by Nick Albert
“You have a decision to make. If you stay, you must promise that you will try to walk away from confrontation. If that is impossible, then you must run — there is no shame in avoidance from a position of great strength. Finally, when there is no other option, you may use your skill to defend yourself, or another person.”
He knelt down to put himself at Eric’s height.
“Now do you understand?”
Eric bowed his head in respect
“Yes, Sensei.”
“So now you have a choice. If you wish to fight, you must leave, but if you want to learn the way of peace and harmony, you may stay.”
“Thank you, Sensei.” Eric nodded. “I wish to stay.”
The Sensei smiled. He decided that he was talking to a very brave and remarkable young man, who deserved the best training he could provide.
The young Eric Stone kept his promise. Under the expert eye of The Sensei, he trained hard and soon came to see that there was no shame in avoiding confrontation. Perhaps the bullies sensed his growing confidence, or heard about his quick progress through the karate grading’s, but very soon afterwards the beatings stopped and they never came after him again.
Now twenty-five years later, Sensei Eric Stone was a respected martial arts and self-defence instructor with his own dojo and a staff of twelve. Skilled in the disciplines of Wado-Ryu karate, Jujutsu and Aikido, Stone had also developed an excellent reputation as a fitness coach, training people of all ages and abilities. Along with his regular clients, he privately trained several celebrities, their bodyguards, and a former police officer turned private detective. Occasionally he was contracted by the Army to give unarmed combat training at the local Army barracks. This was normally to help build the confidence of young soldiers who were about to go somewhere hot and very dangerous for the first time.
It seemed like an age since a young and frightened boy had promised his Sensei that he would walk away from confrontation, and throughout that time, Eric had done his utmost to keep his promise. It had become a matter of personal pride, a commitment to a long dead friend and mentor. However, now he was going to break his promise — three times in short succession.
After leaving his dojo for the day, Eric’s route home took him through Braintree’s Town centre market place. It was late afternoon and the market traders were taking down their stalls and getting ready to move on to the next town on their rota. Along the street, council refuse collectors were hard at work clearing away the piles of empty cardboard boxes and heaped fruit and vegetables, discarded earlier as unfit for sale.
As he squeezed his little blue Ford Focus between a council dustcart and some inconveniently situated road works, Stone spotted something round, yellow, and about the size of a soccer ball, curving through the air towards the car. It was a melon. He ducked instinctively as it exploded against the window pillar, spraying water and bits of rotten pulp across his windscreen and bonnet.
“Damn kids!” Stone muttered to himself, shaking his head in dismay.
There was nowhere convenient to stop in the market square, so he drove for another hundred yards, turning left twice as he followed the one-way traffic system. The car’s wiper blades had smeared the gunk across the windscreen, dangerously degrading his forward visibility, so he found a place to pull over and began to clean away the mess. He picked off the bigger pieces of fruit with his fingers and dropped them into a nearby bin, and used a water bottle to wash away the remaining juice, before wiping the screen clean with an old t-shirt that he had in his gym bag.
As Stone was about to get back into his car, some boisterous laughter attracted his attention. Even though the noise from the nearby diesel generator and pneumatic drill made the laughter difficult to hear, there was something disturbing about it. Suddenly, Stone realised that by following the one-way system, and turning left twice along the way, he had parked in an open area a little way to the rear of the market place. From a distance of about fifty-yards, Stone had a clear view of three lads who were laughing and bumping fists. They were using the council dustcart for cover, so that they could throw discarded fruit at passing cars unobserved.
All three appeared to be in their teens; Stone speculated that perhaps they were friends from the same gym. They were all heavily muscled and tattooed, with the same short-cropped hairstyles. Almost like a uniform, they sported similar scruffy jeans and white t-shirts, in keeping with the local fashion at that time. Stone watched them for a minute, dismayed by the callous arrogance that they displayed as they threw fruit at unsuspecting drivers. They egged each other on, offering different fruits from a cardboard box that Stone presumed they had found in the back of the dustcart.
“Try a peach,” one lad shouted. “They really go splat when they hit!”
Another pointed. “Get that taxi — it’s that Pakki bastard.”
The lad in the middle threw like a baseball pitcher, and they all whooped in delight as the rotten peach struck the side window of the taxi, startling the hapless driver. Stone sighed in silent disappointment and shook his head.
“Don’t get involved Eric — don’t get involved,” he whispered in warning to himself. “This isn’t your fight.”
He was about to climb into his car when he heard another shout. Stone’s shoulders slumped when he realised the implication.
“Look! Get the old bitch, the one with the shopping bags.”
“Yeah!” Another joined in. “Let’s all throw together!”
“She’s coming this way, wait until she gets a bit closer.”
Stone closed his eyes for a moment and swore under his breath.
“Perhaps I can just warn them off,” he said hopefully.
Stone jogged up a footpath that connected the market square to the area where he had parked his car. From that direction, he was able to approach the three lads from behind — unobserved. At the top of the path, he paused for a moment to assess the situation. The old lady was still about forty-yards away, slowly shuffling along, weighed down with her grocery shopping. He decided she was out of range and in no immediate danger for the time being. Stone scanned the buildings and light fixtures for CCTV cameras and decided that the men had inadvertently chosen a position behind the dustcart that gave perfect cover from any spying eyes — electronic or human. If things turned nasty in the next few minutes, Stone would be on his own, without the prospect of any aid from the police; but by then, so would the men.
He took a moment to study the three men, Stone decided that they were a little older than he had first thought, perhaps as old as twenty-one. From the bulging muscles under their tightly stretched t-shirts and jeans, it was clear that they worked out a lot. Although bulky muscle can appear physically intimidating, it will usually be tight and inflexible, making that person slow an unbalanced. The absence of any athletic movement in the way that the three men braced their legs, with their knees stiff and feet flat, told Stone that it was unlikely that they had ever had any significant martial arts training. Although Stone was not a large man and did not appear to be particularly muscular, many years of dedicated training had given him astonishing speed, strength, and flexibility.
Looking to his right, he could see that the old lady was getting closer. Stone looked at the three young men again and decided that he was comfortable with the odds. If he was going to act, it had to be now. He calmly walked forwards and stopped eight feet away, directly behind the centre of the group. Eight feet away, two fast paces, or a step and a kick; a gap he could close in less than one second. Far enough away to be out of range from a sudden attack, far enough to stay out of someone’s personal space, and far enough to be conversational without seeming intimidating — which was his intention.
The fruit throwers were all facing away from Stone, still unaware of his presence, using the dustcart as cover they jostled with each other as they prepared their ammunition for the attack on the old lady. The man on Stone’s right seemed to be the ringleader; he was bouncing a pear in his hand as he rea
died his throw.
“Gentlemen! May I have your attention please?” Stone shouted over noise of the pneumatic drill.
Looking as if they had been jabbed with a cattle prod, the three men comically jumped in surprise. They quickly gathered themselves and turned to face the source of the voice, relaxing visibly when they saw Stone. From their point of view, he was just some middle-aged man, of medium height and build, dressed smartly in brown leather shoes, beige trousers and a loose fitting cream golf shirt. They saw him as someone twice their age, someone old, someone who was of negligible threat to three large men.
“What the fuck you want?” spat the man on the right.
Stone held his hands out to his sides with the palms facing forwards, in the international gesture that said, ‘I am unarmed and I wish you no harm.’ He spoke in a calm, clear voice.
“I just wanted to suggest that perhaps you have had enough fun for today and that now would be a good time for you to go home.” He gave a big reassuring smile.
The ringleader wrinkled his brow for a moment, as if he was unable to comprehend the meaning of the words. He looked at his two colleagues and, with the confidence of a pack of hyenas, they all laughed together at a secret shared joke. The spotty lad on the left was the first to recover; he spoke next.
“What’s it to you GRAND D-A-D!” he said, deliberately stretching the last word for comic effect.
Stone smiled and dipped his head politely, allowing the intended insult to pass.
“I do not want any trouble. I am just asking you guys to stop throwing fruit, before someone gets hurt.”
The big guy in the middle of the group was quick to return the comment.
“The only person what’s gonna get hurt is you — dickhead.”
“Unlikely,” Stone responded in a frank assessment. Then he smiled and tried again with exaggerated politeness. “Please gentlemen. I would be most grateful if you would stop what you are doing and move along; it really would be in your best interest.”
The spotty one joined in again. “You gonna stop us on your own then?”
“I would rather it didn’t come to that, but if I have to I will.”
“There’s three of us and one of you.”
Stone smiled at the spotty kid. “Thank you for that excellent demonstration of your mathematical superiority, but I was already aware of the ratios.”
“Wah?” the spotty kid grunted in confusion.
“You reckon you can take us then?” the big guy asked curiously.
Stone looked him straight in the eye.
“If I have to, but it doesn’t need to come to that. Walk away right now and no one gets hurt today.”
“Or what?” the big guy asked, pushing the point.
“Or learn the hard way and crawl away.” Stone casually crossed his arms. “Either way your little game stops right now. Nice or nasty — it’s your choice.”
“You seem confident for a little guy,” the big guy said.
“I am,” Stone said calmly, “Perhaps you should pause to consider why that would be.”
“I’ve had enough of this shit,” the ringleader hissed, as he produced a knife from his back pocket.
It was a small knife, perhaps a kitchen paring knife, but with a wickedly sharp four-inch blade and the handle wrapped in multiple layers of duct tape. It sat in the ringleaders hand with familiar confidence.
“Go on Spike,” the spotty kid leered, “cut the bastard!”
Stone looked directly at the one called Spike and sighed dramatically.
“Now why did you have to go and do a thing like that; just when we were starting to build a good relationship?”
“I’m gonna fuck you up good man,” Spike said. He waved the knife in his right hand as if it was a magic wand.
“If you don’t put it away Spike, I am going to have to take it away — and you will not like it when I do.” As he spoke, Stone circled casually to his right, covertly forcing the three men to line up along the pavement, one behind the other, trapped between the wall and the rear of the dustcart. Now they had to attack one at a time, with the knife welding Spike at the front of the queue.
“Man! You gotta learn some respect,” Spike sneered.
“Yeah! Stick him Spike,” someone shouted from the back of the queue.
Stone bounced lightly on the balls of his feet, with his left foot slightly forward and his hands held ahead at waist height, palms open. It was a purely defensive position; physically unthreatening, but ready to react to any attack.
“Last chance, Spike. Put the knife down and walk away — please.”
Spike smiled in anticipation.
“Fuck you, old man!” he shouted as he attacked.
The first principle of Wado-Ryu karate is avoidance. There is no shame in walking away from any situation, or indeed running; but if confrontation is avoidable, the first moves you learn to make are all about how to avoid an attack. As Spike lunged forwards, Stone stepped to his left with his left foot, easily moving his body aside and out of danger. At the same time, he used his right arm to deflect the knife hand, so that it passed harmlessly several inches to his right.
The second principle of Wado-Ryu karate is entering — positioning your body correctly and in a balanced fashion, ready for what comes next. In the next half second, Stone swung his right arm in a clockwise loop over and then under Spike’s arm, trapping the forearm under Stone’s armpit. This simple move locked Spike’s elbow straight, painfully counter-rotating the shoulder and elbow, making it impossible for him to use the knife.
The third principle of Wado-Ryu karate is attack. In the next second, Stone used his right foot, in a back-heel kick, to sweep Spike’s front foot away. Already off balance, and trying to bend over backwards because of the painful pressure on his elbow, Spike flipped backwards and slammed his head against the rear bumper of the dustcart. As he slid into unconsciousness, Stone lifted the knife from his lifeless hand and tossed it into the dustcart rubbish chute.
Three seconds had passed.
In an ideal world, such violent actions would be unnecessary. In an ideal world, the other two youths would have had an epiphany and run away — but they did not.
Without taking a moment to process what had happened to Spike, the big guy let out a mighty roar and charged forwards with his arms out, as if he intended to catch Stone and crush him in a bear hug. He was a large man with substantial muscles, most likely developed through many hours of lifting dumb weights in the gym and topped off with imported steroids. His biceps were bigger than Stone’s thigh and his chest looked as hard as rock. Stone knew what would happen if such a strong adversary were to catch him in a bear hug. Avoidance was not an option this time. With Spike’s unconscious form slumped on the pavement, there was insufficient room to manoeuvre effectively. If he sidestepped the attack and ‘big guy’ got past, then Stone would be trapped between two aggressors and in a tactically disastrous situation. Stone knew he had to meet this attack head-on.
As big guy charged, Stone stepped forwards with his right foot, keeping the knee bent low, and pushing through his locked left leg, drove his right arm forwards into his attackers sternum. The straight line he created, from the rear foot to the striking hand, is called a single line of force; it is the perfect method of transferring energy. If you bend a pencil sideways it is easy to snap it in two, but stand it upright, and slam your hand down onto the point, and you will painfully understand the concept.
For big guy, it felt like he had run into the wrong end of a concrete lightning bolt. A punch to the solar plexus may have winded a smaller attacker, but like Stone, big guy’s stomach muscles were easily capable of absorbing a mighty blow — so Stone aimed for the little bone at the base of the sternum. His heel hand strike, combined with the weight of the charging weight lifter, created an impact of tremendous kinetic energy, short-circuiting the nerve bundle at the centre of big guy’s chest. As the strike exploded into the xyphoid process, the little bone at the lower
end of the sternum, the seventh intercostal nerve went into shock. Like a man being electrocuted, big guy went into a standing seizure with his arms and legs comically stretched out to his sides. Stone stepped back to create more space, gave big guy a cheeky wink, and delivered a massive kick to his unprotected scrotum. Such a kick would easily have sent a soccer ball out of the stadium; the effect on big guy’s nervous system was devastating. Like a puppet with the strings cut, he dropped to his knees with a sickening ‘smack’ and cross-eyed in agony, he rolled into the gutter where he began to twitch and vomit uncontrollably.
Six seconds had passed.
Perhaps shocked by the speed and efficiency of his compatriots’ demise, the spotty kid at least had the presence of mind to stop and consider the situation. He may even have thought of making the wise choice to turn and run, but after a moment’s hesitation, he too decided to fight. Adopting what he may have perceived to be a martial arts combat stance, he turned slightly sideways with his hands held out like a praying mantis and shuffled forwards to attack. Stone dropped his left foot backwards and raised his left hand to ear height as if he was preparing to deliver a huge punch. It was a simple diversion, like a magician’s sleight of hand, drawing your attention away from the real action; all the time Stone’s right fist was creeping slowly into an attacking position. The spotty kid fell for it. Naturally focusing all of his attention on the threatening left hand, he remained completely oblivious to the real danger — until Stone’s right fist whipped up from a few inches away and connected perfectly with the side of his chin. The kid turned a comical half circle on rubber legs and collapsed into an inert heap on the pavement. The entire combat had taken twelve seconds.
“GRANDDAD my arse!” Stone mumbled.
He glanced left and right to make sure that they were still out of sight behind the dustcart. The only person nearby was the old lady who was crossing to the other side of the road, seemingly oblivious to the battle that had just been fought for her protection. Stone carefully checked each man, to make sure that they were breathing freely and unlikely to choke to death, or spring up and attack him again. Satisfied that they were all temporarily incapacitated, he was about to head back to his car when he had an idea that appealed to his sense of justice. Working quickly, Stone roughly stripped each man from the waist down. Then he dumped their clothes and shoes into the back of the dustcart.
