A life of discipline

Only those unfamiliar with martial arts know him as Ed Griffin.

To someone with any insight into the sport, he is Coach Griffin.

To call him anything else would be an insult.

“Most people I teach don’t even know my first name,” says Griffin, his face failing to hold a smile. At 74 years old, the Blue Springs resident’s body has aged since he was first introduced to martial arts more than half a century ago. The handshake of the seventh-degree black belt is hardly the stuff of martial art mastery. In fact, a powderpuff could likely manage better.

“You know I can put a person in the air quicker than I just shook your hand,” says Griffin, dragging his feet against the carpet as he walks away, as if on the precipice of collapse. “You don’t believe me, do you?”

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It was self-defense that drew Griffin to martial arts.

When he was in his teens, Griffin was given a self-defense manual by one of his uncles who had recently returned from World War II. It opened his eyes to a tradition that went counter to the type of mechanized warfare he’d seen so often on newsreels. For him fighting was no longer about who held the bigger blade or grander gun, but who could strike the blow quicker and with greater precision using only one’s person as weapon.

In 1952, Griffin enrolled in self-defense classes at the Kansas City YMCA, where his teacher was a former boxing champion. Griffin earned his brown belt six years later.

“I wanted more,” he says.

Griffin learned about a Korean judo phenomenon who finished second in the 1958 Judo World Championships and had never been defeated in his home country. Wey Seng Kim, who was in America participating in judo competitions coast-to-coast, had been recruited to the Kansas City area for an interview with Ernie Mell, a sports writer for The Kansas City Star. Afterward, Kim was in no hurry to leave town, opting to spend several years as a trainer at a martial arts school in Kansas City. Griffin knew this was his opportunity.

“Orientals didn’t teach occidental people about judo,” Griffin says. “You didn’t have open classes like you have today; it was difficult to learn martial arts.”

In 1960, Griffin was one of five from the school promoted by Kim to first-degree black belt in judo. A year later, he earned his second-degree black belt.

“In the entire Midwest, I only knew 10 people who had black belt rank at that time, and they were all Air Force guys in Omaha,” Griffin says. “Now, there’s thousands of people.”

Griffin is a trainer at Knights Jiu-Jitsu in Oak Grove and Gautreaux’s Martial Arts Center in Blue Springs. He no longer teaches judo, as its purpose lies inside a ring.

“Judo is a competitive sport with too many rules,” Griffin says. “And it reminds me of when I was young and thought martial arts was about violence and knocking everybody down.”

He now only teaches jujitsu, of which judo is a derivative. It is a martial art without medals or glory. He admits he’s had jujitsu students who’ve auditioned their moves in a bar after provoking someone.

“That’s dishonorable,” Griffin says. “Jujitsu is about enhancing the body, improving flexibility and mental processes; jujitsu should be applied only in defense of yourself, your family or loved ones.”

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“Jujitsu can be explained as an action of connecting with another’s energy flow for the express purpose of martial art application.”

Above is the introductory sentence to a handbook Griffin authored titled “Concepts and Body Mechanics of Jujitsu.”

It sets the foundation of jujitsu, including an explanation of the five elements of body mechanics: Angles, balance points, base, speed and stability.

“It’s not difficult to hurt the body,” Griffin says. “It is difficult to teach people body mechanics, which gives you enormous power potential but without needing to demonstrate it. It’s about natural motions and ability and utilizing body-based balance points.”

He says his style applies to all ages and body types.

“People always ask me what is my style,” Griffin says. “I have no style. I deal with what happens.”

Jujitsu is a defensive martial art that employs throwing, immobilizing and pinning, joint-locking, choking and strangling.

“You’re essentially using someone else’s energy against them,” Griffin says.

As helpful as his handbook may be in laying the basics of jujitsu, to be mastered it must be studied under a qualified instructor.

“You can learn only so much from a book,” Griffin says.

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Bob Parkey was acquainted with Griffin nearly 10 years ago. His father had recently passed away, and he was thinking about abandoning his passion for the martial arts.

“I was hurting spiritually and physically,” says Parkey, an Independence resident.

According to Parkey, 61, his back was about out, his knees were near failure and his hands were mauled by arthritis.

His body couldn’t handle the knocks of the hard arts such as karate that encouraged punch, counterpunch, kick, counterkick and so on.

So, Parkey gave one of Griffin’s jujitsu classes a try. A second-degree black belt, he’s now Griffin’s most trusted student.

“My body’s not having to take that tremendous shock anymore,” Parkey says. “And guess what? My back and knees don’t bother me.”

Nor does he have a fear of falling like many his age.

“I take 20 falls every class,” Parkey says. “And we meet twice a week at Knights Jiu-Jitsu.”

Parkey will not refer to Griffin by his first name.

“His first name is Coach,” says Parkey, laughing. “He insists on his students calling him that, as a true master should, and I’ve seen him rumble with 25-year-old testosterone-driven medal winners and submit every one of them.”

Parkey will never forget his daughter’s first impression of Griffin. She glanced at the gray wisps atop his head and the seven stripes on a ragged black belt and says, “He looks like someone who couldn’t fight his way out of a paper bag with a chainsaw.”

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Griffin hails from a long line of steel mill workers. He himself spent 30 years as one.

Ask him of his lineage, however, and he will speak to those martial art masters that haunt him.

“I have a very old lineage that covers China, Japan and Korea,” Griffin says. “I’m just a simple person. I don’t know the reason why I know so much.”

His repertoire includes thousands of moves that can counter any action conceivable.

Three years ago he was asked to throw someone by a photographer shooting at 1/16th of a second.

Griffin was asked to do it a second time at a slower speed.

The image was blurred.

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But that was three years ago. Nearing 75, Griffin surely isn’t the competitor of yore.

“Let me show you something,” he says, plunging his hand into a stack of DVDs. Yanking one of them, he points to some smudged words on a DVD case: March 3, 2007.

He slips it into the DVD player and presses play.

“Maybe the old man threw someone here,” he says.

The camera focuses on a younger gentleman in uniform, a shiny black belt wrapped around his waist. He charges ahead and the camera moves with him until he comes upon an obstacle.

In the blink of an eye, Coach Griffin sends him airborne.