How a humble start, a master’s in psychology, and a passion for coaching shaped one of MMA’s rising grapplers. As the managing editor of Black Belt , I get to sit down with some incredible martial artists. But some interviews linger long after the camera turns off, and my virtual conversation with Natalie Salcedo was definitely  one of those moments. Curiosity Turns Into Passion Let’s rewind the clock.  Natalie’s journey into martial arts didn’t start with visions of the cage—it started with curiosity. “I originally started training Muay Thai as a teenager because a friend was doing it,” she laughed. “It was very recreational, once or twice a week. I just wanted something positive to do with my time.” Life, however, nudged her in unexpected directions. At her small, competitive gym, Natalie found herself jokingly “peer-pressured” into jiu-jitsu. At first, she resisted—after all, striking was her comfort zone. Yet three or four months later, she admitted, “Okay, I kind of like this,” and grappling became her passion. Her days now are a blend of coaching and training—Muay Thai, MMA transitions, timing rounds, technical sparring, and plenty of jiu-jitsu. Training, Coaching, and Growth Coaching has sharpened her own performance in unexpected ways. “Being a coach is really beneficial because it forces you to really look at what people are doing. Like, how can you pick people apart? And obviously in class, it’s for the purpose of helping your students—like, okay, I see your foot’s not turning all the way, I see you’re dropping your hand here, I see your weight’s a little off, and that’s why you’re struggling.”  she explains. Watching and analyzing students’ movements has strengthened her ability to adjust mid-fight, giving her a mental edge that rivals any physical skill. The Mental Edge That edge is amplified by her master’s degree in sports psychology, earned earlier this year, and shaped further by her husband’s military experience in resilience training. “Someone can have all the potential, but then they fall apart—and it’s just because the mindset isn’t there. Especially at the elite level, I really think that’s what separates people.”  she says. Aggression With Intention Her fight style? Aggressive—but intentional. Standing shorter than many partners she works with, Natalie learned to push forward, set the pace, and blend instinct with strategy. For anyone watching her story unfold, she has one key message: “Never be afraid to chase your dreams based on how long it will take. Ten years from now, the time is going to pass anyway. You can either be where you are now, or ten years into your progress.” Natalie Salcedo is a ONE Championship fighter, a coach, a scholar—and a reminder that passion paired with mindset can take you further than you ever imagined. See her in action on One Fight Night 35 , September 5th.

Some dreams find you when you're not looking. For Bampara Kouyate, one Instagram message transformed his entire world, launching the #2 -ranked featherweight Muay Thai contender from the familiar confines of training camps into the glamorous chaos of Milan Fashion Week. Now, he’s splitting time between throwing piercing kicks and striking poses, between “the art of eight limbs” and “the art of high fashion.” On September 5, the French-Malian striker will step into Bangkok's legendary Lumpinee Stadium to face Thai knockout artist Shadow Singha Mawynn at ONE Fight Night 35: Buntan vs. Hemetsberger on Prime Video. For Kouyate, victory could mean a shot at featherweight gold. But win or lose, he'll likely have a photoshoot scheduled for the following week. It's a lifestyle that began almost by accident, born from the same platform that connects fighters with fans worldwide. Social media opened a door Kouyate never knew existed. "I got a DM (direct message) from an agent on Instagram, and I didn't reply because I thought it was a scam. Then I realized this was something real,” the 30-year-old recalled, describing a journey that reads like a modern fairy tale. “He asked me to sign with big agencies around the world, like in Italy, London, New York, Paris. So, I just started like this, and then I went to Milan Fashion Week." From that single Instagram message, Kouyate found himself walking the runways of one of the fashion world’s most prestigious events. But balancing elite-level Muay Thai training with the demands of international modeling has created a lifestyle that would exhaust most people. But not for Kouyate. For him, it's become the rhythm of his life. "It's been completely different and very intense to combine both. A lot of travel, a lot of shootings, training, flights. My life is very intense, but I love it. I really love it, actually, to be active and feel productive," he explained, revealing the mindset that allows him to thrive in such a demanding dual existence. The constant movement between photo studios and training facilities, fashion capitals and fight venues, could easily overwhelm someone less committed to both crafts. Yet Kouyate has found success in each arena, building a modeling portfolio that spans continents while establishing himself as one of ONE Championship's most dangerous strikers with TKO victories over America's Luke Lessei and Thailand's Jo Nattawut. What makes this balancing act possible isn't just physical stamina or time management – it's Kouyate's unique perspective on what connects these seemingly opposite pursuits. "This feeling for me, it's just amazing. To do something that I love, and get money for it — that's just amazing. I'm just very grateful to life, and I love it," he shared, his appreciation evident in every word. But perhaps most revealing is how Kouyate sees the deeper connection between standing in front of cameras and standing across from opponents intent on his destruction. Where others might see contradiction, he sees harmony. "It's extremely different things, but the main part is art. For me, I see the artistic part from fashion and from Muay Thai. For me, it's just art, and I'm an artist," Kouyate offered. Now, as he prepares for his battle with Shadow, Kouyate stands at a crossroads where his dual careers could converge in the most meaningful way. Victory would likely earn him a title shot, potentially making him one of the few people on Earth who could claim to be both a legitimate fashion model and a Muay Thai World Champion. For the man who sees beauty in both fashion and fighting, it's just another day at the office – albeit one that millions will be watching.

Loss has a way of reshaping champions, and for Jackie Buntan, the pain of losing her father has become fuel for her most ambitious goal yet. The ONE Women's Strawweight Kickboxing World Champion will step into the ring at ONE Fight Night 35 this coming Friday, September 5, carrying both the weight of grief and the dream of making history as she battles Austrian striker Stella Hemetsberger for the vacant ONE Women’s Strawweight Muay Thai World Title. It's a quest that takes on deeper meaning following the December 2024 passing of her father, who lost his courageous two-year battle with colon cancer at the age of 64. For the 28-year-old Filipina-American warrior, the upcoming clash at Bangkok's legendary Lumpinee Stadium represents more than just another title shot – it's a chance to honor the man who watched her rise from a pre-teen training at Boxing Works in Southern California to becoming a global martial arts superstar. Jackie Punches Wondergirl "My father was dealing with that cancer battle for pretty much two years. Close people around me knew. There's certain parts of my life I don't share. We all do private stuff, but so many people have experienced [losing a loved one]," Buntan reflected, her words carrying the weight of someone who understands that strength often comes through vulnerability. The journey to this moment began when Buntan made her ONE Championship debut in 2021, facing Nat "Wondergirl" Jaroonsak and announcing her arrival with a unanimous decision victory. It was a breakthrough moment that resonated far beyond the ring, especially for her father, who witnessed his daughter's star power reach international heights. "I fought 'Wondergirl,' and that was blowing up everywhere, especially on ABS-CBN, which is a big news channel out in the Philippines. He's like, 'Oh, my God, I saw you on ABS-CBN, this news channel in the Philippines.' That's when he realized: she's a star," Buntan recalled, the memory bringing both pride and pain as she remembers sharing that pivotal moment with him. Since that Muay Thai battle, Buntan has compiled an impressive 7-1 record in ONE Championship, culminating in her stunning victory over legendary striker Anissa Meksen to claim the strawweight kickboxing crown last November. Now, with the Muay Thai belt within reach, she faces the challenge of processing grief while pursuing greatness – a delicate balance that requires the same mental fortitude that makes champions. "Grief is – the best way I can explain it – is it's a trip. It's ongoing, and it comes in different waves. It comes in different emotions and, again, I don't think it's ever going to go away. It comes up randomly at the weirdest times," Buntan shared, offering insight into the reality that lies behind the warrior facade. Buntan Kneels Yet within that pain, she's found a source of strength that transcends the physical demands of elite competition. The memories of her father become both motivation and comfort, reminding her that love endures even when the person is gone. "It hurts to look back at the photos, but I'm grateful that I took them because it reminds me of the good times I had with him, and I'm fortunate enough to have that documented,” Buntan said. “All these memories I have of him are of us laughing, and they're good memories."  As she prepares for the biggest fight of her career, Jackie Buntan carries with her the lessons learned through love, loss, and the unbreakable bond between a father and daughter. In the hallowed halls of Lumpinee Stadium, she'll fight not just for championship gold, but for the memory of the man who always believed she was destined to be a star.

Early Days in Silat Fighters in Southeast Asia have practiced pencak silat for thousands of years, but it didn’t capture the attention of Western martial artists until the late 1980s. Suddenly, the Indonesian system was everywhere, with its vicious counterattacks and precision takedowns attracting self-defense practitioners who wanted the best in street-fighting functionality. As a bonus, it offered a fascinating dose of Asian culture. I had the good fortune of starting my silat training under Dan Inosanto in the early 1980s before it became popular. Several years later, Herman Suwanda, master of the mande muda style, started a class at the Inosanto Academy, which I naturally attended. Inosanto later got me into the backyard bukti negara group operated by Paul deThouars. With those wonderful teachers guiding me along the path, I was in silat heaven. Silat worked very well for me. As one of the original Dog Brothers — I was dubbed “Lucky Dog” — I used the art in the group’s all-out, minimal-protection stick fights. In our style of combat, which was deemed “too extreme” by UFC co-founder Art Davie, I was able to regularly apply foot sweeps and my go-to move, the tarik kepala , or head-tilt takedown. The latter technique proved so effective, in fact, that after some time, a couple of my fellow Dog Brothers asked me to stop using it because they feared someone would get injured. I used silat in stick-fighting tournaments, in a challenge stick match in the Philippines and in two empty-hand challenge matches. When people questioned the effectiveness of the style, my teachers would point to my success as proof that it really worked. All was well in the world of silat. Then came MMA. A Rude Awakening Back in the mid-1990s, MMA was called no-holds-barred fighting. I began training with some of the NHB pioneers — in particular, with Egan and Enson Inoue. The experience proved an eye-opener, to say the least. I couldn’t get my silat to work against athletes who had a strong grappling background. Sure, I wasn’t kicking them in the groin or gouging their eyes, but I had to acknowledge that most of my techniques didn’t function as planned. Example: I couldn’t break my opponent’s posture sufficiently to execute a good sweep or takedown. It was frustrating because I knew firsthand how effective silat takedowns could be. I’d used them against resisting opponents many times, but MMA was a different world. The grappler’s base was just too stable, and I couldn’t do the head tilt because my opponent’s neck was often too strong. To make matters worse, I found that my stance was vulnerable to wrestling takedowns. After months of trial and error — mostly error — I decided to set aside my silat skills. It was a sad and difficult decision, to be sure. I enjoyed being known as a silat fighter, but the truth had to come first. My goal in life was, and still is, to be the most effective martial artist possible and then to pass along my knowledge of functional skill development to my students. Silat wasn’t working, so I had to move on. Different Direction I began investing the majority of my energy in MMA and Brazilian jiu-jitsu while still maintaining my roots in kali, jeet kune do and muay Thai. The No. 1 lesson I learned during this period was that a person’s training method is paramount. You must contest against a resisting opponent or you’ll never be able to apply your techniques against a real aggressor. This proved so important that I coined a phrase: “If you want to learn how to fight, you must practice fighting against someone who is fighting back.”  The martial arts are that simple. As John Machado, one of my BJJ instructors, says, “No sparring, no miracles.” Ten years later, I was the owner of a BJJ black belt who had coached top fighters for matches in the UFC and other grappling events, but something was missing. Although I’d immersed myself in the fight sports for a decade, it dawned on me that I was neglecting the street-fighting facet of the martial arts. Yes, MMA definitely worked, but when there are no rules governing the combatants, you often need something more. My remedy was to put groin strikes, throat grabs and simulated eye attacks back into my sparring sessions. My partners and I trained with resistance — of course, while keeping safety at the forefront of our workouts. And things changed again. Renewed Recognition While sparring with a longtime training partner, I made a move in the clinch. He countered, and I countered back before flowing into a silat technique. Hmm. A few days later, I found myself in the clinch again. He effected a counter to my arm-drag attempt, and that left him open to a cross-arm trap. Another silat success! An hour before it occurred, I would have told anyone that the cross-arm trap is great for movies but nearly impossible to use against a real fighter — but I had just pulled it off. In subsequent sparring sessions, I got it again with other training partners. What was happening? Analysis: Most silat techniques work well in the clinch. Typically, a pencak practitioner makes a strong entry with a strike and, once his opponent is stunned, moves directly to a takedown. If the strike doesn’t have the desired effect, the silat stylist will remain in the clinch and likely resort to additional striking. Meanwhile, the opponent is striking, as well. If the silat stylist has good clinch-fighting skills, however, he can nullify the strikes while looking for an opportunity to unleash his next blow or set up a throw. The key to all this? Proficiency in the clinch. Supporting Skills To get to the clinch when your opponent is a street fighter who’s throwing wild punches is one thing. To do so safely when your opponent is an MMA fighter is quite another. You need kickboxing skills because a trained mixed martial artist is difficult to approach unless you possess solid strikes and tactics. Because MMA practitioners also are likely to be skilled wrestlers, anyone who intends to use silat as a base should work on takedown defense. It requires lots of experience to deal with the power, suddenness and penetration of a strong wrestler — which is where sparring with a resisting partner comes in. If your aim is to use a silat off-balancing technique in the clinch, you can increase your chance of success by using any number of street tactics. For instance, you can maneuver into position to grab his throat, then lift to make him rise onto his toes. Or you can slap him in the groin to cause him to bend forward — he usually will, even if he’s wearing protection. The best part is, such tactics can be practiced safely in sparring sessions, which is the optimal way to gain experience against an opponent who’s fighting back. Simple Solution Sparring has been removed from most of the silat that’s taught in the West because it was deemed too dangerous for modern society. But MMA is flourishing, and martial artists now have access to protective equipment that enables them to spar safely. Each of my silat instructors engaged in real fights while learning the art in Indonesia, and that experience gave them the ability to apply their knowledge against resisting opponents intent on doing them harm. If you want to be able to use an art like silat in a chaotic situation, you must train in an environment that mimics the street as much as possible, and that’s no-holds-barred fighting. Yes, learning the techniques and then practicing them with precision is important, but training with resistance is even more crucial if your goal is self-defense proficiency. It’s the single best way to make silat — or any other traditional martial art — functional in the MMA era. You need to be able to ensure that your techniques work against a mixed martial artist because nowadays there are lots of people, both good and bad, who have experience in this form of fighting. Photography by Paul Arakaki

Before Tae Bo became a household name , the martial arts world got its first real glimpse of Billy Blanks  in January 1983. That month’s issue of Karate Illustrated  put him on the cover—a breakthrough moment that introduced the future fitness icon to a national audience. For Blanks, it was more than just a photo op. At the time, he was dominating the national karate circuit , earning a reputation for his explosive, unorthodox style. One of his signature weapons was the cartwheel kick , a move so dynamic it became a trademark of his fighting arsenal. On the cover, Blanks strikes a confident pose alongside Tokey Hill , the former national champion and beloved son of Chillicothe, Ohio. The pairing symbolized a passing of the torch: Hill, the established star, and Blanks, the electrifying newcomer poised to redefine the game. This moment marked the beginning of Blanks’ rise—from tournament sensation, to martial arts legend, to cultural phenomenon whose influence would stretch far beyond the dojo. Learn more about this cover and the entire magazine preserved in digital format: https://www.blackbeltmag.com

Donnie Williams and Steve Muhammad , two towering figures of the Black Karate Federation (BKF) . Together, they formed a dynamic duo whose skill, charisma, and vision helped redefine not only the world of martial arts, but also the cultural identity of Black martial artists during the 1970s. Williams and Muhammad entered martial arts from diverse backgrounds, each carrying with them unique fighting philosophies and cultural experiences. This diversity was emblematic of the BKF, itself a collective born from the recognition that martial arts was more than just technique; it was a cultural mosaic. Kenpo karate became their shared language, but within it, they infused personal histories, traditions, and innovations. Their approach reflected both discipline and creativity, merging hard-earned fighting skills with a commitment to community empowerment. Williams trained in Korean arts under Byong Yu, Muhammad trained in Kenpo under the Parker system. Excerpts from the book. The 1970s was a time of social upheaval and rising Black consciousness in America. For Black martial artists, visibility in mainstream martial arts was limited, and opportunities often carried the weight of stereotype. Williams and Muhammad shattered these barriers. Through relentless training, strategic brilliance, and unmatched performance, they emerged as champions in major karate tournaments. They brought home victories that symbolized more than just medals, they were affirmations of Black excellence in a space that had long been exclusionary. Their influence extended beyond the dojo and the tournament floor. Hollywood, caught up in the martial arts craze, opened its doors to them. Both Williams and Muhammad appeared in iconic films such as Enter the Dragon  and Black Belt Jones , where their presence was more than cinematic spectacle, it was representation. For young Black audiences, seeing fighters who looked like them, commanding respect alongside martial arts legends, was revolutionary. Both Williams and Muhammad in a scene from Enter the Dragon While trophies and film roles amplified their fame, the enduring legacy of Williams and Muhammad was solidified in the written word. Their book, Championship Kenpo Karate , became a cornerstone in martial arts literature. A manifesto of their style blending technical precision with cultural pride. The book allowed them to pass on their philosophy to a global audience, ensuring that their knowledge and contributions would outlive the fleeting spotlight of competition and cinema. For many, Williams and Muhammad represented the pride of Black martial artists. They carried themselves not only as competitors but as cultural ambassadors, linking martial discipline with the broader movement of empowerment and representation. Their influence inspired countless practitioners who followed in their footsteps, seeing in them a model of how martial arts could serve as a vehicle for personal transformation and community strength. Their mosaic of styles, their cinematic presence, and their written legacy remind us that martial arts is not merely about fighting it is about identity, resilience, and legacy.

In Hyuk Suh , the founder of Kuk Sool Won, graced the November 1983 cover of Black Belt  magazine , but his story began long before that. Drawing on martial knowledge passed down from his grandfather—an instructor to Korea’s royal guard—he built Kuk Sool Won into a complete system blending strikes, throws, locks, weapons, and tradition. From South Korea to the United States and now to hundreds of schools worldwide, his legacy remains a living history of Korean martial arts. Learn more about this cover and the entire magazine preserved in digital format: https://www.blackbeltmag.com

Today marks the nationwide release of Trouble Man, the latest high-impact action thriller from martial arts legend Michael Jai White.  Black Belt Hall of Famer and Kyokushin expert, Michael Jai White brings a lifetime of martial arts experience to Trouble Man — both in front of and behind the camera. As star and director, he delivers a film that reflects his deep connection to the craft: precise, grounded, and persona. Set against the gritty backdrop of an urban underworld in flux, Trouble Man tells the story of a reformed enforcer drawn back into the fight when corruption threatens to engulf the city he’s tried to leave behind. White plays Marcus “Man” Jones — a disciplined but dangerous figure who uses brains, brawn, and balanced fists to navigate a violent criminal resurgence. But this isn’t just a showcase of brute force. As the title suggests, Trouble Man is as much about inner conflict as outer action. The film also boasts a strong ensemble cast, including Method Man, Mike Epps, and Orlando Jones, each bringing texture to a narrative that weaves between hard-hitting action and subtle humor. Martial arts stuntman Arnold Chon even makes crowd-pleasing appearances that will undoubtedly catch the eye of longtime fight choreography enthusiasts. And in a particularly notable turn, Gillian White—Michael Jai White’s real-life wife and a martial artist in her own right—joins the cast as the romantic interest with some serious fight credentials. In one standout scene, she stuns audiences with a flowing, elegant display of Wing Chun, adding another dimension to the film’s already rich martial arts tapestry. The first glimpse of the trailer had fans buzzing. It highlights all the elements we love in a Michael Jai White project: clean, technically sound martial arts sequences with real weight behind each move, a strong narrative arc, and those deadpan one-liners that made White’s Black Dynamite such a cult favorite. While the violence is present, it’s never gratuitous — instead, each fight is a carefully choreographed conversation, with White using his body like punctuation in a well-written script. As a director, White shows a refined eye for pacing and visual storytelling. He balances the grounded, character-driven moments with explosive action, never letting one overpower the other. This dual role — both behind and in front of the camera — cements White’s place not just as a martial arts icon, but as a multi-hyphenate filmmaker with a clear vision and deep respect for the craft. Whether you’re tuning in for the fight choreography, the sharp dialogue, or simply to see some of today’s best performers at the top of their game, Trouble Man delivers. It’s a love letter to martial arts cinema that doesn’t just honor the genre — it evolves it. Trouble Man is now available nationwide on major streaming platforms and in select theaters across the country. More info: http://www.samuelgoldwynfilms.com/trouble-man/

NEVER STOP EVOLVING Ricardo Liborio had spent most of the year preparing for a single match against grappling legend Mario Sperry at the Abu Dhabi Combat Club Submission Wrestling World Championship. Then, three weeks out, he fractured his wrist. Nearly 20 years earlier, when Liborio was considered one of the best Brazilian jiu-jitsu competitors on the planet, his career had come to a similarly sudden halt. It happened when a broken jaw and the 11 surgeries required to repair it had cost him almost two years of mat time, effectively ending his brief reign. The Superfight with Sperry was to be the first foray back into competition in 14 years for the 49-year-old Liborio, so he wasn’t about to let a broken wrist get in the way. “We’d drill light, and when he’d bump it, he would fall down in excruciating pain,” said Mike Brown, a student of Liborio’s and a longtime assistant coach for the American Top Team. “I thought there was no way he’d be able to compete, but he did. And he won. But he’s not like a normal guy — his skills were always legendary.” Affair of the Heart The legend of Ricardo Liborio began when he was just 14. He’d dabbled in judo, taekwondo and boxing before a meeting with a student of Carlson Gracie led him to Brazilian jiu-jitsu. “He was the uncle of this girl I was dating,” Liborio said. “I was sort of short and thick, and he said I’d be good at jiu-jitsu so I should go to Carlson Gracie’s to start training.” Gracie’s school in Rio de Janeiro has since assumed near-mythical status in the BJJ world based on the many champs who’ve come out of it, including Liborio and Sperry. Back then, the dojo contained several mat rooms: one that hosted the classes run by the late jiu-jitsu great Rolls Gracie, one where the majority of Carlson Gracie’s students trained — and then there was “Room 301.” Only members of Carlson’s competition team were allowed into that room. “It didn’t matter what belt you were, you had to be selected to train in there,” said Liborio, who, by dint of practicing four to five hours every day, was elevated into Room 301 in less than a year. “It wasn’t for everybody. It was tough, very fast-paced. The pressure was the highest level you could get.” Pressure Cooker Liborio thrived on the pressure, continuing his manic training schedule through college. He’d get up early to run, then train at 7 o’clock each morning before taking classes at the university. For lunch, he’d spend another hour doing jiu-jitsu. “Carlson understood my time was limited, but he never let me slack,” Liborio said. “He’d say, ‘You have to go train, you have to go compete.’ He knew I’d do the work because I was passionate about it.” Liborio’s passion led to success, garnering him an entry in the first Brazilian jiu-jitsu world championship in 1996. There, he competed as a superheavyweight, two classes above his actual weight class, to exact revenge on Leo Castello Branco, one of the few who had beaten him in competition. Liborio stormed through the division, taking first place and then making the finals of the open-weight division. He ended up bowing out to fellow Carlson Gracie teammate Amaury Bitetti. “He was one of the strongest guys in the academy, and in the championships he executed the same way he trained — he was amazing,” said Bitetti, who is perhaps best-known to Americans for his matches in the UFC 9 and UFC 26. “But in competition back then, what prevailed was the law of Carlson Gracie, which was whoever had trained there longer takes it, so that was it.” Having submitted nearly every opponent he faced that day, Liborio was selected for the Most Technical Black Belt award. Ironically, it was that consolation prize that launched him to real fame in the jiu-jitsu world. Separate Ways Not long afterward, with Carlson Gracie living in the United States and unable to train his senior students in Brazil, much of Gracie’s competition team — including Liborio and Sperry — broke off to form their own gym, which became known as the Brazilian Top Team. Although the split led to some hard feelings, Liborio still credits his mentor for his own coaching success. “He was always on top of everybody, motivating people, pushing the right buttons,” Liborio said. “Every personality requires a different motivation. Some people you push too much, and they drop out. Others, if you don’t push them enough, never achieve the higher levels. Carlson knew just the right buttons to push. One hundred percent I learned this from him, and it still motivates me to do what I do today.” What Ricardo Liborio does today is coach, arguably, the most successful mixed-martial arts team in the world. Jaw-Dropping Success When his jaw injury curtailed his competitive career, Liborio initiated the transition from fighter to coach, working with Brazilian Top Team martial artists in Japan and America. In the United States, he met Florida businessman and MMA enthusiast Dan Lambert. Along with BTT members Marcelo Silveira and Marcus “Conan” Silveira, they decided to form their own fight team. Liborio reached an amicable settlement with his old partners at BTT, giving them his share of the group in return for the right to use the “Top Team” name for the new and separate American Top Team. The rest is history. The American Top Team gym has placed dozens of competitors in the Ultimate Fighting Championship. It now has more than 50 affiliate schools around the world, and its main facility in Coconut Creek, Florida, recently moved into a 30,000-square-foot building replete with dormitories where visiting fighters can live while prepping for matches. Most important, the American Top Team is the only MMA entity in the world to have two current UFC champions: welterweight Tyron Woodley and women’s bantamweight Amanda Nunes. That success hasn’t come without controversy, though. Several notable American Top Team fighters have tested positive for banned substances in the past year. Liborio is quick to point out that he disapproves of such practices. “In the end, it’s the fighter’s responsibility for what they put into their own body,” he said. “You ask them, and they say, ‘No, Coach, I’m not taking it.’ Then they test positive. Sometimes you feel like you’re wasting your words. But I believe the increased testing is going to save the health of fighters.” Donations Welcome Although his own approach to fighting is rooted in Carlson Gracie’s style of Brazilian jiu-jitsu, Liborio has branched out to take an eclectic approach to martial arts. “For someone who was a famous technician with a ton of credentials, he’s as open-minded as can be,” Brown said. “He will take information from anyone on the mat. Even if it’s a white belt who’s doing something good, he’ll stop and say, ‘Let’s go see what that guy’s doing.’” Much of what Liborio teaches is based on the venue for which the athlete is training. “The rules of jiu-jitsu are different from the rules of grappling, which are different from the rules of MMA, which differs from self-defense,” Liborio said. “You have to teach them what the main goal is for each one. “However, with MMA, if I teach someone the main goal is simply to win, it would probably be the worst thing for his career because I’d make the guy a very boring fighter. With MMA, you have to turn heads and put people in the seats.” In the early days of mixed-martial arts competition, there was the perception that head-turning techniques like high kicks were not effective because wrestlers and jiu-jitsu practitioners were dominating the game, frequently dragging strikers to the mat and submitting them. However, in recent years, MMA has seen a renaissance among strikers, with spectacular techniques like knockout head kicks becoming a staple of the fight sport. Liborio credits this to natural evolution: Strikers were forced to learn grappling, and grapplers were forced to learn striking. “It’s not that kicking wasn’t ever effective,” he said. “It’s just that fighters have now become more complete. They know how to kick fast and prepare their body to defend against the takedown afterward. When you know how to perform a takedown defense, you feel safer in executing your kick because you can reset yourself fast enough to not get caught by your opponent.” Tech Talk One thing that worries martial artists who train for self-defense, as well as the MMA fighters Liborio mentioned, is having their kicks nullified with a leg grab. To allay that concern, Liborio drew from the cross-training he’d done with wrestlers and developed effective defenses against the kick catch based on how the leg is being seized. Should your opponent manage to catch your kick low on your leg — on the calf or near the ankle — Liborio said the best response is the “soccer-kick defense.” It entails placing one hand on the opponent’s neck to push him off so you can create space. Then you turn your back to him and thrust your leg away like you’re performing a soccer kick. If the opponent catches your kick higher up near your knee, Liborio said you should consider the “motorcycle defense.” It involves overhooking the arm that’s grabbing your leg so you can loosen your foe’s grip, then pulling your trapped leg back and to the ground as if you’re kick-starting a motorcycle. If it looks like neither option fits the situation, Liborio said you can always push your opponent’s head to the outside, then wrap an arm around his neck for a guillotine choke. (See the photo sequences for details.) “Years ago, people didn’t know the whole game of fighting,” Liborio said. “But now you have to be willing to open your eyes and learn everything.” And while these kick defenses might not be part of your art, learning them can make your skill set more useful in self-defense. Priorities in Life While training for his comeback match against Sperry, Liborio placed his money where his mouth was with respect to learning new things. Knowing his opponent was a good wrestler with an excellent sprawl defense, Liborio spent time training with elite wrestlers. An ace at analyzing top fighters, he also continued to update his ground game by familiarizing himself with the most current tactics. (Even if you’re unable to execute a certain technique like the rubber guard, he said, you still should learn it so you can defend against it more effectively.) The match itself was almost anticlimactic. As per Liborio’s expectations, Sperry played a waiting game, looking to sprawl in response to a leg tackle so he could get behind his opponent. Liborio negated all Sperry’s attempts, ultimately earning the judges’ decision for superior aggressiveness. “I knew he’d look to sprawl and go for a front head lock,” Liborio said. “I just kept pushing forward and applying pressure. I trained with so many high-level wrestlers to get ready for this [that] I got my butt kicked a lot of times, but I had so much pleasure training with my guys. I hadn’t taken time for myself like that since we started ATT.” His own training wasn’t the only thing Liborio realized he needed to devote more time to. His daughter Bella, 9 years old at the time of this article, is visually impaired, and to provide her with better educational opportunities, Liborio decided to move to Orlando. Although he still maintains a hand in running the American Top Team, his priority is his daughter’s education — which, of course, includes Brazilian jiu-jitsu. He’s also started programs to teach judo and jiu-jitsu to visually impaired children and is working with the Paralympics to make BJJ an official sport for the visually impaired. If you have any doubts that Liborio is a master of time management, consider his current to-do list: seeing to the needs of his daughter, interfacing with the Paralympics, advising coaches and fighters at the Coconut Creek facility, and overseeing the opening of a new American Top Team center in Orlando. Now add in preparing for another Superfight, this one at next year’s Abu Dhabi tournament. “I’m always watching competition and doing research,” said Ricardo Liborio, perpetual student of self-defense. “You can have set-in-stone principles that your martial art follows, but the techniques themselves will always be evolving. If you stop evolving in martial arts, you die.” Photography by Cory Sorensen

Known as Burmese boxing in the West and Myanmar traditional boxing in the land of its birth, lethwei is a bare-knuckle fight sport renowned for its old-school techniques and durable competitors. Ancient Traditions Before a match, fighters forgo gloves and wrap their hands in thin gauze and tape. Once the action begins, they're allowed to attack with head butts and throws, as well as strikes and kicks. There are no judges to award points. The only way to win is via a knockout, TKO or doctor stoppage. In ancient times, bare-knuckle fighting wasn't taught just to members of the military class; it was also made available to Burmese youth. The reasons were obvious: lethwei ensured soldiers stayed fit to fight, it served as a rite of passage for young males, and it functioned as a popular sport that entertained the masses. It was also a brutal way to settle a grudge. The “Sport of Warriors” During its heyday, lethwei was known as the “Sport of Warriors.” In the smallest towns and largest cities, men labored to develop their fighting prowess. Tournaments took place during every festival, and competitors were handsomely rewarded for their style and skill. Until the time of the last Burmese king in the late 1800s, the best warriors were proclaimed “royal boxers” and had their names officially recorded for posterity. In the colonial period that commenced after the British invaded in 1885, Burmese boxing went into decline. Instead of being a sport for the people, it was reduced to being entertainment for British officials and rich merchants. Villagers struggled to keep lethwei alive despite laws that regarded most fighters as vagrants and subjected “habitual offenders” to arrest. After World War II, lethwei experienced a comeback, but it didn't last long. Once again, the combat sport slid toward obscurity, particularly after 1962, when a military dictator took control of the nation. Rules That Never Changed Because it was never allowed to integrate into the international fight community, lethwei maintained many of its ancient rules and practices. To this day, practitioners still make ample use of punches, kicks, knees and elbows, as well as head butts. Many lethwei supporters regard this use of the body’s nine natural weapons as unique to their art, but all the historical bare-knuckle arts practiced in Southeast Asia made use of the same tools. The way lethwei is practiced in Myanmar's countryside differs from the way it's practiced in cities. In rural areas, it's still a sport of the people. Fighters often assemble outside an arena hours before the event is scheduled to begin. There, judges conduct a conversation with each fighter so they can size him up. The fighter is then matched with a suitable opponent without having participated in a weigh-in. In contrast, city folk see lethwei primarily as entertainment. To create a major fight card, promoters and matchmakers make the crucial decisions according to record and weight class. Then the event is promoted to the public. The Modern Revival Lethwei fighters of the future will have to deal with an evolving martial arts landscape in Myanmar. Since 2011, the country has been transitioning from a military dictatorship to a marginal democracy, marking the end of decades of authoritarianism and isolation. The slow lifting of laws means that no longer is prior military approval needed for public gatherings — like those that occur at sporting events. That’s resulted in a rush of interest from the business sector, which is eager to revitalize lethwei. Myanmar citizens are enjoying a resurgence of the combat sport, with numerous large-scale tournaments taking place in Yangon, Mandalay and other cities. Furthermore, modern training camps are cropping up. The real key to lethwei’s future lies in the villages of Myanmar. There, the practice of the art remains for the most part unchanged by the passage of time or the change of governments. “Lethwei has survived in the rural communities for as long as the sport has been fought and practiced,” explains Saya Win Zin Oo, head of the Yangon-based Thut Ti Lethwei Gym. “I believe it will always remain that way. Lethwei can have all the organizations and controlling factors it wants, but traditional lethwei lives and breathes in the rural areas that honor and maintain it as an ancient tradition that is part of life itself.” Spirit of the Villages It’s in those rural communities that lethwei remains a central component of most festivals. Because they’re of great cultural importance, the matches have a different feel than the big commercial competitions — and probably always will. In the countryside, the bouts are celebratory, and the crowds show up to cheer the local fighters. Villagers still value the martial traditions because of their role in fostering spiritual and physical growth in the next generation.

On a hot Saturday afternoon, when most people were seeking a cool theater or a breezy beach, I headed to Pasadena to watch my friend and fellow martial artist compete in a karate tournament. That friend was none other than Billy Blanks. I’ve known Billy for years. Performing, teaching, and inspiring is nothing new to him — after all, he introduced the world to Tae Bo, a fitness revolution that spread to millions and made him a household name. Today was different however. Nearly 40 years after leaving the point karate tournament circuit — and just one day after his 70th birthday, Billy decided to step back onto the mat. With all of his fame and legacy, Billy could easily rest on his laurels, simply replaying his greatest hits. But that has never been who Billy is. For those of us who’ve known him through the decades, his brand is unwavering: always fit, always friendly, always ready to share a workout with that infectious smile and boundless positivity. And so, on this Saturday afternoon, Billy entered a karate tournament. No need to dust off old gear as his daily training has kept him sharp. I watched as he prepared just as he had in his 30s: stretching, shaking countless hands, posing for photos, all while calmly focusing on the task ahead. Then came the bout. It was classic Billy. His technique was sharp, his famous cartwheel kick drew cheers, but what struck me most wasn’t the athleticism — it was the spirit. There was no malice, no ego, no desire to hurt. Just clean fighting, respect, humility, and joy. In other words, a true demonstration of what martial arts is supposed to be. In a world crowded with heavy egos and self-proclaimed masters, Billy simply showed up, competed, and had fun. After his win, I posted a simple photo: Billy in a gi, with a short caption. That was it. But within hours, something magical happened. Thousands of fans, friends, and supporters responded — with respect, admiration, and gratitude. When I checked the Black Belt Magazine analytics dashboard the next morning, the numbers were staggering: hundreds of thousands of impressions, thousands of shares, likes, and comments. By definition, it went viral. But I asked myself: why did a 70-year-old man competing in a weekend karate tournament ignite such engagement? The answer is simple: reflection. The reason a 70-year-old man competing in a weekend karate tournament ignited such massive engagement isn’t just about Billy Blanks’ fame, it’s about what he represents. Billy has always been more than a martial artist; he’s a symbol of energy, resilience, and positivity. When people saw him step back onto the mat at 70, they weren’t just watching a karate match—they were seeing proof that age doesn’t have to define limits. They saw courage, humility, and joy in motion. In a digital world saturated with ego, conflict, and negativity, Billy’s appearance cut through the noise with something rare: authenticity. He wasn’t there for accolades or attention. He was there to live his art, have fun, and honor the spirit of martial arts. That purity struck a chord. Deep down, people reflected on themselves: If Billy can still put himself out there, maybe I can too.  That’s why he went viral. It wasn’t just Billy competing, it was Billy reminding us of our own potential. I know it worked on me. I pushed an extra few miles on the exercise bike this morning, thinking, I want to be like Billy. Young or old, Billy Blanks represents that undying flame inside every martial artist. So, we thank Billy. I hope this moment sparks something bigger, a new movement where martial arts isn’t defined by age, medals, or accolades, but by attitude and mindset. It’s about putting yourself out there, even when failure is possible. That’s the real definition of living. That’s the true Black Belt way.

My Time With Professor William K.S. Chow It was April 1986, and I was piloting a rental up a long hill in Honolulu. Just as I started to doubt the directions, I topped out and spotted the church. The structure was dark and silent, almost looking abandoned, but nearby stood another building, the fellowship hall. The lights were on, and cars were in the lot. I parked and nervously approached the open door, a briefcase containing my letter of introduction and some photos in hand. I stepped inside, trying not to attract undue attention. I scanned the room for the man I’d come to meet for the first time but failed to find him. There was one guy, close to 30 years old and dressed in a kung fu uniform, and a younger man, wearing a white gi and a yellow belt. Another eight to 10 men were in street clothes. All appeared to be Hawaiian. They descended on me with scowls on their faces. “What are you doing here?” one of them asked. “This is a private class.” “I came to meet professor William K.S. Chow,” I said. “Is he here?” The sea of bodies parted, and one of them pointed to an old man hunched over a table. He was only a few feet away, but I hadn’t noticed him. Looking up, he resembled the Indian actor Chief Dan George in The Outlaw Josey Wales. “There is the professa,” one man said. Unexpected Reaction I approached Chow and bowed, then put down my briefcase and pulled out the letter of introduction from Ron Alo, a former student of his. I also presented him with a photo of the two of them taken several years before at Ralph Castro’s tournament in California. “I’m a brown belt in the Alo Hawaiian kenpo karate system on the mainland, and I would like to take lessons in kara-ho,” I said quietly. “My wife got a job as a nurse, so we moved here from Kansas just yesterday. We’re staying in a hotel on Kuhio Street.” Chow read the letter, then looked at the picture. “Yes, I know this man — and I no like him!” he said as he pounded the table. Immediately, all the men surrounded me. I pleaded with Chow to hear me out, but he walked away and the angry circle ordered me to leave. I pulled up the chair Chow had just vacated and plopped down. “I will leave if the professor tells me to leave,” I said defiantly. The men took turns kicking my chair and telling me to stand up. I ignored them and put on my toughest face, trying to hide my fear. They finally gave up. Jacob, the guy in the kung fu uniform, whispered in Chow’s ear. The master simply nodded and clapped his hands, and the class began. Cold Shoulder I was invisible to them for the next three hours. I learned that the only other actual student there was Walter, the yellow belt. The others were former students and friends. At the end of class, they all walked past me on their way out the door, a couple of them kicking my chair again. They turned off the light and left, and I stood up and followed them out. I’d never been so disappointed in my life. Feeling like I’d been set up, I called Alo as soon as I got back to the hotel. My story made him hysterical. “Why are you laughing?” I asked. “He just met me, but he really hates you!” “No, he doesn’t,” Alo said. “That’s just how he is. If you don’t visit him every few months, he gets upset, but he doesn’t quite understand that it’s not easy to take a trip to Hawaii. Just go back to the next class; it will be OK.” “Go back?” I shouted. “They’ll kill me.” “No, they won’t — well, probably not,” he said, snickering. About-Face Two days later, I returned to the fellowship hall. As I stepped inside, I was greeted by Jacob and Walter, both of whom were wearing big grins. They rushed to meet me. “Hi, glad you came back,” Jacob said, shaking my hand. He and Walter were the only ones present besides Chow. The master walked over to me — and even he was smiling. “The professa would like to have that picture of him and Alo,” Jacob said. “We drove all over Kuhio Street yesterday trying to find you, looking for your car. The professa wanted that picture — and to tell you that you can come to class.” Chow approached and shook my hand, grinning. His huge mitts engulfed mine — each finger was almost as big as my wrist. I presented him with the photo, and he smiled at it. “You brown belt on the mainland, you white belt in Hawaii,” he said. “Got it?” “Yes, professa,” I said, bowing and trying to enunciate the way they all did, accenting the fess. It came out goofy, and Chow grinned at me. But I didn’t care; I was in. Official Student Although my wife made good money as a nurse, the cost of living in Hawaii was high, and I had to go to work. My profession in those days was singer in a country band. The band played a lot during the week, so my dream of being a dedicated kara-ho student was downgraded to showing up as often as I could. Many times, I’d arrive late and just watch the class. The student body was never larger than Jacob and Walter — and occasionally me. When I’d observe class, Chow would sit with me and let me pepper him with questions. This access to the master icon was a blessing I’ll never forget. I learned a lot about his personality and his drive to be the best martial artist in the world, which is what he considered himself. Aside from the $35 a month he received for teaching Chinese kara-ho kempo kung fu, which is what he called it in 1986, he made money as a masseuse. Those thick, powerful hands — which could and had caused destruction in others — also healed the aches and pains. I witnessed both skill sets. One night, Chow was teaching finger techniques. Walter had been struck in the side of the neck, and the site instantly swelled and turned dark as blood rushed in. The master pulled out a bottle of homemade jow and massaged the spot for five minutes. The bruise and the pain subsided, and the class continued. Proud of his work, he grinned at me. “What ingredients are in that jow?” I asked. “Secret,” Chow said. It was the standard answer to many questions. I saw — and felt — Chow’s skillful hands on another occasion while he was teaching self-defense sets. In this particular one, the attacker threw a hook, and I was supposed to duck under it, rise and respond with a hard uppercut to the stomach. I performed the set with Chow, and each time I threw my uppercut into his gut, he said, “You must train harder, punch harder like real thing.” Finally, he demonstrated on me. A blindingly fast uppercut hit me hard, right on target. It hurt but wasn’t crippling. Then it was my turn again, and, not wanting to be on the other end, I threw my best shot into Chow’s stomach, which was rock hard. Without even flinching, he said, “Tes, like that.” Culture Clash After the first week, I couldn’t afford to rent a car anymore, so I began taking the bus for 40 minutes and then walking for another 40 up that long hill in a bad area. I was yelled at, threatened and harassed by locals who didn’t want me in their neighborhood. They’d sic their pit bulls on me, then yank on the leash just before their teeth touched my flesh. Walking back to the bus stop was scary but a bit easier because it was dark, and as I jogged down the hill, they couldn’t tell if I was a stranger. One night after class, Chow asked me how I was getting back to Waikiki. I told him about the long bus ride and walk. He was shocked. “That’s a dangerous neighborhood,” he said. “They will kill you if they catch you.” “I just tell them I am friends with the great professa Chow, and they all back away from me,” I joked. “No,” he said. “We give you ride to your bus stop. Don’t want you to die.” Another night after class, I told him about a scary event my wife had experienced in the mental ward of the medical center. A mentally disturbed patient had tried to stab her with a pencil. She’d maneuvered to keep furniture between herself and the attacker until help arrived and he was subdued. Horrified, Chow ordered me to go to the hospital the next day and beat up the guy. I thought he was kidding at first, but he was serious. “Professa, this man is a mental patient,” I said. “He doesn’t know right from wrong, and they’re trying to help him.” “Doesn’t matter,” he replied. “He took respect from you, so must go beat him up tomorrow. Don’t come back to class until you do.” That was a Thursday. I called every day until the next class on Tuesday, hoping to make him understand. When his wife Patsy would answer the phone, she’d say, “It’s Jim. …” After a second, she’d come back on the line and say, “He wants to know if you took care of the thing.” I’d tell her no, and she’d say, “He doesn’t want to talk until you do.” When Tuesday finally came, the first thing I heard when I walked through the door was, “Did you do it?” “No,” I said. “I can’t because my wife will get fired. But I will go with you anywhere and let you pick out someone and I will fight them — in a bar or in the park or in another karate school.” He sighed in disappointment, then said, “Get in line.” Just like that, it was over. Imminent Demise One night after class, I returned home to find that my wife had purchased plane tickets back to Kansas. Homesick, she had decided to move back without consulting me. I tried to talk her into sticking it out for one year as we’d agreed, but it was no use. She had tickets for both of us and our 5-year-old son. When I told Chow the bad news, he said, “Tell her she can’t go.” “I tried, but she’s not like that,” I said. “She is strong-willed.” He shook his head. “In my house, I wear the pants,” he said. “You need to wear the pants.” In those days, we shared the pants. I told him I didn’t want to go but had no choice. He told me if I wanted to remain in Hawaii and learn kara-ho, I could stay with him. I couldn’t believe it — the great professor Chow offering me a place to live. I said I’d think about it. Ultimately, I decided I couldn’t remain on the island and have my son so far away. When I told Alo, he explained that Chow’s son was incarcerated at the time but due to be released soon. “He won’t like you living there, and you will have to fight him if you stay,” Alo said. That reassured me that I’d made the right decision. With much regret, I left Hawaii and the professor and returned to the mainland. We spoke on the phone at least once a month, and I sent him money as often as I could. He passed away the following September, and I continued to send money to his wife until I received a phone call. Sam Kuoha said I should stop my remittances because he was taking care of Patsy while she was in hiding. “Hiding from what?” I asked. “There are many kempo masters who think they should take over the professor’s system, and they’re angry that he chose me,” Kuoha said. “She has received death threats, and I am protecting her.” I don’t know that I believed all that, but I was glad Patsy was being taken care of. In the ensuing months, I reflected on my lessons with the master and how many of his drills and fighting philosophies I had absorbed. Although they’re now part of the system I teach, they’re not the kara-ho that I learned from the professor during my time in Hawaii. That was a one-of-a-kind martial art that was practiced and taught by a legend named William K.S. Chow.