Water Fun

Oh to be young again!

Self Doubt

Spring is here

The Golden Gade Internationals- the unauthorized version

A Mother's Viewpoint

Anyone over 50 (closer to 60 in my case) who spends three days at a karate tournament is young at heart. No doubt about it that being around the young and not-so-young martial artists is a dose of rejuvenating tonic. The energy and excitement is palpable and I am inspired by the hope of victory and enpowered by their dedication.  I recently attended the Golden Gate Internationals playing photo journalist and although I wanted to believe I was younger and that my saggy skin, wrinkles and age spots had magically peeled away, a quick look in the mirror proved otherwise. The aches in my joints reminded me of my age too and if that weren't enough a blind side hit by battling kickboxers bursting through the line of an adjacent ring that sent me sprawling to the ground was the knockout punch of my illusions of youth.  It takes of lot of force to move my mass, but once I topple beware the aftershocks. It took a minute to gather my wits and with a friendly tug from a strong karate coach I was back on my feet. I only suffered wounded pride and embarrassment, but the sound of the collective gasp of the crowd sucking up the air as I tumbled still rings in my ear. My assignment, although admittedly self appointed, was to cover the drama and excitement of the tournament in photos and words.  With my press pass around my neck and my trusty Canon 1DMKIII, which thankfully was not worse for wear after my fall, I embarked upon my task  Of course all to the chagrin of my children who have suffered a ringside mom with camera gear for years.  They are relieved that they no longer have to listen to my rants about focus problems and low light shooting. Even worse are my attempts to convince them that the photographs of the pained and often funny expressions on their faces during a fight constitutes drama. Now they are happily on the sidelines, lurking in the shadows where the blinding spotlight of Mother's pride doesn't hit them, but thats another story.

The Golden Gate Internationals is an NBL (National Blackbelt League) sanctioned event which normally starts on Friday evening with blackbelt competition, concluding on Sunday with underbelt competition. The climax is on Saturday evening with finals in blackbelt divisions and the grand championship awards in sparring and forms. Nowdays it is not enough to promote a strictly "karate" tournament.  With the advent of MMA, increasingly competitors are gravitating away from traditional karate and promoters are forced to add more fighting styles to the roster such as Brazilian Jiujitsu and kickboxing.  The Golden Gate Internationals also includes the Phillipino arts of stick fighting.  This means for us mothers that there are even more ways for our children to be hurt or maimed. I have learned through the years that Sport Karate is a relatively safe sport. Sure, there are occasional broken noses, fingers and toes.  My son broke his teamate Julio's nose, but it now looks better than before.  My daughter's nose sustained a hairline fracture, but is thankfully the still the same cute upturned shape.  I still cringe when I remember my daughter, Tara, getting her contact lens shattered in her eye from a punch and having to visit the emergency room in Buffalo, New York one winter. These are mild injuries compared to the potential in kickboxing for example.  The cute little fighters in their protective gear soon grow into hardened bodies with no protective chest or shin pads. I spent some time around the kickboxing ring and judging by the throng of spectators, I concluded it is a very popular event. Fighters bludgeon each other with fists which for amateurs are covered with heavy gloves. During the heat of one fight, a blood-lusting young competitor called out "his guard is down, punch him in the face". While I don't know if that's strictly allowed, fighters were punched in the face a lot. As in karate, kicking is a technique used by fighters, but not as much as the name would imply. Instead of the array of kicks from the axe to the spinning aerial kicks of karate, round house kicks are the norm here. These are aimed to the side of the head and thigh area.  The subtleties of small angles and elusive movements of karate are lost in kickboxing which is a real rock em sock em sport. One karate-trained competitor send his surprised opponent sailing accross the ring with a well placed side kick only to lose the match when the brawl started in earnest. Although both sports have punching and kicks in common, kickboxing is a contained body stance with guard up, forearms protecting the face and elbows as defensive weapons. One bout I watched consisted of two fighters wrapped together while one held the other's shoulders as he raised his knee and used it to forcefully and repeatedly pelt his opponent in the gut while the opponent punched him in the stomach in return for every knee strike.  It was like a twisted ballroom dance as they glided accross the ring one knee to one punch in harmony.  When I'd nearly lost life and limb to get action shots, I'd had enough.  I can only shake my head in wonderment as parents watched cheering their brutal offspring on in a sport that can only be described as gladitorial.

I moved on the more sedate sport of Brazilian Jiujitsu.  This is a new event for me, and since I'm uninitiated I wasn't sure of the rules.  Obviously, one participant wants to dominate the other as they grapple on the ground.  The more determined competitor wants to make his opponent say "uncle" by tapping out.  It starts with players crouching and circling each other warily until one makes a quick move to wrestle the other to the ground.  After that it's a matter of dominating the opponent with chokeholds and joint-locks.  Amazingly a smaller fighter can prevails over a larger opponent use these techniques. The subtlties were lost on me though and I focused on the crowd which anxioiusly watched, shouting out encouragement while coaches crouched on the sidelines with intense expressions shouting out instructions.  The matches were exciting and unpredictable and at the conclusion the center judged pulled the fighters to their feet, raising the arm of the sometimes dazed winner in victory.  As a mother I shudder to think of the pulled muscles and torn ligaments that the players experience with their gumby-like contortions.  I'm respectful of their maneuvers especially after so recently being grounded- the hard floor is not my friend.  Meanwhile on center stage the stick fighters pelted each other and at the sound of the loud smacks I wondered how much they feel through thier padding and how much bruising they would have the next day.

The climax of karate blackbelt scompetition is the evening finals exhibition. Grand champions are crowned in the various forms divisions and to keep it interesting, some sparring division contests for first and second place are thrown in. An appearance on stage is the source of much parental pride, but the pressure can be daunting to competitors.  During the show adults and children alike perform feats of dazzling weapon kata or traditional forms.  On first appearance the traditional forms seem simple and almost pedestrian, but the degree of concentration and focus is amazing in divisions where one hundreth of a point can mean the difference between winning and losing.  Still these forms can be long and tedious and the audience buzzes with restless noises and chatter as this part of the show drags on. One highlight in the junior's division was a tiny competitor, Adrianne Angat, who stole the show in two divisions. Undaunted by the hoopla and large audience she confidently strode onstage, announced her name and particulars and proceeded to perform her kata with military precision and rubber band-flexibility. The "cute factor" was so overwhelming the other competitors could only smile in concession. 

 Musical weapon forms are more exciting and the favorite had to be Jordan Simon's rip-roaring bo form. He manipulated his metallic staff at lightning speed causing  a whir as it glinted in the light. Jerico Catura whipped his kama blades with the ease of a seasoned showman all the while performing aerial stunts and kicks.  I reflected on the countless hours of practice it must take to wield those weapons so effortlessly and avoid  the disastrous results of an ill-timed toss. The chinese wushu forms also known as soft style are interesting, but are not always represented. That evening a young Jasmine Magallanes, in a silky, jewel-toned gi seemed to fly accross the stage executing her sword form. Her weapon became an extension of her hand in a deadly ballet of smooth and swift movements.

Men's team sparring and men's overall sparring are the most popular events of the evening.  The testosterone level was high as strong, confident young males took the stage.  The air pulsated with their strength and power and stage seemed too small to contain them.  In this particular battle Team Allstars handily whipped the Bay Area's Best, who were not the best that particular evening. Senior men's sparring gives the over 35 guys a chance to re-capture some of the glory of youth.  Paul Mendoza proved that he is not letting age dictate his style with his blitzing approach and quick punches.  The highlight of the evening, the main card if you will, was the sparring match between Jack Felton and Michael Jefferson.  At 23 years of age Jack Felton is at his peak and could probably beat anyone in the spork karate world regardless of size as he proved on stage.  Michael Jefferson, a very talented Bay Area fighter, outsized Jack in all categories, but victory went to the smaller man.  A combination of quickness and impeccable timing was too much for Michael and once he fell behind in points he could never recover.

Jordan and Felipa Pallen worked hard to produce a fantastic tournament and finals show.  Jordan endeared himself to the crowd appearing as Michael Jackson to conduct the raffle drawing.  I wonder what he'll do next year to top that!  The finals ended after 11:00 PM and martial artists young and old were able to close the NBL chapter of the Golden Gate Internationals.  The next day dawned and fresh-faced underbelts with dreams of performing onstage with the likes of the previous evening's competitors did their best to bring home prized trophies in their divisions.  On the last day of the tournament the circle of the martial arts widened as the masters devoted their time and energy to pass down the rituals and traditions of the art to the next generation

A Close Call

I had just taken a big bite of the peanut butter and jam sandwich I had made, when the phone rang. The name "kaiser" flashed on the caller ID so expecting a recorded voice reminding of an upcoming appointment I answered with a sticky he-o. To my surprise the voice on the other end was live and after determining that I was the party she sought she matter-of-factly told me I was required to return for an ultrasound because my recent mammogram "showed" something. I gulped down the remainder of the sticky bite and arranged an appointment for the following Friday in Martinez.

After I hung up I realized I hadn't asked what they saw and did it seem serious. I dismissed the thought knowing that the no-nonsense voice on the line was not going to divulge anthing. She could neither assure me of the spot's banality nor alarm me of it's potential malignency. It was up to me to decide to remain calm with a wait and see attitude or panic in terror. In most cases I take the latter route, but this time I felt amazingly indifferent. After all, wouldn't I know if I were being ravaged by a voracious disease? Mostly I thought the inept mammogram technician- in-training who had reduced me to tears at the routine check up had botched the job.

The appointed day arrived and after a hectic drive negotiating traffic, missing the exit and having to backtrack, I arrived at the check-in station breathless, only two minutes late. The woman behind the desk efficiently collected my co-pay and shuffled the necessary forms attaching a hospital I.D. band on my wrist. I stared at it thinking that was a bad sign, did they think I would somehow lose my faculties and need the bracelet to be identified? At last she gave me directions "go to the end of the hall and turn right, go through the door with flowers and once you're in the tea room, go to the back and to the right to the dressing room and undress from the waist up. Put your things in a bag you'll find there". My mind tried to follow her instructions. "The T room?" I asked, "yes, that's what we call it" she answered with a smile. OK, I can do this, I thought, in a half hour the indignity will be over. I headed down the hall that ended with a window, sun streaming through, and turned right at the door with the flower cut outs pasted in place. I swung open the door and two women in gowns glaced up, smiled and nodded as I confirmed "so this is the famous tea room". I knew then that we were talking about the beverage "tea" because the words TEA ROOM were emblazoned on the wall ahead of me. I found the dressing room in silence, donned my gown which after useless contortions I could not tie in the back. I gratefully accepted the offer of one of the room's two occupants to tie it for me. I grabbed a magazine and took my seat. I feigned absorption in reading between furtive glances around the room. The two other gown-clad women had magazines of their own and I noticed right away we were all over weight. Hmm, I wondered, does that have something to do with problematic mammograms?

The room was painted a peaceful celadon green adorned with wall hangings of chinese characters. I imagined they said peace, harmony and good health. In the corner was a tea service, not biscuits or crumpets though. In the back a door led to another room that emmitted a soft humming sound and dim light when the door was opened. The minutes passed and the magazine was not holding my attention. The worried looking woman accross from me, the one who had tied my gown, smiled tentatively and I mentioned how long it was taking. It turned out her appointment had been thirty minutes before mine and I started getting agitated. "Lord, I don't care how long it takes as long as they give me the all clear" announced the woman seated near the door in a tone straight from a revival meeting. "Amen" I thought just as the dooer burst open again and the next patient entered with a surprised "oh, the tea room". After the mandatory strip to the waist she settled in the chair next to the worried woman and to my chagrin was called out immediately. Again I protested to indifferent looks. I wished I hadn't left my cell phone in the car, and that I hadn't illegaly parked when my eye fell on the blue paper the receptionist had handed me. I found my reading specs and looked over the information about the upcoming procedure. The message was upbeat, they just wanted to check something they saw in my mammogram. I wouldn't leave here today without speaking to someone about the results..well, good, I thought, enough of the mystery... and if deemed necessary a biopsy would be performed today. I read that part again- now I really needed my cell phone, I was due at work, I couldn't spend all day getting biopsied, I'd already been waiting a half hour. I looked around at the other women, like cattle being led to slaughter, I thought. The door swung open and the woman who had just been called was back complaining about the indignity of breast smashing. Oh no, I thought, not this again, I didn't think an ultrasound would require more breast smashing like the mammogram. "Are you done now?" I inquired. "Im just waiting for them to look at the results", "Sweet Jesus, just let it be OK" interjected the revivalist. "Amen" I whispered. Still puzzled, I wondered aloud why I was still waiting. "oh, you haven't gone in yet?" they asked, surprised. "no, and I thought the results of an ultrasound were immediate". "Oh, I had a mammogram" she explained. It was then I noticed that the other women clutched pink papers with the letter M in bold type while mine was blue with a bold U. "I was here last week and they called me in again to make sure what they saw was just a shadow or something". "They just want to be sure" added the revivalist. I started to get worried, these women were all here for mammograms to confirm or dismiss the results of an earlier mammogram. I wasn't asked to repeat mine, I was sent straight to ultrasound, do not pass go, do not collect $200.00, surely an ominous sign.

Another woman came in and the worried-looking, gown-tying woman was called out. The door swung open and closed as women passed in and out. One woman even needed yet another mammogram. A newcomer, after studying her pink paper josked that the tea room was referred to as the "breast waiting room". We laughed nervously and I quipped "yes, some of us are waiting for breasts, but I could donate some of mine" remembering the unpleasant mammogram procedure which is more uncomfortable in proportion to size.

Finally my name was called and instead of going throught the door with flower cut outs, I was led into the dimly lit room in the back. I was marched to a machine next to a cot and a technician asked which breast I was having checked. Unsure and annoyed I that she didn't know I asked "Aren't you supposed to know?" Yes, she assured me, she had to go get the film and then she would find out. She drew the curtain around my cot area and left me to stew about why they weren't prepared when they called me in. She returned a few minutes later with the x-ray picture showing the spot in question. Attaching it to the light box she explained that I had a very tiny spot on the left side that they wanted to check. Tiny is good, I thought, and sure enough, it looked the size of a pearl. With a hand set tool resembling a geiger counter she proceed to search my body for the offending spot. She explained that while the mammogram gave them the big picture, the ultrasound gave specific detail. She went about her task with little luck and I hopefully remarked that maybe it had disappeared. Eventually she managed to get a bead on the spot and typed in some numbers which I assume were the coordinates of the locations. She marked the spot on my breast with a sharpie and called the doctor in. A young asian man entered introducing himself and without examining me pronounced "looks like you have a little cyst, nothing to worry about". Nothing to worry about? I've done nothing but worry for the last two hours, why couldn't they have given a hint that's what they suspected? The doctor officiously explained the nature of the cyst while he examined the spot with the handset and after all his medical speak I gathered the cause was "hormones". "We'll check you again in six months and see how it's doing" and with that he was off. I was instructed to dress and to expect their call in a few months for a follow-up appointment.

Relieved that I wouldn't need my cell phone and hopeful that my car wouldn't be towed I exited through the tea room glancing around for those familiar faces. I wanted to give them a thumbs up and say "halleluiah" to the revivalist, but they had been replaced by new faces so I counted my blessings and walked down the hall past the reception desk. I had almost made my escape out the door when behind me a sharp voiced called "excuse me, ma'am". I turned around, wondering now what, did they know my car was parked in the doctor's lot? "Let me take your wrist band off" she said holding up scissors and I gladly surrendered.

It was one of those lucky days...no biopsy, no breast cancer, no cars getting towed, but if the karma wheel really does turn, then I'm in trouble. I snagged the magazine I was reading from the waiting room and the guilt is killing me!

Fleeting Beauty

Time Flies

The first quarter of the year has passed without a post! I've got to catch up... I was busy for Valentines day