A couple years ago had you asked me, “What thoughts would go through your mind if someone walked up and pushed you?” I would have probably said that it would make me mad and I would push back. I know the correct response should have been to turn the other cheek, but as you can see I still don’t have the answers.

Just the other day, in a small kung fu class in the little town of Tyler, a couple of us guys were getting some instruction from the “Man” It had something to do with plucking, center, being empty, timing, and caramel apples I think. You’re saying, “Caramel Apples?” Yes, caramel apples, and believe it or not it was a great analogy. I think I described our lesson as a grenade going off in my mind. I had just enough know how to see it, but was unsure if I could ever really grasp the whole concept.

What’s bad is that this confusion isn’t after my first week of kung fu, or my first month or year, but I’m going into my third year now and the questions just get bigger, broader, and a little further apart. After talking with my sihings, they all have the same problem understanding. That gives me some comfort, but not much.

This is what keeps me training every week. It may sound weird to some. – why would you want to keep working so hard at something you will never fully understand? Because it’s that complex, it amazes me. More everyday. The more I think I know, the less I really understand.

So now when I get pushed, I’m wondering…Did my shoulders fold around the punch? Did they drop in the hole? Did they have my center? Were they empty when I plucked? And then I’m telling myself, I was off balance, they had my center, I was too late, or did he say get a beat ahead? Was I supposed to return the strike? I think I turned that time. Was I supposed to turn?

Then I SCREAM to myself, bow to the “Man”, and leave more confused than ever but I can hardly walk out the door.

I know in past blogs I’ve portrayed Sifu Fogg as some hard-nosed, no-nonsense task master-and at times it felt like he was-but truth is, Mr. Fogg is very laid back and he has a great sense of humor.

While I was sweating blood to earn my bachelors degree at SFA, Sifu Fogg was there as well completing his masters. It was perfect timing. During those two years, I was able to absorb lots of kung fu from The Man himself.

One Friday evening before summer finals, I had to pick up Sifu at an apartment on North Street. We were going to do the Fu a while then grab a bite to eat. When I drove into the apartment complex, I almost flattened a group of girls dancing in the parking lot. The place was packed with partiers; I had to back out and park on the street.

A sea of happy people, all with beer in hand, moved in rhythmic waves across the parking lot and walking areas to a grotesque mixture of country, head-banger, rap, and reggae that boomed from car stereos and open apartment doors. The pool overflowed with bikinied beauties and lots of half-naked drunk guys whooping and hollering like a bunch of orangutans to get the girls’ attention.

I waded through the people, declined lots of beer and party invites, and headed to Room 227 to pick up The Fogg Man. Pizza boxes and trampled twelve-pack cases littered the stairway. There was a party on every floor. Cigarette smoke billowed from every room. Charcoal grills burned on every balcony. There were probably a hundred people partying in the stairwell alone. It was a mad house.

I pushed my way to 227, walked in, and asked the first girl I saw where Sifu was (It’s crazy. Everyone calls Mr. Fogg, “Sifu”, even if they’re not his students). The young woman took a sip of whatever was in her 64oz Coke cup and just stared at me, along with her two other friends. Figuring she didn’t hear me over the music, I asked the question again.

No response, just more staring. I also noticed that everyone else standing close by was staring at me as well.

<em>What’s the deal?</em>

I suddenly felt nervous, wondering if a piece of spinach or a raisin was stuck in my teeth. I quickly swished my tongue across my smilers and didn’t feel anything.

Finally, the girl asked, “Who’s yo daddy?”

“What?” I asked. Surely I heard wrong.

If, before the girl had asked me that question, a tribe of Amazonian cannibals suddenly burst through the windows, stuck a sharp spear to my throat, and demanded that I predict what the young woman was going to ask or they’d eat me, beginning with my toes, ‘Who’s yo daddy’ certainly would not have been my guess. I would’ve been a 160 lb platter of white meat for those dudes.

“Who’s yo daddy?” she asked again, slurping from her cup.

Before I could respond, Sifu suddenly appeared out of nowhere. (He did that quite often).

“I already told them Chuck Norris was your daddy,” Sifu said, “and that he sent you here to learn kung fu from me. It’s okay, you can admit it.”

Another girl wearing a tight sleeveless white shirt and short-shorts stepped really close to me. Her alcohol breath burned my nose, “He shore look like Chuck Norris.”

“Well, I-” I felt my face turning red.

“Chuck Norris knows kung fu.” The 64oz girl said to Fogg, her head bobbing. “Why he gonna send his son to learn from you?”

Without a beat, Sifu said, “Chuck knows karate, not kung fu, and he’s embarrassed about that. He knows kung fu is better <em>and </em>he knows I’m the best. So he secretly sent his son to me to train.”

By now, a large crowd encircled us.

Short-shorts girl cocked her head at me and said, “So show us something then.” The crowed stepped back, every eye on me.

You need to know that I was a Chuck fanatic and I did mimic many of his moves, particularly his kicks.

I made a show of warming up then jumped and did a spinning back outside crescent kick, the kick that Chuck made famous in his tournament days. My baggy KF pants popped and my leather shoe slapped against my hand. I landed in the splits.

“Damn,” a guy behind me said.

“See, I told you.” Sifu shrugged and vanished back into the crowd.

Before we left, I actually signed a few autographs as “Chuck Norris’ son”. It was crazy.