So how did you start martial Arts ?

The Story of the Hidden Shihan

For two years, he was just a man I knew. He was a steady presence in my life, a friend who

carried himself with a quiet, impenetrable weight. I lived in a single garage at the time—a raw, honest structure of wood and steel that felt more like a bunker than a bedroom. It was there, amidst the scent of motor oil and old timber, that the world I thought I knew fractured.

He sat there, the light from the single bulb reflecting off the steel walls, and revealed the truth: he was a Shihan, a Master of Black Dragon Jiu Jitsu. He had walked away from the dojo scene years ago, sickened by the backroom politics and the hollow egos that had turned a warrior’s path into a business. He had become a ghost in the martial arts world, but as he spoke, I realized the flame wasn't gone. It was just banked, glowing red-hot under a layer of ash.

I was in my 20s, a street kid and a brawler who used my fists to solve problems I didn't yet have the words for. I had played around with Kickboxing, Aikido, and Karate, but it was all surface-level—a way to be dangerous without being disciplined. That night in the garage, I realized I didn't want a "hobby." I wanted the fire he was hiding.

The Year of the Pester

For the next twelve months, I became a relentless shadow. Every time I saw him, I was on

him. "Train me, Shihan. Give me the art."

He didn't just say no; he tried to steer me away. He would name other clubs in town, pointing me toward polished mats and instructors who were still "in the scene." He told me I’d be better off with a structured class, a membership, and a colored belt to chase.

But I wasn't interested in a gym. I knew that those other places could teach me how to move, but only he could teach me how to be. I saw through his recommendations; they were a test. He wanted to see if I was looking for a convenient sport or a life-altering discipline. I bugged him at every gathering, every chance meeting, for a solid year. I didn't want a trainer; I wanted a Master.

The Outdoor Table

The breakthrough finally came on a night that felt like any other party at my mate Marni’s place. We were young men in our 20s, sitting at a wooden table outside, drinking and laughing until the stars began to fade. The night air was thick with the salt of the coast and the muffled vibration of music and singing leaking through the walls of the house.

But my mission hadn't changed. Between stories, I leaned in across the table and bugged him one last time.

Something in the atmosphere shifted. Maybe it was the persistence of a full year of rejections, or maybe he saw that my spirit was still standing even when my body was tired. He stopped, his eyes locking onto mine and Marni's with a sudden, electric intensity that silenced the table.

"Ok boys," he said, his voice low and cutting. "You want to train? We start in the morning."

We laughed, clinking our bottles, thinking we’d finally cracked the code of the retired Master. But as his ride pulled up at 5:00 AM, he leaned back toward us with eyes like flint. "6:00 AM sharp. You're running to Pauwairua Marae. Don't be late."

The Banging on the Glass

We must have been asleep for barely twenty minutes when the world exploded. Bang. Bang. Bang.

It wasn't a knock; it was an assault on the house. The Shihan hadn't gone home to sleep. He had stayed awake, waiting for the clock to hit the hour. He was there at Marni’s windows and doors, his silhouette dark and imposing against the gray, pre-dawn light. "Up! Up! Running time!"

The realization hit us like a bucket of ice water. He wasn't testing our interest anymore; he was testing our integrity as men. We shot up, half-dead, still intoxicated, and terrified of what we had signed up for. But we were steadfast. We had asked for the fire, and now it was time to see if we would burn or forge.

The Purgatory of Landing Road

The run down Landing Road was a descent into hell.

The sun was coming up, and with it came the morning rush. This was the main road in and out of Whakatāne, and it was already buzzing with traffic—people in their work trucks and cars heading to start their day. There we were, two young men in our 20s, staggered and swaying against the flow of the town’s morning pulse.

Every step toward the Whakatāne bridge felt like my lungs were being scraped with hot sand. My stomach was a washing machine of the night's choices. About halfway down the straight, the inevitable happened. Under the gaze of the commuters passing us by, we stopped and doubled over. We threw our guts up right there on the tar seal.

There was no room for humiliation. We didn't care who saw us or what they thought. To us, those people in their cars were just background noise in a much larger struggle. Our focus was entirely on the man waiting at the end of the road and the promise we had made. We wiped our mouths, locked eyes through the haze of sickness, and kept running. We passed The Hub, then Shaw Road, gaining the long straightaway toward the Tauranga turn-off. We were broken and exposed, but we were completely steadfast.

The Shihan’s Mercy and the Sacred Binding

As we neared the turn-off, a car slowed to a crawl beside us. It was the Shihan. He watched us for a few quiet moments—two broken, gritty, exhausted men who refused to quit even when their bodies were failing in the public eye.

"Impressive, boys," he said. There was no mockery in his voice, only a newfound respect. "I just wanted to see if you would do it. Now, get in."

He drove us the final 200 meters to the gates of Pauwairua Marae. We piled out of the car, trembling from the exertion. The Shihan called us into a semi-circle. The morning air was silent now, the birds just starting to wake in the trees, and the world felt ancient.

"Today is the first step," he told us, his voice heavy with an authority we hadn't seen at the party. "You have come to this Marae as a symbolic gesture of your commitment. You are committing your spirit to this art and to me."

We bowed our heads. In the holy silence of the dawn, he offered up a Karakia—a Māori prayer to bind our commitment to him and to the path. In that moment, the alcohol vanished. The brawler was dead on the tar seal of Landing Road. The student was born under the shadow of the Marae.

Everyone has a origin story this one belongs to Me and Marni Ross thanks to AI i can add pictures to this story as none exist in the hopes that you can get a visual of what only exist in the memories of we

who were there

AND JUST INCASE YOU FORGOT ITS BDJJA ALDAE OUSSSSSS