Tuesday, November 25, 2025 by C. Michial Jones
Since I first stepped onto the mat in 1977, my journey has been less of a straight line and more of a complex tapestry. From the rigid structure of Karate and Kobudo to the circular flow of Aikido and Jujutsu; from the precision of Iaido and Kenjutsu to the visceral, high-stakes world of Law Enforcement Defensive Tactics. I have been a student of the blade, the fist, the joint lock, and the choke.
Most people look at a Dojo or a BJJ gym and see the differences—the uniforms, the rules, the lineages. But after 49 years, I no longer see the lines between styles. I see the similarities.
The Universal Mechanics
There are only so many ways to strike a target with maximum kinetic energy. There are only so many physiological ways to manipulate a joint or compress an artery to induce sleep. Whether it is called Tuite in an Okinawan dojo, a “control tactic” in a police academy, or a “submission” in a BJJ tournament, the physics of the human body do not change.
I have tested these mechanics in the “fun” of the kickboxing ring and the tournament floor, and I have tested them in the “real world,” where the outcome wasn’t a trophy, but the ability to go home to my family. I have won, I have lost, and most importantly, I am still here.
The Ego-less Tap
I have high ranks in some systems and lower ranks in others. I never asked for any of them; they were merely markers left by teachers along the way. Today, when I roll with a man 20 or 30 years my junior and he secures a technique, I tap without hesitation.
I have nothing left to prove. I proved it in the streets and in the rings decades ago. If a younger practitioner thinks my rank is unearned because I am slower or heavier than I was at twenty-five, it doesn’t move me. That is the beauty of “Training” versus “Fighting.” In the gym, we are all just scientists exploring the same truth.
The Reservoir of Experience
I am older now. I am slower. My mobility is a shadow of what it once was, and I am carrying the physical and hormonal weight of a Stage 3C cancer battle. But there is a difference between sporting capacity and survival intent.
While I may “play” at a slower pace in the dojo to stay in shape and have fun, let there be no mistake: if my life or the life of my family is on the line, the old demons are still there. The muscle memory of 49 years doesn’t vanish; it simply waits. When the stakes are real, the efficiency of a lifetime replaces the athleticism of youth.
Conclusion: The Long View
My life in the martial arts isn’t about a belt or a reputation anymore. It’s about the joy of the movement, the camaraderie of the brothers I’ve made, and the quiet confidence that comes from knowing exactly who I am. I’ll keep rolling, I’ll keep teaching, and I’ll keep tapping—until the day comes when I can’t. And that is a good life.
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