Bluey in the Bag
As an 80’s kid I’ve always had an interest in martial arts. “Karate” and “kung fu” in my youth served as crude universal terms ignoring the specific names of hundreds of unique and differentiated disciplines but it worked for a 10 year old. My whole life I yearned for my Mr. Miyagi; someone to pour their life into me and make me a ninja. I’ll write about the one I had another time. We never took lessons or even parked in a dojo parking lot as kids. My family growing up couldn’t or didn’t afford them (I am not sure.)
Then I go to college and I met the magic of electives. “Wait. I get to take Aikido, as a class? For “free”? For credit?! Deal!” 2 semesters and a student-discounted dojo membership later I got a lot of exercise and an introduction to the interplay of movement and anatomy. (Wooden) sword fighting on the beach at sunrise was epic. The ceremony and formality of the more “high-church” dojo was comforting to this old soul in a way. Not one for mysticism or the discipline it took to keep going with a job and a new lovely wife I only got a few belts or so before drifting back to the couch.
Fast forward 10-12 years or so and I am more aware now of the evil entropy of this world and the thinnest of barriers between it and my family. That thin barrier is me. Out of shape, small, too-timid-until-it-is-too-late me. Enough was enough. Bad neighbors and a porch pirate turned my whining to action. I looked into any kind of martial arts gym in my area. I had one in mind but it was kind of far. I honestly would have quit by now; it just doesn’t fit the zero-clearance schedule of a husband, father, teacher, son, brother, volunteer, trustee, patient, writer, handyman, driver, gamer- see what I mean?
So anyway by the direct grace of God himself a MMA/Muay Thai/Jiu Jitsu gym opened up 2 blocks from my house 2 months prior to my decision. 2 blocks. Practically my basement! So for almost 2 years now I have diligently and dutifully wedged in some practice in movement and self defense. I can confidently defend myself and my family from a friendly acquaintance who will only injure me by accident and who uses pads and safety gear. Check. I jest; me today would crush the guy that joined the gym. And that’s with a bad knee, bad shoulder, and a bad finger. (Ironically none of the injuries are from getting into fights 2-3 times per week.)
I was reminded today why I do it. Why I wake up early. Why I pay dues. Why I bother even though I know I still have a very low likelihood of successfully fighting off any one with intent with my bare hands. Why I bother at all. Because I have to. My wife and children have nothing else. It’s just me. That thin, okay, chubby, weak barrier between them and the ugliness of the world. I went to put on my boxing glove and my hand hit something. In a flash of frustration I yank it out and it’s my daughter’s 2 inch Bluey figurine. There was something about that. A tiny little Bluey for a child in a huge glove for the violence of a man. I felt like I was holding her in my hands again as a newborn. How tiny and helpless she still is. How dependent. I smiled and practice with a bit more gusto and purpose whenever I think about it. I’ve also had marbles, Hot Wheels, and keys fall out of my shin guards. I am so grateful for those reminders.
I’ve got a long way to go to become Daniel LaRusso or an American Ninja (not American Ninja Warrior, American Ninja, look it up!) but I will take each punch with a Bluey and Hot Wheels rooting for me.