Against All Odds: My Story (10 page)

When I arrived at the Garden, I saw all the other competitors standing around, talking to old friends, joking and laughing. A strong camaraderie exists among karate fighters. If I hadn't known better, it would have been hard to imagine that we were all warriors about to do battle.

I went to the locker room, took my freshly laundered uniform from my overnight bag, undressed, and stashed my clothes in a locker. My
gi
felt comfortable, almost as though it was a part of my body. It had become my favorite clothing, loose in the shoulders, with sleeves and pants that snapped like a whip when I kicked or punched.

I took deep breaths, exhaling slowly, attempting to keep myself relaxed and in a calm state. I knew that tension or stress burns energy. I wanted to be totally relaxed prior to fighting, conserving the energy that I would need when I stepped into the ring.

The tournament director called the black belts in the middleweight division to line up for pairing. I went straight to the middle of the floor and let the line form on each side of me. Some of the black belts hung back to scout the opposition. They were trying to pick their opponents so they wouldn't have to exert themselves too strenuously in the early matches.

The various competitors—lightweights, middleweights, light heavyweights, and heavyweights—were to fight in different rings. The winners of the respective weight divisions would then fight each other. The Grand Champion would be the man who defeated the winners of all the other weight divisions!

I settled down on the sidelines to watch the other black belts compete. Now that I had become tournament wise, it was a matter of routine for me to study the other competitors. I knew that I might have to confront some of them later on. I watched the way the fighters walked for signs of injury. I observed the way they stretched and warmed up: a kicker warms up with kicks and combinations of kicks, usually working on the one he will use most when under pressure. A fighter with good hand techniques warms up with repetitions and the combinations he favors.

I studied the losers as well as the winners. The winners were the ones I would probably have to fight. The losers were men I might have to fight in the future. The techniques that fighters implemented, especially the ones with which they scored most often, were my immediate concerns.

I didn't simply observe the winners and losers. I visualized myself in the ring with whichever man I was watching. I studied his strengths and his weaknesses; I inventoried my own techniques and matched them to his defenses. I visualized myself taking his strengths from him while maintaining my own. If, for example, I could see myself blocking an opponent's powerful side kick and then scoring with my own technique, I knew I would be able to do it when the real match began.

In competition, as in attempting to reach any goal in life, it's necessary to keep a “big picture” mentality, but the focus must be on the next step, the immediate goal at hand. When I was competing, I took the matches one at a time, concentrating my full energy on the match in which I was competing, not on the Grand Championship. I knew the priority was to beat my first opponent.

On this day in 1967, I had trained hard, my reflexes were razor sharp, and I was in peak physical and mental condition. I knew what I was going to do against each opponent because I had already visualized my match with each of them in my mind, and I knew their strengths and weaknesses.

As the tournament progressed, one of the top contenders who emerged was Hiroshi Nakamura, the All-Japan Middleweight champion. I sat on the sidelines watching as Mr. Nakamura methodically eliminated his opponents. A small, powerfully built man, Mr. Nakamura had moves that were smooth and polished, but all of a similar pattern. His specialty was a front kick produced with blinding speed, followed by a straight punch delivered as easily and quickly as a snap of the fingers, only with enormous power.

I studied him carefully, and I noticed that when I was in the ring, he sat at ringside scrutinizing me. But I had an edge on him; I had studied the Japanese styles of karate, as well as the Korean. I knew what he knew, but he didn't know what I knew!

Mr. Nakamura wound up winning his division, and I won mine, which meant that after dinner that night, we would face each other for the Middleweight Championship.

Before dinner I stopped by the washroom. Who should I see but my after-dinner opponent! I approached him and said, “Good luck tonight, Mr. Nakamura.”

“I think you are going to beat me,” he said bluntly.

His surprisingly negative attitude took me off guard, and I found myself encouraging my competition. “No, you've got a good chance,” I said. “I've been watching you, and you are very good.”

Regardless of what I told him, I knew I could beat him because I had already visualized the bout in my mind and was prepared for his attacks. I was also ready for his defenses. Despite this mental exercise of visualization and psyching-up before a bout, there were times when I didn't win, but I always believed that I would.

Nakamura and I chatted amiably for a few minutes. Normally, I never minded talking to anyone before a contest. No matter what I was doing—having dinner, getting dressed, or wrapping my hands before a fight—I was happy to have a conversation. But this carefree attitude changed instantly once I stepped into the ring. Then my concentration was totally on the task at hand: winning. I am not by nature an aggressive person, but I was superaggressive in the ring.

Even my martial arts students were sometimes amazed at the transformation that came over me when the competition turned serious. During class at our studio, I sparred with my black belt students, and often one or more of them would beat me. “Mr. Norris, I don't understand,” a student might complain. “I can beat you in class but never in a real competition.”

I'd smile and say, “Because in class I'm focused on teaching, not on winning; but in the ring, when I'm facing an opponent, my whole attitude changes. I am focused on winning!”

There are three facets to being a winner: mental, psychological, and physical. I prepare myself mentally by knowing my competitor's strengths and weaknesses and how I can take advantage of both. When I am mentally sharp, I'm aware of and see everything that goes on around me. I prepare psychologically by believing in my ability and knowing that I can win. I prepare physically by being in the best possible shape, able to execute my techniques to the best of my ability. When I am at the top of my form, I often hit an opponent even before my brain records it. I see an opening and go for it.

A winner must have a positive attitude. He visualizes himself scoring the winning points, and he sees the referee raising his hand in victory. These positive images create the will and the impetus to succeed. But having a positive image is worthless unless you are psychologically, physically, and mentally prepared to win.

I went back to Madison Square Garden after dinner for the finals. I put on my
gi
, and, as I usually did, I taped my big toes to the ones next to them with adhesive-tape, to help prevent injuries that often result from hard kicks.

The tournament rules called for each match to be two minutes long. The fighter who had scored the most points when the time expired was the winner.

When my name and Mr. Nakamura's were called over the loudspeaker, I stepped into the ring. The Garden was filled with thousands of screaming fans. The roar of the fans sounded to me like a waterfall thundering in the distance. Everyone was anticipating a great fight.

The moment I stepped into the ring, I forced myself to relax by slowing down my breathing. It's difficult to move when you're tense; relaxed muscles collaborate with rather than contradict each other, and I knew I could move faster when relaxed.

Since I had already visualized the entire fight in my mind, my strategy was to take away Mr. Nakamura's strong techniques. I was certain that his first move was going to be his front kick. I was right, although his kick came faster than I had anticipated. I had to respond quickly. The moment he started to move, I shifted aside, blocked the kick, and hit him in the stomach, scoring a point!

I expected his next attack would be another front kick followed by a punch. Again I was right. He snapped the kick, and I shifted to the right away from it. As he threw the punch, I blocked and countered with my own punch which scored again!

In those days, when Japanese stylists kicked, they never faked or feinted. Their kicks went straight to the intended target. They were not accustomed to someone faking a kick to one area and landing it elsewhere. Knowing this, I faked a kick to the stomach. As Mr. Nakamura started to block, I shifted my kick to his head and scored another point! I scored regularly enough to wind up beating him 12 to 1 for the Middleweight Championship.

After that bout I fought the lightweight champion and won. Next I was scheduled to fight the heavyweight champion who had beaten the light heavyweight champion. He was none other than Joe Lewis, whom I would have to fight for the second time in four months for the Grand Championship.

Joe had breezed through his competition and looked totally relaxed and rested. We stepped into the ring, stared at each other and bowed. The referee shouted
hajime!
The fight was on, and it was fast and furious. Joe jumped out in front by nailing me early with a side kick to my ribs. After that it was a fight to the finish. I finally scored on him to tie the match, then just as time was running out, I caught him again with a back fist to the face. When the dust cleared, I had won the match by one point and was awarded the All-American Grand Championship trophy.

I was almost too exhausted to celebrate my victory. I had been fighting since eight o'clock that morning and had faced thirteen strong, agile opponents in eleven hours. All I wanted was a hot shower and a good night's sleep.

But as I was leaving the stadium, Bruce Lee, one of the best-known martial artists in the world at that time, came over to congratulate me. I knew of Bruce, but we had never met. I had seen him put on a terrific demonstration at the Internationals in 1964, and I was familiar with his work as an actor on the
Green Hornet
television series.

Bruce was extremely complimentary of my skills, recognizing what a feat it had been to snatch the victory away from Joe in the final moments of the Grand Championship. We talked amiably for a while, and after discovering that we were staying at the same hotel, we walked back together, talking all the way about martial arts and our philosophies. We were still deeply involved in conversation as the elevator whisked us up to our rooms. We stopped on Bruce's floor, and I stepped out with him.

It was already close to midnight, but we were so engrossed in our conversation, we continued exchanging martial arts techniques right there in the hallway! The next time I looked at my watch, it was 4:00 AM! We had worked out together for four hours! Bruce was so dynamic that it had seemed like only twenty minutes. It's a wonder that someone didn't call hotel security about the two maniacs out there tossing each other around in the hotel hallway!

Not long after that, Bruce invited me to work out with him in the backyard of his home in Culver City, California. Bruce had all sorts of training equipment out in the yard, including a wooden practice dummy—complete with sticks for arms, legs, and feet—that looked as though he'd made it himself, a straw-padded striking post to practice punches, padded chest protectors, and boxing gloves. We trained twice a week for three or four hours per session. Bruce taught me some of his trademark
kung fu
techniques, and in turn I taught him some high-kicking
tae kwon do
moves. Bruce had never believed in kicking above the waist, but when I demonstrated some high spinning heel kicks, he was intrigued. Within six months he could perform the high kicks as well as I could and added them to his repertoire with tremendous proficiency. Bruce was an extremely capable and knowledgeable martial artist and, pound for pound, one of the strongest men I've ever known.

His strongest attribute and his greatest fault, perhaps, were one and the same: Bruce Lee lived and breathed the martial arts. He turned even the most mundane, ordinary aspects of life into some sort of training. I'm not certain he ever knew how to relax.

We became good friends, close enough for him to share his dream with me. “Chuck, I want to be a film star,” he told me. “Everything I do is a stepping-stone toward that goal.” Indeed, Bruce was already teaching martial arts to a number of private students, including NBA basketball great, Kareem Abdul-Jabarr, and several high-profile Hollywood film stars, such as James Coburn, Lee Marvin, and Steve McQueen. His students often recommended Bruce for work in films, and Bruce had worked as a stunt coordinator on several. But Bruce wasn't satisfied to be behind the camera. He wanted his name up in lights. As driven as Bruce was, I had no doubt that he would become a major star.

CHAPTER 10

HUMBLE SPIRIT; WARRIOR'S HEART