James Lafond - Fighting Edge: Using Your Martial Arts to Fight Better

James LaFond

Thanks to the following people:

Ted and Betty, for this nifty body, that still works when you give it a good whack.

"Reds" Foley, for not letting me fight that middleweight in Charleroi.

"Irish" Johnny Coiley, for teaching me how not to eat leather.

Cindy, for this word processor.

Doreen Rockel, CMT, for teaching me how to walk again.

Ralph Gervasio, Jr., for being a great writing coach.

Joseph Estwanik, M.D., for answering my medical questions.

Paul Behrendt, for planting this big idea in my fertile brain.

Steve Sechi, for convincing me to try nonfiction.

Rick Sensky, for his encouragement and assistance.

Master Joe Nawrozki, for providing valuable insights and commentary.

This manual is not intended as a substitute for instruction and training in the martial arts or self-defense. Neither the author nor the publisher is responsible for the use or misuse of information contained herein. It is intended for academic study only.

Paul, a fit, educated young man, was seated to my right as I discussed a recent altercation with some punks. (He was about to find out what kind of people belonged to his gaming group.) As I finished and the approving grunts faded, Paul mentioned that he was interested in developing the ability to defend himself and that he might cancel his spa membership in favor of boxing lessons.

The advice flowed freely. I recommended that he continue his strength training because he could expect to be grabbed if attacked. The sensei to my left suggested that Paul enroll in his karate class. Walt, a truck driver, lowered a skin magazine long enough to promote gun ownership as the last best hope for the preservation of Western civilization. The kick-boxer across the table suggested aikido lessons and then demonstrated how to kill with the elbow....

On our way home Paul asked some hard questions that would have brought glares of disapproval from many a martial artist. "What is it like to be in a real fight?" "How does it feel to be punched in the head?" "What about these various martial arts methods and their claims-are they valid?" Being quizzed about something I often did, but rarely thought of, was unsettling enough to inspire this project.

This book is an exploration of the practical value, study, and application of the martial arts in relation to real violence. It began as a simple effort to make sense of a life defined by violent misadventure. As it grew into a serious study I found it necessary to embrace a broad definition of the martial arts and a critical examination of their nature. Since childhood I have sought to understand how fighters-primarily soldiers and prize-fighters-have prevailed in the face of real adversity. I suppose this look into the modern martial arts phenomena and the realities of ordinary violence is the logical extension of that desire to understand combat. I hope you find it useful.

-James LaFond, January 2000

"All I saw was boots, lots of boots. Man, long hair sucks!"

-MAID

SETUP: I was at work, pushing a loaded dolly, still cooling down after an argument with my supervisor and his assistant. Pumped up on whiskey and PCP, they had come to work in a racist frenzy. I'd told them that if they attacked my partner (a black guy) they'd have to deal with me. I could fight, and they knew it. I was young and didn't realize that their fear of me was to my disadvantage. I kept moving, considering my options. They were two aisles over when I heard the super yell, "All you niggers and hippies are gonna die!"

They'd hit me after work on the parking lot, I had reasoned-they wouldn't risk losing a union-wage job. I knew that the super kept a baseball bat in his car, so I made a mental note to leave with a mop handle. For now I had freight to spot. I turned into the detergent aisle, as the part-time kid to my right headed to the back room at a run. Was he sick? Or did he hear the phone?

IMPACT: The super shouted, "Get 'im!" I stopped as I heard a single slapping footstep behind me. I began to look back just as a heavy, grunting body slammed onto my shoulders and a hairy, muscular left arm wrapped around my neck. It was Geno, the assistant. At 5 foot 8 inches and 147 pounds, I was balancing seven bales of dog food on two wheels, with 170 pounds of mean Italian on my back-trying to rip my head off! For a second I tried to stand. As I went down I pushed the dolly handle to the right. As it crashed the steel blade flipped up to the left in time to catch me in the chest as I fell forward to the left. Geno landed on his feet as the super tried to push past him, yelling, "Don't let 'im up!"

THE FLOOR: I rolled back off the blade as Geno trapped my right shoulder with his left hand, pushing me back against the shelving, firing short rights into my face. After eating a few, I pushed off the floor with my left hand, scooted into a semi-sitting position, tucked my chin, and raised my right to the cross-arm guard.

THE BEATING: Geno stepped back and growled, "Get up!" I refused, and he hit me with a right cross over the left lip. I tucked my chin and gritted my teeth as the maniac whacked away with what turned out to be his standard combo-left, right; left, right, right-all hitting my forehead with a dull, wooden thud. He was punching down out of a bent squat, and that double right would pull him off balance. He pushed off the shelving to my back to right himself and launched another combo. His punching was ineffective, and there was a stack of freight between the super and me. I sat tight.

CHAOS: Geno was getting frustrated. He wasn't attacking me out of hatred, which was the super's motivation. This was a dominance thing for him. He had to be the toughest guy on the crew. He stood back and yelled, "Get up and fight!" The super stepped in and kicked my right leg behind the knee. Geno shot him an angry glare and leaned in with another combo. At this point Geno still wanted to beat me in a fight. The super wanted to drop a case of Ajax on my head and end it.

COMEDY: Again, Geno stepped back and said, "Get up and fight!" And, again, the super stepped in-but Geno pushed him back and growled, "He's mine!" I had to grin. I was getting worked over by Abbot and Costello!