Onami paused, not sure what to say. “It shakes the earth when it crashes. It’s frightening, but it’s also beautiful. It’s more water than I have ever seen in my life,” he said.
“It sounds like a pretty small wave to me,” Hakuju replied. “I told you to picture a big wave. I will be back at sunrise to check on you.”
Onami was disappointed. In a way, though, he was pleased to have more time to spend with the wave. He closed his eyes. All night the wave swelled and grew. Its sound was deafening inside Onami’s mind. Suddenly, it leapt forward and picked up Onami from where he had been sitting on the beach. In its core, Onami rolled and tumbled until he came out the back of the wave. Sputtering water, Onami paddled to keep up, struggled to catch the wave, to become part of it. The wave picked him up and carried him, filled him with its power. It washed through the temple, carrying it away. It washed through Onami’s school, carrying it away. It washed over the dohyo where Onami competed, carrying away the great roof and all Onami’s competitors. Nothing could stand in the path of this great wave.
“Onami!” Hakuju’s hand was on his shoulder. “Onami, it’s morning.” Onami opened his eyes. Salt water rolled off his forehead. He blinked it back, surprised to see the temple still standing. The ground all around him was dry.
“Tell me about the wave,” Hakuju said.
Onami broke into a huge grin. “I’m not sure I can,” he said. “You should have been here. It was . . .” he paused, not sure how to describe the experience.
“Go home,” Hakuju said. “And remember next time you step into the ring that you are Onami. You are the Great Wave.”
Onami’s opponent squatted opposite him beneath the great roof of the dohyo. Onami looked around. In his vision, the wave had carried all this away. “I am Onami,” he said to himself. “I am the great wave.”
The gyoji signaled with his fan. Onami felt the swell inside him. He crashed into his opponent, flowed over and through him, pushing him easily out of the ring. The judges gave the signal. He had won the match.
Robert Trias is known as the “father of American karate.” As a sailor in the United States Navy, he was the middleweight boxing champion for that branch of the service. During World War II, he was stationed in the British Solomon Islands in the South Pacific. There he studied karate and Hsing-I with Tung Gee Hsing, a Chinese martial artist. In 1945, he returned to the United States and opened America’s first commercial karate school in Phoenix, Arizona. Later he became a highway patrolman in Arizona and is credited for adapting the tonfa, an Asian martial arts weapon, into the L-shaped police baton that law enforcement officers use today.
The Hard Way to Find a Teacher
Robert Trias popped his opponent with a quick jab to the chin, followed by another, and another. His opponent danced back, shook his head, and grinned. He moved in and shot an uppercut under Trias’s lead arm but missed him by crucial inches. Trias slipped the punch and drove a glove into his opponent’s ribs. The bell rang. The two men hugged each other, thumping each other’s back with their bulky boxing gloves. They stepped through the ropes out of the ring.
“Geez, Robert,” his opponent said, tugging at the laces of his glove with his teeth. “Every time I climb into the ring with you I come out feeling like a punching bag after a hard day.”
“You got a few good ones in, too, Tom,” Trias offered.
“Yeah, right. I think one was off your arm. And the other hit your shoulder, was it?”
Trias grinned, rolling his head from shoulder to shoulder. Boxing made him feel good. He took a swig of water from a bottle next to the ring.
“Serves me right for stepping into the ring with the Navy’s top middleweight,” Tom muttered, rubbing his jaw. “Every time I fight you I learn something, though. In another twenty years you’d better watch out!”
Trias ran a towel over his regulation Navy haircut. Even the spring in Solomon Islands was hot, and a lot more humid than his home in Arizona.
“Mr. Trias?”
Trias turned to see a small Asian man make his way to the ring. “I’m Robert Trias,” he said.
“Pardon me for disturbing you. My name is Tung Gee Hsing. I understand you are a master of American box.”
“Boxing,” Trias said. “I’ve won my share of rounds.”
“I myself am a student of Hsing-I, an ancient style of self-defense. I would like to teach you in exchange for lessons in American box . . . boxing.”
“Thanks, but I do pretty well at defending myself already,” Trias winked at Tom, who grinned back.
“Just so,” Hsing replied. “That is why I would like to study with you.”
“Thanks, but no thanks,” Trias replied. “I have my Navy duties and my training. I really don’t have time to take on a student. See you ’round, OK?”
“Yes. Yes, that will be fine,” Hsing nodded, then turned to leave. When he had gone, Trias turned to Tom. “Strange fellow. Ever heard of Hsing-I?”
“Nope,” Tom replied. “But I’ve heard that some of those Chinese boxers fight like tigers.”
The next afternoon, Trias was skipping rope in the gym when the door opened and Tung Gee Hsing entered. Hsing took a seat on a bench in the corner and watched quietly. Trias put away the jump rope and began working out on the heavy bag. Dust puffed from the stitching with each blow. Somehow, though, his timing was off. Trias felt Hsing’s eyes heavy on his back. It made him nervous. Finally, he turned and walked to the bench. Hsing stood.
“Are you here to ask for boxing lessons again?” he asked. “Yes,” Hsing replied. “And to offer to teach you Hsing-I.” “I told you I’m not interested.”
“Yes, you did.”
“Then why don’t you just leave?” Hsing bowed and left.
The next afternoon, when Trias entered the gym, there was Hsing waiting for him. He bowed to Trias and smiled.
“You don’t take a hint, do you?” Trias commented as he dropped his gear on the bench next to Hsing. Hsing just smiled. “Maybe the direct approach will work. What will it take to get you to leave me alone?”
“Would you like to fight?” Hsing asked.
“Me? Fight you? No offense, but you’re hardly in my weight class. You’d be at a disadvantage.”
“It’s fine. Hsing-I doesn’t use weight classes.”
Trias shook his head. “If I beat you, will you leave me alone?” “Certainly,” Hsing replied.
“Then let’s find you some gloves,” Trias smiled.
“Thank you, but that really won’t be necessary. Unless you would prefer . . .”
“It makes no difference to me either,” Trias replied. “But why don’t you put them on anyway. They’ll protect your hands. Tom,” he called out to his training buddy, “Call the guys outside, would you? They might want to see this. It looks like we’ve got a match between me and our persistent friend here.”
Trias danced around his opponent, sizing him up. Hsing stood steady but light on his feet, shifting stance ever so slightly to adjust for Trias’s position. Trias jabbed; Hsing slipped it. He jabbed again; Hsing dropped under the punch and tagged Trias’s ribs.
Trias’s eyes grew wide. The punch didn’t look like much, but the force rattled through him. He drew a fast, deep