Body Language

I was away at college when my father rented space in his building to a martial arts instructor. As part of the deal, my brothers and parents received free karate lessons. I believe they stopped taking classes shortly after my mother caused one black belt student to collapse from an unintentional kick to the groin.

I never thought too much about karate until my oldest son enrolled in a local Tiger Schulman Karate school. I learned that sitting in the lobby of a dojo can be just as precarious as facing punches and kicks on a mat, especially when you have a charismatic and persuasive sensei eying you as a prospective student. Every father wants to share an activity with his son, and I acquiesced when I realized I had a better chance succeeding in karate than mastering the intricacies of his video games collection.

Back then, the idea of actually achieving a black belt seemed as dubious as paying three dollars for a gallon of gasoline. The last time I successfully completed an athletic goal occurred in tenth grade, when after years of failed attempts, I finally managed to climb the rope in gym. I basked in the glow of this achievement only long enough to realize that no one had showed me how to climb down. I still have the rope burns to prove it.

My tenure as a white belt confirmed most of my initial fears. I was simply awful. I had no stamina, strength or flexibility. I was clumsy. I punched like a girl (As an important point of clarification, I should add that most of the ladies in my class can disarm almost any man in seconds). I did find I had a talent for yelling pretty loud, which turned out to be a useful way for concealing pain.

Friends and family had a difficult time understanding how getting punched and kicked several times a week or breaking wood with my bare hands represented a great way to get in shape. My bosses kept worrying that I would show up one morning with a cast on my hand or crunches under my arms, a prophecy that became partly true after I tore cartilage in my knee.

I did have a few things working for me. Being a lifelong Red Sox fan taught me how to balance frustration with patience. I was too competitive to accept my limitations and too stubborn to quit. And I made sure there was always enough Advil nearby.

As my belts became more colorful, I found that hard work and consistent training could overcome limitations of age or athletic skill. I also realized that you're never alone when you're surrounded by other people sweating and grunting along with you. It felt good to get encouragement from fellow students. It felt even better when I could give encouragement to others.

One month shy of my 47th birthday, I stood in a crowded college auditorium before the three senseis who would decide if I deserved to receive a black belt. I usually rely upon PowerPoint to make persuasive arguments on my behalf, but on this day, the language would be more physical and direct-- a series of sharp movements and savage strikes accompanied by a loud cacophony of cries and shouts.

I fought off personal attacks, absorbed punches, and rolled on the ground with perfect strangers. It did not qualify as performance art, but I chose to make it memorable for anyone who cared to watch.

I have a picture on my desk of a smiling five-year old boy with the hopeful look that anything is possible. That boy is me. I thought I lost that innocent smile years ago, but on a recent Sunday afternoon, as I held a tightly woven piece of dark cloth in my hands, it appeared unexpectedly, like an old friend.

I always knew I look good in black.