By Alex Borsody 

Growing up in my safe yet busy suburb of New York City, my three siblings and I were surrounded by martial arts equipment, movies and activities.  My father, a Wall Street lawyer, and my brother Daniel took judo lessons together every week.

In addition to traditional judo, the class provided a combination of various styles and techniques, an approach popular these days with the synthesis of different cultures and traditions. 

I was always told I was too young to take classes, so I had to live vicariously through Daniel. He was never into mainstream sports and in some ways could have even been considered on the “geeky” side, but when it came to the sport of judo, he was a true success and in my eyes—a star.  We would often attend these tournaments held in some big gym in a “far away land” such as Washington D.C. or Pennsylvania. My siblings, my mother and I, would watch him compete, cheering him on as a family.  Judo night for my brother and father was a bonding experience. Together they worked themselves up through the ranks to black belt, though, at 17, my brother abruptly stopped to devote most of his time and energy to academics.  Subsequently, his trophies, which I held in such high admiration, began to collect dust in his closet.

My father however, continued on for many years, until recently, when he hurt his leg in a tragic chainsaw accident. The shock to his system caused complications with his digestive tract. A true warrior, he is recovering quite well and vows to return to his martial arts. When my brother quit, my Dad was only at the beginning of his career, continuing on to attain second- and third degree black belts while in his late fifties.  He is now seventy two.

My father went to his class twice a week for more than twenty years, becoming good friends with the men in his class at the local YMCA.  When he was forced to stop, he spoke not only about missing the activity, but missing the community that was formed through the class over the years.