The Mystique of the Martial Arts

“One blow, two sounds--Sensei hit him, he hit the floor.”

"Think of a battering ram shot out of a bazooka."  Kung Fu expert Tyrone Staton is describing Sonny Strong's left hook.  "It comes from nowhere and it's right in front of you.  He lets you see it--but if you hesitate, you're hit.  Then you start hearing little birds and Teddy Pendergrass singing, 'Turn Out the Lights.'"

A 250-pound weight lifter who can bench press 480, Staton has studied the martial arts in Korea, the United States, and France.  He's not easily impressed--but The Hook got his attention.  When he first sparred with Strong "he threw it at my head and missed me by a millimeter.  I made myself a promise right then and there that he would never, ever hit me with that thing.  And he hasn't."  That was in 1982 when Staton was 24.  Strong was 49.  Today "I'm 31 and Sonny can go 10 rounds with me no problem.  And he's dangerous all ten rounds.  To me, for a man to be 57 years old and can still rumble--that's an achievement.  And to be in the physical condition he's in--that's amazing."

It's Monday evening at the downtown YMCA.  Strong is on his back, leading his karate class in leg lifts.  "Stop moaning back there!  You sound like you're old--maybe I should have a special class for old people."  Most of the students are half his age.  "Come on--get 'em up!"

Strong has already spent eight hours carrying beds, dressers, pianos, and washing machines up and down stairs on his daytime job with DunMar Moving Systems, an Allied company.  On the nights he doesn't teach karate--and on Saturdays--he lifts weights, runs, and swims.   

"A lot of people ask me how I do it, especially by me being over 50.  Sometimes I wonder how I did it myself."

He does all the exercises with his students.  Five hundred jumping jacks are not uncommon.  Occasionally, he does 1000.  The class works out and stretches for almost an hour before any karate technique are practiced.

"His training sessions are grueling," says Staton.  "People in reasonably good shape come there and suffer."

 Strong earns about $30 a week for teaching the class.  "These days everyone's out to make a buck," says Staton.  "Strong's out to make a student."

Strong recently quit his other part-time job.  From 1981 to 1984 he was a bouncer at Lum's, a Grace Street bar-restaurant.  From 1985 until 1989 he worked at Clay Street's Golden State.  "Mostly what came in the Golden State were what you'd call hoodlums.  When it was time for them to leave, I would give them their weapons back.  I didn't have anything to do with what they did with them after they left."

Strong himself was armed only with his reputation.  "Most of the young guys that came in the restaurant knew I was a karate instructor.  They mostly gave me respect."  But the job soured for him last year.  "When I started being a bouncer, people were not that strong into drugs to make these young guys start shooting each other and shooting innocent people.  A lot of times fights would break out in the bars and the place would be so crowded I couldn't get over to where the fight was to stop it.  Then somebody would pull a gun.  If I could get over there they would listen to me and I could prevent the shooting.  But if I couldn't get over there--there have been people shot in the Golden State--wounded, not killed--when I could just not get over to where the guys were shooting . . . I had to give it up.  It was too much on my hands."

Strong has spent two decades in the martial arts.  Staton has been studying them almost as long.  Why spend all those years learning to fight when you could just buy a gun?

"Guns misfire," says Staton.  "My hands never mishit."  Yet he admits to owning a pistol.  "This is the 20th century.  My gun is for my home, to protect my family.  But I feel like this:  If I go in a place where I have to carry a gun, I shouldn't be there.

"A lot of people build self-confidence over a handgun.  They boast, they become brave, they become obnoxious.  But if you have nothing but skin and bones, you tend to think more.  You tend to choose your words more carefully, and if you can avoid a confrontation, you will.  But if you've got that gun you're going to boast.  You know you've got protection--a gun makes a fool."

"Karate shows me how to stay out of trouble without fighting," says Marcus Del Rio, another of the black belts associated with Strong's class.  "If I can walk away from a fight, I will walk away.  But if they corner me--that's when I will use my karate.  Just like the cat . . ."  Del Rio touches the patch depicting a tiger on his white gi, or karate uniform.  "When you corner a cat he's going to fight until he gets out of that corner." 

Along with Golden Bilal, who has done bodyguard work for Jesse Jackson, Del Rio teaches his own class of traditional Japanese, or Shotokan, karate at the John Marshall High School gym on Tuesday and Thursday nights from 6 to 8 p.m.  Sonny Strong's style is called Chinese Kempo.  Ask Tyrone Staton what he's studied and it sounds like he's reciting a Chinese dictionary.  Then he mentions casually that he's also studied savate, the French art of kick boxing, while he was stationed near Paris with the Marines.  There are as many styles of martial arts as there are denominations in the Protestant Church.

Strong's class at the Y often resembles a graduate seminar in karate, with visiting black belts from many other styles and schools.  Occasionally, they outnumber the students.

Sonny Strong grew up tough in Detroit.  "I was in a lot of street fights," he says.  "I have been cut.  I have been hit on the head with sticks, bricks--I have been double banked--that's what you call it when three or four guys jump on you.  Or you might start fighting with a brother and two or three brothers jump in.  When I was coming up there wasn't too much shooting with guns--it was street fighting with sticks and knives."

Strong started lifting weights and boxing as a young teenager.  He was the only one in his family so athletically inclined.  "They were all into music."  He continued boxing in the Army, serving two years after volunteering in 1957.  A barracks tattoo testifies to an early romance with Joyce Washington.

He came to Richmond in 1965.  "I was heading to Florida to look for work."  His plan was to stop here two weeks and look for a part-time job.  He applied at Dun-Mar, the company where he's worked ever since.  "I got the job the same day I arrived in Richmond.  I haven't seen Florida yet."

In 1970, he was lifting weights at the downtown Y.  A karate class met in the next room.  Strong watched them during his breaks and eventually joined.  He had just turned 36. 

"I thought it was kind of old to start in the martial arts but I'm looser and more flexible today than I was back in 1970.  I feel like I'm in better shape, and I feel good and I'm more active. I don't care if you're in your 30s, your 40s, your 50s, or even your 60s--the older you are, the better the arts will do for you."

While vibrantly healthy for the most part, Strong admits to an occasional cold--where do the germs get the nerve?--and a bout with the flu this winter was his first since leaving the army in '57.  Also: "I sleep wonderful.  Once I hit the sack I don't get up until the next morning when the clock goes off."

But karate has its downside.  A shoulder injury from an April tournament has been reluctant to heal.  "I fight in all the local tournaments," says Strong.  "It doesn't take much to crack your ribs when you're over 50.  "On my right side my ribs have been cracked seven times.  On my left side my ribs have been cracked twice."  Some of that was in his early days in karate, when tournament competitors fought without protective gloves and footgear.  But a couple of those cracks have been incurred in class.  Strong insists that for his students his class is "very safe--but you must understand when I fight against my black belts I tell them to use force.  I tell the to make contact.  Because if I am caught in the street and one or two guys jump me--they're not going to be coming easy.  You've got a lot of people over 50 walking the street who cannot fight.  I want to be able to fight to take care of myself."

Strong was promoted to his black belt in 1976 and took over teaching the Y class two years later.  Since that time, he's never taken a break from teaching or competing because of injuries.

He doesn't remember how many trophies he's won, but guesses about 150 in the last ten years.  Sometimes he gives them away to kids in the neighborhood "my young fans."

Strong prefers not to teach children, referring them to Kim School at 1617 West Broad Street.  There are many black belts who, like Tyrone Staton, teach "privately to a select few."  If you're thinking of taking karate, Strong's class at the Y may or may not be your cup of tea.  The Yellow Pages have more than a dozen entries under "karate."  Consumer Reports doesn't rate the martial arts--you're pretty much on your own.  Go and watch before you sign up and consider carefully if you're asked to sign a contract.

You can see a variety of styles and practitioners at the local karate tournaments.  There's about one a month in the Richmond area.  Strong himself is having one Sunday, October 14, at the downtown Y.  Last year there were 160 competitors.  The tournament starts at 11 a.m.  The more skilled fighters tend to be competing toward the end of the event.  Strong himself will close the tournament with a "knockdown drag-out" match with Wayne Turner, a 31-year-old black belt.  "Wayne will come at me with full-force, full power.  What he's really trying to do is down me, knock me out.  And I'll be trying to knock him out of course."  Of course.  "Last year I beat him 10 to 2.  The year before that, I beat him 10 to 8.  This year I am going to beat him 10 to nothing.  I am not going to let him get near a point."

Turner chuckles a long time over Strong's statement.  "Don't make me laugh.  He's not going to beat me ten to zero."  He disputes Strong's memory of the score.  "He beat me last year by one point.  The year before that he beat me by two.  This year it ain't happening like that.  He might get a big surprise and he might get beat ten to zero.

"As a fighter, Sonny's a great person.  As a person, Sonny's a great person.  But when tournament day comes and we hit the floor, it's all over."

Turner is a third-degree black belt who does 10 p.m. to 4 a.m. security for the McDonald's at Belvedere and Broad.  Although he works with a crew of two to three other officers, "when bad things come up, I mostly handle them by myself.  And if I can run McDonald's, I can run that tournament floor."

It's a little after 8, Monday evening at the Y.  Strong's black belts are practicing kicks on the air shield, a crescent-shaped bag with handles, held chest-high.  Jerry Haskell begins.  He is one of only two students promoted to the black belt by Strong in twelve years of teaching.  The other is a woman, Bonnie Gunn. 

Haskell's kicks are like the old joke about the small town--if you blink you miss them.  By the time one registers, the next one's already in.  An essay in speed and precision. 

Haskell finishes quickly, then holds the bag for Marcus Del Rio.  Del Rio's kiais, or karate yells, fill the room.  The impact of his foot on the bag sounds like a truck hitting a wall.

Next up is the heavyweight, Tyrone Staton.  "Move away from the window," he directs Haskell. 

"Wait a second, Master Tyrone," says Strong.  He moves behind Haskell and anchors him by holding his shoulders.  "OK.  Now."  Both of them are moved when Staton kicks the bag.  This is the foot that cracked the Strong ribs.

Strong calls Staton "Master," an address of respect for a person who has been promoted to a 5th-degree black belt.  Strong himself is a 6th.  Marcus Del Rio's 3rd degree black belt entitles him to be called Sempai in the Shotokan system.  The students call them all Sensei, which simply means instructor.

Kicks finished, the students practice kata--dance-like, rhythmic exercises consisting of punches, kicks and blocks.   Sort of like a music student practicing scales.  There are different katas for each belt level, about 30 in all.

Korean/Japanese karate guru Mas Oyama says students need to learn kata "totally."  To accomplish this, "it is necessary to practice kata from 3,000 to 10,000 times each."  Mas Oyama is the guy who's famous for killing a bull with his bare hands in a karate demonstration movie.

After kata, the students practice self-defense.  These techniques are truly terrifying.   Most of them involve broken arms and knees, and, after the takedown, kicks to the solar plexus, groin, and head.  At least they're all defensive--the other person has to attack first with a punch or a club or a knife.

"Fighting gear!" says Strong.  The students rush to put on their sparring equipment. 

 "You're not sitting against my wall?"  The student looked too much like he was relaxing.

"No, Sensei."

"You better not be--you'll do pushups."

 "Yes, Sensei."

Characteristically, Strong gets his gear on first.

 "Who's ready?"

A student appears.  "Bow to me."  says Marcus Del Rio, who's judging.  "Bow to each other.  Hajime!"  Japanese for begin.

Punches are traded, points scored.  It's 2 to 2 in a 3-point match.  Strong isn't going hard--the student's a beginner--but he throws one with moderate force.  It isn't supposed to make contact, but the student zigs when Strong expects him to zag.  The student, "leading with his face," almost catches it on the chin.

"Break!" says Del Rio.  Headdresses the student: "You've got to respect the Sensei.  You don't want to run into that."  He points at the place in the air where the punch had gone.  The student, awed, nods dumbly.  This was only The Jab, not The Hook--but it parted his hair on the way in and sucked wind when it left. 

"That's a point!" says Del Rio.  "Bow to me!  Bow to each other.  Touch gloves."

Karate's elaborate protocol takes some getting used to for democratic Westerners.  Everyone's always bowing.  Student's bow when they enter the dojo, or practice room.  They bow to their instructor and to any black belt who enters the room.  They bow to each other before and after they spar.  It's the essential gesture in a tradition that stresses respect.

Tyrone Staton refuses to name names in this anecdote.  "We went to a tournament and there was a gentleman there . . . he was very large.  He decided to single Sonny Strong out as the man to beat.  Why tempt fate?  Well, he wanted to.  He went over and told Sensei to his face 'I'm going to take you out.’  I was there talking to the Sensei and I said, 'Don't give this guy a break.'"

Whenever a point is scored in a karate match the referee stops the fighting to get the opinion of the judges and register the point.  "The first time they started, they clashed and the guy tried to hit him after the break.   If the blow had made contact it would have knocked Sensei out--but it didn't.  I said, 'Don't wait.  Kiss him Sensei.  Kiss him!'"

Sensei hit him with that death-hook and put him in a coma for three days.  The man dropped like somebody had shot him with a 30-06.  One blow, two sounds--Sensei hit him, he hit the floor. 

"I find that particular incident a perfect example of what tournaments and the martial arts are not.  Sensei was put in a position where he had to defend himself.  The man had a vendetta that was unprovoked.  His sole intention was to do serious harm.

"We went to the hospital to check on him.  And to this day he won't compete, nor will he speak to the Sensei."

"I wouldn't start things with people," says Strong.  "But before I got into the martial arts, I had a quick temper and I would go off and fight in a minute.  But now I can argue with a person and walk away.  The arts teach you respect for the other person.  There are so many things you can do.  And because of your training you can do them so easy--you know how to break arms, snap necks--if someone swings on you can block and hit them in the throat--you can do these things but you don't.  Look at the damage they would cause--it wouldn't make sense.

"Sometimes if I see some young guys getting ready to fight, I will cross the street and say, 'Hey, don't fight.’ There was a time when I would cross the street and sit on the curb and watch them fight--hope they would fight so I could see who would win--but since I've been in the martial arts I don't like to see people get hurt."

Another night at the dojo.  Strong's sparring with one of his underbelts.  Once again, he's not going all out--but he's not just playing tag either--this student's had some experience.

Strong throws a punch.  He wants it to be blocked, expects it to be blocked, but it gets in, catching the student on the cheek.  It's a hard subject Strong teaches, and he has to go hard to teach it--but he grabs the student's head and holds it for a few seconds, the way a mother would hold a baby.

"You all right?"  Strong's patting the student's cheek with his fighting glove.

"Uh-huh," the student says. 

 "You sure?'

 "Yeah, I'm OK."

 "Alright."

 They return to the center of the dojo.  "That's a point," says Marcus Del Rio.  "Score: one, zero.  Hajime!"

 The sparring continues.

 “The Mystique of the Martial Arts” first appeared in the September 25, 1990 issue of Style Weekly.