I was born on April 3, 1985, in Portsmouth, Virginia. My mother will tell you all about how I almost killed her, something about a grand mal seizure, and how I came out blue with the umbilical cord wrapped around my neck. My mother has also been known to exaggerate a story or two, but since I don’t remember, we’ll have to take her word for it. I don’t remember much about my time in Virginia and as a military brat, we moved to New Hampshire when I was two years old.

My memories start during my early years in New Hampshire. I remember trying to dive into a plastic kiddie pool and breaking my collarbone. I remember wandering around the woods and looking for lizards under rocks. I remember watching The NeverEnding Story and being terrified of the wolf, Gmork. I remember jumping on the bed and face-planting into the nightstand, which resulted in 32 stitches to reattach my nostril to my face. These memories are all fleeting and pieced together, but the first moment I vividly remember was my first karate class.

I entered this earth like the Kool-Aid Man and ran around with reckless abandon. My grandfather affectionately called me “the bull” because he said I was like a bull in a china shop. This energy, coupled with having only older, bigger, stronger cousins and a family that chose to show love through relentless teasing and roughhousing, was a recipe for disaster. I knew that to survive every holiday, I would need to master the art of hand-to-hand combat. So I sought out karate, and my parents happily obliged, hoping it would tire me out.

I am now five years old, walking into Fred Villari’s Studios of Self Defense, set on mastering Shaolin Kempo Karate. I am wearing an all-white gi and a white belt, and upon entering, I am overwhelmed by the protocols of martial arts. I am taught how to properly tie my white belt, how to remove my shoes before entering the dojo, and how to bow to my sensei. I am riveted by all of this, and the sensei is now the most important person in my world.

I am ushered to the back row of students with all the other white-belted child warriors. We are all facing a giant mirror that spans the entire dojo, and the sensei is leading us through a warm-up and teaching us the basics of how to deliver deadly blows. I am loving every minute of this and know that I will surely vanquish my enemies at the next Thanksgiving family get-together.

I am so caught up in the whole moment that I don’t realize I need to use the restroom, and it is an emergency. I panic because I wasn’t taught the proper protocol to excuse myself from class, and I am surely not going to interrupt Sensei, who is now a demigod, to tell him I need to tinkle. I decide to let it ride and focus on learning other strikes and blocks.

Then it happens.

I can’t hold it anymore, and I stand in the back row, frozen in fear, while nature shows me that it is the ultimate sensei. Sensei immediately recognizes the situation, as I am the only one not moving and I am in a white gi...

As the ninja he is, he immediately runs to the back of the class, picks me up, and carries me out of the dojo and to the bathroom.

I am absolutely destroyed and sadly destined for a life of being bullied.

As I am finishing up in the bathroom, Sensei knocks on the door and has a fresh gi for me. I couldn’t believe I was being welcomed back after desecrating the dojo, but I was ready to follow Sensei anywhere.

I emerge from the bathroom embarrassed, but not defeated, in a gi that is clearly three sizes too big. Sensei and my mom help me cuff the pants and roll the sleeves, and I am back in action.I walk back out into the dojo, bow to my sensei, and commit myself to the art of Shaolin Kempo Karate.I look at myself in the mirror and note how ridiculous I look with enormous cuffs on each of my limbs as I throw fists of fury.

I kept showing up day after day and progressed through the belts, eventually earning my purple belt on June 13, 1991.