The Dojo and Nando Sanchez

Nando Sanchez was never far from his trusty guiro. It’s a wooden instrument originating with the Taino culture and used in Latin music. You rake the ridged wood with a metal or wood stick to create the raspy sound. A staple of many genres, from classical to salsa, when it’s done right, it can be the perfect accompaniment to some spicy bongos or blaring horns.

I picture Nando strolling down the dirt road, guiro in hand, on the way to jam with his friends on the beach. They all had a similar story to tell, though they were very different. They were products of a time when salsa music meant rebellion. The artists on labels like Fania were bad boys. New Yorkers through and through, they were Puerto Rican in their blood.

The boardwalk crowd was made up largely of alcoholics, or so they seemed. They might have had normal lives away from the beach, but while they were by the surf and sand, they got hammered and looked like they were a beer away from alcohol poisoning.

They were all joined together by their love of music (and drinking). Each brought their own instrument, mostly percussion. They’d play along to tracks blaring through a large speaker. Everyone knew the words.

That’s all they wanted. Connection. It’s all any of us are after.

It may feel like you’re missing a connection with yourself. With something deep within you. With your true self. Or it may be the other you are missing.

A sense of community lifts us. We persevere longer when we are part of something bigger.

It seems to be getting harder to find that community in real life. There are Facebook groups for everything, so everyone has a virtual friend or two, but being around people you can see, who know you and who you know, and who you can share an experience with, that is dwindling in today’s world.

When we’re children, it’s easier. We have school, sports, theatre, clubs – there’s an abundance of ways to become part of something. You socialize and meet like-minded individuals. You bond and create lasting relationships, or at least a framework for future relationships.

But as an adult, opportunities are few. Sure, there are your co-workers, but most of us want to be able to leave work behind in our free time. What can be our outlet, like the boardwalk and a guiro were to Nando?

My adult life has been shaped by the dojo. At 24, I first set out to find a place to learn martial arts after nine years as a competitive bodybuilder. I thought what I saw Steven Seagal do in the movies was jiu jitsu, so that’s what I looked for.

I found a school that did Japanese Jiu Jitsu, Judo, and boxing. I didn’t know the difference between Japanese jiu jitsu, Brazilian jiu jitsu, or aikido. I just wanted to learn how to flip people around.

A stiff 230 pounds at the time, my older brother, in the police academy back then, accompanied me to the class. We thought it was the perfect time for him to get formal training, although he’d always been a street fighter. He never came back, but the class captivated me right away.

The head sensei was a 60-year-old madman named Jack Krystek who was a sixth dan in judo at the time, a former pro boxer, and the creator, along with his brother, of what he called “Jiu Jitsu Modern Style.”

Sensei’s assistant was a police sergeant named Dave Siev, who is a good friend of mine to this day, and a frequent business partner. Dave showed me how to throw a punch, teaching my first martial arts class. I loved it from the start.

Having lost my wide social circle when I gave up bodybuilding, I was longing for another place to belong. I immediately found it in the dojo.

Everyone was friendly and helpful. I made sure to be especially nice because I looked like a meathead. I didn’t want anyone to think they needed to teach me a lesson.

Most of all, I wanted to be accepted. I marveled at the black belts, their years of dedication paying off in what I saw as the ultimate prize. They’d stand at the front of the line, closest to the teacher, in the proximity of greatness. I wanted what they had.

But I knew it would take years to get there. It would be session after session of gut-busting work. The periodic award of a new colored belt was motivation to continue, but without the sense of community I got from the place, I definitely would have quit.

Taking time off felt like I was letting down my teacher and training partners. Getting injured meant missing my friends, not just my workouts.

Like Nando and his guiro, I’d throw my gi (uniform) over my shoulder and pedal my bike the twenty minutes it took to get to Jack’s. Sometimes, after a particularly tough session, he’d toss the bicycle in the trunk of his car and drive me home.

But not before we had our post-workout beers in Sensei’s office. The black belts would all gather down there and crack one open. It became a weekly tradition. Beyond the sweat of the mat, we got to connect deeper.

I stuck around Jack’s for about a decade. Eventually, I began training in Brazilian jiu jitsu at another academy. There, too, even more than before, I built a community. We would travel and compete together. Not only did I not want to miss out on class, but I’d even go when I was injured just to watch and be around my friends. I felt a fierce loyalty to the school.

This need for community culminated in me having my own academy. I created Omni Martial Arts as a haven for people looking to belong. We bonded over our love of hard training and connected over our humanity and shared experience. There were people from all walks of life, but they considered themselves family.

As I embark on my new journey opening my latest academy, I once again plan to cultivate an inviting atmosphere that makes students comfortable expressing themselves fully through their physicality and otherwise. I know how special it is to have a second home, and I plan to provide it. Once in a while, I’ll play one of Nando’s favorites over the speakers, and remember what I’m trying to create.

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