On Being a Shotokan Karate Tournament Red Shirt

For those of you who never watched the original Star Trek—or just weren’t die hard fans—there is an expression from the show called “the red shirt.” It refers to the fact that in the beginning of virtually every episode, the major characters—usually Kirk, Spock, Scotty, and McCoy, although Sulu and Chekov came along from time to time—would beam down to a planet, and usually take a rank and file crewman along with them. This crewman inevitably wore a red shirt, and this crewman inevitably died in the first five minutes.

It is that way with just about everything. In any war, there are people who fall in the first few seconds of battle. In any reality show that involves people competing for a prize, there is the first person to be voted off the island, the first person to get the sad news that they will not be an American Idol, and the first person to have Donald tell them that they’re fired.

And so it is with sports elimination tournaments. In the first rounds, there are inevitably competitors who are no doubt proud that they got there in the first place, but who, nonetheless, are the first to go. They are, in the world of sports, the “red shirts” who beam down with Kirk, Spock, Scotty and McCoy, only to have have McCoy kneel over them minutes later and say “He’s dead, Jim.”

I know this because I am one of these people.

This is not to say that I’m terrible. When I played baseball, I learned to catch the ball in the outfield, get the ball to the cutoff man, and hit the occasional single. I was pretty decent at gymnastics as well.

So it is with Shotokan Karate. I am a black belt. I am good. I am proud that I took this up late in life, got as far as I did, and continue to improve.

I also love entering tournaments. One of the things that Master Teryuki Okazaki, the head of the organization of which I’m a member (The International Shotokan Karate Federation) says is that tournaments are part of a student’s training, and he couldn’t be more right. I always learn a little bit when I compete, and I always leave these tournaments with a good story to share.

And I never get very far.

Again: I am good at this. I’m just not great. In karate, the best I get is one of my senseis nodding and saying “good…much, much better.” When I get those complements—which always come after a whole lot of work, often for the smallest scrap of progress—I’m thrilled, as I know I’ve earned the right to pat myself on the back.

And so, in these tournaments, I compete in matches in which I—who is, once again, quite good—competes against people who are amazing. And I do mean amazing. If you want to get an idea of what I compete against, take a look at these three guys, Carl Shaw, Hiroyoshi Okazaki, and Frank Garber from the 1994 JKA (Japanese Karate Association) Shoto Cup, performing a kata called Kanku Sho.

(For the uninitiated, a kata is a set of moves—sort of the martial arts equivalent of dance steps—designed to teach various offensive and defensive techniques.)

(And yeah, I know you’re probably saying “but that was 20 years ago.” Yes, it was 20 years ago. And Pete Sampras retired from tennis, and if you played him, he’d beat you like a one legged stepchild. Trust me, I watched Carl Shaw compete last Saturday, and he’s still awesome.)

So to reiterate: I am a Shotokan red shirt. I will continue to compete, and, in all likelihood, as I continue to compete against folks who are among the best in the world, I will continue to be one of the first to go.

This is a great thing.

It is great because anyone could stay in their comfort zone, and never really push themselves to try something that doesn’t come easy to them. Yeah, I could keep sitting here, blogging all day, updating my website, writing stories, working on my books, and being all comfortable in this comfort zone of writing.

But boy, would that be boring.

It is good for the soul when you notice how much respect people who are great at something have for you when you are merely good at it, but work as hard as all those folks do. When you do this, they always want to help you, and share whatever wisdom they have to give. In the time that I've studied Shotokan, I've been the recipient of some of the most helpful and constructive advice I’ve ever received from anyone, anywhere.

Finally, by hanging out with people who are as good as these folks are, it allows me, a mere mortal, to really appreciate…well, just how good these people are. There is something special about developing an understanding of what it is to do something, anything, well. There is greatness all around us, but often we simply don’t have the eyes to see it; whenever we acquire the ability to recognize greatness, the world gets a little bigger, and a little better.

I have two choices. The first choice is to lament my early demise, while the second, and far better choice, is to enjoy the ride, however brief, and then take in the greatness that competes long after I’m gone. And fortunately, unlike the unlucky red shirt, I get to dust myself off, and try again next year, where there is always the promise of a better showing, and, perhaps, an appearance in the second round.