Pet Cobra

Ball Don't Lie

Rashid Wallace is the best kind of enemy: he's batshit crazy, and so he yells at refs and gets kicked out of games. Oh, and he believes that there's some sort of Higher Power that brings order to the Basketball Universe. Much like Rerun believed in the power of Ralph, merely a head of lettuce to the rest of us, 'Sheed believes in Ball. "Ball don't lie", he says. Watch - when a player benefits from a shitty call and goes to the line, the ball will go CLANG off the rim, one, two, even three times. The natural balance of the game is restored. Ball don't lie.

I was at an event last night, a dinner benefitting the San Diego Council on Literacy. I played a small part in putting it together; I'm not a big fan of Causes, but words matter, and it was an honor to do something for a group that helps people who are struggling with them.

Writing turns on the lights. To read is to see. 

These days, there is talk of a Year of The Dadblog. You won't hear me complaining about that. Years of work are beginning to show rewards of a different kind. (I won't apologize for that. If I'm "less pure" or a "sellout" for making some money from writing, I'll happily take my place with every other literary mercenary.) More than that, I'm proud that my other site and the guys who continue to WRITE for it are being recognized as such. WRITERS, not bloggers.

Why the all caps? To hammer home a point, one that my friend Ron slyly discusses in this excellent post. Quality matters. And when we speak of quality, we're really talking about one thing: good writing. 

In basketball, without fundamentals, you have no game. Can't dribble? Can't pass? Can't shoot? Best stay away from Venice and The Cage, and don't even think about Staples or the Garden. The same is true of our particular arena. 

And even if you do master the fundamentals - well, who ya got, MJ or Tim Duncan? Larry Bird or Adam Morrison? Here's the thing: I love to write. And when you love an Act - writing, surfing, sex, basketball - you take that Act and you make it a Dance, and you make that Dance your own. You're not content to do what the instructors or the manuals tell you. You go left instead of right. You do a finger-roll when everyone knows you're gonna dunk. You take off late when that wave is about to break over your head. You slow it down instead of speeding it up. What everyone else does is what you don't. That's what separates a writer from a blogger.

Can't spell? Don't know how to form sentences? Satisfied with rehashing the same stuff that's been said over and over and over again? Afraid to write the unexpected and the contrary, the obscure and the Flat-out Weird? 

Good luck. 

Ball don't lie.

In Lieu Of An Actual Post, Here Is A Video Of Iron Man Punching Hugh Grant In The Face.

Muscle Memory

This evening: the instructor has rolled out two standing punching bags. He informs us that we are to do as many Middle Punches - the fist in chamber, leveled at the ribcage, targets the opponent's solar plexus. Done correctly at full speed and assuming the other guy doesn't block it, the first two knuckles of the fist will hit that target, and the opponent will collapse like a house of cards, the wind knocked out of him. Our sa bom nim - the Master Instructor and owner of the studio - likes to tell us that one should never start a fight, but if a fight is unavoidable, one should know how to finish it. 

This is my fourth class since returning. I stopped - rather, took a break - eight years ago. Ever since Lucas began - has it been two years? - I've had it in my head to join him. That whisper rose to a fever pitch over the winter. I found myself feeling a lot like Captain Willard, pacing in his Saigon hotel room, getting soft. I needed exercise - the gym is an obligation, surfing is a luxury, but this...this we could do together, father and son bonding. We'd help each other, encourage each other, make each other stronger. You put your kid in martial arts class for many reasons - teach him discipline, give him self-confidence, train him to protect himself from any bullies that might want to dole out some pain.

We grown-ups, we go for many reasons. It's a good workout - my white canvas uniform, my do-bak, is soaked through after every class. Paradoxically, it's very relaxing - your thoughts are fixed on nothing save those two knuckles, or the balls of your feet, or the edge of your hand. Everything else - bills, deadlines, that rattle coming from beneath the hood - is shut out. You move through the 22 steps of a hyung - a routine of blocks, kicks, poses, and punches - and you may as well be standing atop Mudeungsan, alone but for the leafless trees and the winds blowing down from Manchuria. 

I stand in front of the bag, in the Horse stance - feet about shoulder width apart, knees bent, both fists at my side, palms up. Chambered. (It's a good term. Like bullets in a gun.) "Begin!" I throw my punches. My mind goes white. There is always a temptation to project a face onto the bag - someone who, real or imagined, wronged you. Every day is a past life, memories become myths, and all myths have their villains. And the truth of it is that that justice never finds them. Not that it matters. All that matters is that black bag. Those two knuckles pound it with a force unaffected by regrets or rage. Technique is craft, not art; craft is unswayed by emotion. Exhale as you punch, fist revolves, first two knuckles strike and drive through the target. Again. Again. Again. Again. I lose count somewhere around forty. There's Runner's High, which I know well, and there's this, a euphoria of  Speed and Power. I feel eight years younger and ten pounds lighter, in flesh and in spirit. There is another dad, a belt higher than me, in the class and I'm doing something he didn't. The bag is heavy - it weighs over 200 pounds. Every time I hit it, it slides back about an inch. "Annnnnnnd...done!" My last punch - THUD! - and my bellowed ki-yap is loud, and that volume was earned. I turn, face the instructor, bow, and return to the line of students. My heart's pounding and sweat's running into my eyes. I'm totally relaxed. "Nice job!", the instructor says. "Sir!", I reply.

I've been enjoying the classes immensely. I love the camaraderie. I like the challenge of trying to remember stuff I haven't done in eight years, things that by all account I should not be able to do as I near 41. I like having these 45 minutes to take myself out of my world, and completely immerse myself in this one. I think - I know - that returning to tang soo do will be good for me, mentally and physically. And there's this, and anyone who denies it is lying: punching the shit out of something and doing it well is awesome.