My journey began 50 years ago as a U.S. Marine in Okinawa, training in Shorin Ryu after my first tour in Vietnam. By 1970, I transitioned to Kung Fu, eventually becoming a Sifu in Wing Chun and, in 2007, a "closed-door student" under Grandmaster Cheung. Over decades of practice, the mystery of the art has vanished, replaced by a deep-seated belief in logic over tradition: if it doesn't make sense, I don’t buy it.
My perspective on martial arts wasn't shaped in a clean studio, but in the rough neighborhoods of NYC and the jungles of Vietnam. In 1970s East New York, "Kung Fu hype" didn't exist—if you claimed to be a fighter, you were tested. I watched my Wing Chun brother, Johnny Lee, spar with practitioners of "52 Blocks" (Jail House Rock), street-hardened fighters who came at you with full power. We fought to prove that Kung Fu wasn't just "pretty forms," but a lethal, practical tool for survival.
My standard for martial arts was set during a hand-to-hand melee in Vietnam. When my M16 was knocked away and the fight turned to fixed bayonets and K-Bars, I learned exactly what matters in a life-or-death encounter. Today, I don’t care about the prestige of lineage or the name of a style. I only care about what is practical. I look for techniques that work when the pressure is real, the adrenaline is high, and your life is on the line.