I don’t know what it is. Maybe I make bad decisions… well, I guess I know I do… but still; sometimes it feels like I am just a Shit Magnet. A few weeks ago, my current girlfriend and I came to a thermo-nuclear end. You know, the kind where you write off the majority of your belongings as casualties of war. Yea, it was like that. It’s kind of been like that since Iraq. Lonely. In love. Too much too fast. Break up. Lonely…. Rinse, wash, repeat. It would probably help if I didn’t like my girls to be born around 1986… but oh well. I like to call that an “occupational hazard”.

The call on Wednesday night woke me out of a stupor. Albeit an Irish Whiskey fueled stupor (it’s how we Irish meditate, mind you!) It was like getting the Warning Order about a mission. Suddenly you feel alive, renewed with purpose and vigor. I was running in the mornings, training in the afternoons and really slamming my cardio.

Sunday saw me down in Galveston for my best friend’s little sister’s (So, MY little sister!) birthday. It was a fun time. We had sprinklers and some strange horse-shoe-like game with two balls on a string. I really don’t want to talk about that one too much. Just trust me on that.

I was being pretty introspective. I didn’t really feel like being too social, bit I was still enjoying the vibe of the party. That was when she showed up. Dread washed over me. She was a cute little Irish number wearing a Betty Paige style red and white polka dot one piece and a bandana in her hair. I was doing just fine until she hit me with those eyes. Light green like the sun reflected off the dew on the morning grass.

Forget this. I’m outta here.

I head out along the beach. It’s an overcast, slightly windy day. The water is choppy and warm. The sand feels good so I start to jog along the beach, which is pretty much deserted. I’m working up a good pace. Filling my lungs with some good salty air. And Gulf pollution. Awsome.

I’m pretty far away from the group now. I wade out, chest deep in the gulf. It’s been a long time since I’ve been in the ocean. The small waves take me back to Basic Reconnaissance Course, and the countless boat raids I did with Fox 2/1 back in the fall 2000 – 2001. Countless. I think about steaming towards Kuwait from Hawaii. Inevitably, I think about the Red Cross message that my mother had died and the long trip home followed by a long trip back to my comrades.

I thought about where I come from and the kind of person I wanted to be. Then a spark ignited, and the thought that I could win this fight came into my head. I felt good out on the water, far enough from shore that I could cut land out of my peripheral. I felt focused.

Walking back to shore, filled with energy, I started shadow boxing. Jab, circle left, straight. The shallow water added a really cool element. Kind of like ankle weights. I start working on footwork. Jab step, circle, pivot. Fun. Sprawl! (Splash!) Very cool. It was probably one of the best workouts I could do!

And then I saw them.

My family. My Friends. Watching me. All. Eyes. On. Me.

I look at them, looking at me.

The wind carries their applause to my ears.

I flip them off and continue sprawling. This is what I do! This is work for me!

I stayed at the party for a little bit longer. Had a burger, drank a pint. I love my little sister, and it brought peace for me to be around such groovy people. Oh, and as for the Irish girl…

You like apples?

Well… I got her number. How do you like them apples?

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So there I was. Sitting in the living room of my new man-cave, puffing on a stogie and sipping some Irish Whiskey. My pretty little lady friend and I were having a great conversation, the music was low, the mood was right. Then all hell broke loose. By which I mean my iPhone started clattering atop my glass coffee table like an ultra-pissed R2D2. (Yup. I said R2D2) My pretty lady friend raises an inquisitive eyebrow. I grin slyly as I look at the screen. It’s my manager.

“Hey.” I ask in a tone that is almost a question.

“Can you make 145 by next Thursday (May 27^th)?” She asks. If there is a point anywhere around, my manager will get right to it.

“Absolutely.” I reply in a tone of absolute confidence.  I haven’t been 145 since I was in 10^th grade.

She tells me the money. I haven’t been in the gym on a consistent basis since Ray Blodgett tried to rip my arm off like the opening scene from Cat People. Still… a loss will pay the rent and keep the power on.

“I don’t care who I’m fighting, I’ll take it.” I state with conviction. OhcrapOhcrapOhcrap.

My pretty little lady friend is all smiles. She wants to know what that was about. I look at her, puff the stogie, take a sip of the Nectar of Eire and say, “Well Darlin, looks like we gotta work on Cardio.”

Seven Days and a Wake Up

I take a run in the morning. Three miles among the abandoned warehouses of East Down Town. It’s not as hard as I thought it was going to be, but it’s a LONG way from being combat effective.

Home. Shower. Shake. Gym.

I weigh in at 157. This is good. I’ve got to concentrate my training. On a regular schedule I would be ending the sparring phase and entering my maintenance and rest phase. My rest day will be the day of weigh-ins.

Holy ring rust, Batman. I was in Jits class and some homeless guy wandered in from the parking lot and Gogoplata’d me.  Then a thirteen year old Kung Fu kid jumped up and kicked me in the face. One of those is true.

Lots of hammer swings on the tire. Kettle bells. Calisthenics. Protein shakes and celery. Chicken breasts and rice. My body has no idea what to do with itself. Healthy already? Craaaaaap.

I’m exhausted, but I’m motivated to win this thing, and that means it’s going to hurt.

TO BE CONT…

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Motivation is an interesting beast.  We relish the perseverance we have when we have motivation, and flounder helplessly in its absence.  Just when we think we have things figured out, it will slip through our hands leaving us sitting on the couch groaning about going to work out.

Motivation, especially as it relates to emotion, is an amazingly involved sub genre within psychological studies. Every single living thing has motivation. Whether it is to breath, eat, mate (wink wink, ladies) or do Sudoku (which is way beyond me). Motivation, or the lack of it, will motivate two otherwise identical creatures in completely different ways. The will to live can be an amazing thing!

So what separates us from E. Coli?

Self-Awareness?

Certainly.  When self-awareness and motivation collide, the end result is Emotion. Or at least I think it is.

Emotion is that bitter beast that closes the field as you’re rounding third just because you called her Leslie instead of Lisa. (I mean, really?!?!?) Emotion and Motivation are so closely intertwined that in many fields it is argued over where the line between the two are drawn… if, in fact, there is one. Top it off with the fact that motivations and emotions are in a natural, constant state of flux.

Very complicated, I know, but you have to trust me. There is NO WAY the Bad Man is going to leave you hanging. Motivation is constantly changing. Rather than question ourselves, we just need to adapt our way of thinking. Set goals. Emotion is trickier. Sometimes we just don’t feel like succeeding.

Well, that’s why we introduce the third side of our triangle, discipline.

When all else fails; discipline will win the day. It means getting past the emotion. Yea, it sucks. Deal with it, we have work to do.

Get your fat ass off the couch. Stop making excuses no one cares about anyway. Besides, the day you don’t want to train is the day you learn the most.

That… and chicks dig fighters.

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By the time you read this… I’m on the road headed back to Houston!

I am anxious to get home. I learn so much whenever I am at Jackson’s. For the most part, however, it seems I learn more about myself than fighting. Which is cool.

Everyone showed up…   well, I was going to say one specific moment but I realized that they (being the Jackson crew) are ALWAYS showing up! Wherever one has a fight or function, they all go! Take, for instance, an amateur boxing / kickboxing smoker being held at a community recreation center. A strong local crowd had turned out to urge on their neighborhood fighters. This town LOVES it! I get to watch a kickboxing bout between nine year olds! They loved it! Throughout the night fighters of various experience levels squared off in competition. Heather Clark made her kickboxing debut in stunning fashion with a TKO victory. That the Jackson’s fighters did well is typical. So is the fact that they all turned out. Bones. Guida. Villasenor. Holm. Dotson. DJ, Cowboy… pretty much everyone showed up to urge their team mates on. Coach Winkeljohn personally coached most of the Jackson fighters, many of whom where engaging in ther first combative contest! Occasionally a kid or two would come from the crowd looking for an autograph from Guida, Bones, Cowboy or the many other A-list fighters in attendance. From the most beginner of students, to the most experienced of pros, I was struck by the close sense of family. I was then “struck” by Ryan Webb (who is fighting in Frisco on April 4th!!) when he slapped me and took away my diet soda. I frowned like a spoiled child. I had not had a soda on well over two weeks (shut-up Derek) Ryan wagged his finger at me and shook his head. We are a family. We look after each other.

It is the morning when Clay and Jon are leaving. They are not flying. A sponsor has bought them a motor-mansion. I don’t mean a motor home I mean mansion! On wheels! Inside the gym, all the trainers, training partners and team mates have gathered to see Guida and Jones on their way. The two fighters are taking the time to shake the hands of the team mates that have helped them prepare. They reach into their bags and begin handing out hats and t-shirts. They are pieces of free schwag sent to them by a variety of manufacturers in the hopes that someone will see them waring it and decide to buy their product. They take a few pictures and then head out to their palace a go go. After they are on the way, the thing had a FOG horn, most of the Jackson Team hangs out in the parking lot. Damacio Page tried to race a car that looks like a viper. They line up on the street and pull a short drag run, squealing tires and kicking up smoke. The Jackson team laughs and cheers. After a few minutes, everyone drifts off in groups or on their own.

I decide to make my way over to Conrad’s Barber shop. Conrad Padilla is an amateur fighter and professional barber. A little over a year or so ago he was fat. I don;t mean chubby, chunky, big or portly. I mean fat. F – A – T, fat. He cut Chris Luttrell’s hair once and said he wanted to fight. Now he is a shredded 145er! He’s a great dude and many Jackson fighters make it a tradition to get their hair cut by Conrad before a fight. His shot is an MMA museum. Framed, autographed pictuhe res on the wall represented a “who’s who” of MMA. A former Soldier, he has coins and memorabilia displayed throughout the parlor. Tail pipes from a long lost chopper are mounted to the wall. Comfy couches add to the chill atmosphere. My hair is shaggy, and so is my beard. Conrad hooked me up with an old timey straight razor shave! My only complaint is that they play chill, head bobbing beats in the shop. HEAD BOBBING. Am I the only one who sees a scary problem with this?!??!?!

We discuss fighting, MMA politics and life in general. It’s a great way to begin the focusing process. I look strange without my scruff.

I meet my old cop buddy for dinner, we reminisce about some crazy calls we had together. Good times. We end up discussing more about the future than the past.

I feel fantastic. I feel like I am absolutely where I am supposed to be in my life. I am at peace like I have not been for a long long time.

I am now a sponsored fighter!!

Clothing company Forty Thieves (Named after the first Irish gang in America) www.fortythievesclothing.com offers some of the best fight shorts I have ever worn. Period. The have an understated style and can be worn anywhere… yet are MADE for fighters. Binh is also a really cool dude who cares more about WHO the athletes that represent their brand are than how much he has accomplished. Also, their shirts are bad ass. No cartoon skulls or birdie wings. No aggro ultra violent images, just an understated sense of blue collar toughness. Check them out if your tired of wearing clothes that look like a Dungeons and Dragons game.

Manumission is a complete line of facial skin care products designed to work especially for fighters. Their soaps are antibacterial as well as having special moisturizers designed to help the skin from getting cut.  They are offered atwww.fightceuticals.com!

I am also now a proud member of the Ranger Up! Team. Developed with the military mindset involved,

RU caters to military MMA afficiandos. Have a looksey at www.rangerup.com

Lastly, if you know anyone that needs a defense attorney in Texas please go to Sheltonlaw.us!

See you soon!

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I know a lot gets made of the fact that I am a Jackson fighter, and for good reason. Greg Jackson, and especially Chris Luttrell, have been mentors of mine. Not just within MMA, but as “older brother” type figures. The Jackson-Winklejohn team is, and always will be, my family.

However, I am blessed with dual citizenship. Sam Hoger has been a source of amazing knowledge and guidance to me. He has allowed me into his school and always been accepting of my experience. I have grown more in the year and a half I have been in his tutelage than I have in any other time in my life. I gain from him a skill set that is not available at Jackson’s.

I’m not from Texas, but I’m a Texan. I enlisted out of Dallas when I was eighteen, and even though I was born in Buffalo, New York (and I still talk like it sometimes) I graduated Allen High School and I say with pride that I belong to the only state in the Union allowed to fly their flag level with the Stars and Stripes. Houston kicked my ass my first two years here. However, it was the through all that crap that I was really able to grow. Now I love Houston, and I’m not leaving. I have an amazing woman (www.sheltonlaw.us) and I am on a great team. Artenas Young is one of the most gifted fighters I have ever trained alongside. He has become not only my training partner, but one of my best friends. You WILL be seeing him. His name WILL be known. Mark my words. And he’s just the other “Pro”! Ola Siyanbola has just started making his mark in the ammys and will soon join the growing ranks of Pros in the pack. We haven’t even lifted the veil off of 205 pound fighter Ray Burgos. We can’t find anyone willing to fight him, so he hasn’t even made his amateur debut yet! We have a host of other amazing fighters and I could probably write a novel on how bad-ass they are.

So, while I know it’s cool that I train with and alongside some of the biggest names in the sport – and it’s fun as hell to write about all that – I just wanted to make sure all my brothers, on both my teams, get the credit they deserve!

I am proud and honored to represent Jackson’s when I fight, but Houston is the home of the Hoger Wolfpack, and I am the Cobra Commander.

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Coming to Albuquerque is always a humbling experience. There is nothing like feeling confident in your abilities only to have that confidence stripped rudely away from  you. Case in point… I get absolutely crushed out here. By everyone. Learning is very quickly paced. The more experienced fighters look out over the controlled mayhem of Kickboxing practice giving corrections, encouragements and admonishments where needed.

I am GASSED. The altitude is awesome and I just went four rounds of getting my face kicked in. I strip off my headgear and collapse on the edge of the mat/ Cowboy Cerrone looks down on me and with an emotionless voice asks me if I am done already. Admonishment. I lift my tired carcass off the mat, strap on the head gear and wade back into the mangled throngs of sparring pairs. Every round we find a new partner. Which means that every round I’m getting beaten in a whole new way.

TapouT sponsored fighter, Travis Marx (15-1) is sparring with me. I land a right hand, but Travis responds with a quick flying knee. Out flies my mouthpiece. I drop to a knee.

“You ok?” He asks
“Oh yea” I grunt. I scoop up my mouthpiece, throw it back in.

I engage with a combo that I am fairly proud of. Travis kicks me in the head for my efforts. Out goes my mouthpiece. Dangit. Why did he kick me in the mouthpiece?

I feel bad. Then I watch the Machine Gun [Artenas Young] get suplexed by [Jon] Bones Jones. Suddenly I don’t feel so bad. I return my attention to getting beaten by Travis as I hear Bones Jones and the Machine Gun laughing like maniacs as they continue sparring.

After a day of getting beaten, I am talking to Coach Chris Luttrell. After coaching me through the morning’s workout, he thinks I need to be at 145 to be truly competitive on the national scene. Sam Hoger and I had the very same conversation only a week before. I resisted then, but after getting smacked around by BIG guys that are 155 fighters… I start to see the wisdom.

So I think I will fight at 155 for a couple more fights… but don’t be too surprised if I move down a class.

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Mixed Martial Arts is well into the largest period of growth our sport has ever experienced. Each day brings new recognition to a sport that only a few short years ago was a bloody spectacle in the public eye. Not even considered a sport, MMA was dubbed “human cock-fighting” to the ignorant masses.

These times are quickly becoming the “old days”. You know, the time when if you saw an individual with a TapouT shirt on… odds were 100:1 that he trained. Now they sell them in Wal-Mart! MMA shows are selling out from local to national venues. MMA fighters are finally receiving much deserved recognition for their training and discipline. We are finally beginning to see fighters receiving purses commensurate with their dedication, though we still have a LONG way to go on that front.

By most standards MMA is quickly outpacing all the other combat sports and yet we seem to be losing the battle for that which matters most; the hearts of our fans. Oh, I know YOU love MMA. But how many people do you know treat it as anything more than a spectacle? Yet even people completely unaware of even rudimentary boxing techniques  deem it the “sweet science”. They consider boxing a safe sport as opposed to the perceived “brutality” of MMA. Why this die hard devotion to a sport that sees approximately 8 – 10 deaths a year as well as seeing it’s champions become so concussed and brain damaged that they suffer from increased complications in old age? While there may be many answers, I would like to propose what I think is the most important:

Boxers don’t forget where they’re from.

Now listen, I am no expert on MMA. Not even close. I am even less of an expert on boxing, but I can tell you from my in depth research (A Google search) that boxers from Micky Ward to Cassius Clay support a host of charities. They do charity events, appearances, donations and fundraisers. They take time out of their lives to support something other than their own careers on a level that far surpasses the rare Brian Stanns of MMA.

I am not very good at blindly following the herd. I prefer to think for myself and it is for that reason that I volunteered for Recon while in the Marines. I wanted the challenge, responsibility and independence that come with being a part of the selected elite. Even more than that, and crucial to my personal Tao, is the desire to be a part of something greater than myself. (I was a big fan of Samurai and Ninja Turtles when I was a kid.) Another thing the Marine Corps taught me was leadership, especially from the front.

Here it is, my MMA brethren: Let’s start remembering where we are from. From this moment forward, whenever I fight, no matter where, no matter which organization; I will give 100% of what I make from ticket sales to charity. For instance, if I make 10% off every ticket I sell… then 10% of every ticket I sell goes to alocal Cystic Fibrosis chapter. I won’t make a dime off you if you come to cheer me on. If I fight in Sydney, Australia the same thing applies, except I will give my cut to a Sydney chapter. As Americans, we should have a spirit of giving and innovation. As fighters, we should feel compelled to be of service to the communities that sustain our careers. Maybe when we start making a difference, we will see the difference in our careers.

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Dear D Bag,

I thought about writing an essay for you about the need for a higher standard of ethics and sportsmanship if Mixed Martial Arts was ever to be taken seriously as the renaissance sport that it is. I realized that would be like peeing on a campfire. Warm and relieving but otherwise useless. Therefore, I decided to write YOU directly. Don’t worry; I’ll use small words so that you’re certain to understand.

We all saw you. It doesn’t matter if you’re White, Black, Hispanic or any other color; your kind always has the same attitude. Maybe you weren’t always a bully, but you are now. You especially like to instigate when you are safe from the consequences. Kind of like the schoolyard where you can push the kids around but hide behind the teacher when the tables turn. See, you’ll give an ass whooping, but you won’t TAKE one. Sure, maybe you’ve won a fight or two but you seem to have mistaken being more proficient than others at something (i.e. fighting) as meaning you are better than others at everything. It seems that mom failed to teach you humility. You confuse arrogance with self-confidence, which only means you are insecure. You confuse aggression with intensity. No one ever treated you with respect, so I suppose it’s no surprise that you treat everyone around you like trash.

Your technique sucks. You have to be angry in order to fight. You need that drama, you need to create that conflict because you are too scared to face an opponent without anger. You hurl insults and profanities in an effort to dehumanize your opponent. This makes it easier for you to “work yourself up”. In training you probably like to go “all out” all the time, which is why so many of your friends are hurt. It’s also why you will never work with anyone who is actually better than you. (Please see above, reference TAKING a beating)

You say you’re putting on a show for the fans, but you always take it too far. Especially since your fans are the three homophobes who scream drunken obscenities whenever fighters use their guard. Inbred beer guts, slobbery faces and watery eyes; that’s your constituency. Thing is, you are not entertaining. You are a spectacle. A caricature of a real athlete. A fraud. A charlatan. Your attitude is exactly what happened to boxing. Look, I’m all for entertainment. Talk some mess, create some interest but then get out there and be a MAN.

A F-I-G-H-T-E-R.

Oh, I’m sure there are a lot of excuses for your behavior. Call it what you will, I could care less. My mother taught me about Integrity, and the Marine Corps taught me about Honor. There are a few other things I learned along the way. Treat others with kindness. Hold the door open for strangers. Look people in the eye. Be respectful in victory and dignified in defeat. Fight with intrepidity. This is the character of a Warrior.

I’ve seen tough, Boy… and you ain’t it.

Arron “Bad Man” Barringer

“If this letter entertained you, then congratulations, you are not the addressee.”

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I find that all too often, fighters seem to approach fighting from isolated ranges and postures. We know kicking range, punching range and clinching. Much like discovering a new planet orbiting on the fringes of our solar system, let us look at two additional ranges: Outside and Inside.

Outside is the range just beyond kicking range, while Inside is the range between punching and clinching. Sounds simple enough (and I realize that I’m not remotely the first to ever put a name to these ranges) but once we begin to look at ranges combined with our postures I think we will discover some new variations on some old themes.

When we are “outside” the range of attack, we need to attain a posture that allows us to take advantage of the relative safety of our range. We need to flex our shoulders, expand our chest and fill our lungs with oxygen before moving back to re-engage the fight. All too often, fighters linger in an energy draining combat pose having no intention of engaging in the fight. We need to be constantly pushing the action of the fight… or we need to be maneuvering to a more advantageous position within the cage or ring.

There is a small threshold that exists between punching and clinching. When we pass along this threshold we are transitioning “inside” of our opponent’s defenses, or vice versa. Too often, I find that when we traverse this range, we become over anxious for the transition and drop our defenses. This is evidenced by the wrestler who shoots with his arms wide and is caught with knees, punches and throws as well as the boxer who is smothered in the clinch and taken to the ground. We must maintain a guarded posture and be prepared to change our levels. Two great fighters that exhibit amazing performances within the inside range are Randy Couture and his style of “dirty boxing” from within the clinch and Georges St. Pierre who astounds his opponents by flowing smoothly from punches to clinch to takedown.

I began discussing this concept with my teammates. We theorized that one reason for this might be in what we term “isolated” training. For instance, the wrestler who needs stand up, so he trains in Muay Thai for six months straight. On the surface that sounds effective! However, in MMA, I propose that any pure system will have specific handicaps. The only way to avoid these inherent stylistic shortcomings is to train the way you fight. We should be certain to train within the context of “the big picture”.  Seldom is this more apparent than in the way we transition between ranges.

For example, ever see a fighter walk from his corner at the beginning of the fight crouched over, elbows wide and thought “that is a wrestler.”? Observe the kick boxer and his efforts to remain tall to maximize his striking. We see these postures and immediately have a concept of where our opponent falls within the spectrum of fighting discipline.

I suggest being conscious of our ranges, and using them appropriately. For instance, the fighter that leaves his corner relaxed, inhaling oxygen. They circle into their power as they attain a posture for striking. With fluid head movement, footwork and smooth level changes our opponent will easily recognize us for what we are… a Mixed Martial Artists. Which, of course, means we are dangerous everywhere.

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I am frequently concussed.  It’s a word, look it up. It means being injured in a manner that causes a concussion. It should be a mood icon for a MySpace page with dazed, wiggly eyes. Essentially, we’re talking about getting hit in the head. A lot.

That’s my life, it seems. I learned the “old school” American Irish style of boxing. Wade into battle fist swinging in a brutal war of attrition. That’s great with pillows strapped to your hands, but soon you enter the four-ounce world of Mixed Martial Arts where fighters like Machida are landing punches with sniper-like accuracy. Suddenly, the war of attrition means mat naps and ice packs.

Case in point, the moment in the second round where Kenny Burke decides to punch me in the jaw. To add to this, it seems my defense was to hurl myself headlong into his fist as fast as I could. Remember the little seatbelt videos where a semi hits a Volvo head on at sixty? Feel free to insert this visual into your mind as a faithful representation of the punch in question.

I can’t tell you what I was thinking, simply because I don’t remember anything from about two seconds before the punch until I rolled into the single leg. As I walked to my corner, I remember looking at Chris and Sam and asking, “What did he hit me with?” For a second, I had thought someone had thrown a wrench into the cage. I suppose if I could dodge a wrench…

I stagger backward, my arms up and my head down. As I step, my right knee gives way, and I begin the long, sad, slow crumble to the mat. From here, I look back in Kenny’s direction. I could have been looking for the license plate of the truck that just slapped me for all it was worth. Luckily, high stress repetitive training kicked in, and I was able to fight through. For a second, however, the birdies and I had a bit of a jig.

The first problem lies in our essential physical structure. The human body is not built in a defensive manner. We stand erect. Vitals open to the world, bipedal legs giving our binocular vision a boost. Opposable thumbs transforming man from prey to predator.  Naturally exposed is the target of our opponent’s strikes, our chin. This is a magical button which transports the once boisterous fighter into a slobbering infant taking a mat nap.

CHIN DOWN!!!

We have to lower our chin. It needs to hide behind the muscle and bone structure of our lead side shoulder.  The motion of the jab should begin in the fist without any telegraphing of the shoulder muscles. The fist extends, slowly rotating clockwise, or inward, as the shoulder rotates into the punch. Should your absolutely flawless, telegraph-free, ninja death jab be slipped or anticipated; the shoulder deflects the majority of the energy. At worst we take it on the forehead. There’s nothing there, so I’m all right with this.

I threw my jab with my chin up and my shoulder down. I’m pretty sure I rolled my shoulder back to “load” the punch as well. Kenny, on the other hand, appears to parry with his weak hand and send his fist into my jaw. Look at that form! The follow through!  Watch me crumple to the ground! Fun!

Avoid this. Mount a powerful attack while keeping a measure of defense available. Especially when fighting an opponent of longer reach. They have the additional weapon of distance.

1.       Stance

2.       Initiating Movement

3.       Turning It Over

4.       Return

“Invincibility lies in the defense.” – Sun Tzu

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