- 45 minutes ago
- 4 min read
It’s not my intention to hurt anyone’s feelings or to make anyone angry. Nor do I wish to belittle accomplishments or enthusiasm. However, if you’re a serious karateka, you need to consider the enormous differences between karate pursued as a combat art and karate pursued as a sport.
Karate as a combat discipline is a repository of remarkable, layered and complex methods and concepts. Far beyond the physical techniques, the strategies of good karate are sophisticated and, when implemented correctly, brutally effective.
While some of these strategies may have application in sport, most do not. That’s because the goals of combat and sport are not the same. While this may seem obvious, often it’s not—particularly in the mind of some modern practitioners.
In terms of karate as a combat art, you are a predator. This will shock some readers. We’re accustomed to thinking of predators, particularly in human form, as evil. Predators are aggressive. Karate is “self-defense.” We’re not supposed to be out searching for prey. By “predator,” however, I mean the mentality that’s generated through the practice of karate or another budo.
Sport is, one way or another, a performance. The karateka who jerks to attention and roars “Kanku-dai!” to announce his kata in a competition is, essentially, performing. He may interpret this behavior as “showing strong spirit.” It is, nevertheless, an affective behavior, a display. Karateka in tournaments typically demonstrate this. In kata competitions, maniacal screams and kabuki-like scowls are practically mandatory.
Affective behaviors can be effective. In baseball, for example, a batter who steps out of the box at just the right moment can disrupt the concentration of the pitcher. In some ways, the heavily loaded belt of a police officer is an affect. It looks intimidating and can influence those seeing it who might otherwise be tempted to engage in a crime.
However, such displays rarely do much in the face of a serious threat. Think about how effective it is to adopt a martial arts posture in front of a robber who’s pointing a gun at you.
Compare this affective behavior—shouting and posturing—with that of a classic predator. A tiger about to attack does not roar. It does not make displays. A tiger approaching its prey looks almost casual. It’s relaxed. It’s completely absorbed in what’s going on, but there’s no external demonstration of aggression.
The reasons for the tiger’s attack behavior—and the success it leads to—are numerous.
First, when you announce your “strong spirit” to an opponent, you provide him with information about you. Giving an opponent information is always a bad idea. He can now ramp up his own aggression or become more careful and calculating based on what you’ve shown him. The tiger shows nothing. No fear, no aggression. Its prey gets no clues.
As important, the shouting and extravagant display behavior of those in a sporting arena require a tremendous amount of energy and adrenaline. It’s impossible to maintain that level for long. This is the essential lesson in confronting post-traumatic stress disorder.
Soldiers forced to be “on the edge” without being taught to calm down, to release the energy once the threat of combat is over, cannot always deal with reality imposed by peaceful situations. (Classical martial arts once used on the battlefield by samurai often contain intricate methods, chants and rituals designed to deal with this stress.)
Many years ago, I was at a judo shiai, one in which the final match was intense. The two contestants had worked their way through several opponents over the day. Their victories were hard won. Everyone could feel the excitement for the final, and it went to the last few seconds before one young man made a clean throw and won. Loud cheers erupted. The winner was surrounded by a crowd, clapping him on the back.
Shortly afterward, there was a brief awarding of medals. The winner’s gold was looped around his neck. He walked off the mat, that goofy, relieved smile of happiness on his face, still receiving congratulations.
His sensei appeared in the crowd.“Let’s do randori,” the sensei said. Free practice.
“Now?” the guy asked.
“Now.”
It was the hardest judo practice I have ever done. My body had already relaxed, dumping the excess adrenaline I’d generated all day. My legs and arms felt filled with jelly. It wasn’t a matter of being tired; it was more that I’d geared myself up, worked myself to a furious level of intensity. Now that it was over, my mind told me it was time to relax, to drop the intensity.
When I was called on to “get up to fighting speed” unexpectedly, I was overwhelmed.
I was using a sporting model of behavior. My sensei reminded me with that post-shiai randori that judo is not a sport; it’s a martial art. And one must be expected to maintain not an intense, focused concentration but a relaxed, consistent level of awareness that doesn’t fluctuate wildly.
Again, this is not to diminish karate as a sport. Rather, it’s to emphasize the critical differences between the mind of the athlete and the mind of the martial artist. For the latter, performance is not the standard. Performances have different goals, different applications.
Remember that the natural realm of the tiger is not in the circus ring. The nature of the tiger is expressed in a very different place.
