Bobby Burbidge

While serving in the U.S. Army in Korea in 1963, I had the privilege of working with a number of very pious missionary priests. One of them once said to me, “The first sign of greatness is humility.” That statement always stayed with me, and as I got to know Burbidge through the years, it applied to him more than it could to anyone else I’ve known with the exception of Chuck Norris. Burbidge never sought the spotlight. He passed under just about everyone’s radar.

But he was also a rebel. He did things his own way, not really caring what the establishment thought. There’s always a price to pay when one takes the path of a rebel, but he made a choice to do things the way he did, never looking or asking for anyone’s approval. While that characteristic would probably cost him points in a popularity contest, he had the courage to live his life his way.

Burbidge started his martial arts career as a complex young man of 19. In 1968 he signed up for lessons at Sherman Oaks Karate Studio on Ventura Boulevard in Southern California. The studio was owned by Norris and Bob Wall, and I was the chief instructor. I can honestly say that in my 43 years in the martial arts, I’ve never trained a more intense student than Burbidge. It seemed like he never left the studio. He became like a son to my wife and me, and having been raised without a father, he turned to me when he needed to have a man-to-man talk. We had many of those.

Burbidge’s talent and skill showed very early on. By the time he was a green belt, he’d become my assistant instructor. When he was a red belt (the Korean equivalent of brown belt), he took over as the chief instructor at the school. By that time, Norris had opened a chain of seven large karate studios and appointed me the chief of instruction for them. Burbidge was the only non-black belt to ever hold the title of chief instructor at a Chuck Norris Karate Studio. It’s very hard for me to compare any person, as an instructor, to Norris, but Burbidge came closer than anyone I’ve known. He was old-school discipline from day one and never changed until the day he died.

As a competitor, there was no one more gifted than Burbidge. He had the respect and admiration of all his peers. His main assets as a fighter were incredible quickness and an ability to outthink bigger and stronger fighters. I don’t think any opponent ever successfully used the same technique against him twice.

But with all of this, the trait of Burbidge’s that will always stand out most in my mind is his charisma. He had it by the truckload. Everyone he allowed to penetrate his outer veneer loved him. He was kind, sensitive and caring to those he loved, but he could be as cold as stone to those he thought had wronged him. I know because I’ve been on both ends of that spectrum.

The last time I saw Burbidge was as he lay on his death bed in the hospital. My wife and I spent some precious time with him, during which I reminded him of the good times we’d shared. We even had a laugh in spite of the intense physical pain he felt.

When it was time for us to go, I hugged him and kissed him and said, “I love you, Bobby.” He hugged me and said, “I love you, too, Sabeom.” Those were the last words we said to each other. I will always carry that moment in my heart.

Burbidge’s life wasn’t a wasted life, for he left a legacy that carries a two-part message of incredible value to all martial artists: Don’t waste the talents God gave you, and don’t be afraid to express your true feelings. We all should heed that advice because none of us knows how long we have here.

(This profile originally appeared in the November 2005 issue of Black Belt.)