Master Mike

I do not think many people in my life are aware of how absolutely dorky I was as a child. My grade school years (late 80’s-early 90’s) were spent in a small town called Drayton, North Dakota. This little city sits about 30 miles from the Canadian border and has a population of 800. The heavy smell of rotten socks emanates from the giant sugarbeet factory north of town, and there is a sign proclaiming the title of “Catfish Capital of the North”. It is incredibly unique.

I fit in very well. I was fully equipped with red hair and freckles, a wobbly double chin, and each day I squeezed into an uncomfortable pair of jeans designed for “husky” boys. I was nearly blind and I wore a pair of extra thick, large-framed glasses. I sported a flattop haircut for 5 years. Yep, a flattop. Each month my dad would take out the razor and a giant comb from a skinny cardboard box and buzz my hair into a perfect rectangle. It was super weird.

Let’s see. . . I was a book worm. In the second grade I had paper ice cream scoops all the way up the wall and across the ceiling marking all of the books I had read. I read all the time. On our annual trip to watch the Minnesota Twins play baseball I spent the game reading and eating nachos. I liked other stuff too, I liked to golf and curl (the world’s dorkiest sport), ride my bike and shoot a bb gun—these kinds of things. I had friends and a great little brother and we played with firecrackers and went fishing. It was a really great childhood.

I was also a momma’s boy. I suppose I still am, but as a youngster I was extremely shy, reserved, nice, gentle, sensitive, and perhaps a bit meek. You get it. If you knew my mom you’d understand, she’s phenomenal. She loved my brother and I without hesitation or condition and has never faltered. However, she was a catalyst for dorkiness-she started a Cub Scout group in the town and ran it for several years while my brother and I were of the right age. She took me on “hikes” along little shelter belts and she read to us every night. But maybe that’s not so dorky.

This story is not about a kid with huge problems, nor is it all that dramatic. Plainly stated it is about a shy kid having a set of experiences in which he had success and was given the support and space to truly thrive and grow. It is a story about a quiet little guy who was offered an opportunity to kick ass at a really young age, and it is about a man who busted down a bunch of doors in order to facilitate some really wonderful growth. My gratitude and love go super deep here.

So where does a young, meek boy go to find strength and confidence? To be honest there weren’t many places to go, and it turns out that I didn’t need to go anywhere. One day a dude that went by the name of Master Mike rolled into town in a little red sports car, bringing with him some pajama-like clothes and a shitload of confidence. Martial Arts, right? Absolutely—that is exactly where this young meek boy went to find strength and confidence.

I don’t remember exactly how or when I started Tae Kwon Do, I must have been about nine or ten. Classes were three times a week and they were held at a mental hospital (no joke) in a town called Grafton about 20 miles from home. There was one other kid from Drayton who took classes with me, Davey, and his family and mine would take turns driving us to class. Davey was a year younger than me and was a great kid. He chewed gum with his mouth open, ordered his cheeseburgers plain, and made me vomit many, many times by forcing me to smell his shoes. Oh yeah, I went through several years of puking daily-I was super sensitive to strong smells.

When Davey’s dad drove us we cruised in an old white and orange Pinto. I am not sure if you know how phenomenally cold it gets in that part of the world, but it can be wicked. In the winter the Pinto often vacillated between freezing cold and dripping hot, dangerous to a little dude and his little balls-which would get super sweaty and consequently freeze directly onto the ancient orange vinyl. Many times I had to pry and chip them off the seat to the soundtrack of some crappy nineties love song.

Anyway, I was in Tae Kwon Do and I loved it. Furthermore I was good at it. I was not an especially physically gifted kid but enough so. Damn I took it seriously. I worked hard… really hard. I pushed myself every day; I became flexible and strong and learned early on the ability to endure physical discomfort. I was dedicated and it paid off quickly. I rose through the ranks and was naturally placed into a leadership role within the classes. By the age of 12 I led workouts and classes, was chosen for a traveling demonstration team, and made my way into the inner circle of the organization. I broke boards and busted bricks, spoke clearly and confidently, and loved every minute of it. I won a box full of trophies and I learned to use the nunchucks. I was told I had cool hair by a Korean Grand Master who had been a world champion. There's a very small chance that he was right.

The system and culture of Tae Kwon Do itself had a lot to offer. I still frequently recall the 5 Tenets, which we often had to repeat over and over while holding uncomfortable squat-like positions. It worked—I have kept them in mind ever since. They are:

Courtesy
Integrity
Perseverance
Self-Control
Indomitable Spirit

Good stuff right? The structure, the philosophy, and the practice of Tae Kwon Do provided an incredibly positive platform to boogie down on. All of this is good and great but was absolutely predicated on and exploded by my relationship with the man running the show. Master Mike. The dude himself. As a 3rd degree black belt and reeking of confidence, he was a young boy’s idol.

Until very recently I assumed Mike was in his mid-thirties when I knew him, possibly in his forties even. My mom assures me now that he was in his mid-twenties, twenty-seven, max. He was about 6’0” tall, had brown hair, and walked with a smooth confidence—chest out and not in a hurry. He looked at you when he spoke to you. He was kind and understanding but threw out boundaries and challenges and locked them in with ease. He created safety for his students but pushed them consistently. He did this and I accepted it, I embraced it and I loved it. I had found my first mentor.

I became a black-belt at some point and was given more privileges and responsibility. I began teaching my own classes and began to attend higher-level trainings, mostly alongside adults. Mike trusted me, he showed me consistent respect, and in class he pushed me hard for continuous growth. Now here comes some magic, he began pushing me outside of class as well.

One day he asked me to help him teach a class in a nearby town. He picked me up at my house on his ridiculously big motorcycle and told me how the week before he had broke 165 mph with a girl on the back. He assessed my weight and said he didn’t think we’d hit that mark, and asked me not to tell my mom. North Dakota highways are straight and flat and as we maxed out he ducked his head so I could read the speedometer. Yeesh.

He liked guns and had a bunch of them. One Saturday afternoon he picked me up and took me to an old gravel pit. We set up cans and frozen chunks of water and all kinds of things to shoot at. I shot a bunch of guns, pistols and rifles and something that seemed very close to what you would call a machine gun. Hmm….

He took me skiing for the first time. I giggle as I write this because North Dakota’s skiing terrain is definitely worth a giggle. There is a place called Frost Fire way up north and it is about 300 feet from top to bottom. We went as a small group; there were probably eight of us. I was the youngest and the only one who had never skied before. It was well below zero. I spent the day riding the lift up with someone and shuffling to the top of the slope, then I would watch as my friends would gracefully fly down before me. I did the only thing I could; I braced my chunky self with wide feet and let it rip. I quickly learned not to turn, and could only bomb the hill in terrified ecstasy. Stopping came naturally—I learned to fall. Did I follow Mike up the black-diamond runs? Of course! Did I fly off ledges and fall on my head and probably cause life-long injury? It’s possible. Was it the greatest day of my life up to that point? Without a doubt.

What hits my gut right now is that this man, this twenty-something man (I am now about the age he was then) took the time and care to open doors for me. Physical, tangible doors that led to fun and excitement and letting loose. He did what real teachers do, he provided a safe space for an experience. I have an unadulterated love for personal growth and the experiences that push this growth. Mike gave me a hell of an introduction.

I am a confident man and I do not doubt myself. I am still a 13 year old kid in front of 200 people, barking out orders and orchestrating a big beautiful dance of flying feet and flailing arms. I am a sweaty little kid feeling brilliant after being handed a cheap plastic trophy. I am an almost six foot man who walks with his chest forward and I try not to hurry. I look people in the eyes…

I want to end this with gratitude. In reality I don’t know who this man was, but I know and feel the massive gifts that his attention has given me. I don’t know where he is now and have had no contact with him at all. The only thing I can do and care to do is simply send him my love and thanks. So here it is,

Love, and thanks.