldn’t defend themselves.

“If asked this question, ‘What’s the best defense?’ All my black belts would answer the same way: ‘Don’t be there.’ Don’t walk down that side-street, don’t walk into the darkened car park on your own. It’s all well and good to be wise after the fact. If you are aware of the environment, you won’t put yourself in harm’s way in the first place.”

Over time, Gary began to gravitate away from karate and towards kenpo.

“The thing that attracted me to kenpo was the self-defense aspect,” says Gary. “It’s a self-defense art. Ed Parker [kenpo luminary] said that, ‘Kenpo people don’t get involved in a fight; they use a technique to finish it.”

“My style, Chikara Kenpo, is a hybrid. We incorporate other influences and things. These days, if I see or learn something of use or benefit, I’m going to bring it in. I want to [produce] well-rounded martial artists, rather than a ‘pure’ expert.”

The goal is to produce the most effective practitioner.

“To me, a martial artist has to have a well-rounded background. They transcend their learning and enter ‘mushin’, or ‘no mind’. You learn [the technique], but employ it without having to think too much about it. There’s an old saying, ‘If you have to think about it, then you don’t know it.’

While this is true, self-defense is the purpose that functions as a guiding light in Chikara Kenpo.

“Kenpo is fairly complicated; there’s a lot of techniques. Kenpo people do three things at once; kick, punch and avoid [but] the idea is not to get involved in a fight. You execute a technique and finish a situation.”

Gary was a natural fit as an instructor. Often those that gravitate to positions of authority do so for the position of status. In Gary’s case, he was motivated by the desire to help others, which informs his strategies as a teacher.

“I always found he conducted himself very well,” says Jim Casey, president of the National All Styles and founder of Kenshin Kan Karate. “Glenn Coxon was in charge for about twenty years and after he left his position, I got talking to Gary. He’s taken it on… and we haven’t looked back.”

“I like… that his background in the army and the police force [means] that he’s disciplined and has integrity. There are plenty of people [in martial arts] that are out to make a buck. Gary takes pride in promoting others, rather than himself.”

Jim’s faith in Gary is so assured, he paid him the ultimate compliment by grading him to the rank of shihan in his own organization.

“I graded him over five hours. He had forty fights of one-and-a-half minute rounds. He did them at sixty years old. He was pretty sore and tired after it! I never grade anyone outside my organization, but I did [grade] him.”

By Jim’s reckoning, Shihan is a rank that should only be awarded in recognition of the most significant commitment, demonstrated through significant contribution to the art.

“Has he contributed to the community? Is he a good citizen? He has to have conducted himself as honorably as possible.”

Gary’s fifth Dan grading with Kancho James Casey

“I started with Gary when I was in year seven,” says Matthew Bryce, a black belt in Chikara Kenpo and long-standing NAS competitor. “At that point, I was slowly becoming an adult and learning about the world around me. Shihan Gary stood out; he actually took an interest in us as people.”

Matthew swiftly returns to Gary’s established theme of family.

“[Chikara Kenpo] is a family-friendly club,” Matthew explains. “Gary’s interested in teaching you the art, but also that you grow up into a decent human being. He has a fatherly tone as a teacher, and really is a mentor to us.

“That’s important when teaching something that is handed from generation to generation; there has to be a certain level of trust. The biggest single group [in the club] is kids and teenagers. [They are] looking for guidance for how they want to grow up and how they want to be. An instructor plays an instrumental role in people’s lives.”

“There’s got to be a line in the sand,” says Gary. “You’ve got to identify what works for each individual student. Try and identify early on how that student needs to receive information.” This outlook sees the onus for learning shift from pupil to instructor.

“Some students need words, others can mimic and copy. Others need you to physically move their hands and feet to where you need them to be. [The main thing is that] they have to feel good about themselves. They have to see the positive outcomes from it.

“Teaching is all about how someone needs to receive that information. You can yell your head off and one student will take it all in, while the other [student] may as well have heard French. Every student is different.”

“I try to put a correction in between two compliments,” says Gary. “It tends to work! It’s an ethic I’m trying to put into my own black belts.”

Gary is the state director of the National All Styles Tournament in New South Wales and the ACT as well as being the assistant national director under Jim Casey. His involvement with the tournament began in his own time of competing, with Renshu Kai.

“I’ve been [with the NAS] for eighteen to twenty years now,” he says. “Our club had branches in Melbourne and Brisbane, and I competed in both [states]. I also competed on the Gold Coast, and then I started to run tournaments here [in New South Wales]. It became a big club thing.”

As with his time in the military, Gary was quickly attracted to a supervisory role for pragmatic – as well as idealistic – reasons.

“The officials knew the rules. It helped you as an instructor. Right from the early days, I was competing and refereeing, back and forth [at the same event]. Now, I ask people to do exactly the same thing. And they do it!

“From the early stages, I wanted to become an official. I saw the dedication of those doing it; without officials, there’s no tournament. You have to have people willing to give their time in order to make it happen.”

Tournaments such as the National All Styles provide the opportunity for students and practitioners to test themselves and their training, to discover if they have simply learned a technique, or actually know it.

“Anyone can set a goal, but unless it’s your goal, you won’t care,” says Gary. “I have students that don’t want to be champions but want to test their skills. The trophy is a bonus. You can get students to try their hardest, to do the best they can. I say to them, ‘The only person you have to defeat, or be better than, is yourself.”

This sounds like an idealistic piece of wisdom, but in the pantheon of Gary’s teaching, is a very practical piece of instruction.

“I can’t say [to a student], ‘Come back tomorrow and be better than Matthew. Just come in tomorrow and be better than yourself.”

“The beauty of the National All Styles is that it gets you out of your comfort zone. It teaches you to adapt; you might have six opponents on the day, and you can’t fight all of them the same way. You have to adapt to each one and the situation you’re in. If you can’t adapt, you get beaten. If you get attacked [on the street], you can’t define the rules. You’ve got to cope with what comes.”

This perspective gives confidence that Chikara Kenpo isn’t an abstract art; it ties back directly into its origins as a system of self-defense.

“I also find that… students that compete progress faster than those that don’t. Sometimes, the best teacher is yourself. I’ve got the utmost respect for those who step onto the mat to be judged. It’s a big step in anyone’s training career.”

The values taught through competition can seem somewhat abstract, in comparison with the practical realities of kicking, punching and blocking.

“They learn to have faith in themselves; trust themselves,” Gary says. “I tell them, ‘When you line up on the mat… the other person has the same worries. Psyche them out by the way you conduct yourself. [As an instructor you] want them to have self-esteem.”

This confidence comes from deploying their learning under pressure.

“NAS is a great tournament for learning that your style doesn’t have the answer to everything,” says Matthew. “A fighter from tae kwon do will use his legs for a jab and will want to fight at long range. Then, you might get a boxer who wants to be in-close and body block. For each style, in its strength lies its weakness. You learn the ups and downs, strengths and weaknesses of different styles, which makes for a better-rounded martial artist.”

Gary officiating far right.

Gary’s perspective takes in the practical aspects of competition, along with the boarder implications for every participant.

“[Students get confidence] by using their assets. They learn what their good techniques and strong points are. One student used to tell me how nervous he was. I used to tell him, ‘If you weren’t, I’d be worried.’ You’d be apathetic. If you’re nervous, it makes you adrenalized and sharp. It’s positive energy.”

All this takes place in a spirit of inclusion and enjoyment, across a range of styles of martial arts that often have nothing other to connect them aside from rivalry.

“The range of ages of the participants is between five and fifty-five. It’s a place to practice [their] art in a safe environment; the spirit and camaraderie on the floor is amazing. The students fight each other and hug at the end. That’s what it’s all about.”

Gary has worked for the last eleven years with the New South Wales Police force in the role of security and protection. If anything, policing highlighted the strengths of his martial arts training.

“In a ‘serving the public’ kind of role, to have good reactions and to be alert and aware [are]… great assets to have. Your skills become an inherent part of you that you’re not always conscious of,” he says. Gary’s training in martial arts has “heightened all areas of my role and awareness and reactions to things, and how I respond to situations. It’s given me a level of confidence that I wouldn’t have had.”

“There’s a difference between martial arts and police ‘deftac’ [short for defensive tactics], which are non-confrontational by nature. They’re designed to diffuse things, not pre-empt them. Your objective is to protect the officer, the member of the community, or even sometimes protect people from themselves.”

Gary’s career as a martial artist effectively began after his experience in the military, and was bought into focus through the lens of boxing as taught to him by his father and grandfather. This practical experience has shaped Gary’s opinions on the notion of ‘realistic’ martial arts training.

“I came from military training to martial arts training. Military training is, by nature, real life. It’s ‘life or death’ sort of training, by necessity.”

That sensibility guided Gary’s choice of a suitable art.

“I sought out ‘real’ martial arts training. It needed to be hard and realistic. ‘Reality-based training’ has become a bit of a cliché. Instructors want training to be relevant. I hate training which is soft and compliant with a partner; soft and touchy-feely.

“If someone grabs you in real life, they’re not just going to let you roll their hand over. You have to execute some sort of ‘pain compliance’, as we call it in kenpo. You attack the groin, throat or eyes to create a reaction and work off that reaction. No one’s just going to softly comply.”

The word ‘budo’, often used in traditional Japanese martial arts, literally refers to ‘the warrior’s road’. Gary’s career in martial arts has been vocational, and features a number of significant destinations along the way.

Those destinations, namely boxing, a military career followed by immersion in karate, then kenpo, culminating in a career in policing define a leader who walks his road especially mindful of those following behind him.

Blitz Magazine, January 2015

Southern Praying Mantis Kung Fu is among the most practical, street-ready forms of kung fu available. Paul Brennan can testify to that, having learned it on the tough streets of Kowloon, Hong Kong, from one of the progenitors of the style, Ip Shui.

“This style is only three-hundred years old,” says Sifu Paul Brennan. “The information is still accessible.”

Brennan had grown up in Mount Isa and moved to Brisbane as a child. While living there, he began his martial arts training.

“I began with tae kwon do, mainly because that’s all there was on offer. I was pushed into it by my brother and his friends. It wasn’t what I wanted; the internal aspect was missing.”

From there, Brennan soon found his way into kung fu.

“I studied a generic version of the style I do now; a very basic version of the Mantis system. I always felt when I was training that there was more to it, but my teachers didn’t have the answer. That’s the reason I went to Hong Kong in my early twenties.”

When he went to Hong Kong, it was long before martial artists regularly traced their styles back to their place of origin in the hope of participating in authentic training. This had a lot to do with the fact that foreign students were neither desirable – nor welcome.

The living master of the style, Ip Shui, was an almost mythological figure, spoken about in Brennan’s Australian academy as if he were as much of a ghost as a man.

“He was the world authority. Everyone used to talk about him. There were all these stories that he wouldn’t help you; he’d take advantage of you. I went on a whim to find him. I felt it was what I had to do.

“At home in Mount Isa, there was an acupuncturist friend of mine who encouraged me to do this and follow this. I was at a good age to go; it was a good opportunity to learn from him while he was alive.”

Long before the era of the internet and the smartphone, Brennan found himself in Hong Kong with little to help him find his way, or the man whose style he sought.

“I was twenty-four or twenty-five at that point. I didn’t know where I was going; I had a piece of paper the size of an iPhone with the name of the style written on it. I knew that Ip Shui was the grandmaster. I’d seen his picture just once.”

“I went to schools and asked – I must have gone around to probably fifteen schools – before I found the Mong Kok Martial Arts Association and got a different Mantis style.”

While Paul had found something, his gut told him it was not what he was looking for.

“After two weeks, I told them I was going to leave. I was still going to look for Ip Shui. They told me they didn’t know who he was. I found him three hundred meters down the same street! All the signs were in Chinese; I didn’t know how to read them. Later, Ip Shui was very angry they misled me. He wanted to go down the street and take on the fight.”

Hong Kong was a closed culture, a dog-eat-dog place even for the Chinese natives that called it home. For Paul, finding Ip Shui meant the real ordeal was about to begin.

“In Hong Kong, it’s a different atmosphere. It was a different area. It was very raw; people would fight to the death. [In Australia] we teach everyone until we discover they are idiots. In Hong Kong, they assess you straight away as to whether or not they want to teach you.

“[Ip Shui] had the ability to look inside your soul; language wasn’t important. He had the ability to look inside you, assess you, decide if he wanted anything to do with you or even have you in his house.”

Paul’s reaction to the grandmaster was, under the circumstances, quite reasonable.

“I was a bit scared. He was close to seventy, but he was ferocious. He was in his forties or fifties. [At that time in Kowloon, people] fought with no rules until someone fell over or died.”

This kind of practical application rendered the need for ‘pressure testing’ unnecessary.

“One of the customs in Hong Kong was when you went into a restaurant or a public place, you always sat with your back to the door and the master faced the door. There was also lots of full-contact sparring with no protection at all. Ever. A big part of training was getting used to being hit.”

Brennan had entered uncharted territory.

“I was the only white guy there,” he says. “There had been one prior to me. [Chow Gar administration] tried to get me to go to one of their branches, which was full of people they didn’t want to train. I was sent there to get conditioning.

“[Because Ip Shui had taken an interest] I was envied, so they beat me. Some of them wanted me to be permanently injured. [They were] all Chinese. Pissing blood was a regular occurrence; I even lost a few teeth.”

The toll of Brennan’s kung fu odyssey extracted a greater toll at home.

“I was in Kowloon city for nearly four years. The longest stint of being away from my kids was two years. They lived with their mother on a cattle station.”

When Brennan returned home, he found that his experience had changed him from the man he had been when he had married and started his family.

“My wife hadn’t changed; I had. I’d had too much vicious action against me for years. I’d been beaten daily, seven days a week. His son was pretty cruel to me. If I was broken or had something dislocated, Ip Shui looked after me. He wasn’t Hakka Chinese, so he understood my position [as an outsider].”

Ironically, more training seemed to be the cure for a broken heart.

“After I had split from my wife, I went back to Kowloon for another year. I wanted to feel physical pain to equate the pain in my heart. I’d never been so heartbroken in my life. [It was] horrific. Really bad. If I could, I’d like to dedicate this story to my children, Justin Troy, Bianca Jade and Aceia Sharon, and my ex-wife, Loree Anderson.”

The decision to keep going may be at the core of what made Brennan the martial artist he has become.

“If I came home, then I would be coming home and leaving something half-finished. I’d broken through [into] something that no one had ever achieved. I was nearly there; nearly finished. Would I respect myself when I was fifty, sixty? I knew I wouldn’t.

“I was getting something that I knew no one else in Australia had. I was learning from someone that no one else in Australia knew. I was the only one that had it.”

Single-minded purpose became Brennan’s road to redemption. That dedication took him into the essence of his style, and distinguished him from every other practitioner in Australia.

“[Southern Mantis,] the actual use of the body, the way it moved and generated force, is all about the concept and science of isometrical pressure exercises, which we call ‘Bridge Training exercises’. The Cantonese word literally means ‘bridge’, the connection between two bodies.

“As your training increases, so does your sensitivity of power between two bodies to develop resistance energy within the other body. When they [Brennan’s original school] were doing it here, it was just an arm exercise. The more you train, the more you get heavy and reactive internally.”

“He’s just too powerful, that’s the problem,” says Jeremy Small, a student of some twenty years of Sifu Brennan. “If he uses full power on you, you’ll just get wrecked. If you’re not fit and able to handle him, you’ll end up getting hurt.

The drawback of Southern Mantis is the essence of what makes it difficult to learn.

“It’s very painful; the attrition rate for Mantis is very high. Over time, you might keep four per cent of your original students.”

It is at that point of difficulty that the maxim ‘The more senior the status, the more hidden the artist becomes’ apparent.

“The more you train it, the deeper it goes. There’s no finish to it.”

According to Small, the immense focus required is part of the high attrition rate amongst students.

“The system is technically specific. It’s hard not to get caught up in a wrestling-type motion… [It’s] easy to get caught up in what the [opponent is] doing. The point is to maintain form… the form is the key to the power.

“You have to maintain form while doing the partner exercises. Sifu is very specific on keeping form correct and keeping the system authentic. That’s the crux of it; that’s what makes him different.”

Successful Sifu have developed strategies over time to combat this intense pressure. Brennan’s Sifu, Sibagung Ng Si Kay, speaks of the importance of ‘play’.

“The Chinese classify [training] as play; it’s a mental concept that allows them to train all the time. In Ip Shui’s day, they would train between four and five hours a day, seven days a week. The Chinese work out a way to not worry. Sometimes, we train seven hours a day. Sifu [Sibagung Ng Si Kay] is seventy-five years old. He’s like a kid – he loves it.”

Once Brennan had endured years of punishment to get inside Chow Gar, it was time to return home and introduce the authentic Mantis style to Australia. The effect was profound.

“I came back to Brisbane and set up a school, and a medical clinic. It’s called ‘Hit and Fall Medicine’, which is the way it translates from Cantonese to English. My school started off with another instructor from a different Mantis School; I asked him if he wanted to do some training.

“Then, next time, he bought four instructors and by the end of the month, I had a class of 30 students. [Southern Mantis] was unseen [at that time]. It was a completely different system.”

Jeremy Small explains that his introduction to Sifu Brennan was the result of coincidence.

“I had a black belt in Aikido, but I was taking a break – I had injured my neck in training. I wanted to learn a stand-up system. Aikido is non-violent. Kung fu is kind of extremely violent.”

Small was training with a different school at the time, under Sifu Malcolm Sue.

“One day, all the instructors left en masse to go and train with Paul.”

The quality of Sifu Brennan that made a profound initial impression was his raw physical power.

“His power was the most amazing thing. He’s a natural athlete and has a tenacious ability to train incredibly hard.”

That tenacity was, according to Small, what allowed Brennan to become the instructor he has.

“In [Hong Kong], they couldn’t help themselves; they used to line up 10-deep to smash him. Four years later, he was smashing them. [Brennan then] swore at them in Cantonese about their mothers so they would beat him harder.”

Essential to the Chow Gar system is medicine.

“All kung fu systems have their own,” says Brennan. “Many masters focus on their clinics when they get sick of [teaching].”

Just as medicine is integral to kung fu, so too was medicine and healing an essential part of Brennan’s education.

“I was involved because grandmaster was involved and I lived with him and his wife. [They were elderly and] needed someone to help with the clinic. He would make poultices and pitches and I would apply them. It was good for him and good for me.”

Paul Brennan’s ‘Hit and Fall Medicine’ continues to take up a substantial amount of his time.

“I treat about sixty people a week; it’s been like that now for twenty years. Always busy. Southern Mantis develops a strong, claw-like hand, which allows you to get in there with great sensitivity. It’s a fine line; if you push too hard you damage it, or not push hard enough and not help.”

“In wing chun, you see a lot of damaged hands and shoulders. Muay Thai is neck and lower back. Boxing, wrestling, whatever: [Hit and fall Medicine] deals with trauma from falling, over-training, any sort of practise.”

“His medicine is excellent,” says Jeremy Small. “I [originally] had an aikido injury to my neck and couldn’t have a break fall. It locked up all the time. [Brennan’s] medicine fixed it. He’s fixed heaps of injuries I’ve had over the years – most of them from training with him!

“He’s actually got people out of wheelchairs. Their bodies were so mangled from car wrecks… There was a sky-diver who had hit the deck, he didn’t break his back, but his body was full of scar tissue. Within eight months, [Brennan] had the guy walking and exercising.”

Small says that Brennan’s ‘Hit and Fall Medicine’ demonstrates the dichotomy at the centre of his persona as a teacher.

“He can go from the caring parent to the stern master. It’s the yin and the yang of the mental.”

While martial arts such as karate and tae kwon do have spawned large organizations, kung fu remains disparate and separate. Brennan says that this is to the benefit, rather than the detriment, of the style.

“It’s beneficial because the system gets taught properly. [Chow Gar] takes long, one-on-one periods of time to teach because of its immense complexity. That makes it difficult to train large groups of people.”

Ultimately, it’s a matter of quality control.

“You need to associate yourself with the best person and devote yourself to them. That way, you end up with ninety per cent, instead of twenty per cent. [Poor quality artists] go with the twenty instead of the ninety because that’s too much commitment. It boils down to integrity, intelligence and the will of a person to persist and endure, regardless of the style or origin.”

That old-school approach governs Brennan’s belief that kung fu competition should be prevented from reaching a sporting threshold.

“It’s not a sport, it’s a martial art. Conceptually, it was never allowed to be a sport. As soon as you commericalize something and turn it into a sport, you lose its value.”

Chow Gar has recently entered the limelight after Sifu Ng Si Kay claimed that ‘Other styles do not match Chow Gar’ and that if challenged by a master of another style he could ‘take his power away from him’. Brennan is quick to return the comment to its proper context.

“That was a little bit misunderstood,” he says. “The technique for the captivation of internal air… other styles don’t go there, but this one does.” Implicit in this technique is the beauty of the Southern Mantis style. “Because this style is only three-hundred years old, the information is still accessible. It will take your body to a lot of places that other styles won’t take it.”

In closing, Brennan tells a moving story about his mentor, Ip Shui.

“On my last visit he asked me what I would do when he died. I told him I would never forget.”

He does this by passing on what he learnt in the manner it was taught to him.

 “I try and maintain an honest integrity to things by keeping them original. Not copying, not mimicking. I don’t mix it with elements from other styles. I keep to the way they taught me. Over a long period of time, it changes you.”

It is uncertain as to whether Brennan is referring to the physical or spiritual.

“Men like [Ip Shui] are very rare and I was lucky enough to have some time with him. It took ten years to get to know him. After that, they adopt you. They’d discipline you, scorn you like a child. You lost your grandfather when he passed away.”

Ip Shui remains present in the Chow Gar style as taught by Paul Brennan.

1.

Ben Edwards is always good for a chat. Since last we spoke, he has added Australian Heavyweight Boxing Champion to his string of achievements. He was kind enough to do a lap of the Theme Park in order to fill us in on the details.

What happened with Glory?

They basically said after my last fight [against Errol Zimmerman], ‘We are not interested in Ben Edwards’. They didn’t even make us an offer. I had a two-fight deal. Most people start that way.

Originally, they were offering huge contracts; Aerts, Spong, Zimmerman were on good money. Between $70 and $250,000K for one fight. Obviously, Glory weren’t even getting close to a return on that. They couldn’t continue to pay that much and fighters didn’t want to fight for less. Gokhan Saki is now contracted to the GFC [Global Fighting Championship]. Tyrone Spong has gone in the direction of pro boxing. Who knows what Daniel Ghita is doing.

How do you feel about finishing up with kickboxing after all these years?

With what’s happened so far, really good. It’s always hard to walk away. There were always going to be offers to come back, but unless it’s a miracle – like stupid money – I had to stick to my guns and walk away. I got an offer from GFC to fight, but I said I wasn’t interested.

The other thing is that the general public don’t even understand the sport. I always get asked, ‘Do you wear a gi? Do you wear gloves?’ Only hardcore [kickboxing fans] know who the fuck Saki is.

I’ve stuck with boxing. It’s really good; easier to train for. The Stockade Training Centre is awesome. I’ve got world-class trainers. I have everything I need between three cities – Melbourne, Canberra and Sydney – to train for a world title.

It’s good for a fresh start, too. New ringcraft, new techniques. Funnily enough, yesterday was the anniversary of my first kickboxing fight, 11 years ago.

How did you discover boxing? Was it part of kickboxing?

Pretty much. I became friends with boxing guys in Canberra because they trained in the same gym. I dabbled in boxing for fun and fitness. [John] Hopoate was my first fight. I dropped him twice in the first round. The referee stopped it after a minute and a half.

You had some training at the AIS, for boxing. Tell us a bit about Alexei Muchin?

I had been in to do some sparring with the Australian Olympic team back in 2012, for London. The guy who came second, Alexei Muchin, he’s now one of my cornermen. He’s second-in-charge behind my head trainer, Gary Hamilton.

How did you settle on your current team?

I’ve always sort of been affiliated with these guys, but intermittently. Boxing training was supplemental to kickboxing, or a one-off boxing fight. Five years ago, Gary Hamilton started up Stockade. It’s an awesome facility. If I was going to box, it was going to be with him. All my friends are there. I’m stoked with my decision.

It changes things so much when you have a world-class corner. Gary and Alexei are veterans of Commonwealth Games and the Olympics. I like their style. No one’s stressing out; they are relaxed.

What does your training look like now?

After rehab for my shoulder after the Zimmerman fight, I started doing my strength-and-conditioning at Elite Physiotherapy and Elite High Performance. I do three nights boxing, one night sparring, and on top of that I have two or three sessions of what I like to do. Some abs, and some grip strength training.

Grip Strength?

I’ve got bad hands for fighting. My index and middle finger protrude; I always hurt those first two knuckles. My hands are really good now. They used to be a mess.

How do you feel about the young Queensland boxer killed in the ring last week?

Awful. Braydon Smith, I think his name was. The obvious question is whether or not weight cutting was an issue. It usually is, most of the time. There’s diminishing returns with too much weight-cutting; you’re just not going to be there for the full ten to twelve rounds.

You brain floats in water. Why take it out the day before a boxing fight just to get a size advantage? If you voluntarily cut between five and eight per cent of your body weight, you’re crazy. You’re just putting yourself in danger.

I don’t want to say the wrong thing about this bloke because I don’t know the facts, but I do know the facts about brain injuries in a whole lot of other boxing fights and that’s always to do with too much weight cutting.

I’ve occasionally tried to adjust my sodium levels so I can look a bit better and then I spar and find I’m getting rocked left, right and center. I’m thinking, ‘What’s going on here? I don’t have a chin anymore.’

Then, I go home and have a big salty meal and lots of water and I feel fine. And that’s only experimenting with sodium levels, not even restricting water. Let alone cutting that much weight.

When I don’t restrict my salt, there’s a noticeable difference; I find I’m not getting hurt anywhere near as much when there’s head contact. And that’s only three to four per-cent of my body weight. These guys cut a lot more. It’s crazy.

2.

How about these rugby players?

There’s a difference between being a fighter and being an athlete. I’ve been in situations in a fight were I can feel my brain is swelling inside my head. You ask yourself a question in situations like that.

‘Why am I doing this? Do I really want this?’ Sonny Bill has never been in situations like that. Don’t call yourself a New Zealand champ if you want to fight for fun. That’s why it rubs people the wrong way.

http://www.canberratimes.com.au/sport/act-sport/canberras-ben-edwards-fighting-for-title-but-would-fight-sonnybill-williams-for-free-20150207-137mpk.html

What’s your projected career trajectory with boxing?

I’m going for a world title. I’ve just turned 31; hopefully, I’ve got a good six, seven, eight years left in me. I’ve never been knocked out or anything like that. The road to a boxing world title not as exciting as kickboxing – some fights you take to pad your record and to stay busy – but my long-term goal is a WBC world title.

At the moment, I’m working towards a regional title to get more experience. It’s really hard to tee up a fight the ABF will approve of. At the top level, there’s a few guys like Lucas Browne, but there’s not a real depth of talent below that.

Have you had any experience of Lucas Browne?

We do train together sometimes. He’s just got an opportunity for a WBA world title, fighting against Ruslan Chagaev, a left-handed Russian fighter. Lucas is just blunt-force trauma. He’s ranked top-ten for all sanctioning bodies – I’m somewhere around fifty. We won’t be fighting one another anytime soon, which is good because he’s a great training partner.

When is your next bout?

It’s scheduled for the third of July. I don’t know who I’m fighting. It’ll be the highest- ranked guy that will take the fight that the Australian Boxing Federation approves of. It’s a pain in the bum to get someone that will take the fight that the ABF approves of. It may not be for the Aussie title. I thought it would be easy [to get fights] with the title, but it’s proving hard to get an opponent at present.

How’s your dad?

He’s alright. He’s in and out of hospital. He was back in hospital the day after the fight. He sleeps twenty hours a day, so for him to go to the venue, that’s huge. He wasn’t himself after; he couldn’t think. It’s one of those things. He came out for a couple of days, but with kidney problems, he had to go back in [to hospital] again.

He becomes extremely dehydrated because of the diuretics, and his kidneys pack it in. When he goes back, Mum gets a break; she’s his full-time carer. She doesn’t complain, she just does it all. When he’s in hospital, she gets a break, and he socializes. At the moment, I’m living with them too, all cramped together in one tiny little shoebox house.

You were threatening to leave civilization recently due to woman-oriented trauma. Has that situation improved?

We’re on-again, off-again. At the moment, we’re on. I’m still in civilization, but my X-Box is packed and ready to go.

Blitz Magazine, Volume 29, No. 4, April 2015

Salem Assli is a vocational teacher of many martial arts. Ironically, he found his way to the art of his native country through an assiduous study of Jeet Kune Do, the martial art of Bruce Lee.

“I was born in Lille, France, and started to take up sport with football (soccer) and gymnastics, which I practiced as a competition sport between the age of eight and eighteen years old,” says Salem. “In 1974, I discovered like many young adolescents of that time period, martial arts movies and particularly those of Bruce Lee.”

So impressed was Assli that he began studying a number of martial arts and practicing in isolation until the age of twenty three, when he set out for the United States to study under Lee’s number one disciple, Dan Inosanto.

“Dan Inosanto is the head of the Jeet Kune Do clan and only instructor in Jeet Kune Do certified by Bruce Lee. I ended up becoming the first and only French[man] to graduate and become a certified Full Instructor in both Jun Fan Gung Fu (Jeet Kune Do) and in the Filipino martial arts (Kali-Eskrima-Silat), [graded] by the master himself.”

Assli broadened his martial horizons even further while in California, studying Thai boxing under the direction and encouragement of his mentor, Guru Inosanto.

“Upon my arrival in California, I immediately trained in kali and JKD but also in Thai Boxing with Guru Dan Inosanto and Master Chai Sirisute. Chai invited me to pass the instructor examination of the Thai Boxing Association of America, and in 1985 I became the first Muay Thai instructor of the Inosanto International Instructors Association.”

Having mastered a number of offensive, kicking-based martial arts, Inosanto then encouraged Assli to engage in a study of the martial art native to his home country.

“Admiring the quality of my kicking techniques, Dan Inosanto pushed me to study the arts of my home country, Boxe Francaise Savate, the French art of foot fighting, in order for me to then teach it to the students of the Inosanto Academy.”

Assli’s beginnings as a self-taught martial artist served him well, given that he had to learn the art of savate from a book.

“I studied from an old book that Inosanto lend me, and came back from my first trip back to France with the diploma of Monitor and Silver Glove 1st degree, delivered by no less than the National Technical Director, Mr. Bob Alix.”

Assli distinguished himself among his peers, finishing first in a field of fifty students.

“The following year, I obtained in Los Angeles the prestigious diploma of Professeur of Boxe Francaise Savate as well as the Silver Glove second degree from the members of the French Elite Team, including Richard Sylla and Robert Paturel (both several times French and European Champions).”

Salem’s experience of both Muay Thai and savate has led him to a number of interesting conclusions regarding their separate kicking styles.

“Many savate practitioners, once they reached their goals, switch to kickboxing because that is where the money is,” says Salem, “Most of the time with a high success rate. Instead of confronting the other fighter the way he is expecting it, they make use of footwork, strategy and savate skills to handle the other party.”

Some pundits dispute the success of savate, given how many of its kicking techniques rely on the use of a specialized shoe.

“The shoes help of course, but if the techniques are slightly modified, they still work quite well for the most part. The fact that many have managed to get hold of the highest titles without the shoes proves that it can be done.”

Key to a successful skirmish with Thai boxers is management of the highly effective Thai clinch.

“In Boxe Francaise with the shoes, and depending on the fighter it is possible, as long as the BF savate practitioner stays out of reach and can stab the Thai fighter [with the push kick]. But if the Thai fighter clinch and knee, the French boxer will be in trouble as it is not in his game. Now, if it is pure savate, the Thai fighter will have to watch for many vicious and dirty blows, the head-butt and the eyes strikes would be some of them.”

**

 Savate, like Jeet Kune Do, is a highly effective system of self-defence. On that subject, Assli speaks plainly.

“Savate came from the streets, and served only one purpose; street fighting. Savate is everything but a sport; the French hoodlums or ‘Apaches’ as they were called have proven its efficiency in self-defense or attacks countless times. They gave trouble to the authorities for nearly two decades and it was only after sending them to fight in the trenches of World War One that France finally got rid of them.”

Savate was also popular amongst that other colourful historical figure, the duellist.

“Savate was made for duels, also; needless to say that it better have been efficient. The more I studied and researched it, the more similarities I found with JKD. I was extremely surprised when I found a book in Paris, published in 1912, on the subject of street fighting, that I could relate to Bruce Lee and his Jeet Kune Do.”

Assli’s enthusiasm for the book soon gets the better of him.

“In this masterpiece, the author J. Renaud, an expert in French Boxing Savate, boxing, Judo, Jiu Jitsu, French cane fighting, but also a pragmatic street fighter, wrote the following things, and I hereby quote him so not to betray his words:

“Some of the processes that I recommend come directly from the world of ‘Apaches’. I do not have to apologize, these processes are very effective, very safe, audited by the experience of those who constantly use them, and we are no longer talking here about graceful sports, but simple and pure defense.”

Jeet Kune Do was an excellent primer for Assli’s career in martial arts, given that both savate and Jeet Kune Do are fundamentally similar in their outlook.

“I came to train with Guro Inosanto to learn JKD and Kali (empty hand and weaponry), along with Savate and Muay Thai. These arts fit my personality and my body, I am more of a striker than a grappler [and] even though I love grappling techniques, let’s say that in a street confrontation, I will avoid rolling to the pavement. That being said, I teach ground techniques to my students as well.

“I am attracted by these arts because I simply love their concepts and their philosophy. There are no complete arts, but JKD, kali as taught by Guro Dan and French savate are pretty close in… concept [because] they are meant to be tailored to the individual.”

Paul Borrett, also vocational in his study of martial arts, is an associate instructor of savate and currently teaches the style in Melbourne.

“I’ve been training since six years of age,” he says. “I started out with various styles of kung fu. On my mother’s side, my grandfather had been a boxer in the army. On dad’s side, my grandfather had served in the police and military in India. He had been a bodyguard for Lord Mountbatten, the last viceroy of India.”

Like Salem, Borrett’s investigations into the martial arts were many and varied.

“I trained in kung fu to start with, and moved on to kickboxing and judo. I went through variety of systems until I found Jeet Kune Do.”

As with many other students, Borrett traveled to California to learn from Dan Inosanto.

“I would travel down from Canada to go to Guru Dan’s academy in Seattle. That was between 1995 and 1998.”

Borrett’s interest in kicking systems led him to explore the possibilities offered by savate.

“I believe it started with French sailors. They wore shoes on deck, and the hand position derives from the sails; you were holding onto the rigging so you wouldn’t fall over.”

Picture courtesy of Ollie Batts.

The style was further refined as a result of ‘friendly’ contests between French savateurs and English boxers.

“Matches between English boxers and French savateurs were conducted according to applied rules. For that reason, you can kick to back of head, but not punch. It’s interesting because you wear shoes; it’s English boxing combined with kicks with shoes on. It had a major influence on Bruce Lee’s kickboxing style for JKD.”

“The footwork is interesting,” says Borrett. “You aim to hit without being hit back, as the French say. You have to get in and out; it’s quite graceful. We often kick with the toe of shoe to targets such as the solar plexus and the temple, so you have to be accurate. For that reason, the appreciation of range is very important.”

Savate, like various styles of kung fu, sprang from its streets of origin as a matter of necessity. Its genesis was sped up when pistol and sword duelling was outlawed in French society.

“It is the colourful past of savate and Boxe Francaise that attracted me in the first place, and I wanted to be part of it,” says Salem. “Savate, of course, is way older than Boxe Francaise and it was the legacy of all those masters of arms from generation to generation for two millennia that we want to preserve.

“It is also from a cultural point of view very important to save the arts, no matter were they come from; the country or region where it originated can only be richer from its exposition to the eyes of the rest of the world.”

Salem is ambivalent about the role of sport savate as a means for preserving its legacy.

“Unfortunately the French Boxing / Savate Federation [is] more concered with making Boxe Francaise / Savate (strictly using hands and feet) an Olympic sport, and so more focus [is on] that goal. Straight from the beginning, I studied and research the lost art, and this was way before France started to come up with what they now call ‘Savate defense.”

The argument against Boxe Francaise is similar to the arguments made against competition by many traditional martial artists; in order to make it ‘safe’ for competition, certain techniques must be eliminated, thereby diluting the art. Assli believes that both have their place.

“Boxe Francaise is the offspring of savate and chausson; it is a sport with limitations and rules, but with outstanding attributes, such as footwork, mastering of distances, awesome combinations, and a perfect example of an art that teaches the ways of attacks as described in JKD. All this was developed through decades of ring experience. But it is still a sport.

“On the other hand, savate was made for duell[ling], therefore there were no rules whatsoever. I repeat; no rules whatsoever. When it comes to survival, everything goes. Like they said before a duel (depending on the degree of offense): “Vas-t’on de tout?” (French for, ‘Does everything go?)

Due to the catastrophic nature of many savate techniques, the emphasis of the art changes.

“In Savate there is no need to have an awesome footwork, having a perfect control of distances, and so on. But for today’s fighters who want to train and fight for the ring or cage, these attributes can be found in BF Savate.”

**

Just as Jeet Kune Do provided a precursor for Salem’s adventures in savate, so too did his experience of kali provide a touchstone for learning la canne, the French art of fighting with a cane.

“The French cane system is a little bit like the largo mano style in kali… the long range system. Like BF, cane fighting has its rules and limitations, but in the street defence, you are free to use what works.

“So when you know kali, you can be creative and I have lots of fun coming up with many new techniques and tricks from kali… using the cane style. However, when I teach French cane fighting, I only teach the true art. If I show what other things we can do using other systems, I tell my students where that particular technique is coming from.”

The cane lends itself to self-defence with a high degree of efficacy.

“I think that a cane is a perfect weapon for self defence,” says Salem. “You have to know that in Los Angeles, carrying a stick is a felony, but [carrying] a cane is perfectly legal. How funny that is when you think of all the things you can do with a cane [when you] combine the techniques of both France and the Philippines.

Originally, Salem’s knowledge of kali was something of an obstacle to learning la canne, but not in the way one would think.

“It is not that I had difficulty to find a la canne master to teach me, it was that the master I met was impressed with my Filipino martial arts ability and wanted me to teach him, so he became my student for a while. Myself, I wanted to learn the French cane since I was – and still am – involved in the French martial arts.

“He taught me, but after training together for a while, he told me that he gave up the cane training to focus on kali instead, which he found more practical. I guess that he couldn’t see the benefit of being a cane fighter as his kali training was so overwhelming and new to him; he wasn’t able to see that he could keep both and it was a benefit not a challenge.

“Of course there is so much to learn in kali that you can spend a life time studying it. Since he was in his thirties already, he choose to focus on kali.”

**

One of the hallmarks of a vocational martial artist is teaching. It becomes necessary to pass the art on and, in doing so, opens an entirely different skill set. Having developed his own skill as a teacher has meant that Assli has an insight into the instructors that have contributed to his journey.

“I have never met Bruce Lee and even less trained with him, but his philosophy sunk in as I tried to read all about him when I was a young teenager. Since I grew up in a family who weren’t religious, I learned to understand that everything came from the work of human beings, whether positive or negative, and that humans are (or should be) free to make up their own goals and think for themselves and that everything is possible when you set your mind to it.”

“From Dan Inosanto, I learned humility which is truly the most beautiful quality of a human being. [The word] Humility comes from the latin ‘Humus’, the earth. That is what we are; nothing else. We are the earth, which for a short moment in time can become conscious of itself. When you realize that, you can only be humble.”

A significant aspect of Inosanto’s contribution was to give Salem a point of reference for his interaction with other teachers and instructors.

“I also learned to be a better teacher because even though [Dan] did not teach me ‘how to teach’ per se, spending so many years as his student, you learn so much from him without even noticing it sometimes.

“After training with a teacher’s teacher like Guru Inosanto, you see the other instructors differently; you have a better judgment and learn to appreciate their differences.”

Guru Dan Inosanto’s teaching style seems to have made as much of an impact on shaping Salem as the actual content of his instruction.

“As I said,” Salem continues, “He is a master teacher. His humility allows him to be open to anyone… he can learn from. He is genuinely interested to learn… from everyone. If he had to choose only to be a teacher or a student… he will choose to be a student.

“It is logical. When you teach, it boost a little your ego; whether you want it or not, people look up to you. When you are a student, you can grow and this is what life is all about.

“Guru Dan is a giver, and this is also what I learned from him. He loves to share what he learns, especially when what he learns can be of help to someone in the class. Sometimes, he will share knowledge that is not technically martial, but rather advice for someone and he will share it to all and whoever is concerned will grasp it… hopefully!”

Aside from Inosanto, Assli expresses particular fondness for Robert Paturel.

“I trained with different French instructors later on also and they all had something to offer. Robert Paturel was my favourite because he had an extremely open mind and a sense of humour like mine. We got along very well. The French are very different and as I said earlier, BF savate is very individual and it suits very well their personality.”

It has become increasingly clear that in the modern climate of martial arts that the individual is more important than the art itself; the individual is a lens through which a given art will pass. Salem Assli has an unusual combination of both eastern and western martial arts, all of which have come to influence one another within the spectrum of his practise.

Additionally, as both an instructor and an author, those arts are passed on in his idiom, which has been shaped in turn through instructors such as Guru Dan Inosanto and Robert Paturel, as much as the arts themselves. ‘Great’ instructors are as remarkable as the arts they teach, and become so through the refinement of a life in the martial arts.

Blitz Magazine, Vol.29, No.3 March 2015

The mark of a great instructor is one who can present complex ideas simply. In doing so, the breadth of Wayne Bridge’s experience prompts him to quote Bruce Lee.

“There’s that famous quote,” says Bridge, ‘Before I studied the art, a punch to me was just a punch, a kick was just a kick. After I learned the art, a punch was no longer a punch, a kick no longer a kick. Now that I’ve understood the art, a punch is just a punch and a kick is just a kick.”

Bridge is a karateka whose forty years of experience have given him a profound understanding of his style, Goju Ryu Karate.

“I understand it because I’ve done the full circle.”

That circle has involved forays into martial arts as diverse as kung fu, boxing, kickboxing and Brazilian Jiu Jitsu.

“It comes down to your expression,” he says. “We’re operating on parallel lines to dancers. You can do classical, or freestyle. Classical binds you up to explore; freestyle is your own perception and own way of movement. Martial arts give a classical grounding; after black belt, that’s when life begins. That’s when you [have achieved] your basics. Then, you start exploring your own way of doing things.”

Bridge embarked on his own road in his early teens.

“I started training when I was thirteen years old,” he says. “I had four [older] brothers; I followed those guys. They dropped out, but I kept going. It was always Goju. I started with Con Hardas in 1970.”

Perhaps one of the things that made Wayne such a capable karate instructor is that he asked all the hard questions any young karateka does, especially in regard to some aspects of training being less exciting than others.

“At twenty-five, kata is boring. Now, I can see that, one, it’s practice when there’s no one around, and two, it’s about your head-space. Visualization is important; it makes it far more effective. [Kata training] reinforces reason for moving. You must understand the reason for moving. If you apply visualization to that, it becomes far more interesting.”

Wayne took a step unusual amongst martial artists in Australia during the seventies – he chose to travel to Japan to get his black belt.

“It probably wasn’t that different to what it would have been here [in Australia],” he said. “Just basics, basics and more basics, and then some kumite.”

The big difference was that the grading was supervised by Gonnohyoue Yamamoto.

“So-shihan Yamamoto is my master; he’s the head of the I.K.O. (International Karate Organizaton). He has always been the guy I’ve answered to. I stayed with his sister’s family when I was over there training full time in 1976.”

Wayne’s recollections of Yamamoto are warm.

“He’s a lovely guy; a funny guy. He’s seventy-seven now. For his age, he’s still got it. He is a tough guy. He started training because he wanted to learn to fight. He is [fundamentally] a fighter. When he was a student, he was sparring everyone from third to sixth dan, every day of the week.”

Wayne’s enthusiasm for old-school training remains intact.

“It was a bloodbath back then [in Japan]. No mouth-guards. Apparently, some students would [come to class,] see he was teaching and go home! If we had that approach today, we’d only have one or two students. Society is becoming softer. Not like it used to be.”

Wayne trained in Japan for a total of six months.

“I came back after that; I wanted to see what real contact was like.”

Mick Spinks, kickboxing, kung fu and all-around warrior comes to the telephone straight from his rehab in the swimming pool.

“I’ve just had a hip replacement, says Spinks casually. “There’s no pain. I’ve just been kicking in the pool. I should be back to jiu jitsu in twelve weeks. I only got my black belt last year; it’s annoying. It should take six weeks to heal, and then six weeks to get strong again. Then I’ll evaluate. I’m sensible.”

“Wayne and I have been beating the shit out of each other since 1977,” he says. “We’ve been good mates since then. We had the common factor of coming from a karate background. I came from Goshin Ryu. I got my karate black belt and thought, ‘There had to be more.”

Wayne was working as a gym operator around this time and got talking with Mick one day, after watching him hitting the bag. In addition to being a karate instructor himself, Mick’s journey had led him to train with kung fu master and protean Australian kickboxing trainer, Chan Cheuk Fai.

“Wayne asked me to spar Peter [MacGuire] for his black belt. After that, Wayne had a look at Sifu Chan. He found it interesting. We were always progressive; [we were] looking for the journey, to be as good as we could be.”

“It [kung fu] was very close to high-end Goju,” says Wayne. “More circular. There was some similarity between kata.”

Mick and Wayne soon began full-contact fighting as part of their kung fu training.

“They put boxing gloves on us in comps,” says Mick, “Which made us think we should learn to box. It made us realize how hard those blokes trained. We were fit, but not fight-fit.”

Wayne and Mick began boxing training with former professional boxer, Jim Withers.

“We trained in boxing and fitness with Jim for five years,” says Bridge. “If I wanted to do kickboxing, I needed to get fit like a boxer. It was a lot of boxing training and sprint work. [Jim] was one tough cookie.”

The boxing experiment was a successful one, opening further avenues along Wayne’s martial road.

“After that, kickboxing became a priority. I had some local kickboxing fights, and fought in Hong Kong with Cheuk Fai’s camp. Mick fought; so did Cheuk. This was in the early eighties. On a raised platform; there was no ring. The rules were similar to Thai boxing. I fought the Malay champ. I did okay; I won the gold medal for the middleweight division.”

Bridge sustained his interest in kickboxing until it was overtaken by Brazilian Jiu Jitsu.

“I discovered jiu jitsu around [the year] 2000. Originally, Mick Spinks bought John Will up for seminars. I enjoyed it. I grapple as much as possible when I get the chance when I’m not working.”

Spinks remembers Bridge as a jiu-jitsu training partner in terms of his outstanding athleticism.

“[Wayne] was a hard man; a ‘robust character’. I bought John Will up [to Sydney] and we did training with him. Wayne had a really strong grip. He had thick fingers and big forearms. If he held onto ya, he held onto ya.”

“I’ve probably known Wayne since 1976,” says Peter MacGuire, Bridge’s long-time friend, former student and current business-partner. “I was sixteen. My father bought a leasehold of a pub near Botany Bay around the end of 1972. I moved there that year; I’d just turned thirteen. I met Wayne a couple of years later, he was three years older than me at school.”

Even as a teenager, Bridge’s reputation as an athlete preceeded him.

“I rode motorbikes; Wayne was a very good moto-cross rider. I knew him from there.”

Another common theme was Bruce Lee.

“I started training in the mid-seventies with a few other people, because of the Bruce Lee boom. I never really enjoyed it; the classes were too crowded. It was hard to see a good example. Those schools were money-making machines.

“I started training with Wayne in 1978. Here was a guy who had done it for seven or eight years, but had spent six months living in Japan. At that time, that was unheard of. Yamamoto said Wayne was the youngest [live-in student] ever.”

Bridge distinguished himself from other instructors immediately.

“His knowledge was far-superior to others,” says Peter. “He should have been graded – then – to 3^rd dan. [He was] very well-versed in traditional basics [and an] incredibly fit athlete.”

The breadth of Wayne’s knowledge remains tempered by the notion of simplicity.

“I do take students to other areas,” he says, “but it’s still got to come from a place of getting the basics right. You have to work at the level of their thinking. [As an instructor, you] can’t show too much. Any technique I show, I show in terms of what can come from it. It’s like opening the door to a house. You show [students] everything that stems from it.

“I don’t see a lot of difference between the different martial arts,” Bridge continues. “The big difference is in how you teach it, how you put it together and how you implement it. You have to be strategic about that. Fundamentally, it all comes down to how you train.”

The notions of ‘how’ and ‘why’ are integral to Bridge’s approach, subjects he broaches with each student during their initial inquiry.

“I ask them about previous experience; what brings them in, what their motivation is. Then I explain what it is we do, and give them a free class to check it out. People come for different reasons. The theory is that I show you stuff that works.”

Practical effectiveness is something that has permeated his training, courtesy of So-shihan Yamamoto. It is not simply the basis of technical instruction, but the basis of the classes themselves.

“I noticed that when we were doing classes originally, a lot of the time was taken up with fitness and flexibility work. It was forty-five minutes before we could start technique. Now, we get them fit and flexible outside of class. That way, classes are more like a seminar.”

From that point, the progression is simple.

“Get the basics in line, get the movement right, get the dynamics right, and then get into close-range stuff, like submissions, and so on.”

As with most ‘modern’ arts, kumite is the place where a student’s style coheres. Bridge’s metaphor relating to dancers resurfaces.

“You find your expression through freestyle sparring class. [As an instructor, my job is to] keep Goju technical and traditional. Yamamoto wasn’t just a stylist; he was a fighter. And I like that. It’s got to be effective and efficient. Con [Hardas] and Yamamoto were both like that.”

While it’s best to keep training ‘old-school’, the level of intensity in terms of contact is different in a modern context. How hard is ‘hard’ depends a lot on the students themselves.

“It depends on who we’re teaching. If it’s too tough too quickly, you won’t keep them. You have to temper [students] over time. Initially we don’t do a lot, but we’re working toward that stuff. Start with the basics, slowly increase the contact, then make it realistic. Sometimes we have a freestyle class and I mix kickboxing in. We use it to get skills and basics up.”

While this is true, the ultimate expression of a martial art is in its capacity as a self-defense tool. Bridge has tested his knowledge through fifteen years experience of working in the security industry.

“Whatever karate you do,” he says, “We’ve all got knees, elbows, and four limbs. It comes back to the situation. You rely on your reflexes; your mindset. You get people who are technical, but aren’t fighters. Under pressure, they’ll melt. A positive mental state is the way to make it happen.”

Developing that positive mental state is a codified process.

“We think about it in terms of zones. Yellow is eye contact and conversation. Orange means you’re getting ready to switch on. Red is when you’re in it. At that point, you focus on programming your outer boundaries, based on [the assailant’s] reach.”

That actual willingness to fight is a more difficult skill to train, however.

“Some people will never will have that animal side of them. Krav Maga is a great self- defense art, but if you can’t be an animal to save yourself, you’re better off lying down.”

When asked if that ‘animal’ can be coached, Bridge’s answer is brief but enigmatic.

“I could bring it out, but it’s not very nice. It takes a while to get that. Some people you can’t teach, while others have it naturally.”

Wayne has now spent over forty years on his martial path, and in that time, he has succeeded in keeping his body in excellent condition.

“Another thing you learn as you go along is that if you don’t manage and rehabilitate correctly, you end up a wreck. I’ve done the right thing, and I’m ok. Except for old age. I’m a little stiffer; I don’t bounce as easy! When you’re young, it’s all about technique and fitness. As you get older, you have to work more on stretching and keeping the body mobile.”

This too, comes back to Bridge’s underlying principle.

“I’m fifty-seven. Efficient movement and effective movement is still a way of life. It’s all about putting your own sparkle to it.”

“Goju was the basis of my beginning,” he continues. “When I return from my adventures, I have a better understanding of what I started with; much more than if I’d just stayed on the one track. That said, you can do whatever, but you still have to have the basics.”

As the man said: a punch is just a punch, and a kick is just a kick.

“Do you mind if I thank a couple of people?” asked Wayne. “I have to thank Gonnohyoue Yamamoto, Mick Spinks, Jim Withers, Chan Cheuk Fai and Peter McGuire not only for their knowledge and experience, but more importantly, their friendship.

International Kickboxer Magazine, May/June 2015

Sam Ballantyne was born in Slough, England in 1989 and made the move to Australia two years later. He, his mother and brother settled in Bunbury in Western Australia and it wasn’t long before he found his calling.

“My earliest memory of any fight or confrontation [was when] I was seven. I hit a kid at school ‘cause he hid my bag in the lost property box.”

Sam’s mother wisely sought some kind of constructive outlet for his energies.

“My mum enrolled me into a karate class,” he says. “I lost interest after a few lessons because of the [greater] emphasis on patterns and less on sparring… what I referred to as fighting.”

Sam’s inability to concentrate led to him being diagnosed with ADHD.

“Basically, ADHD is a chemical imbalance in the brain. It means you lack the chemicals to help you concentrate. That, and the fact I was hyper-active.”

School presented a number of significant hurdles.

“I didn’t agree with school; the way it was taught and what was expected. I remember reading something once, ‘If every animal was judged on its ability to climb a tree, then how’s a fish supposed to make it?”

“School made me into a fighter. If I didn’t want to fight, the other kids would beat me up. Some people have it born into them, but I had it kinda made in me. School was rough. When I went.”

Regardless of the tempestuous events of Sam’s youth, sport was always a constant.

“I played several sports growing up; AFL for two years, which I didn’t like much. Then, I found hockey. It was fast and intense, so it served me well. I played for four or five years until I was thirteen.”

Hockey and Muay Thai do not seem natural relatives.

“Hockey is fast,” says Sam. “You get hit a lot; it’s surprisingly high contact. That gets your attention. I felt like I belonged there.”

During Sam’s teenaged years, things begin to go sideways.

“I started using drugs and lost interest in sport from thirteen to seventeen. I spiralled downhill into a lot of drugs and dealings with the police; at one point, I was facing time in juvenile detention, but I was let out on a suspended sentence.”

Whether it was anger, frustration, desperation of a combination of the three, Sam’s direction was soon to change.

“When I was eighteen, I went to the PCYC in Bunbury to try a boxing class, but I only went for a month or so because of the lack of intensity. I was soon back on the streets.

“I started to drink a lot and I gained about forty-five kilos; I was sitting on the scales at one hundred and fourteen, my biggest.”

For a man who holds two WMC titles at seventy-six and seventy-nine kilos, that’s a considerable way overweight.

Shortly after, Sam found his way back into a fight gym and, as is so often the case with fate, it came in the form of a fortuitous mistake.

“I went to a gym offering Western boxing, Muay Thai and BJJ. I went for the boxing, but turned up on the wrong night. The Muay Thai trainer was a short English guy, who I related to well because I’d grown up around English accents.”

Finally, Sam had found a gym that could satisfy his appetite for intensity.

“I sparred the first night I was there. I was terrible; all over the show, but I [knew I] was going back. I think the second week, I got knocked out.”

As Tarik Solak once said, ‘That’s how you build heroes. They either stop before they start, or go all the way.’

“Nothing deterred me,” says Sam. “I knew I wanted to fight, and I was in my element. I used to go to the fight shows alone and sit up in the grandstands and wish it was me. The crowd and the look of winning pulled me closer.”

Constant training gave Sam focus and outlet for his profound reserves of energy and consequently, his life began to change.

“I had gotten down to ninety kilograms. Every night [at training], I was the first to arrive and the last to leave. I’d do everything the fighters did, even if it took me half an hour more.

“Eventually, I got down to around eighty-three kilograms and they asked if I would be interested in fighting. I said, ‘Absolutely!’ So, I was booked for my first. I won by KO, thirteen weeks later.”

Sam’s other constant, change, was fast at his heels.

“My trainer and the gym owner fell out, so we moved to a place called ‘Eight Weapons’, with Paul Foreman. I had five more fights out of their gym, winning four, two of those by KO.”

Again, Sam’s luck was about to change – for the worse.

“Due to the council not approving ‘backyard gyms,’ we were forced to close the doors, which saw me back out on the street. I started hanging around my old mates and using methamphetamine.”

Things started to go bad very quickly after that.

“My friends were either going to jail or psych wards. Things were changing and I knew I had to change, [so I] packed my stuff and moved to Perth. I had a bag of clothes, nothing else.”

In addition to his bag of clothes, Sam had a firm idea of who to go and see; Blair Smith.

“After six months of training, I had my first fight, which I won by KO in the third.”

Sam then fought for a AMF state title against Andy Regan.

“It was a war; one of the hardest things in my life. I won on points.”

They eventually rematched for the WMC title and Sam made the outcome conclusive, stopping Regan by way of knockout.

“Then I fought Michael Wikertoa at seventy-nine kilos and beat him on points.”

Sam’s success meant he had to step up to a higher standard of competition and consequently, he began to lose a few.

“Blair moved out of his house and opened a commercial gym. The move didn’t suit me, so I moved on to a gym called Kao Sok, run by Blair’s promotional partner, Darren Curovic.”

Sam was rolling; he met Jason Altman in the squared circle to contest the WKA Australian title.

“I absolutely dominated. I had Altman on the ropes and dropped him. The ref argued it was a foul. [Jason’s] ear was bleeding, [so the ref] let him recover and we exchanged elbows. I got caught and lost by KO.”

Disappointing as that outcome was, Ballantyne persisted.

“I kept fighting, making it to twenty-seven fights, losing my last eight or ten. I considered retiring.”

While all fighters appear on paper as the sum of their wins, losses and draws, their true quality is read in terms of their opponents.

Ballantyne’s losses were close together, but appear on the gradient of vastly stiffer competition. Many of these figured as honourable losses.

“I fought Disellek Topking in Thailand. He’s a four-time world champion and former Rajamadern Stadium champion. I was rated the heavy underdog in that fight, but I took it to him every round.

“I think I may have won the fourth or the fifth, but I was dropped with a head kick and lost a very clear points decision.”

Also on the roll is Victorian, Chris Bradford.

“I knew nothing about Chris, except for the fact that the fight was scheduled at eighty kilograms for a Commonwealth title. When I rocked up to the weigh-in, I was astounded by the size of him; he was a foot taller and a foot wider [than me]. I lost by KO by leg kicks, but I definitely held my own and took it to him. It’s one of my proudest fights.”

A good trainer is as much a psychologist as anything else, and Ballantyne’s trainer, Darren Curovic, had read his charge correctly.

“Darren insisted I take a hard fight with Kim Olsen – my dream fight – instead of an easy one. I travelled to the Sitmonchai gym, in Bangkok, Thailand.”

At that time, Olsen held a WMC intercontinental title at seventy-six kilograms, the jewel in the crown of a fearsome reputation. Consequently, Sam’s training included a significant amount of mental preparation.

“I worked a lot on mental stuff; confidence boosting, affirmations, and visualizing the fight.”

It must have worked; the results speak for themselves.

“I went to Sitmonchai to help me sharpen my hands and low kicks. I ended up clinching most of the fight, anyway – the thing I was most scared of against Kim. I won a dominant four or five rounds on points. A lot of people counted me out of that fight.”

The outcome has changed everyone’s opinion of Sam Ballantyne – including his own.

“I beat the number one [fighter] in Australia on a convincing points decision. It’s given me a new life in Muay Thai. I have my dream back in focus; fighting around the world and winning a world title.

“I’ve now had twenty-eight fights – two of them pro boxing – for seventeen wins, ten losses and a draw.”

Sam sees a universality in his story that stretches beyond his own achievements in Muay Thai.

“Two of my friends that I did drugs with growing up killed themselves, and one was murdered. I still catch up with some of them and while some are doing well, some aren’t doing well at all.

“I’m not sure if you want to put this in because it’s personal and kinda disturbing, but if I can deter anyone from drugs and getting into to combat sports, it’s a win.”

I am currently traveling in Europe, and news reached me that Australia has had a sudden change of prime ministers. Eager to share in the good news, I googled The Age Newspaper Online.

In addition to reports on the change of leadership, I discovered there was an article about the press conference for UFC 193, due to be held in Melbourne on November 15.

I was as interested to read the article as I was in who had written it. A good friend of mine – who is an outstanding writer and former AFL player – works as a sports columnist for The Age. He has written about MMA in the past and I was curious to see if it was his work.

Instead, the article was written by Greg Baum, credited as the paper’s ‘senior sports columnist’. I thought it might have been something of a turn-around; The Age has long been unsympathetic to MMA.

It seems, along with the rest of the uneducated populace, to confuse mixed martial arts with what is essentially a brand-name, UFC.

Baum didn’t like it, which is nothing surprising.

As a former fighter who began in traditional martial arts and moved into kickboxing, I’m not entirely comfortable with the kinds of permissible strikes and accordingly, the injuries inflicted in MMA. Even more troubling is the lack of sportsmanship and the kind of aggression that is present outside of the cage between combatants, especially in the UFC.

Colleagues were encouraging me to watch MMA many years before the rise of the modern UFC. I felt that Senator John McCain, who described it as ‘human cockfighting’ had hit the nail on the head, and I was not interested.

I then became involved with MMA fighters through the course of my training, most notably when I trained in Holland with the now UFC-contracted heavyweight, Alistair Overeem. Interacting with him – and other mixed martial artists – on a technical level forced me to re-evaluate my opinion.

Baum also took umbrage with the fact that headliner, Ronda Rousey, was declared the world’s most dominant sportswoman in a US poll, ahead of Serena Williams.

Serena Williams is far more experienced than Ronda Rousey in terms of presenting herself to the public through the kaleidoscope of the media; accordingly, Rousey is quite coarse in many of the things she says.

Good sportsmanship is an essential feature of both tennis and Williams’ professional comportment, but Rousey is on a mighty trajectory and no doubt learning as she goes. Public scrutiny is the largest hurdle that causes professional athletes to stumble and fall.

Rousey is articulate and smiles often; she’s going to get there. She is headlining what is traditionally an entirely male-dominated sport. Not even Laila Ali could draw the kind of attention Rousey has. She may well be redefining sport for a new era.

The most striking feature of Baum’s article, however, is his cursory sentence to explain UFC (and presumably MMA) to his readers:

“The aesthetic of a UFC bout is a cross between the bottom of an AFL pack, mating centipedes and the business end of a porno.”

My mother used to say that it was best not to dignify the comments of an ass by supplying a response, but the basic invalidity both Baum’s comments and point-of-view is nestled here.

An AFL pack is more than two people. Centipedes don’t have arms – or elbows for that matter – and lastly, comes the reference to porn. Which raises the question: what sort of porn is Baum watching? I can only assume that it involves a lot of blood and violence. Freudian slip, indeed.

I’m still not entirely comfortable with MMA, even after watching a considerable amount of it and training with some of its most outstanding proponents, even recently traveling to Poland with Australia’s best heavyweight, Peter Graham, to assist with his prep, watch him fight and finally write about the experience for Fight! Magazine.

However, I understand that the public fascination with the sport is growing, along with the size of its audience. It is very clearly a sport according to the same properties that define tennis and AFL.

All of them require immense strength, fitness, technique and fortitude. If anything, MMA transcends the others because, as Ernest Hemingway said,

“Boxing and bullfighting are more than sports. They are elevated to the status of ritual because of the blood that is in them.”

We’re still not certain what MMA says about us as a culture, or what its effect will be. However, the discussion requires an educated perspective and a willingness to engage.

Culturally, you might find mixed martial arts offensive, grotesque and distasteful. However, like boxing and bullfighting, you cannot deny it.

Grow up, Greg Baum. And write like an adult.

Some things are stories; others are facts. The fact is Peter Graham is now the WBF world heavyweight boxing champion. He is the first Australian in history to hold a heavyweight boxing  title.