“Running Rings Around”
The U.S. Open Martial Arts Tournament was held this past Sunday at Queens College in New York. Speaking as a novice to the tournament scene and possessing only a single set of eyes, I cannot offer more than a limited perspective of the goings-on of the tournament as a whole. However, I hope that my observations will serve as both a partial guide to, and means of encouragement for, any martial artist who is considering testing their skills in the ring.
First of all, one learns quickly that there is quite the gulf between preparedness and readiness. Being ready means that you have: physically conditioned yourself at least adequately, practiced and re-practiced your move sets and sparring techniques, acquired a half-way decent knowledge base such that you’ve familiarized yourself with the pedigree and geographic origins of your forms (northern vs. southern, Kempo— vs. Tan Tui—derived, etc.), familiarized yourself with all of the protocols you might need to follow in the ring (bowing to the judges in turn, stating your name, school, and form if required, remaining in the ring until excused), registered for your events beforehand as to avoid the confusion and frustration that you will inevitably be confronted with otherwise, and brought with you both a will to succeed and an attitude that is quietly gracious in accepting both victory and defeat. For most martial artists, readiness is not an issue.
Preparedness, on the other hand, means knowing what to expect. This is partially a non-sequitur, given that tournaments like these deviate so heavily from their own scheduling. There’s a lot of hurry-up-and-wait involved: at one point, I was standing with some other competitors waiting to demonstrate my Tai Chi dao form when the call went out over the loudspeaker for anyone who was participating in light sanda to come forward with their registration cards. This prompted a run to and back from the stands to collect my sparring equipment and ticket, gearing up ringside while nothing much happened until I noticed my turn on the Tai Chi floor was coming up, doffing my equipment and securing the promise of a fellow student that he would watch it while I was off, heading to the stands again to grab my sword (which I had left there after my first go), demonstrating the Tai Chi form that I had been waiting since nine-thirty that morning to perform (it was close to two in the afternoon when I first bowed to the judges), hustling back to the sanda ring only to find out that the northern open hand forms had been called (which entailed yet another trip to the stands for that registration ticket), heading to Ring 4 to demonstrate Gung Li and, finally, coming to rest once again at the sanda ring and waiting for all of the latent adrenaline to bleed off. It helps to have a good team on the ground; when fellow students and coaches are acting as your eyes and ears around the tournament space and vice versa, everyone is much less likely to be shut out of events they had no idea were occurring. Coaches are particularly important in this respect, as they can act as central repositories for registration tickets (a lesson I learned at the cost of my own frenzied annoyance), as well as go-betweens for competitors involved in multiple simultaneous events to assure judges that yes, you will appear before them.
While scheduling—and the potential disorder therein—necessarily limits the number of events in which individuals can compete, the Open offered a multitude of opportunities for tournament neophytes to showcase their styles and skill-sets. Throughout the course of the day, I was reminded more and more of an article entitled “The Rules of the Game: Rodeo,” in which author Gretel Erlich describes both the proceedings and the personalities that imbue the last great sport of the American West with such appeal; from the graceful barrel racers, to the calf ropers, to the daredevil and flamboyant bull riders, the cowboys and girls of the rodeo circuit each bring a unique talent into the ring and stand, respectively, in a league of their own. The competitors of the tournament were entirely similar in these differences: in the space hosting the Tai Chi events, octogenarians ebbed and flowed across the floor like ballet dancers in slowed-time. Eager open-hand demonstrators blistered through their forms with technical acumen and focused intent. Push-hands competitors pressured, readjusted, and pressured again, coiled snakes angling for openings before striking and throwing their opponents off balance. And, of course, there were the ultimate sanda fighters: burly men in their late twenties and early thirties with calf tattoos and chin-straps whose naked aggression and tenacity in the ring would have made them at home in any mixed martial arts circuit in the country. And this is to say nothing of all those individuals competing in Shuai Jiao grappling, internal arts such as Ba Gua and Xing Yi, and a myriad of weapon forms from nearly every discipline under the roof.
It’s a lot to process. Little things help along the way. A good book can help ease the tedium when not rushing frenetically from event to event. Gatorade and energy bars are lifesavers. Teammates shouting encouragement and offering sparring tips boost morale and offer friendly shoulders when hope gives way to disappointment and confidence is shaken by a hard blow to the chest.
However, all these boons, while valuable, are secondary to what a competitor must bring innately to the floor: drive, discipline, patience, willpower, humility and, above all heart. The U.S. Open and tournaments like it are not just proving grounds for martial artists to demonstrate their skill and validate the time and hard work they have invested in honing their craft, but occasions to demonstrate the best of what they are and to excel beyond that, stepping stones on the road to their training. In the end, the best experience is not to be had by the martial artist who has possessed the most medals, but the one who is possessed of the greatest mettle.
by John Sudol
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