The dull squish of knuckles against concrete rips up my arm, across my chest, and deep into my jaw. Every muscle in my body immediately hurts. My vision dims. I am done. 

All the students of the school are watching. My fellow classmates of the last eight years are watching. Eric Heintz, my teacher, is watching.

I have nothing to give them.

Moments before I had positioned myself directly over three concrete blocks stacked on top of each other. I had focused, focused, focused, . . . and let loose with a mighty yell as I punched downwards. The result? A dull thud, no breaking concrete, just bloodied knuckles.

Failure.

How did I get in this predicament?

The old gym at the YWCA in downtown Des Moines is slick with sweat. Not a good thing as you’re marching up and down doing side kicks and front kicks and roundhouse kicks.

Sweat and bare feet and zero balance is a deadly combination for me. Add a polished gym floor, and I spend a fair amount of time being helped up by someone half my age. However, my kicks tonight are awesome. Sure, they are about three inches off the ground, but if I ever have an attacker who grovels at my feet, watch out. 

You guessed it, I am not a natural at this. 

This is Tai Kwon Do. It was 1982. Des Moines, Iowa. My friend, Liza Ovrom, employed in the Attorney General’s office, was training in Tai Kwon Do. She was taking a class from a guy who also worked in the AG’s office and who actually headed up the DOT division. I too worked in the AG’s office and joined at Liza’a encouragement. While my wife, also in the AG’s office, joined a year or so later. Clearly, the AG’s office was a feeder program for the martial arts. Who knew. 

The long-haired, angular-faced man at the front of the gym was our teacher, Eric Heintz. Calm, patient, and deadly. At least that’s what we all thought. “Mr. Heintz,” we honorifically called him back before he rose in the ranks to earn the further title of “Master,” and later when he became a Zen Buddhist priest and was called “Tetsugen.”

He taught us all Tae Kwon Do. He taught us how to fight and how to break boards and how to defend ourselves. He taught us a multitude of advanced combinations involving kicking and punching. He taught us to take a hit and to fall and to smack the heavy bag so hard it tore down the middle. 

And we kept our part of the bargain. We kicked and yelled and spun and grappled and flew through the air. We learned. 

But what Mr. Heintz really taught was belief. 

“Joe, go teach Tae Kwon Do in Indianola.” 

Really? I’m not good enough.

But I did. Because he thought I could.

“Joe, enter this tournament and compete in fighting.”

Are you sure? I’m not strong enough. 

 I did. Because he thought I could.

“Joe, put on a Tai Kwon Do demonstration in downtown Des Moines.”

Ummm . . . are you sure? I’m not talented enough.

Yup, you guessed it, I did. Because he thought I could.

You can break these boards, you can spin in the air, you can do these kicks, and, as a result your standards change — you can raise your kids right, you can do good work, you can be a good husband, you can, you can, you can . . .

And we all did. Each and every one of his students felt his hand gently at their back. 

Eric Heintz believed in us. He prepared us. He taught us what needed to be done and then gave us the push to go do it.

His belief forced us to believe. A gift beyond measure. 

And now I stare at the three blocks for a second time. I look at Mr. Heintz. He smiles with complete assurance and gives me a nod. What the hell. I pull my arm back. Give a ferocious yell. And . . .

Eric Heintz talked to me a few years ago after retiring from teaching because of health issues. 

“Each of us is going to have pain and each of us is going to die. It is just a question of how you want to spend your time. It may be a matter of minutes or longer. Nobody has any assurances. But, do you want to spend your time saying, ‘I’m really hurting’? Or can you let go of the absolute need to have something solid under your feet and be a happy, fulfilled person?”

Even in poor health, there was a lesson. 

The other day I heard the whisper. Three former Tai Kwon Do students, three of my old friends:

“Eric Heintz died, have you heard?” 

. . . and the three concrete blocks shattered. 

Joe