Anecdote disguised as thoughts on martial arts training. I was once told that the pecking order of a schoolyard is set by the fourth grade. My own experience confirms this. With allowance for jostling once puberty, with its burden of muscle and hormones, hits, no one really "fought" after age eleven or so. The school I attended was K-12, and so such sovereignty as was to be gained had already been distributed by the time we could have done serious damage. We knew who was tougher than whom, and managed things accordingly.

This happy--or at least pacific--state was not true of the summer camp I disappeared to for three weeks every year. At age thirteen, some of us were starting to put on serious muscle mass, while others remained undersized. I don't believe I need to tell you which group I belonged to. But because of my experience on the school yard as a small(er) fry, I tended to uncomprehendingly offend. My image of myself was one of a fellow who could deal with anyone who wanted to step up, and although I never went out of my way to cause trouble, I didn't avoid it, either. I was at least six inches taller and thirty pounds heavier in my head than outside it.

One night, when the counselors were off smoking (what, I cannot tell), we the campers were rough housing in the cabin. I played rough, another fellow played rough, words were exchanged, and we ended up facing off, before an audience of our peers.

My opponent had gotten his growth spurt, and was well over my height and weight. I had no formal training, and my basic tactics until tonight (in the rare occasions that things went beyond harsh words) had been to close, grab the other fellow, and squeeze him until he peed his pants. Hey, it worked great when I was nine; and in recent years I've found myself viewing it as more and more viable. But it was clearly not going to work on my friend across the room.

While I was considering what I'd gotten myself into, he opened the dance with a haymaker which took me in the side of the head. I honestly don't know if he hit with his fist or an open hand, but the room started spinning and my vision was full of phosphenes and narrowed almost to non-existence. I'm told I just shook my head and grunted, which everyone thought was a sign that I wasn't hurt. In fact it was visceral shock at being hit, coupled with a strange lack of belief in that punch's reality (pain came the next morning, along with a pretty good shiner). Whichever it was, it came off as toughness, and made my opponent reconsider his plan to attack at range. He charged.

People charge poorly, especially untrained thirteen year old boys. If I'd had my wits about me I'd have crushed his nose with an uppercut when he came at me (as an untrained tactic. My response these days would be a little different). Instead he hit me hard in the chest with his shoulder and ended up with his head under my right arm, trying to football tackle me.

At the time I held two competing beliefs about fighting. First, that it was important to fight fairly, which mean no kicking, biting, &c. Second, that I really ought to win. It was the second impulse that led me to drive my knee into his stomach while I kept his head in my guillotine (backwards headlock, for those who hate lingo). The first knee was accompanied by a reply of "Whuff," from my assailant and a sudden limpness; after the fifth I let him fall down and throw up on the floor. When he seemed to have finished, I gave him a hand up (the belief in fighting fairly winning out once the actual fight was done).

"That was a cheap way to win a fight," he said, trying to salvage some dignity.

"I've got plenty more," I said, which was facile, as well as untrue, but came off as sufficiently menacing to forestall further trouble. Which it did, and I avoided physical confrontation for the rest of my stay.

I bring this up not to demonstrate just how badass I was as a thirteen year old (the picture of me with my face covered in chocolate pudding in the yearbook will forever prevent that dream from being realized), but because, if you are a martial artist, and you have in you repertoire some version of a front kick, at some point you will overextend the kick and tweak your knee. My style doesn't have a "snap" kick and a "thrust" kick (our "thrust" kick as much more like a Muay Thai thrust kick--for jamming an opponent or getting some room), but for those of you who do, the "snap" kick is the one that'll get you most of the time, especially if, like me, you practice kicks in the air most of the time.

I hate not practicing a kick when it needs it. Which brings us back to the knee strike. It's--at least for me--a perfect prepare for a front kick, which lets me practice that aspect. It is a devastating technique in its own right, especially if one has overcome a reluctance to attack the groin.

The striking surface is the end of the femur, not the kneecap. I like to practice them from forward stance, fighting stance, and then from a deep horse stance, which reminds me to do my squats every morning. The last is not terribly practical, but is excellent exercise. It's also satisfying to bring down one's hands as the knee rises as though you were smashing your opponent's face, and enjoy the slapping of palms against knee. Think about possible targets--groin, stomach, face, inner thigh. I add roundhouse knees, coming in parallel to the ground to strike the floating ribs. If you've got a heavy bag, use it carefully. The bottom of the bag is the hardest part, and it's easy to hurt yourself against it. But a heavy bag can be excellent for working on using knees in a clinch.

A knee strike with the leading leg can be a nasty surprise for someone trying to close, but tends not to have the power of a rear leg knee. Flying and jumping knees are pleasantly dramatic, and I have been reassured that they are even (occasionally) useful. I'm fond of a skipping knee strike, where I bring my rear foot up to meet my front foot while striking with the front knee. I find I get a good deal more power from this manuever, as well as closing ground unexpectedly.