Meet Me Halfway

Saginaw, Michigan

Four Years Ago

“This is a good place to die…”

I have long maintained that you don’t find God; He finds you.

In Saginaw’s north side, one of the toughest ghettos I’ve ever been in, there is a shelter that is not listed in any phone book. You learn of it by being told.

The shelter’s rules used to be rather lax (they were tightening when I left). Be in at a certain time, no weapons, no forced worship. We said a voluntary prayer before each meal and the no weapons rule was governed by an honor system.

I was twenty-nine at the time, and I avoided spending time at the shelter when I could. During the day, I was at the local library, and I spent my nights in the gym downstairs. I didn’t like to be bothered. Busterwolf was only playing at retirement. Truthfully, I had a lot more to give. At least, I thought I did.

Something strange happens during a very routine workout. As I threw roundhouse kicks against the worn, hanging bag, it became an effort to get my legs up. It felt like kicking through quicksand, and the power was gone. It was disconcerting; my kicks used to be my greatest asset.

What’s happening to me? I wondered. Why does this take so much effort? I’d been fighting for more than twelve years, sometimes three or four fights a week. I hadn’t changed my workout, or my diet, all that much. I was still in fairly good shape. If nothing had changed, why did this require so much more effort?

The revelation hit me like a shot to the chest, and I leaned against the bag in desperation, knowing that the thought that had occurred to me was unflaggingly correct…and there was nothing I could do about it. I’m getting older. I can’t do this forever.

It was my first inkling that something needed to change.

I had no idea what to do from there. Fast forward a couple of weeks. Everyone knew who Busterwolf was, they’d heard stories, but these weren’t fans; these were people who wanted a shot at me.

On my way out the door, the man running the front desk that day pulled me to the side. He asked if I was who I was purported to be. I said, “Maybe.” I didn’t know him well enough to answer. To give you an idea of the way this shelter works, the man I was speaking to was an avid churchgoer who would help you sell your food stamps the next day. You be the judge.

I didn’t have a problem with him. He was putting together a very small tournament, nothing big, just local people. The grand prize: one thousand dollars. Would I be interested? In hindsight, it wasn’t a lot of money, and it may not have been worth it for what I endured. I was angry that I was passing out of my prime and I wanted out of the shelter. A thousand dollars on the street is enough to start over….and no one around there could have taken me.

“I’m in.”

At first, it all seemed pretty run of the mill. Fights were held on weekends, and I even got to beat the hell out of a kid who kept getting on my damn nerves. I had learned to control my temper by that point; I just rang his bell, nothing permanent.

I started a friendship with a man who furthers my knowledge of Capoeira—something I’d like to get back into, if I ever get the chance. Nothing beats flying. About midway through this tournament, people had stopped betting against me and a new guy is the only other person who seemed to be working through everyone else. I’d never heard of this guy before, never seen him in the area. His name is Desmond. I got to watch him fight once. He was about five eight, bald as an eagle and dark brown. Wide, glassy, dead eyes. Not an ounce of fat on his whole body. If he’d been three feet taller, I’d have taken him for Tyrone’s younger brother. He was exceptionally brutal and tough; he didn’t try to block anything going at his body. Anything at his head, he avoided (I remember that). He then moved into his opponent and literally beat them down with his fists until they stop moving. He’s not lethal, he just knocks them out and walks away. He’s not trying to kill them or even prove a point. It’s as though this isn’t personal for him.

It almost felt like he was paid to be there…

I watch Desmond break the legs of the man I’ve been studying Capoeira with and realize that my quicksand kicks will not be enough to take Desmond. At this point, a confrontation was almost inevitable; people had already begun to speak about him and me in the finals. I hadn’t been afraid to fight in a long time. I didn’t want to end up crippled.

At this point, I had dismissed the idea of ever seeing my children again, but I hoped I might have more in the future, and I wanted to be able to run around with them. I’m not willing to risk it all for a measly grand. Hell, I’ll just go get a job. After Tyrone, I have nothing left to prove.

I go to the man who organized this entire thing and politely bow out. He asks me if I’m certain that this is what I want to do. Yes, it is.

Two nights later, on my way back to the shelter, someone pulled up to an intersection two blocks away. He stepped out of the car and I saw the lightning flash in his hand at the same time I heard the shot.

The sound of a gunshot has no accurate analogy. A gunshot doesn’t sound like anything else. You know it when you hear it. I hurl myself to the ground at the same time I hear the car pull away.

He fired that at me! HE TOOK A SHOT AT ME!!

I didn’t want revenge. It didn’t dawn on me to chase him down and beat the hell out of him. I nearly wet myself. I had never had a bullet fired directly at me before. I shakily returned to the shelter. The next day, the man who organized the event asked me if I was interested in returning to the tournament. Now him I would’ve beat the hell out of.

What choice do I have? Yeah, I say, I’m still in. Fuckhead.

I consider this the lowest point of my life. Word reached me that this entire thing had been set up to pit Desmond, who had his own reputation, against me, who had never lost (untrue, but I allowed people to believe it). A lot of people had money on this, and as usual, the only participants receive jack. A lot of people were betting on Desmond to send me to the hospital. I didn’t have it anymore, they said. My heart was there, but my body wasn’t. Plus, my nerves were shot. It should have been a walk in the park for Desmond. Desmond would win. Desmond, Desmond, Desmond…

If I won, the people I cost money would probably have me killed. If I lost, Desmond would cripple me, or worse. No way out.

That night, before my cot, sleeping beside the bathroom and beneath the pay phone, I got on my knees and asked God to please meet me halfway. I would give up this life; I would go straight, if He got me out of this.

Three weeks later, Desmond and I reached the finals. The fight was to take place three blocks away, in a train yard that was located on an overpass over fifth street.

We would be undisturbed.

It was snowing very gently that day. I’ve been in the Midwest long enough to be acclimated to the cold. I have short sleeves on under my trademark jacket. I’m very much at peace; I remember smiling as I made my way there. I figured I was about to Go Home, if you take my meaning.

A thin layer of snow blanketed the ground, but it wasn’t enough to hamper movement. As I entered the train yard through the right side, I glanced at the sky.

This is a good place to die.

Desmond, the onlookers, and the man who organized this whole thing were already there. Desmond looked at me as though I was prey as I approached. There was no shaking hands, no acknowledgement, nothing. We knew why we were there; let’s just get down to it.

I began to circle him, hands raised. I remembered the beating he put on my friend when the latter attempted to kick. I was about to find out if I was any good at boxing… I shot a left jab right into his chin. I hate my left jab. I’ve been practicing it for years, and it still feels slow and horribly weak. I avoid using it when I spar.

But this day, his head snapped back.

He looked at me for a moment, lowering his hands as his eyes grew wider.

And then he fell flat onto his back, arms and legs splayed. And he didn’t move.

Yeah, I didn’t believe it either.

No one did anything for a minute. The organizer checked his pulse and looked at me. I asked if I killed him. Did I kill him? I couldn’t have killed him! It was just a jab!

I didn’t kill him. I did, however, discover his Achilles heel by accident. The onlookers seemed disappointed, but a win is a win. I collected my earnings.

That was my last fight for money. I went to work for a telemarketing company shortly thereafter. I did fight again, but it was for life, not for money. I write this blog from the safety of my own apartment, a little miffed at myself because I made less coffee than I thought I did. I need to clean the kitchen, but my client’s work is done and I have a small, but manageable paycheck coming tomorrow. I celebrated three months with my girlfriend, my story is taking off on the web, and I’m in regular contact with my children.

There are way worse places to be in. I have no complaints. I know—and I mean I know– that as long as I continue to work towards my dreams, God will continue to meet me halfway.

The Family Prayer

San Francisco, California

Fourteen Years Ago

If you catch the last train running to Colma and exit Civic Center, you may find yourself directly in front of a 24-hour Carl’s Jr. You may call it Hardees. I called it home.

There is a waist- high, gray concrete, u-shaped border that surrounds the staircase leading to and from the underground station. You could almost feel the unsettled energy as you stepped onto the red brick pavement between the train station and the restaurant, some fifteen feet to your left. By day, hundreds of tourists pass through. By night, the residents made it a battleground. It was my first.

This night, as always, the restaurant is not so busy. The truly homeless seek reprieve from the streets by hustling up enough to buy a meager burger, hoping they can sleep all night. The security guard, a robust, soulful man named Daune (pronounced Dau-Nay, but you can call him D) Paul Colvin III, usually doesn’t care about the homeless sleeping as long as they don’t stink.

As always, Daune’s post, to the immediate left of the store’s entrance, is surrounded by the usual crowd.

There’s Terry, who would be in his forties now. He was struck by a bus in his youth and lost partial use of his left side. He also had the common sense knocked out of him, you’d think, because it wasn’t uncommon to see him suck the toes of random women–before he took them home. Tall, lanky, black, eternally hilarious and relentlessly loyal, he was the mainstay of the group. His mother insisted he get out of the house each night, and he’d end up here to shoot the breeze. There were worse places to go.

Terry was also the best scrapper I’d ever seen. He could throw that left like it meant nothing. Once, during a sparring session, he knocked me straight to the ground. It was the last time I ever underestimated someone because of a physical disability. Other than myself, Terry was the butt of everyone’s jokes, but he could give it right back.

There was Chad, who, for some reason, I always likened to Guile in the Street Fighter series. Save for the hair, they could’ve been brothers, and Chad could take some monster shots. Come to think of it, when he fought, he very rarely took a step back. He never had a use for kicks, but had supreme use of his fists and no end to the amount of punishment he could take. He was my first real boxing influence.

There was Lee…and Lee, well, Lee was a trip. He was a high school teacher. He was bisexual and thought we all didn’t know (Funny story there). He was black-white, in excellent shape, very easy with the ladies and could shoot his legs to Heaven. He took me as kind of a little brother and sharpened the tae kwon do I already had. He was always smiling.

Christian was a wannabe goth, but he was one of the most decent people I’d ever met. He could only fight, but when he was angry. Then again, when he was angry, I saw him get this eerie, toothy grin that would’ve made the Joker shudder. Half-asian, six feet tall and always dressed in black. Christian didn’t fight as much as he inflicted pain on people.

Emalio, a young hustler who had endured a horrible childhood. He was quiet, shy, and the smallest of us. If you brought harm to him, you had to answer to D. You didn’t want to answer to D.

And me?
I had known the group about four months. I was the rookie, the untested one. I could fight, but these guys were on a whole other level, who happily kicked my ass repeatedly. D would randomly reach out and slap me. Didn’t matter where I was in proximity to him. He always a polite little smack upside the head. When I learned to block, it didn’t make a difference. D was an aikido expert. He taught me well.

So this night, things are a different. It’s Thanksgiving.
This night, we’ve all compiled our money and created one big pot to order a bunch of food. D went out of his way to inform me that my homelessness did not make me exempt. If I wanted to eat, I had to contribute. Luckily, the bang-on-the-change-machine scam had worked well that day, and I had fifteen bucks to my name.

We ordered KFC, Pizza,chinese food from right across the street, BBQ from across town, and enough stuff to where we had to unite two tables. Something for everyone.

Naturally, I was the first to reach for all of the food (slap). D ordered us all to take hands, lower our heads, and pray.
This shocked me; D was muslim, I was Christian, Chad was agnostic, and I wasn’t even sure what some of the others were. I asked D who we were supposed to pray to.
He looks me in my face and says; “Does it matter?”

I remember how good I felt when I heard that. I didn’t understand until I had seen more of the world.
We prayed. We prayed to who we believed in.
And then we ate.

Primal Zen

I first discovered this mindset while practicing. Bruce Lee spoke of it often; reaction without thought. Don’t think. Feel. It becomes instinct to respond to a certain situation in a certain way. I’ve been striving at this for years, only recently did I start to understand. A punch comes, you block. You don’t think about it, you just do it. Thought requires hesitation. Hesitation forfeits advantage.

This is why I learned to run (blindly) with my first instinct. Screw who gets hurt along the way. I’m right, you’re wrong, and at the end, when everything has been wrecked, you’ll see.

I wasn’t sure how to quantify it, but it was an unsettling peace, almost like the dark side of the force. I associated people with how they smelled. Once I had that scent, I could track them anywhere. it didn’t require thought to do this, only instincts. Raw emotions. Who needs logic?

I learned to communicate without words. I’ve always found that one learns much more by observing and listening than running off at the mouth. I still believe this.

Look at my eyes. Read my body language. What do you think is on my mind?

Pay attention to someone as they walk. Within seconds, you can tell how they feel about themselves—not just generally, but at that exact point in time. When they speak, do they make eye contact? Are they shifty in their movements? Or are they fluid, decisive, and confident?

Do they know how to handle themselves?

Before I left NYC, the guy who had shown me around (and waited on the embankment when that damn train went over me) had long maintained that he had no interest in martial arts, and he had no idea how to fight. It’s a good cover; sometimes, when it’s revealed that you can fight, people want to test you. They either want to prey on you, or use you to prey on others. So I don’t blame him for keeping his mouth shut.

But we were friends. And I knew.
He had already seen me fight, we had resolved the situation we had involved ourselves in. He knew what I could do, but more importantly, he knew I was trustworthy.

So randomly, before we leave the high-priced hotel, I threw a punch his way. Nothing serious; if it had connected, I would’ve gotten his attention, but not much else.

Instinctively, his hand shot out and grasped my wrist. The look in his eyes was priceless, as though he was at a holdup, and everyone had just realized his gun was empty.

We sparred fiercely for a moment, which became a great experience with a bona-fide Kung-Fu expert. We never said  a word the entire time. Words weren’t necessary.

Anyways…logic set in about a year ago. Everything got a little crazy then, trying to adapt to everything I knew versus everything I was learning. The real world is rough.

I notice that since I have gone straight, my reflexes have dulled. At first I thought it was age, as I’m still in pretty good shape.
Instead, I find myself asking why all the time. Why do I feel a need to injure this person? Why am I doing this? What purpose does this serve?

Is there another way?

My writing is something else, though. I’ve never tried at my writing, I just do it. It’s always been that way, even before I could fight.

In fact, now that I’m older, I have found that I create the characters and their backstories (with their input) and then they pretty much do their own thing. I find myself, after a few hours, with several thousand words written. Reviewing my work often leads me to raise an eyebrow and say, “Wow, didn’t see that coming.”

When I write, I’m not conscious of the time, other people, or even my environment. I feel as though some curse may be brought upon me if I dare to step away from the keyboard before finishing the story. I end up sprinting for the bathroom when I’m finished.

The same gift I had for fighting…it’s as though it’s passed into my writing. Or it’s always been there, and I’m just now harnessing it.

This is the life I strive for…to flow freely without conscious thought, to react in the most appropriate method for situation. When I write, I want the words to flow through me, without my trying to control them. If I feel a need to raise my hands, I want to have no doubts that I have exhausted all other options. And then, I want to react in the most humane way possible.

I want to feel. Everything.

I’ve spent enough time in the darkness, and I’m really enjoying the light.

del.icio.us Tags: Zen,Primal,Bruce Lee,martial arts,writing,life,characters,backstory,feel

Announcing “The Road”

Four years ago, I was staying in an unlisted shelter in Saginaw, Michigan. Located in one of the city’s most dangerous neighborhoods, one would walk through a crime scene at least once per week, and Busterwolf had to be at his prime.

At the time, I was trying to raise enough money to leave Saginaw behind and head for Grand Rapids—where there were more jobs, more opportunities, and what I believed was the rest of my life. I wasn’t concerned about how I raised the money—I just wanted out.

And no one could outfight me.

The adventures in Saginaw were many, including a fight outside of a nightclub with two friends, one of whom was an adventurous, married woman, and a tournament that had been arranged just to see if Busterwolf was everything the legends said. Those invested in this tournament were so serious about seeing me fight that when I tried to back out, they conveyed their seriousness by firing a bullet at me.

Eventually, I was able to leave Saginaw, convincing myself that Busterwolf’s days were indeed behind him. When I arrived in Grand Rapids, I caved to the legend once again, and the real adventures began. They included two students (my first since my son) and the only man who put the fear of God in me, so much so that I could not beat him…

I realized a little back that I compiled all of these adventures into my very first blog, which goes all the way back to the days in Saginaw. Sometime this year, I’m going to compile and edit them, and then, if I can, self-publish them. I think they make a good read, and I changed most of the names…

The book will be entitled “The Road”. I’ll keep everyone posted as I put it together.

del.icio.us Tags: Road,Saginaw,Grand Rapids,Fight,Fighting,Martial Arts,Past

A Story About Pain

When I was nineteen, I had a legitimate shot at being an athlete. Instead of playing football (like I should have) I wound up going into the ring. In my fourth fight, I knocked my opponent down and was heading back to my corner. Before I could get there, he had gotten up, gone airborne, and thrust the blade of his foot into the rear of my left knee, shattering it instantly.

This was the worst pain I’ve ever experienced, and I think most of San Francisco heard me scream. I screamed so loud that I couldn’t even hear the ref counting me out.

Through the pain, I was mad as hell. There was no way this guy was gonna take a cheap shot and claim the purse. I should probably say these fights weren’t exactly sanctioned…

My trainer (a very good friend I maintain sporadic contact with today) is ready to call the fight, I have other ideas. He bandages my leg, which is unable to support any weight, and although I’m still willing to continue, I’m all but unable to come out of the corner.

So the cheap-shot-taking mofo blitzes me and keeps me on the ropes, first doing everything he can to tag my leg, and then resorting to whatever it takes. I’m able to knock him away, and as he falls back, I leap from the ropes, flip backwards towards him, and bring the instep of my right foot crashing down onto his shoulder. He’s out cold, but I go down too. I’m able to get back up.

I spent about three years completely rehabilitating myself, but the injury torpedoed any pro career I might’ve wanted.
So fast forward about half a decade. By chance, I wind up in Newark, New Jersey. When I say by chance, I really mean I fell asleep on the bus and missed my stop. If you haven’t been to Newark, rent a Charles Bronson film and save yourself the trip.

I wind up falling in (as usual) with the crowd that knows where everything is, and a fight is set up with this nineteen-year-old kid who has never lost.

The kid is a Bruce Lee-wannabe; lightning fast; all speed, and the battle cry was perfect, but not a lick of power. And cocky; damn, the kid could run off at the mouth. He made me look humble and I wanted to hit him just to shut him up.

He could take a beating, too. It didn’t matter how hard I hit him, he just kept getting up. I eventually became bored and hit him so hard that I nearly lost my balance. He may have tagged me a million times but his lack of power means he’s more annoying than anything else.

I start hitting this kid with everything I have in sequences and he just keeps getting up. The act is getting old.

I just want the money. To hell with everything else.

I knock him away with a side kick, knowing that he was going to get up. As he recovers, I leap into the air and thrust the blade of my right foot on the outside of his knee as he begins to get up. I felt the bone break beneath the impact.

He screamed. He cried. He pounded the ground. He cried for his mother. He clutched his knee. He would’ve torn it off to make the pain stop. I know this.

I watch this, and I can’t help but remember when someone inflicted a similar injury on me. I remember being told that I would never walk straight again and how long it took to prove them wrong. I keep telling myself that it wasn’t a cheap shot. I wonder why that isn’t making me feel any better.

Everyone was quiet, and looking to me as though I was some kind of monster. I was.

I told the kid I wasn’t going to hurt him. I don’t know if he heard me, but I know what the look in his eyes meant when he turned to me.

I picked him up—he didn’t weigh much—and I asked for directions to the nearest hospital. It was too far to walk, so I hailed a cab. Back then, they didn’t ask questions.

Once he was in proper care, I left.
I always expected that kid to come back for me someday. So far, he hasn’t.

Technorati Tags: Busterwolf,bus,fight,knee injury,pain,Newark

Stand And Fight.

Reprinted from my first blog on Myspace, detailing my final encounter with a racist cop in a small town. First printed December 2, 2007, edited January 4, 2009. See the original posting here.

You may not believe this, but I don’t really believe in violence. I think it’s a means to an end, and sometimes you have no choice. I learned this the hard way by having so many people push me around when I was younger. Much younger.

So I come to this small town and deal with the small town law enforcement, and while most of the cops I’ve run into are cool, there was this one that made life a little tricky. He is known for his brutality and even choked out a fifteen-year-old girl once. I looked into it to see if there was any truth to it, and there was. I imagine the whole matter was settled the good-old-boy way and that’s why he has still has a badge.

I don’t remember the first time him and I clashed, but the most memorable event was when he approached me at the local store’s ATM and indirectly accused me of trying to hack someone else’s account. He approached me from the rear without warning or identification, and startled me. I struck his hand off of my shoulder, and it would’ve led to a fight had there not been so many people around. I don’t think he was used to anyone standing up to him. I couldn’t fight a uniformed cop…I would’ve been disappeared. I told him that one day, we would catch each other. He would have no gun, no badge, and no witnesses. See how billy-bad-ass you are then.

Well, that night came on my last day of work, the Wednesday prior to last.

It’s a dark, cold night, the onset of winter in Michigan, and it’s only about thirty degrees out. I’m walking along the road and the lights and sirens are on me so fast that I nearly leap out of my skin.

When I realize who it is, I release my iPod and brace myself for what I’m thinking is the fight of my life. I’ve never taken on a cop before and my mind is already racing through a million ways to get out of town after beating the holy shit out of him.

He storms out of his car and approaches me from the front and demands my ID. Still in shock, I give it to him. He immediately returns to his car and I wonder if I’m going to Ionia tonight…but he returns shortly and I smile. The judge was true to his word.

He hands me my ID and demands to know what I’m doing out so late (it’s about seven, so you know). I tell him plainly I’m just walking. He asks me where I’m coming from. Work.

He tells me that he heard I was leaving town. How the hell….?!

He asks me if there’s any reason why I see a need to leave after all this time.

You smug son of a bitch…

Just personal business, I tell him.

He now invades my personal space and neither of us say anything for a minute.

He tells me, he doesn’t know how I stayed out of trouble all this time, but I should mind my P’s and Q’s these last few days. It would be a shame if I missed my flight out of town.

Okay, you prick.

I took a step back. I told him that I know he was used to dealing with all the common people who just bowed down and took his bullshit, but I’m not the common folk, I’m not from around here, and if you have beef to settle with me, let’s do it. There’s no one else here besides you and me.

Nothing happens for a second. You and me.

I realize that if he goes for his gun, I’m in trouble; if he’s any good, I can’t get to him before he draws and at least raises. I might take one getting to him, and one is all it takes. Getting shot is like setting your insides on fire and having a metallic weight at the center of that fire. You never forget it.

Me, an enemy, a road under the night sky. How many times have I seen this…

He walks up to me and smiles a smile of victory, like this is his town and he has finally run me out, like I’m leaving because of him. He extends his hand and tells me “Take care, Mr. Tingle.”

I hesitate for a second before shaking his hand. “You too, officer.”

He gets back into his car and pulls out. The chill inside me makes the weather looks like summer. I continue walking as he pulls right around the corner.

I think to myself that the situation could’ve gone a million different ways, none of them have positive outcomes for me. I could’ve been left for dead right then and there. I could’ve disappeared for months only to be turned up in next year’s hunting season.

I weigh all this out with the need to stand up for myself. You can’t…I mean you just can’t let people think than can run you, or that’s all they’ll do. I’ve grown up to the point where I don’t need to beat something down to prove myself. I can fight in other ways now, and that’s part of why God is letting me leave.