It was the spring of 1986 and I couldn't remember when I had felt so

badly. I was drenched in perspiration, the incessant pounding echoed

in my aching head, and my energy was absolutely depleted. I could not

seem to get my eyes focused properly, and my breathing was shallow and

labored. And the bruises! The dark splotches were beginning to cover

my shins, arms, and chest.

"I was surely suffering from a terrible disease," I thought. "Yes,

that's it. I have been inflicted with an incredible case of stupidity...how

in the world, after all these years, did I think I could possibly compete

with all these young men in a full-contact karate tournament?"

Yet, there I was seated on my chair in the corner of the ring awaiting

the call for the final round. "The final round!� I don't think I

can stagger out there for the final round! Except for a small spot over

my right eyebrow, every square inch of my body is in agony!"

Not only was I tired of fighting, weary of getting pounded, but my opponent

looked fresher than ever! He was much younger, taller...besides I

wasn't even sure the prize was worth the fight. If I won, I would capture

third place in the Heavyweight Black Belt Division, but, if I lost, I

would still get fourth; if I didn't come out for the final round, I would

still get fourth. Add to that, I was certain that the fight was already

won. I had simply not been ready for this one. The best I could hope

to do, I thought, is to simply finish the fight.

My cornerman leaned down, "How about it?" Through gasps of

air, I said, "I don't think so. I've had it. I don't even think

I can stand up."

But then the cheering started. Through the fog, I heard two or three

of my team members shout their encouragement. Then, other people who

didn't know me, but wanted the underdog to win, began to cheer. "Want

me to stop it?" asked the cornerman. The referee called me to the

center of the rings twice; the cheering grew louder. After the referee

called me to the center of the ring for the third and final time, I stood

up. It was just one more round.

The round passed slowly as my abdomen took additional punishment from

the powerful kicks and punches of my adversary. Yet, from somewhere,

additional energy emerged and I decided to give my opponent everything

I had left. If I died of a heart attack in the ring, so be it! I had

to finish this final round; I must not quit! We both delivered each blow

as though it were our last. Both of us fought through the pain and the

weariness. Then, it was over.

My opponent slid into his chair. I slumped to the floor as EMS workers

rushed over to administer oxygen. The judges tallied their score cards

and, in a moment, the referee called the fighters