It’s 1 p.m. on a particularly hot Friday, and two men are squaring off in a patch of dirt in a side yard. One man is 68 years old; the other is more than 20 years his junior. People take notice: some within five feet of the dirt, others watching from their front porch, and one man hanging over the back yard fence.
The younger man throws a punch to the head, but it’s intercepted immediately by a blur of open hands. In an instant, Sensei Rudy Rogers is describing the seven different ways in which he can now injure his attacker.
This is standard procedure: Rogers runs his own Nisei karate school at his home, and virtually all of the physical training is done in his yard.
“I train outside, because that’s the way I learned,” Rogers says. “I keep it old-school. Classical. Authentic.”
It’s how Rogers spends his retirement. He returned in 1999, to Plant City, after many years in Colorado and California. He wouldn’t have it any other way.
Although Rogers first began studying martial arts in high school, he wasn’t too serious about it. He was also a talented athlete, so he focused more on those abilities to get to college. It was at that time that he stopped practicing altogether.
But, the karate bug returned to him in 1976. He recently completed his duties in the U.S. Navy and was living in Denver, Colo. He began training in three-system gung-fu with Warren Cecil Daniel, a student of Los Angeles-based Grandmaster Willie Williams. Two years later, he relocated to Riverside, Calif., to coach basketball — and to also be closer to L.A., where he trained with Williams himself.
“I took that job as close to L.A. as I could get, because California is a hotbed for martial arts,” Rogers says. “Everybody does it out there; everywhere you go.”
Thanks in part to the emergence of kung-fu movies in the pop culture lexicon, L.A. was the place to be for anyone that wanted to gain exposure. Bruce Lee’s movies inspired many to train, and Chuck Norris even owned and operated a school — which Rogers frequented.
While studying under Williams, Rogers began fighting on the professional circuit — open only to black belts — and made stops around the country. Rogers enjoyed success, and in 1980, Inside Kung-Fu Magazine ranked him at No. 9 in America in the Heavyweight division.
He also began training his own students, which continued even after he returned to Colorado. Although some prominent California martial artists, including Norris, had altered their original styles, Rogers stuck with his style of goju gung fu — which emphasizes the Tiger and Horse styles. He remained in Colorado until nearly 15 years ago, when he returned to the Winter Strawberry Capital of the World out of necessity.
“I’ve been here since Aug. 11, 1999, at this location,” Rogers says. “That was by way of Colorado. My legal adopted mother got sick in 1998 — Sadye Gibbs Martin. I came back.”
He’s been at the same house ever since. Now, in his retirement, he typically travels when his students will participate in a tournament. It gives him plenty of time to run his school, which is necessary: Training with Rogers is not for the faint of heart.
While many martial arts schools designate rank and skill with many different belts, Rogers keeps it simpler than that. He uses a four-belt system before giving out a black belt, and the meaning behind those belts is much more obtuse.
“These belts show what (the students) have done, but it doesn’t dictate who they are,” Rogers says. “Those belts are only good to hold up their pants and support their backs. Can you apply the technique to the man? You have to be able to apply the technique to the man.”
Although he acknowledges that learning martial arts is good for children, Rogers won’t teach any. He prefers to work with adults. They’re more likely to successfully defend themselves when attacked by another adult — as long as they know what they’re doing.
But, his instruction goes deeper than practicing moves and running drills in the side yard.
“I teach my people the language,” Rogers says. “I teach them the culture. I tell them, ‘Don’t take my word; research it.’ When I give a test, I give written tests. They have to show me the techniques and what they do. … Forty percent of their test is done here; the other 60% comes from their kumite, which is sparring against someone else.”
His students are graded on their tournament performances, rather than in sparring sessions with one another. Being able to beat an unfamiliar opponent is the key, because it’s as close as one can get to handling an attacker in the street.
Rogers often stresses that people must be ready for anything in these “perilous times.” That also means being able to fight on any surface, in any event — hence the outdoor training.
“No one is going to attack you on a smooth surface in an air-conditioned building,” he says. “They’re going to attack you in a hole or walking down the street. So, if you’re not used to that terrain, guess what happens to you?
“My people, they train out here on these roots,” Rogers says, “I tell them, ‘Your feet are supposed to have eyes.’ You don’t look down; you let your feet guide you. When my people get on a smooth surface, it’s like heaven for them.”
His devotion to the art is visible in everything he does, and that’s what keeps his students — his “sons” — devoted to him.
“It’s great, studying with him,” Chris Jones says. “He can really get onto us sometimes, but it’s because he’s passionate. If he wasn’t so passionate about what he does, I wouldn’t keep doing this.”
Along with Jones, Rogers has two students in the U.S. Army who train with him whenever they are in town. Another student, Walter Wright, trains with Rogers even after he suffered two strokes.
But, maybe the most impressive thing about Rogers’ dedication is that, at 68, he moves like a much younger man and trains as hard as one. Performing his tiger kata (which his students had never seen before last week), his movements are crisp and fluid. At one point, he even lunges into a brief handstand before whipping around with a palm thrust and balancing on one leg. At no point does he look like a senior citizen.
“I’m 68 years old now,” Rogers says. “You think about people (who are) almost 70. I’m almost 70, bro — they can’t do what I do. It’s the discipline.”
Contact Justin Kline at jkline@plantcityobserver.com.
EARNING THE NAME
Everyone in Rudy Rogers’ school is given a nickname. Specifically, a “karate name.” It’s never random: each moniker is carefully considered before it is given. The three students who are not serving in the U.S. Army were on hand for the interview, and they were willing to talk about their names.
Walter Wright, known as “Bishop,” is the only one whose name didn’t come from the art. He actually is a bishop. Rogers and the other students call him “Bish,” for short.
Chris Jones came to be known as “Mongoose” because, in his words, “Mongooses kill snakes.” It’s a way of thinking that helps define his approach to karate.
Will Brimmer is called “Hurricane” for his form. The black belt of the group, Brimmer uses his athleticism to his advantage and has no problem performing high-flying advanced-technique moves.