The Hwa Rang Do Midwest Tournament was this weekend. I did my open handed and jang bong (staff) forms for the first time in competition, mostly because waiting on bleachers for several hours is boring and hurts my ass. I didn’t place for either of them, but I wasn’t expecting that I would. (Link goes to someone doing my form much better than I can.)
A few explanations may be necessary, since I doubt most of you have done any martial arts. Forms are sort of one-person choreographed fight. They’re a series of prescribed movements that allow a practitioner to demonstrate their techniques at full force and speed without hurting anyone. They’re typically taught one per belt level.
The words “martial arts tournament” probably conjures images of men with a psychotic gleam in their eye, beating each other with their bare fists until one collapses in an unconscious bleeding heap. Not so much. Tournaments are usually held in school gymnasiums, not a boxing ring. To spar, you need a minimum of foam-padded hands, shins, feet, and helmet. Most tournaments also require mouthguards and cups, and a few lawsuit-wary tourneys are now requiring padded chest protectors and some really stupid looking helmets with plastic guards that cover the entire face.
This isn’t to say that people don’t get hurt. A kick to the jaw knocked me out in one of my first tourney sparring matches, and was kicked in the junk three times in another. I spent the next several days wearing the loosest-fitting pants I owned and walking funny. If you’re wondering–no, the crotch isn’t a legal scoring area. The guy got disqualified.
Typical rules for point sparring say that there are specific areas of the body that are legal for scoring points. Without going into much detail, they basically boil down to the torso and the head, not including the face. The idea is to land blows on your opponent with light or medium contact–basically showing that you could have knocked him into next week, but that you have the mental and physical control to stop yourself. “Rings” are marked out on the floor using tape. I’m not sure how big they are–I’d guess about 15′ x 15′.
Scoring varies from tournament to tournament, but this weekend kicks were two points, punches were one. Rounds go for two minutes or to five points. If two minutes doesn’t sound like much, try doing it. The only thing I’ve found that takes more energy is a flat-out sprint.
Back to this weekend–individual sparring went slightly better than forms. I won my first round five or six to nothing, then had to spar another guy from my dojang (school) who easily kicked my ass 6-0. I knew before I got there he was taking first in our division, so I didn’t really mind. I’d really only come for team sparring.
Team sparring pits five students of increasing ability from each school against each other, beginner vs. beginner, intermediate vs. intermediate, etc. Scoring is cumulative, so the beginners fight, and the score is 10 to 0, then intermediates fight 6 to 5, so the score is 16 to 5, etc. You get the idea. Rounds go for the full two minutes.
We won our first match 31 to (I think) 18.
Since we’d gotten a bye in the first round as returning champions, our second match was for the championship against Minneapolis. My counterpart on the opposing team had beaten me last year, and it hadn’t even been competitive. He’d killed me 6-0, and he’d done it quickly.
Since we were in the same division, I’d been observing him all day, looking for weaknesses, analyzing his style, trying to find any chink in his armor that would give me the advantage. As my team had been waiting to compete during the bye, one of my teammates leaned over and said, “Look at the way your guy drops his hands there. He’s wide open.” I’d watched his next few techniques as he sparred another team, and there was my opening–his chest may as well have had a bullseye painted on it. I knew from my ass kicking last year that he likes to charge in full-force, so all I needed to do was block his initial attack, step to the side, then nail him when he left himself open.
I glared at him across the ring while the beginners fought, trying to shake off my nerves. What if he’d gotten a lot better since last year? What if he’d changed up his style and wouldn’t be charging me like I expected him to? Am I going to fuck this up for the team?
The beginners finished, and my opponent and I jumped up and into the ring. We bowed to each other, the instructors, then set in sparring positions. No time to be nervous–now I just had to do it. Sparring always goes too fast to remember all of it, but I remember bits and pieces. He nailed me in the head with a backfist, and I answered back with a jump side kick in his ribs. It mostly happened just the way I’d hoped–he charged me and I waited for it, then I stuck him in the gut with a kick. He had a few surprises and caught me with another kick, but at the end of the match it was eight to three, my favor.
The rest of the match was tense. Their third fighter was crazy good, but he was sparring our guy who had taken first in my individual sparring competition. After the fourth round, we were down three points. All their last fighter needed to do was play it defensive, and Minneapolis would be taking home the trophy. In the final round, the points went back and forth so quickly I had no idea who’d won, but I knew it was really, really close.
I turned to Alyse, the 15-year-old girl who was our first fighter, and asked her who had won.
“I don’t know,” She replied. “I think we did.”
I wasn’t so sure–the last round had been really intense, and I’d completely lost track of points. Finally, after a few minutes of tabulation, checking, and rechecking, Master Kijak, the head instructor for the Midwest schools, picked up the microphone and walked into the center of the ring.
“Well, I’m sure you’re all wondering who won.” He laughed, and continued. “This year’s winner is…” He paused briefly for effect. It felt like an eternity, and the “GET ON WITH IT!” bit from Monty Python and the Quest for the Holy Grail flashed through my mind. I had a very brief and ill-advised urge to punch him.
“Madison West, with a score of twenty-one to nineteen!”
Master Kijek handed out the trophies–one first-place trophy for each team member, and a big four-foot-tall bastard to be taken back to the dojang and displayed prominently. I was grinning like an idiot.
I’ve received trophies for tournaments in the past, but I didn’t always feel like I’d earned them. When the divisions are too fine, (e.g., “18 to 34 year-old men’s intermediate heavyweight”) it’s not uncommon to have so few competitors in a division you can get your ass and a trophy handed to you. I’ve gotten a few medals and trophies in divisions like that, and they don’t have any value. I chuck them in a closet and forget about them. Not this one. I really earned this trophy, and I’m proud that I helped bring home another monster trophy for the dojang.