Some time ago I arranged for sparring at a martial arts school that taught the skill set of stick-fighting for one of my stick-fighters. I was injured and unable to spar. When we walked through the door and saw a small army of muscular studs, beef, beef and leaner beef, I felt certain that he would get plenty of work and also be able to bring some of these full contact MMA guys—but non-contact stick-fighters—into the Bone Bruising Brotherhood of extension weapon knuckle-headery.
Our on-site contact, the guy that trained and sparred with us from this school, had spoken to them and they were supposedly stoked. The school owner, who I have known for many years, was glad to see us, really hoping these muscular, manly men would explore the contact application of the system he teaches.
My man was nervous. All of these guys were bigger and more muscular and he was supposed to spar with them all. I said, "Relax, they are raw, just work with them, make friends, nobody gets hurt."
Taking one look at my fighter, relaxedly unpacking his gear, this crew of studs who had been doing some sparring with our on-site guy, took one look at my man being cool as he prepared to spar and rushed to get their gear and leave—a veritable herd of frightened studliness filing out the door before my man could even get his cup and gloves on.
The same fighter met me at another school at another time to spar with a towering tattooed stud who nervously greeted him. This guy had seen Chuck spar and complimented him. Chuck said, "Nobody gets hurt—we're all on the same learning curve helping each other along."
This did not allay his obvious dread of a stick on flesh encounter, even at tapping velocity. Seeing this, a longtime, non-contact stick spinner, who has never sparred, interceded and bailed his friend out, "Oh, this is for advanced students. I'll let you know when you're ready. Not yet, you don't want to get hurt."
Both the men politely drifted away from Chuck, then he overheard them in the dressing room, one saying, "Wew, brother, thanks for bailing me out of that—I'm not ready for that level of brutality."
You would think these men are speaking of boxing with a savage pro who liked hurting people or wrestling with a dire wolf. But this "brutality" they speak of is simple tactical sparring. Slow pace, "let me know if I tap you too hard," practice with head piece and gloves and elbow pads. This format has been engaged in by people from seven to seventy, 70 pounds to 410 pounds, without serious injury. But, in Sissy America, the thought of contact training with a seasoned fighter is regarded with the dread of a North Korean missile launch, with man after man willing to offer false validation, feminine comfort in manly guise, for the multitude of posing cowards among us who wish to wear manhood on a sleeve, a patch, a badge, a belt, while their so-called "brothers" assist them in the delusion that they are men in spirit as well, when they are not, but rather women writhing within a male structure.
The zero risk feminine culture of supporting inaction and weakness implicit in modern life has spirituality maimed generations of men and turned them into drones. Such false validation of cowardice is advanced in terms of artistic purity and sensible training in most martial arts schools, schools which can only pay their bills if middle-class, single mothers feel like it is an appropriate child day care center.
The rot is nearly complete, even infecting MMA students and turning boxing gyms into nearly empty equipment lockers.
While invalidation of a man by women and seniors in a cultural support position is a corrosive aspect of modernity—eroding masculinity from cradle to grave—the sissy act of validating self-limiting fears of the kind exemplified above is just as dangerous as feminine emasculation, but taken together they conspire to unman most of male-kind.