By Kelly S. Worden
“Statistics, ‘Ya Gotta Love ‘Em”
The turn of the New Year never seems complete without our “socially conscious” news media’s annual statistics reports. Sometimes, these reports appear to be nothing more than propaganda to create social outcry, instill fear, or shatter the illusions of our lifestyles.
In the local Tacoma News Tribune on January 10th 2004, the front page of the morning paper offered a new title for my hometown of Tacoma, Washington, “Stress City, U.S.A.” Evidently, a demographic research firm based in Portland, Oregon released a list of America’s most and least-stressful cities. Tacoma was launched to the forefront of “On-the-Edge” cities, ahead of Miami at # 2, New Orleans capturing the #3 spot, #4 going to Las Vegas, and New York pulling down the #5 spot, as the most stressful places to live in America. Now, Tacoma stands out in a crowd of other cities that far exceed its own population of 196,300 in comparison to New York City demographics, of which its five boroughs report 19,011,378 people. New York is obviously much larger than Tacoma, yet according to this most recent demographic study, the “Big Apple” does not realize the social pressures to the same degree as Tacoma, Washington. Tacoma’s evaluation was based on nine statistical categories; unemployment, suicide, alcoholism, divorce rates, violent crimes, property crime, commute times, mental health and negative yearly climate.
“Staying On Top ?”
At one time a few years ago, when the West coast seemed riddled with gang violence by the “Crips” and “Bloods”, Tacoma’s level of violence was reported to be worse than that of Los Angeles, earning the catch phrase “the most violent city on the West coast.”
Without question, Tacoma has established a reputation and status that few other cities would care to embrace, or declare. It is no wonder with the high statistics on unemployment, divorce, and property crime, that the youth and young adults of Tacoma have established a reputation for fighting. Off the street and into the squared circle of competition, Tacoma has a long history of turning out Olympic contenders in the sport of Boxing. Growing up, I had the distinct pleasure of being friends with Olympic champions and contenders such as Sugar Ray Seales, Leo Randolf, Davey Armstrong, Dale Grant, and others. Those of us who never aspired to competitive boxing did our fighting in the alleys and back-streets of Tacoma.
“Violence Runs Deep”
On a multitude of levels, fighting was a path to establish status in the neighborhood. Before the ethnic gangs of the late 80’s and 90’s, like the “Crips” and “Bloods”, car clubs and biker gangs battled for status in the streets of Tacoma. Above and beyond the territorial impact of urban street conflicts, organized crime in the greater Tacoma area added an aggressive edge to a very volatile inner-city society. Veiled in a cloaked circle of mayhem, Italian Mafia families had even allied with local Law Enforcement agencies to control nightclubs and local businesses. In the interest of not drifting to far from the theme of this article, I would find it safe to say that when it comes to violence or crime in Tacoma, even the “good guys” can come up dirty! Over the years, I have discussed with several folks and even on my radio show, the negative image Tacoma seems to project. Outsiders have even said, “Yeah, there’s a weird energy on the streets of Tacoma!”
There is actually a syndrome called “North West Depression” that affects people within the communities of the Puget Sound region in Washington State. I’m sure this issue is a direct reflection of why Tacoma, Washington rolled out on top of the national list as the least motivating city in which to live…a pretty special award to be pinned on your hometown. That statement alone might offer some insight as to why my life has evolved the way it has…
“Touted in Bold Print”
“I been in a hundred street fights, never lost one!” Ever read or heard that crap before? Makes you wonder, doesn’t it? “This must be one “Bad MoFo”! I’ll tell ya… I gotta wonder just where in the hell this “Baaaad Assss Cat” grew up.We have all heard the legends of street fighters willing to throw down at the drop of a hat and many of us could no doubt share a tale or two about those who established such a reputation while we were growing up and running the streets of our home towns.
Without question, there‘s at least one “Bad-Bad Leroy Brown” in every city across the United States and beyond. This is just a fact of nature…the nature of the “beast in man.” In essence, the nature of the beast is cultivated within the streets of our fair and not so fair cities. Inner-city conflicts are as old as the social structure of mankind, from primitive cave dwellers to modern day night-clubbers. Over the years, fighting among youths was accepted as a part of “sowing the wild oats of manhood.”
“Cover Your Ass”
Things are changing quickly in most major cities by laws inaugurated to protect citizens from even verbal abuse, let alone physical assault. Shrouded over our society, physical assault laws are meant to deter an aggressor from instigating an attack or convict the offender, after the crime has been committed. I hate to say it but sometimes, only the victim suffers from criminal acts these days. Repercussions leave victims distraught with fear, injuries, and financial losses. On the other hand, as a criminal, if you got nothing to lose, even the judicial system wants to avoid interaction with you. It is sad but true that if the assailant is convicted of physical assault, the jail time could be minimal and in some cases, dismissed due to lack of adequate facilities for incarceration.
Now if you happen to have a dollar to your name and you cuss’ at someone, spit in his or her face, or kick a troublemaker’s ass, you run the risk of being criminally prosecuted and/or civilly sued by the very person who instigated the confrontation. No matter how well deserved the ass-kicking may have been, with a good attorney the offender can turn the tables on you very quickly. I often remark within my lectures that “once you defend yourself physically, you must be prepared to defend yourself civilly.”
“Leroy’s In ‘Da Hood”
Now, getting back to the well publicized street fighter who has fought 100 fights and lost none, wouldn’t the aforementioned factors come into play somewhere along the line? If nothing else, the information is something to consider as the next generation of street fighters begin their long grueling task of establishing a fearless reputation that parallels or surpasses those who have walked the path or back alleys before them.
Of course, there are exceptions to the rule regarding prosecution for physical assault… a simple fact of reality… “the neighborhood where the assault took place”. Yep, I’m talking about ‘da hood! Many times, ‘da hood is just outside the reach of, “the long arm of the law”. Now in ‘da hood, you could probably sneak by without getting prosecuted for every physical conflict or barroom brawl. That’s just the way it is, yet other factors come into play when we are discussing a territorial scenario, such as back alleys, taverns, nightclubs, or even private gatherings that are usually not occasioned by socialites or outsiders. If you are out roaming the streets of smaller urban communities with no direct ties to the people frequenting specific establishments within ‘da hood, you are either real stupid or looking for trouble. Either side of that coin could become problematic. Honestly, few people within your immediate proximity would come to your rescue or call 911 while you were being force fed a “Filet of Boot.”
“Negative Effects Of Revenge”
Let’s touch on another verity, revenge! Even if you win the conflict, will you be able to make a clean getaway? If you actually live in ‘da hood, revenge can be a revolving door of accelerating aggression. One conflict can have uncalculated repercussions. Keeping this potential situation in prospective, one physical fight may create three conflicts during the aftermath. Rarely in revenge situations does the level of force or retaliation de-escalate…it only gets more violent. I make these statements not from hearsay or rumors but from actual experience.
Bottom line, some people protect their neighborhood like a virgin sister, especially in a culturally diverse community. Another issue worth considering is the fact that Police Officers don’t always respond as quickly to areas where crime and assault run rampant, i.e. ‘da hood. In most circumstances, there are an abundance of emergency calls during evening hours and even fewer Officers who respond to them.
“What’s Up Witt ‘Dat?”
Occasionally, I get asked as to why I became involved in the martial arts or asked what has motivated my life study of different fighting systems. Simply stated, “fighting was just a part of growing up”. Getting turned on or introduced to the martial arts after western boxing and catch wrestling opened the door to “fighting and training” in a broader spectrum. Initially, just adding the martial art kicking strategies to boxing and wrestling created a dynamic edge to winning street confrontations in the early ‘70’s. The level of violence I experienced at different times within my life was a result of running with what would be considered “the wrong crowd”. Of course, this prospective is from looking back in time, or possibly from the view of someone who now knows the difference between radical behavior and socially acceptable mischief. Radical behavior can only be considered as such if you have the capability to distinguish specifically, what personal characteristics represent extreme conduct. Logic and rational judgment do not necessarily govern the primal instincts of a young, testosterone driven street kid. The old adage “you can take the boy out of the street, but you can’t take the street out of the boy,” balances my perspective on growing up as a fighter.
“Remember The Good Times !”
In a strange way, my exposure to the social setting of urban warriors began when I was around 15 years old. I used to sneak out of my parents’ house and ride my bicycle around the Sound End of Tacoma, looking for Biker parties that I knew my older brother was attending. This was serious “action and adventure” for a little turd trying to blend into a tough man’s world. Hell, even the women would scare the hell out of me without much effort. Fortunately, I was adopted as a “kid brother” by many of the club leaders, plus I enjoyed cleaning and asking questions about Harley Choppers, Knuckleheads, Flathead 45’s and 74’s, all with ridged frames, Peanut Tanks, Drag Bars, or Ape Hangers… yes the choppers of yesteryear! Interestingly enough, this is the era of many smaller urban Biker gangs, groups like “Satan’s Psychos”, “Outsiders”, “Justus”, “Shifters”, “Comancheros”, “Iron Horsemen”, “Cossacks”, “Devil’s Disciples”, and “Banditos”, all rolling the streets of Tacoma, Washington.
As I reflect over the years, I have personally experienced street violence as it has escalated from parking lot brawls with tire irons and knives, to shootouts and drive-bys. One thing is for certain, the street fighters of yesteryear relied on pure “balls to the walls” brawling. In retrospect, guns are a “today issue” in dealing with personal confrontations and territorial conflicts. As I have often lectured during my instructional sessions, “if it wasn’t for martial arts, I would be dead or in prison…you either find a way off the streets or die in ‘em”.
“Do Flexible Weapons Work?”
Not long ago, I was asked if I felt that flexible weapons had any true functional value. I responded with the following short stories, the first of which I witnessed and the second of which I was personally involved. In short, yes, “flexible weapons do have fighting value in the real world!”
One sunny afternoon, I was hanging around some choppers at a biker bar where my brother and other club members frequented. These guys were a tough bunch of ex-military, criminal sorts and street oriented fighters.
The short of the long is that I was polishing a chopper in the parking lot for my brother. The back door of the tavern loudly crashed open with a guy apparently slammed through it. The next thing I witnessed was a big kick to his chest and he tumbled uncontrollably while bouncing off the steel railing and rolling down the concrete stairs! The guy staggered up from the ground trying to regain his balance, while pulling a fairly large Buck knife from the leather sheath strapped to his hip. Without question, I recognized the biker stomping out the Tavern doorway following the size 12 boot to the chest. His club name was "Dog." “Dog” was a big “Greg Allman” looking guy, about 6’3’’ and 220lbs…with a real bad attitude!
The staggering man with knife-in-hand began cussing and yelling “come on Mother F-cker.” Dominating the stairway like a wild eyed “Chewbacca”, "Dog" advanced to the blacktop without hesitation, jerked on the Harley Primary Chain belt wrapped around his waist line, whipped it once around his head (redondo) and stepped into the guy who was brandishing his big bladed buck knife. The Primary Chain belt smacked the guy’s elbow with a loud crack, the knife went flying, and his arm snapped, appearing twisted in the reverse direction. It was evident that his arm was broken. While his arm was dangling and before he could complete his scream of anguish, another similar stroke smacked him upside the head, teeth flew, blood splattered, and the guy was out like a light, lying in a puddle of blood.
Brothers from the club came running out the Tavern door, yet few witnessed what I did during the brief exchange of belligerent words and violent maneuvers. No one seemed to give a crap about the downed man, but they grabbed "Dog", pushed him into the cab of a truck, and got the hell out of there... as did I.
( Note: a primary chain belt is a single or sometimes doubled motorcycle chain welded togetherr that hangs around the waist and is pinned together with a welded master link slipped into a female link for quick release).
“Ex-Girlfriends And Revenge“
Rollin’ along on autopilot, I strolled soulfully into a friend’s house to party down on a Saturday night. I was a dancing fool on the prowl and was looking forward to some downtown jammin’. No sooner than hitting the scene, I was hitting the floor in a rough and tumble scrap with an old girlfriend’s new husband. As I walked into the kitchen to see what all the action and noise was about, I noticed a younger kid getting his ass handed to him on a platter. No one stepped in to stop the kid’s ass-whooping, so I said from the sidelines “HEY, I THINK HE’S HAD ENOUGH!” Barely clearing the words from my lips, the guy doing the face pounding yelled “WELL, I’LL JUST TAKE A PIECE OF YOUR ASS THEN!” The dude tore off his shirt and the game was on. I was holding my own as we exchanged blows in a flurry of fists and elbows. “Slam bam baby”, we hit the floor slipping in spilled beer. The scrapple was on when I felt someone putting the boots to my ribcage. Covering up from the kicks, I ended up in a guillotine choke while getting punched in the face. I took several shots and the last thing I really remember was seeing a boot coming in from the side, kicking me twice in the face. Somehow, I pushed past all the people and got out of the kitchen, out of the house, and into my car. Bleeding like a sacrificed pig, pissed off, and humiliated, all I could think about was that no one made any effort to make it a fair “one-on-one fight.” I was probably being called a chicken -shit as I ran from the scene. Once inside my car, driving away, I tore off my shirt and wiped the blood from my face. In a now blood soaked shirt, with a broken nose and severely cut and swollen lips, I stormed into my brother’s house.
He had a gallon jug of beer between his legs and an empty one on the floor (read, probably drunk). Incoherent, bloodied, and in a screaming rage, I just started yelling," let's go get those m-f’in, dirty c--k blaaaa blaaa blaaa SOB's.” My brother was up and on the howl. I retrieved a .22 caliber revolver from the cupboard in the basement and we headed back to the house of action.
This next section is almost funny in a real sick way. Disoriented and still snorting blood, with my eyes swollen almost shut, I jumped from the car taking what I thought was the lead position. Revolver-in-hand, I opened the door of the house and started screaming something to the effect of “where are those S.O.B.s”. No sooner than the words rolled out of my mouth, I realized I was in the wrong house! Facing me and sitting on a couch, was a couple of middle-aged women and several young children. Dumbfounded, I said, “sorry, wrong house”, slammed the door shut, and ran over to the house next door. By the time I had gotten into the right house, people were running out holding their face. My Brother had just walked in there, hitting people and asking why they didn’t help me. He grabbed me and pulled me outside stating that the two guys had left the party. Once outside, I put the revolver under the seat of my car. Then a vehicle pulled up, shouting that the two guys from the house were out looking for me. The next thing ya know, my Brother was dragging one of the guys out of the car and kicking his ass. As his friend jumped out to assist his buddy, I jumped into the game and we were all throwing down in the middle of the street. The girl still in the car slammed the vehicle in gear and began ramming my car, trying to run us over. Without hesitation and as Police sirens rang in the darkness of night, we all jumped into our cars and split in opposite directions.
“Fast Forward, No Reverse!“
It’s tough being cool sometimes. Most people reading this article might not appreciate my choice of wheels, then again, it would certainly be a classic by today’s standards. I owned a 1960 Super Fury with big fins, a bright red paint job, black diamond tuck interior, dropped front end, chrome wheels, and a punched out 318 c.i. with a Torqueflight pushbutton tranny. It was a fast‘60’s custom, but the reverse pump on the transmission was gone, out, blown, you get the picture…
Side street cruising and “Flash”, there they were! The chase was on, weird because I thought they were looking for me. We chased them down a dead end street and two guys jumped out of their car. The bigger guy who apparently the one kicking me in the face came out swinging a tire iron! The other ass who was my ex-girlfriend’s current husband leaped out with a four- way lug wrench.
My brother had his heavy leather belt wrapped around his right fist with a four inch square buckle swinging down about 12 inches, like a single-ended nunchaku.
The fight was on again. Remember, I had the 22-caliber revolver and now, it was tucked in my waistband. As soon as the asshole came running towards me, I drew down on him and he stopped dead in his tracks. Words were exchanged, he put the lug wrench down on the ground and took off running. Surely, I didn’t want to shoot him, so I picked up the lug wrench and pursued him in a rage. I threw the lug wrench and hit him square in the back. As he was getting off the ground from a running stumble, I kicked him in the head. He took off running again and I was close behind. Jumping over a hedge, he slipped in the grass and I followed up with another kick to his head. We both tumbled onto a concrete driveway and the ground pound was exchanged. I cleared the ground and started kicking him while he was still down. I swear as I kicked him in the head again, the force lifted him off the ground and all I saw were his heels running down the street.
We had run and fought about ≤ down the block from where the cars were left. When I ran back to the car, my brother was swinging the belt like a nunchaku and he cut this guy up like a basketball. The guy with the tire iron was bleeding heavlily, cut all over his head and face. He had crawled up to someone’s door and was pounding while screaming in anguish. Hmmm…I guess flexible weapons do have function. Honestly, I don’t have a clue how long this battle took place, maybe 5 or 6 minutes max. The bottom line on this exchange is that we came out on top and those assholes hit the hospital.
Trapped on a dead-end street and with no reverse gear in my Plymouth Fury, we pushed the car back a couple feet, punched it in low, and peeled off across a couple people's yards.
Revenge and paybacks are a real shitty way of street life. This was not a malicious, premeditated attack. It was only payback for the tag-team ass-whooping I took, only an hour earlier. Of course, looking back, I should have just dropped it and licked my wounds, but that was not the way things were done when I grew up. Rumor was they both went to the hospital and had plans on getting even sometime later. We covered our bases and maintained a high alert status for several months…nothing ever happened.
“Tequila Courage Strike Again !”
Almost a year later, I crashed at my Mom’s house. Dad had passed away and I occasionally racked out on the couch. 3:00 am on a Saturday, “Tequila Courage” brought five guys, pounding on my Mom’s front door. My revolver hidden behind my back, I cracked the door open. Yes, it was the same assholes I had rumbled with in the street a year earlier. I told them “if you want a piece of my ass come back in the daylight one on one.” They started yelling, I didn’t listen any further and shut the door. My Mom and younger sister were freaking out and called the cops. No sooner than the door was shut, bottles, rocks, and flowerpots came crashing through the windows, shattering almost every window in the front of my Mom’s house
I almost started shooting back when the glass stopped flying, but just then, the cops came up the street with the lights flashing. Everyone started to scatter. I ran outside and tackled one guy climbing into a truck. Hitting the blacktop, the ground pound was on. Disoriented and bloody, I found myself being dragged out of the fight and was thrown over the hood of a Police car, cuffed and eating a hood ornament. The cops caught all five of the assholes who spend a few days in jail prior to a court hearing. They let me go fortunately. In all actuality, I would have rather gone to jail than have faced the verbal wrath and tears of my Mother and Sister as we cleaned up all the broken glass. Her house was trashed and in reality, it was my fault.
I guess I never intended for this article to go this long, nor did I ever expect for the first fight to turn into a series of revenge fights that could have easily gotten someone killed. I may share the third fight in the future; right now, I will just say things didn't get any better.
So, when people tell me they have been in 100 street fights, I just say to myself, "NOT IN MY 'HOOD YA DIDN'T "!
JUST SOME FOOD FOR THOUGHT,
Respectfully, Kelly S. Worden
Just a note to clarify my position in society, I do not make judgment calls on individuals; we all walk the path we choose. For some the hard road is the only road known. The experiences I have lived through are not a form of pride; many contrarily have brought shame and embarrassment. Truth in life must be self-realized. I have often quoted in my lectures “If it was not for martial arts and a few caring friends I would be dead or in prison.” I know this to be truth, many men I grew through life with are dead or incarcerated; others found freedom from the street culture and now live healthy fulfilled lives. I share my life experiences in the hope others will learn from my truth and not seek to discover the harsh reality of running the streets. Any city, any town can take a man down if he chooses to succumb to violence, drugs, and underworld activity. I am not always proud of the path I took; yet I can sincerely look a man or my personal students in the eyes and offer truth in my guidance.
I have never been convicted of a felony, but the line of freedom has been very thin in my past. Today I am exceedingly proud of the positive impact I have had on so many people worldwide as well as the constructive direction my life has taken. Take a chance, believe in yourself and remember “change comes from within, Honestly!”
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About Kelly S. Worden:
Mr. Worden is currently contracted to develop and instruct the U.S. Army 1st Special Forces Combative Hand-to-Hand Training Program at Ft. Lewis, Washington. The curiculum emphasis evolves around Knife, Baton, Machete, Riot Staff, and Control Tactics. It was Grandmaster Remy A. Presas who set Mr. Worden on the path of being a professional educator of the martial arts, an effort that earned him the coveted title “Datu Of Modern Arnis” in 1988. He was the first American to receive the coveted title from Remy A. Presas. Additionally Mr. Worden is a world recognized seminar instructor, writer, instructional video author, knife maker and designer. Kelly S. Worden designed and builds the Silent Fighter Training Dummy, is the developer of the Impact Kerambit Travel Wrench self-protection tool and instructional book/DVD. Mr. Worden is also the radio talk show host of "On The Edge" in Tacoma Washington, owner of Natural Spirit Int’l, Inc. and The World Modern Arnis Coalition. For more information call Natural Spirit Int’l, Inc. (253) 564-2867 or visit www.kellyworden.com
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