Karate champ.

The memory is of dinner at Pizza Hut with my mother. She asked me if I was interested in entering the annual state-qualifier Karate tournament. This competition was a big deal; participants from all around the state of Ohio would be competing in their respective divisions (divided by age and rank, novice or advanced) for one of six qualifying positions and the opportunity to compete at the regional level, which would include the top qualifiers from one-third of the United States, and offer an opportunity to compete on the national level.

Having barely competed in other tournaments, and at best taken home a trophy or two in obscure intra-club tournaments with very few competitors, I felt I had very little chance to do anything but lose, and I said as much. I decided I wasn't ready to enter something at that caliber of competition. But later that evening, I decided somewhat whimsically, why not? The tournament was at a place where I had competed before, which wasn't too far away, and I was really curious to go and watch skilled people demonstrate their art. And why not compete while I was there?

So a few weeks later, we headed over to the Aladdin Shrine Centre where the competition was being held, and I nervously registered to compete. The whole morning I felt ill, my stomach churning. I felt weak. As more and more people arrived, and the first Kata (pre-arranged forms, somewhat like a solo shadow-boxing dance) and Kumite (sparring) divisions began, and there was such adrenaline in the air. It was very intimidating, so I just stood in the corner, stretching, biding my time, listening to the divisions being called over the loud speaker, slowly counting down to the moment I would be ringside with my fellow competitors.

And before I new it, my division was announced, and then the real nervousness set in. My heart began pounding in my chest, my mouth was dry, and I couldn't stop figetting with jittery energy. Two by two, the competitors were called into the ring, the three judges circled the action with piercing gazes, watching the chaos of arms and legs kicking, punching, blocking. Attack - counter-attack, attack - counter-attack, a moment of hesitation, a punch slides through the defense and a judge excaims "Ippon!", arm raised and gesturing wildly towards the side of the scoring competitor. The action repeats itself, until one opponent scores three points and is declared the victor, or time runs out and the match ends. Its all a blur until my name is called and I am beckoned to enter the ring, which comes all to soon.

I stand, and walk to the edge of the ring. I bow respectfully, watching my opponent do the same, then enter the ring and walk to my starting line, eight feet from my opponent. We are instructed to bow to the head judge, and then to one another. There is respect and tension as our eyes meet, an intensity in the gaze we share mere moments before the match is to begin.

The judge shouts : "Hajime!" and I lunge into a blur across the ring, catching my opponent off guard, landing a punch before his defenses can even come up. This would become a signature move I would use time and time again. The rest of the match is a blur. The ebb and flow of movement as my opponent and I dance in lockstep. I only know that I have trained to be in this situation, and more than I've ever been before: I am in this moment.

The rest of the matches are similarly a blur. I do what I can, mind nearly blank, body instinctively doing what it needs to do, moving from match to match until the last of them is over. We all stand and face the judges. One by one, finalists are called to the podium. And in the end, I'm in fourth place, a bronze medal is placed around my neck, and I have secured a spot in the regional karate championships in New York City. I had no idea I could do this, my idea of self has just expanded.

And so, in qualifying for the regionals, I decide to train and improve, and forget trying to guess my fortunes. I increase my focus, and begin training under new Senseis that I think will expand my skills. I would go on to place first in the regionals, lighting a fire within me. First in my region placed me as one of the top three in the nation. And I asked myself the question: why not first place? If I'm going to stand on the podium, I want gold.

And it happened. I trained six hours a day during the summer, and later that same year, became a U.S. National Champion in Kumite (sparring). I would go on to compete in over 70 competitions and win over 40 trophies. And to this day, it is still surreal to me how small decisions can lead to such big things.

And tomorrow, or the next, when I'm eating at some place that probably isn't Pizza Hut, may whimsy and desire combine once again, and offer me another twist of the unexpected. To embark on a future with the simple premise of "Why not, could be interesting..."