Carrying the Fire, Part One

Years ago in the town of Hamden, CT where I live, there was a man named Gil Nagle. A veteran of the Second World War, Gil was a short, grizzled man with a solid, coiled physique. He was a Hanshi (master instructor) in the Shotokan Karate style, and I’m told, one of the hardest men around.

Mr. Nagle began his martial arts training like so many in the first crop of American martial artists had, as a member of the United States Military while stationed in Japan. The training must have been rigorous, often times bordering on brutal. While Squatting for great periods of time in deep, solid stances, Nagle's Sensei would no doubt have taken great pleasure testing the gai-jin soldier’s foundation with sharp kicks to his thighs, and heavy, downward palm strikes to each of his shoulder blades. After countless knuckle push-ups off the hard dojo floor, Nagle would have been made to execute techniques until perfection, signified by the snap of a karate gi made stiff by dried sweat following every punch and kick, resonating through the tempered pine of the dojo where he trained. But as a warrior by nature Gil embraced it, and over time earned tactical proficiency in the art, and an honorific title few outside of Japan possessed at the time.

The title granted him the permission to spread the teachings of Shotokan to his home in America. Upon returning home, Gil’s interests branched out to the art of Judo. He corresponded to the masters in Japan through several instructors he trained weekly with in New York. He set up a small dojo in Connecticut where he trained adults and teenagers alike in his own synthesis of Karate and Judo. Though far removed from the shores of Japan, Nagle’s training was no less fierce. His students, some no older than fifteen or sixteen, endured the many bumps, bruises, cuts and physical exhaustion synonymous with physical training on a nightly basis. They practiced until their muscles failed, until their voices ran hoarse from successive kiai, until the skin of their knuckles cracked and split, the balls of their feet blackened and calloused, their necks and throats tender from shime-waza (choking techniques) until that same gi snap that echoed with authority for Master Nagle in that training hall in Japan echoed for them as well.

I have never met Gil Nagle, though I would have relished the opportunity. He passed away many years ago, leaving behind a legacy only truly carried on the wind, through the shared collective of stories spoken by his former students and neighbors. Master Nagle carried the flame of a tradition (perhaps two) that at its very core was deadly serious. He engaged his students regularly, pushing them to their very physical and mental limits:

He would dart flawlessly across the dojo floor, cutting seamless angles with his feet, frustrating the attacks of his pupils. Their strikes and kicks were rendered impotent against the forearms and shins of their instructor’s blocks. Aggravated, they would lunge at him, clasping his gi in an attempt at a leg sweep or throw. As if he could render himself momentarily intangible, Gil slipped through the grasp of his students and, in a few deft movements would break their center of balance and send them hurling to the hard pine below. A “soft” technique.

He put the fear of reality in them, readying them for the inherent violence of the world:

“If I was a seasoned New York street fighter, you’d have ended up in the emergency room, or worse,” he would admonish, as he helped them up, and dusted them off, resetting their dislodged toe or finger.

He would then turn to the class and tell them to consider ripping off a car antennae and using it to get through a truly difficult violent confrontation. It was quite obvious that this man knew more than most people did about unarmed combat. A bit more subtle though was Master Nagle’s underlying message that under no circumstances were any of his students to become a part of that undertow of violence. Times have certainly changed.

Seventeen to twenty-five year olds everywhere glut themselves on images of a new generation of testosterone overloaded martial artists, puffed out, and muscle bound, their skin scrawled with war paint. They squat triumphantly over a defeated opponent, raining their bowling ball sized fists down on their exposed heads with a look of mania in their eyes. They flock to MMA gyms that peddle a strictly physical program usually lacking a character building component, highlighting power and strength over knowledge and perfection of technique and execution. After a few months they ride high on their newly inflated egos, sporting brand name logos on shirts practically painted on their chest and torso. It’s an excuse for many young people to fight; the most fun they will have feeding this drive without being arrested afterward.

Though I would personally like to see a certain level of technical growth in the training of combat sport as well as the attitudes and conduct of its participants, this post is in no way a crusade to condemn mixed martial arts or any other sport like it. I have been an avid watcher of venues like the Ultimate Fighting Championship and K1 Kickboxing for years. A good number of its participants are superbly talented athletes and fighters in peak physical condition, and actively contribute in a positive, inquisitive light to the evolution of the fighting arts. This is merely a microcosm of an issue of greater importance. So much emphasis now is placed on competition. We are constantly in contention with one another, laboring under the false pretense that “might makes right.” Our identities seem in large partly defined by who our enemies are.

A month or so ago, a neighbor and friend of my sister’s was over the house for a visit. Soon enough the subject turned to a friend of hers she used to work with at a local gym. He is a relatively young man, perhaps no older than thirty. He had served two tours of duty already in either Afghanistan or Iraq, which one specifically I cannot remember. Not surprisingly the man is very large, and quite strong. Apparently, he also boasts a severe temper, which at times interferes with the cordiality of everyday civilian life. He plans on re-enlisting soon, and returning to the war.

“I’m really good at killing people. It’s what I’m best at,” he confided in her. “I like hurting people.”

Not to worry though, “he’s really a nice guy.”

It seemed to make just as much sense to my sister’s friend as it did to this man. It’s what soldiers do after all. The root of the American soldier runs deep in the traditions of aggression and blood lust.

...

I took my leave of the conversation.

I had always understood the effectiveness of a soldier to be measured in, among other things, his or her ability to accurately assess threats, keep emotionally distanced from that threat and eliminate it with as much economy as possible, draw on their resourcefulness and untapped courage to meet any situation, all the while keeping emotions at a realistic medium. The conditions of war are incredibly harsh and take their toll on even the best people and I’m in no position to condemn this man I do not know, but I am weary of those who would perpetuate their own form of blind justice from the barrel of an assault rifle on a battlefield. They nurture some collective unconscious drive to subvert human beings. They are the ones who rape and pillage. They see it as an excuse to act on this.

I can’t say for certain, but in the center of a conflict that saw the most catastrophic loss of human life in recorded history, and in a theater known toward the end of that struggle as the most violent, I harbor no doubt that Master Nagle was forced to take life. He devoted his livelihood to knowledge and the perfection of his martial skill, and the passing of that knowledge. The man could fight, and fight well. He probably found certain exhilaration in the physical challenge of it. But he did not subscribe to a mantra that bred conflict. He was not a murderer, nor did he ever actively take some perverse pleasure in exacting his dominance over others. His skill in taking a life never equated to an enjoyment of it. He venerated strength, discipline and perseverance, but valued love and compassion above all things.

Martial traditions, at least those found in the east, all contain philosophical, ethical, and spiritual tenets weaved seamlessly in with the fabric of the physical ones. If the physical application and execution of techniques is the body, these invaluable precepts are the soul. To deny one is to deny the other; the removal of each from the other sacrifices the integrity of martial arts and martial traditions as a whole, upsetting an important balance and sending them spiraling into perversity. Shintoism, Zen Buddhism, Bushido, and even aspects of Christianity in some cases imbue martial doctrine with codes of conduct, temperament, altruism and restraint. But these are just ideas, intangible and so easily ignored. What it all comes down to, what these facets of control, respect, proper conduct, and discipline are all extensions of, is the overlaying concept of HUMANITY. To negate our humanity is to lose touch with the human race. One can’t foster a respect for life in this way, and once that is gone, what is there to fight for? One then isn’t a martial artist, or a fighter, or a policeman, a soldier, or a warrior at all. Without this respect for life, the fires of grand traditions are snuffed out, and the conquering hero is reduced simply to conqueror, a thug, and a predator.