Against All Odds: My Story

by Norris, Chuck

  Too late! His timing and control were superb. I could feel his knuckle prints on my solar plexus. Three of the side judges held out their white flags horizontally to signal a half point for Ron.

  The match restarted, and Ron began to fight defensively, holding onto his lead, as the time ticked away. I glanced at the clock and saw that just fifteen seconds remained. I attacked, grabbed Ron's gi, swept his feet out from under him, and punched him in the ribs. I followed up with a shuto (edge of the hand) chop to the neck just as the buzzer went off, signaling the end of the fight. Four judges held their red flags up vertically to indicate that I had scored an ippon (full point). I had won the championship by half a point!

  It was my first win and a high point in my life. The satisfaction of knowing that I had finally won a tournament increased my confidence and motivated me to continue competing. More importantly, as I had hoped, my increased visibility also increased the number of students wanting to learn karate in my schools.

  Next I set my sites on the California state title. I went to the tournament with twelve of my students, ranging from white belts to black belts. I won the Middleweight Championship with my spinning back kick, a move that was rapidly becoming my trademark and most effective weapon. But I lost the Grand Championship. Eleven of my twelve students won their matches, and the Norris School dominated the tournament!

  The matchups for the first fight are often determined by who is standing next to you, so before long, when other competitors saw the school patch on our gi, they would attempt to reposition themselves in the line to avoid having to fight a Norris student first. Our students took that as a compliment, and so did I!

  In 1965, I entered and won several tournaments, including the Winter Nationals in San Jose, California. I became a major championship competitor by again defeating Ron Marchini for the Grand Champion title. That win encouraged me to set my sights on the Internationals, the most prestigious of all the tournaments.

  I won the middleweight division of the 1966 Internationals by defeating a fighter who had beaten me the year before. That win felt great. But the feeling didn't last long; my fight for the Grand Championship was with Allen Steen, a big fellow from Dallas, Texas, who had long legs with tremendous power and knew how to use his height to his advantage. He had just defeated Joe Lewis, one of the best of the new fighters, and I thought, Anyone who can beat Joe must be really good. I was right. I lost to Allen too. I decided to take some time off, to recoup, and to prepare for a heavy tournament schedule in 1967.

  I realized that although I had gotten good results with the spinning back kick in my first few tournaments, my opponents were now anticipating it. To be able to compete effectively in future matches, I would have to increase my repertoire. At that time, most karate fighters were either good kickers or good with their hands, but few of them could blend kicks and punches together.

  Many of my friends were top martial arts instructors. Normally it is difficult to go from one karate studio to another to train because each style is different, but several of my instructor friends allowed me to train with them.

  Fumio Demura, the 1963 All-Japan Karate Champion and an expert in shito ryu, showed me how to blend moves, using my hands and feet together, to create a more varied arsenal of kicks and punches. I learned hand-and-foot combinations from Hidetaka Nishiyama, a master of shotokan karate.

  Tutamu Ohshima, another shotokan master, encouraged me to go beyond my physical limitations. He pushed me to the point where I didn't think I could do any more, and then he encouraged me to go even further!

  Jun Chung, a master of hapkido, a martial art that emphasizes kicks and throws, helped me perfect more Korean techniques. Jujitsu instructor Al Thomas worked with me on grappling techniques. Ed Parker, the father of American kenpo karate (a Chinese martial art) and promoter of the Internationals, spent hours in his studio teaching me his system. I also trained with Gene LeBell, an expert in wrestling, boxing, judo, and karate. Gene is one of the toughest men I know.

  All of these men were generous with their time and talent. It says a great deal about the martial arts community that, although we were competitors from various styles and I'd possibly be an opponent to some of their students, we were all willing to share our knowledge.

  I took something from each style and modified it for myself, incorporating the new skills into what I already knew. Soon I had such a variety of techniques, I was confident that an opponent would find it almost impossible to pinpoint a specific movement and zero in on it.

  Joe Lewis, one of the up-and-coming fighters in the country, moved from North Carolina to Los Angeles. He called one day and asked if he could come to my school and spar with me. “Sure, Joe. Come on over,” I told him. “You're more than welcome at our place.” A natural athlete and a weight lifter, Joe had earned his black belt after only seven months of training during his stint with the Marine Corp in Okinawa. Joe entered his first tournament—the National Karate Championship—with less than two years of training under his belt, and he won it.

  When Joe and I first began sparring together, I could score on him quite easily. But after a couple of months of sparring regularly, I found it extremely difficult to score a point on him. I quipped to my black belt students, “It may have been a mistake to spar with Joe so often because one day I am going to have to fight him in competition!”

  My prediction soon became a reality when I was invited to fight in a Tournament of Champions in New York City. The top ten fighters in the United States were to fight a round-robin, a tournament in which every fighter competes against every other fighter. The competitor with the most victories would be the champion.

  Joe Lewis was one of the ten, and the decisive fight came down to Joe and me. We had beaten everyone else, and now we would face each other to decide the championship.

  Joe's two principal weapons were a lightning-fast side kick and a quick and powerful back fist. A smart and intimidating fighter, Joe instinctively understood what the Japanese refer to as kyo (weakness), and he looked for that in his opponent.

  To beat Joe I knew I'd have to be aggressive from the start and force him to think defensively rather than offensively. I was in top physical shape, I had my techniques down pat, and my reflexes were sharp. I was also psychologically determined to win, but I knew this was going to be a tough fight.

  Joe and I bowed to start the march. As I stepped into a fighting stance, Joe immediately drilled me with a side kick. Ouch! Joe was awarded one point, jumping out to a quick lead. The match began again, and I counterattacked, scoring with a reverse punch. After that, neither one of us could score on the other. We went into three overtimes and still neither of us could score! The judges decided they would have to make a decision on the winner. They awarded me the victory because I had been more aggressive in the match. It was a match that Joe and I would relive many times in the future.

  CHAPTER 9

  WHEN WARRIORS COLLIDE

  Hundreds of karate fighters from all over the world gathered at Madison Square Garden in New York to compete in the 1967 All-American Karate Championship. I arrived in New York the night before the tournament and went to bed early. I knew from experience that it was important to have a good night's sleep so I would be totally relaxed on the day of the fight. But when I got into bed, my mind was racing. Usually, if I'm having a hard time falling asleep, I'll imagine that I am watching a movie screen that suddenly goes black. For some reason the mental exercise relaxes me, and I can drift off to sleep while waiting for the “movie” to come on again. That's what I did the night before the karate championship in New York. I awoke on the morning of the tournament completely refreshed.

  When I arrived at the Garden, I saw all the other competitors standing around, talking to old friends, joking and laughing. A strong camaraderie exists among karate fighters. If I hadn't known better, it would have been hard to imagine that we were all warriors about to do battle.

  I went to the locker room, took my freshly la
undered uniform from my overnight bag, undressed, and stashed my clothes in a locker. My gi felt comfortable, almost as though it was a part of my body. It had become my favorite clothing, loose in the shoulders, with sleeves and pants that snapped like a whip when I kicked or punched.

  I took deep breaths, exhaling slowly, attempting to keep myself relaxed and in a calm state. I knew that tension or stress burns energy. I wanted to be totally relaxed prior to fighting, conserving the energy that I would need when I stepped into the ring.

  The tournament director called the black belts in the middleweight division to line up for pairing. I went straight to the middle of the floor and let the line form on each side of me. Some of the black belts hung back to scout the opposition. They were trying to pick their opponents so they wouldn't have to exert themselves too strenuously in the early matches.

  The various competitors—lightweights, middleweights, light heavyweights, and heavyweights—were to fight in different rings. The winners of the respective weight divisions would then fight each other. The Grand Champion would be the man who defeated the winners of all the other weight divisions!

  I settled down on the sidelines to watch the other black belts compete. Now that I had become tournament wise, it was a matter of routine for me to study the other competitors. I knew that I might have to confront some of them later on. I watched the way the fighters walked for signs of injury. I observed the way they stretched and warmed up: a kicker warms up with kicks and combinations of kicks, usually working on the one he will use most when under pressure. A fighter with good hand techniques warms up with repetitions and the combinations he favors.

  I studied the losers as well as the winners. The winners were the ones I would probably have to fight. The losers were men I might have to fight in the future. The techniques that fighters implemented, especially the ones with which they scored most often, were my immediate concerns.

  I didn't simply observe the winners and losers. I visualized myself in the ring with whichever man I was watching. I studied his strengths and his weaknesses; I inventoried my own techniques and matched them to his defenses. I visualized myself taking his strengths from him while maintaining my own. If, for example, I could see myself blocking an opponent's powerful side kick and then scoring with my own technique, I knew I would be able to do it when the real match began.

  In competition, as in attempting to reach any goal in life, it's necessary to keep a “big picture” mentality, but the focus must be on the next step, the immediate goal at hand. When I was competing, I took the matches one at a time, concentrating my full energy on the match in which I was competing, not on the Grand Championship. I knew the priority was to beat my first opponent.

  On this day in 1967, I had trained hard, my reflexes were razor sharp, and I was in peak physical and mental condition. I knew what I was going to do against each opponent because I had already visualized my match with each of them in my mind, and I knew their strengths and weaknesses.

  As the tournament progressed, one of the top contenders who emerged was Hiroshi Nakamura, the All-Japan Middleweight champion. I sat on the sidelines watching as Mr. Nakamura methodically eliminated his opponents. A small, powerfully built man, Mr. Nakamura had moves that were smooth and polished, but all of a similar pattern. His specialty was a front kick produced with blinding speed, followed by a straight punch delivered as easily and quickly as a snap of the fingers, only with enormous power.

  I studied him carefully, and I noticed that when I was in the ring, he sat at ringside scrutinizing me. But I had an edge on him; I had studied the Japanese styles of karate, as well as the Korean. I knew what he knew, but he didn't know what I knew!

  Mr. Nakamura wound up winning his division, and I won mine, which meant that after dinner that night, we would face each other for the Middleweight Championship.

  Before dinner I stopped by the washroom. Who should I see but my after-dinner opponent! I approached him and said, “Good luck tonight, Mr. Nakamura.”

  “I think you are going to beat me,” he said bluntly.

  His surprisingly negative attitude took me off guard, and I found myself encouraging my competition. “No, you've got a good chance,” I said. “I've been watching you, and you are very good.”

  Regardless of what I told him, I knew I could beat him because I had already visualized the bout in my mind and was prepared for his attacks. I was also ready for his defenses. Despite this mental exercise of visualization and psyching-up before a bout, there were times when I didn't win, but I always believed that I would.

  Nakamura and I chatted amiably for a few minutes. Normally, I never minded talking to anyone before a contest. No matter what I was doing—having dinner, getting dressed, or wrapping my hands before a fight—I was happy to have a conversation. But this carefree attitude changed instantly once I stepped into the ring. Then my concentration was totally on the task at hand: winning. I am not by nature an aggressive person, but I was superaggressive in the ring.

  Even my martial arts students were sometimes amazed at the transformation that came over me when the competition turned serious. During class at our studio, I sparred with my black belt students, and often one or more of them would beat me. “Mr. Norris, I don't understand,” a student might complain. “I can beat you in class but never in a real competition.”

  I'd smile and say, “Because in class I'm focused on teaching, not on winning; but in the ring, when I'm facing an opponent, my whole attitude changes. I am focused on winning!”

  There are three facets to being a winner: mental, psychological, and physical. I prepare myself mentally by knowing my competitor's strengths and weaknesses and how I can take advantage of both. When I am mentally sharp, I'm aware of and see everything that goes on around me. I prepare psychologically by believing in my ability and knowing that I can win. I prepare physically by being in the best possible shape, able to execute my techniques to the best of my ability. When I am at the top of my form, I often hit an opponent even before my brain records it. I see an opening and go for it.

  A winner must have a positive attitude. He visualizes himself scoring the winning points, and he sees the referee raising his hand in victory. These positive images create the will and the impetus to succeed. But having a positive image is worthless unless you are psychologically, physically, and mentally prepared to win.

  I went back to Madison Square Garden after dinner for the finals. I put on my gi, and, as I usually did, I taped my big toes to the ones next to them with adhesive-tape, to help prevent injuries that often result from hard kicks.

  The tournament rules called for each match to be two minutes long. The fighter who had scored the most points when the time expired was the winner.

  When my name and Mr. Nakamura's were called over the loudspeaker, I stepped into the ring. The Garden was filled with thousands of screaming fans. The roar of the fans sounded to me like a waterfall thundering in the distance. Everyone was anticipating a great fight.

  The moment I stepped into the ring, I forced myself to relax by slowing down my breathing. It's difficult to move when you're tense; relaxed muscles collaborate with rather than contradict each other, and I knew I could move faster when relaxed.

  Since I had already visualized the entire fight in my mind, my strategy was to take away Mr. Nakamura's strong techniques. I was certain that his first move was going to be his front kick. I was right, although his kick came faster than I had anticipated. I had to respond quickly. The moment he started to move, I shifted aside, blocked the kick, and hit him in the stomach, scoring a point!

  I expected his next attack would be another front kick followed by a punch. Again I was right. He snapped the kick, and I shifted to the right away from it. As he threw the punch, I blocked and countered with my own punch which scored again!

  In those days, when Japanese stylists kicked, they never faked or feinted. Their kicks went straight to the intended target. They were not accustomed to someone faking a
kick to one area and landing it elsewhere. Knowing this, I faked a kick to the stomach. As Mr. Nakamura started to block, I shifted my kick to his head and scored another point! I scored regularly enough to wind up beating him 12 to 1 for the Middleweight Championship.

  After that bout I fought the lightweight champion and won. Next I was scheduled to fight the heavyweight champion who had beaten the light heavyweight champion. He was none other than Joe Lewis, whom I would have to fight for the second time in four months for the Grand Championship.

  Joe had breezed through his competition and looked totally relaxed and rested. We stepped into the ring, stared at each other and bowed. The referee shouted hajime! The fight was on, and it was fast and furious. Joe jumped out in front by nailing me early with a side kick to my ribs. After that it was a fight to the finish. I finally scored on him to tie the match, then just as time was running out, I caught him again with a back fist to the face. When the dust cleared, I had won the match by one point and was awarded the All-American Grand Championship trophy.

  I was almost too exhausted to celebrate my victory. I had been fighting since eight o'clock that morning and had faced thirteen strong, agile opponents in eleven hours. All I wanted was a hot shower and a good night's sleep.

  But as I was leaving the stadium, Bruce Lee, one of the best-known martial artists in the world at that time, came over to congratulate me. I knew of Bruce, but we had never met. I had seen him put on a terrific demonstration at the Internationals in 1964, and I was familiar with his work as an actor on the Green Hornet television series.

  Bruce was extremely complimentary of my skills, recognizing what a feat it had been to snatch the victory away from Joe in the final moments of the Grand Championship. We talked amiably for a while, and after discovering that we were staying at the same hotel, we walked back together, talking all the way about martial arts and our philosophies. We were still deeply involved in conversation as the elevator whisked us up to our rooms. We stopped on Bruce's floor, and I stepped out with him.