A path to the Dog Brothers Open Gathering 2018
“Wait, did you just say, ‘howzit’?” — Poi Dog, September 2017
It’s funny how life long friendships can begin. For me and Poi Dog, it happened early one September morning, as we were both dropping our daughters off at the same preschool. My greeting of “howzit” opened up a door of common local Hawaiian culture, that led to a world of sticks and mad men.
The first Saturday session with the Noho Dog Brothers clan was simple enough — men with sticks, hitting tires, doing kali drills, and chatting like a sewing circle. As cliche as it is, if you throw a dozen men in a room and tell them to talk, they’ll sit around in uncomfortable silence — but give them something to do together, and the conversation will flow like the Mississippi. After that first day of drills was done, I entered into a welcoming extended family, all eager to share their skills, their stories, and their wisdom.
Each person Poi Dog introduced me to was like a vibrant comic book character — Dancing Dog with a smooth flowing stance that lay over a freight train of power beneath; Pappy Dog with his light handshake and mellow demeanor that lay in complete contrast to the lightning speed and thunderous impact he shared during sparring; Omega Dog with a silhouette like a person in a football uniform, even though he *wasn’t* wearing any pads — these men (and the Noho women too!) had such diverse and amazing life stories, it was a joy to come back weekend after weekend, sharing time, space, and the smell of burning rattan.
My world extended further when Pappy Dog’s going away party for his months on active duty introduced me to the Fight Church, where Noho Dog Brothers crossover was common. This extended extended family was yet another sacred space, an amazing group of teachers, practitioners, students and experimental artists, taking up my full weekends for almost all of 2018 — Saturdays for Noho, Sundays for Fight Church.
From March to June 2018, prodded on by my younger brother, I did P90x, and then promised myself I wouldn’t work out for the rest of the year — I just didn’t count stick fighting as working out. With the extra time in my schedule (about an hour and a half a day six days a week for the P90x classic program), I dove further into DBMA, training at VMAC twice a week, and doing private sessions with Poi Dog twice a week.
I remember around this time, Omega Dog asks me “Hey man, you ready for the Open Gathering?” If I recall correctly, I think I replied, “Well, I’m not sure if I’ll ever be ready, but I’m doing it!” At that point, I think everyone at Noho and Fight Church figured it would be irresponsible of them to let me dive into things unprepared, and everyone stepped up to help me be as ready as I could possibly be.
Kafre from Fight Church helped me with the language of the ground game, getting me oriented in a world that was murky and mysterious to the outsider. “Underhook” became something relatable to combat, rather than just a type of brassiere. “Guard” and “mount” suddenly had something to do with fighting position, rather than something Canadian Mounties did. It was a path pursued with the rest of the Fight Church gang, including Petar, Thomas, Paul, and of course the cross-overs of Omega Dog and Your Friendly Neighborhood Cholo (YFNC) Dog. I learned how to get back up after falling to the ground against the great Orpheus in a knife fight. I learned about the difference between fighting force on force, and fighting around force, getting a basic understanding of structural framing and position. I went from complete idiot to being able to at least tell the first responders how YFNC Dog was able to get my back, take me to the ground, lock me with his legs while he took my own knife and eviscerated me.
Poi Dog took me through interpreting the standard stick drills into more realistic combat movement, to the point where I could finally dance in my own style — stealing unabashedly from Dancing Dog, Omega Dog, Pappy Dog, and my own fencing and kendo teachers from high school days. Pappy Dog and Omega Dog kept pushing me on cardio, prepping me for combat endurance, for two minutes that could stretch out forever.
Sparring partners at both Noho and Fight Church kept pushing me further and harder as I improved. YFNC Dog would trade bruises with me week after week, and thank god he introduced me to Dit Da Jow! Sweet Dog and Omega Dog would take me out with soft sticks and push me on my weaknesses, improving my telegraphs, footwork, breathing. Tennessee Dog came out shortly after the Tribal Gathering and helped us all work on combinations. C-Kawal Dog taught me hard contact lessons about kicks and proper distance to be kept from folks who know how to throw them. Dancing Dog, Seeing-Eye Dog, and Dog Ronnie would drill me on timing, follow-through, and targeting.
As the Gathering loomed closer, I could almost admit to myself that I was ready. But I didn’t know for sure until that first “tap in and you are on!”
The night before the Gathering, I talk to Poi Dog about which fights I should look for. I’ve already got three lined up, but he goes over the list with me and gives me another seven good options. He gives me some background on each suggestion, and I turn his list into a set of business cards with Name, Weapon Options, and Notes. Poi Dog can’t make it in person, but he’s still doing everything he can to help me for my first time out.
The day of the Gathering, I pack my car, cruise down the 110 to the 105 to South Park, and I’m there with plenty of time to stretch and find my potential dance partners. I hand out cards to Poi Dog’s hit list (Faithful Dog’s colorful interpretation of Poi Dog’s recommendations), and I’m on my way to fighting well with others. I hand out nine cards, but everyone clearly understands that I might not make it to the end of my list. In the end, making it almost halfway (more than halfway if you count Omega Dog as two fights) feels good. There are a few other invitations from first timers like myself that I’m sad I couldn’t take up, but everyone understands the spirit is willing but the body is weak. My dance card for the next gathering starts filling up…
Now, I’m not sure how real my memories are at this point, and I might revise myself after the fight tapes come out, but this is how I currently remember each fight.
Fight 1 — knife v. knife
Chad McCoy. Nice guy from Minnesota. He’s got an aluminum balisong trainer that looks like with enough force, it could turn into grievous puncture wound in any number of sensitive spots. I’ve got an aluminum trainer that I haven’t played with all that much, but Poi Dog told me I should go aluminum for my first Gathering, so I’m using it. We’re standing in line, probably going to be the sixth or seventh fight.
The line keeps moving up, and then it’s time. Staring at a video camera with the mask off, hoping I don’t bobble putting the mask on. Thankfully, the mask slides on smoothly, the world becomes overlaid with a fuzzy black grid, and I’m looking at a guy with a knife. He’s going to try to stick that knife in me, and I’m supposed to return the favor.
Tap, tap.
It’s a blur. I mean, sparring is usually a blur anyway (especially with YFNC Dog), but this is really a blur. Not enough time to think — it is reflex upon reflex upon reflex. The cheers of encouragement from the crowd are my thoughts, “keep circling”. The thoughts are not my own, but they transmit to my body. Footwork happens. Strikes happen. Breathe. Move. Hit.
Things start to flow. I’ve given up thinking, and hits are landing. Between hits, I can see the eyes of the man behind the mask I’m fighting — he’s noticed that the tide has turned. But there is a dichotomy between his eyes and his action. His body continues to take risks, moves in for strikes, even as his eyes want to flinch away. This is bravery. This is courage. This is heart.
Time is called, and I’m humbled — my parable of the cherry has finished, and it was with a brave and honorable man.
Fight 2 — single stick v. single stick
Sweet Dog. Or at least he’s going to be Sweet Dog. He’s Al Romo, and he’s big. And he’s been training as hard as I have at Fight Church. Probably harder.
Sweet Dog has been a sparring partner before, but this is different. I’m supposed to push him. He’s supposed to push me.
Tap, tap.
I’m thinking of keeping distance. We’ve got medium sticks, we’re both swinging hard, and hits are landing. I can’t tell if I’m landing more, but he’s still coming in, again and again. My hardest hit is something he can handle, and as he makes that realization, he closes, clinches, and expertly flips me to the ground. He’s in fantastic form, better than I’d ever seen in practice, and as I’m falling to the ground, getting hit in the face (gently, gently), I’ve got two completely separate thoughts going through my head — I’m so proud of Sweet Dog doing so well, and fuck fuck fuck I need to get my knife out!
On the ground, I know I’m in trouble, but I’m not frozen — my Fight Church ground game prep gives me at least general directions to move in, openings to look for, half-guard to establish. Sweet Dog is dominating, but I’m not out yet. Knife comes out, I get a few slices, and Sweet Dog finally shuts it down. I try to transfer, push harder and harder as the adrenaline dumps, and then they call time.
It’s over, and Sweet Dog helps me up. Arms are rubbery as the adrenaline wears off. Life is glorious, and I have fought well with others.
Fight 3 — double stick v. double stick
Gerry Hibbitts. The only Poi Dog recommendation I manage to get to, and I wouldn’t have it any other way.
As my arms slowly come back to life, I sit in line with Gerry. Somehow, Sweet Dog is fighting again already — and I feel some empathy pangs for his opponent. Gerry had thicker sticks than my mediums, so he borrows a pair slightly thinner than mine for the match (this ends up in some very theatrical moments). The line shortens, and then it’s facing the camera again, this time raising up two sticks.
Tap, tap.
I’ve seen the dos-triques seminar tapes, practiced some of the patterns a few times, but I can’t think anymore — Gerry is moving too fast, and hitting too hard to ignore. I’m down to basics — fluid attacks, double caveman, and hoping for the best. It doesn’t feel pretty, but it’s working, especially the fencing thrusts. I tag Gerry with a headshot on a thrust and it feels like we’re both pushing each other’s game.
Out of the corner of my eye, I notice Gerry’s stick slightly flopping. He’s broken it, quite possibly on me somewhere. He swings it one more time before it almost completely disintegrates, and when he tosses it away to give me two on one, I’m elated, and wary — it feels good to have the extra weapon, but now he’s got single hand focus.
The game continues. Our feet both start moving in a way that I can only interpret as “isn’t two minutes almost up?” He’s got eight years on me, but I’m feeling winded, and I detect subtle hints he might feel the same way.
I come in with double stick against his single, and then what goes around comes around — my stick breaks! With a flourish (hearing groans from Omega Dog who wants me to hold on to my weapons until they’re dust), I toss my stick aside and we’re facing each other both with single stick. We have a few more exchanges before time is called, but we both know that this ends up being almost as memorable as the frying pan fight. Crafty Dog suggests we use bigger sticks next time, but for my first time out with a stranger, I’m happy with the result.
As we take off our masks, I can see the damage I did on the thrust headshot, with a little bit of blood outside and inside the nose, and as I unwrap my rash guards I see a bloody stick hickey from one of his quick whips to my forearm. We trade broken sticks, with signatures, as mementos of our newfound friendship.
Fight 4 — krabi v. double stick
Omega Dog. This man is amazing. Speed, skill, power, endurance, form, size — he’s got it all. He’s fighting just about everyone who showed up to the Gathering, and even winded, he’s a force to be reckoned with. He’s been training me on ground game, footwork, cardio — there’s nothing I know that he hasn’t been a part of teaching me. And this is the man who is going to push me to my very limits, because he knows I can take it.
I’ve been working on a two-handed form for a while, taken from some kendo background, and we move up the chain to what I will consider “serious” sticks. No more mediums, baby, we’re going large. I’ve got something longer, but he’s got two. Plus he’s Omega Dog.
So how do you fight when you’re outclassed on every level? Where do you find the strength to move in when every fiber of your body is screaming to move out? This fight is no longer a test of my skill, but my heart. And so I pour it out onto the battleground.
Omega Dog has seen my two-handed form before, so he’s already got ideas on how to get past it. But this isn’t a skinny stick anymore — it’s nearly a baseball bat, and that gathers some respect. We clash, and I’m getting hit in the head. Once. Twice. I’ve landed a few blows, but each trade takes a little more out of me. My left pinky gets a quick thwack and my left hand goes numb. I switch to traditional single stick form as it comes back to life, and then back to two-handed form as he applies more pressure.
Breathe. Move. Hit.
As I’m slowing down and my hit percentage worsens, it’s almost a mercy when Omega Dog comes in for the clinch. I’ve been playing this entire time to avoid the ground game, thrusting away to keep distance, but I’m too worn to stop his close. At least now I can rest my arms for a few seconds before he’s got me on the ground.
On the floor again, with memories of the earlier bout with Sweet Dog, I’m back to trying to find the knife. Make a few cuts, try to fight for position, use the last reserves of strength to resist, and then someone calls time. I tease Omega Dog’s wife that he’s broken me (this is my last fight of the day), but his retort is telling, “Nah, I just bent you — if you had been broken you wouldn’t have been able to talk.” Omega Dog, has per his namesake, has given me my last fight of the day, and I am filled with gratitude for all the souls who have brought me to this moment in time.
For at least this moment, my small bit of America is Grateful Again :)
The Day After
Training is done, the event is over, and now it’s time to listen to the wife and get the injuries looked at by professionals at Kaiser Permanente Urgent Care. Some wounds are quickly dismissed as fine without treatment, but my efforts are validated by a tiny hairline wrist fracture that requires a splint. I left it all out on the field, and I’ve got the x-rays to prove it.
The Dog Brothers have only one rule at their Gatherings — “be friends at the end of the day.” I’ll offer a slight adjustment:
Be friends at the end of every day.
I’ve certainly got friends now that will last well beyond the days we hit sticks, and life is good. Maybe even great :)
