I have been interested in martial arts for a long time. I was lucky enough to begin my study at the West Virginia Martial Arts Association in Morgantown, WV while a student at West Virginia University. The Association was run by a group of martial artists who shared a facility, a few large rooms above a retail store, and a love of the arts. There were dues, but only enough to pay the rent, buy a few supplies and keep the doors open.

This was a wonderful atmosphere in which to study.  I was enrolled in a kung-fu class, a little-known style called Chi Lin Chuan Fa.  There were also classes in Shotokan Karate, Chinese Kempo and Aikido.  All of the instructors were friends and had worked and studied together for years.  There was no ego, no style-centric snobbery.  This was a place where everyone worked together to make their arts more effective and loved to discuss concepts and share ideas.  Many times my sifus would tell us to go and work out with the other classes.  They wanted to expose us to as many different arts as possible in our time there.  The teachers were not afraid that they would lose students to the other classes; they were there for the love of martial arts and a desire to pass on what they had to offer.  I particularly liked Aikido.

Unfortunately, my time at the West Virginia Martial Arts Association, as my time at WVU, was far too short. While at WVU I had studied a lot of martial arts, and my college grades showed it. For more than a year after I left, I kicked around from martial arts school to school, looking for something like what I had at the Association. I found that I could go and spar with high-ranked students of other schools in our area and many times best them. After a while, I gave up the idea of finding a good school in my area and lost interest.

I always vowed that someday, if I could find a good instructor in an internal art, especially Aikido, I’d get back in the dojo. Well, more than twenty years passed, I was married with a young son and a good job when, right there in the midst of my home town, a sign appeared before my eyes that maybe I should get back into the arts. No… really, a sign. It was above a small room, beside a beer distributor: The Dojo, a Martial Arts Training Facility. And, they taught…Aikido.

I stopped in and asked to speak to the head instructor. His name was Mick Slider, a Viet Nam era combat veteran who had served as an Airborne Ranger. One of the first things I asked him was would it “work?” Would this Aikido that he taught stand up in real-world, self-defense situations. Now, unlike some in the martial arts community, I believed that Aikido could work. I had experienced some of the concepts first hand many years before…but would his Aikido work? An arrogant question? Believe me, it was not meant to be. I had looked at many other schools in my area and did not find any that met the criteria. Many taught sport. Some purported to teach self-defense, but their instructors did not have sufficient knowledge or experience to really make it work.

I told Sensei Slider that I would come back after I was done coaching soccer for my son’s team and if his art worked, I would be around for a long time. A few months later, I was back; ready to see if what he had to offer was real, and worth my time. In no time at all, I was convinced. Sensei Slider stands about five foot seven inches and weighed about 180 pounds. I’m six foot nothing and go about 260. What I quickly found was the same type of energy and control that I remembered from my days at the Association.

Sensei Slider could control an opponent’s center, manipulate him, and throw him effortlessly. His Aikido defended against real life attacks, not the stylized, dance-like movements I had seen in other schools. There were strikes and pressure point attacks. In short…it worked.

As I moved through the ranks, the techniques became more subtle…and difficult. Sensei would speak of using a light touch and causing imbalance in your training partner. “All techniques in Aikido require only four to six pounds of pressure”, he would say. “Watch his shoulders, for imbalance,” he reminded. And yet I would grab my training partner and muscle him through the movement. My technique was not “effortless” at all, but more like brutish. All the while, though, I would watch Sensei’s every move. I would ask him to demonstrate the techniques on me. In this way I slowly began to catch on.

Then, one day, as if out of nowhere, I began to perform some of my techniques with very little effort. Many times I felt as if I hadn’t really done anything. “How could that have worked? I hardly did anything.” I would ask my partners if they had “given it to me” -- in effect thrown themselves through the movement. No, they promised, they had not. Sensei said I was “learning to sit on my stool.” “When you feel like you didn’t do anything, that’s when you’re getting it right,” he would say.

“Sitting on your stool” was Sensei’s description for the proper posture that allows your body to move from your source of power, your center. Standing in an upright position with your feet about shoulder width apart, knees should be slightly bent and your hips tucked forward…like you’re sitting down on a high stool. Awkward at first, I admit, but the more I practiced, the more natural it felt.

Now…now I had the secret! At last, I had this all figured out.

 Well, that didn’t last long. As soon as I thought I was getting pretty good at this stuff, Sensei would show me some new technique or principle that would bend my brain. As Sensei would demonstrate new techniques on me, I would pay close attention to what he was doing to my body and balance. Many times he would demonstrate…I would try it and fail…he would demonstrate again…I would fail again. Then, I would see a subtle difference between what he was doing and what I was doing. “Ah ha,” I would say. “You’re turning my wrist a little bit this way.” Or, “You made a circle like this with your hand.”

 “Oh yes,” he would say. “Didn’t I mention that? I didn’t mean to hide it from you. I just forgot to mention it.” You see, after more than forty years in the arts, Sensei did many things naturally, almost instinctively. He didn’t always think to explain the small nuances. To me, though, these movements were sometimes foreign and awkward.

As time went on, we began to refer to these little subtitles, the ones that really make the techniques work, as “Sensei Tricks.” These were the keys to the movements, the difference between brute force and relaxed ease. I also began to see it as my job, as a good student, to find the Sensei Tricks. When I would be having difficulty with a new technique I would ask Sensei to demonstrate again…and again, looking for the “trick.”

Sensei eventually made me an Assistant Instructor. I am geared toward teaching, and I have always felt that I learn more when I teach. The longer I taught, the more I would break the techniques down in order to find new ways to teach, the more I learned.

As time passed, I began to become subtler in my own movements. Some of the “tricks” became a natural part of my technique. This was due to study and repetition. The more I felt the control of others’ centers, the more I just instinctively knew what to do. Of course…every time I thought I was really getting this stuff…Sensei would take it up a notch and stretch me some more.

Then it began to happen. I would be working with a student, struggling to explain a technique, wondering how else I could describe it. Sensei would then come up to me and say, “You’re not showing them how you’re twisting their wrist like this.” Or, “You need to show them how to circle their hand like that. See,” he would say, “you’re doing Sensei Tricks. I’m not the only one.”

I am now a black belt and a certified instructor. As I think about my path in the martial arts to this point, I have come to truly believe that a teacher, even a very good teacher like Sensei Slider, can only teach a student so much. The other half of the equation is a good student. A student must be willing to put aside ego, frustration, and doubt to find the art for himself. He must take an active role in analyzing his movement and imitating his teacher. He must find the Sensei Tricks and make them his own.