A personal story: The making of a Young Martial Artist
By Roy Rolstad
My first introduction to martial arts came, like it did for so many kids in the 80s, through the magic of VHS tapes and the legendary Bruce Lee. I was mesmerized by his speed, skill, and sheer presence on the screen. After watching his movies, my friends and I would make homemade nunchucks and try to mimic his moves. Looking back, we weren’t very good at it, but we didn’t care—we were just kids having fun, caught up in the excitement of martial arts.
In 1983, I was 11 years old, living in Oslo with my mom, when two of my classmates, Ole-Thomas and Jimmy, introduced me to something that felt straight out of a Bruce Lee movie: a Dutch “Thai boxer” who taught classes at the Sandaker Center in Torshov. None of us really knew what we were doing, but the energy in those sessions was incredible. Every class felt like an adventure. Of course, some of the training methods were far from ideal—rolling an iron bar over our shins to “condition” them is one that stands out. The bruises I got from that were so bad that I couldn’t walk the next day, and my mom banned me from going back.
But I was hooked. I couldn’t resist the pull of those classes, so I started sneaking out in the evenings. I wasn’t very skilled yet, but I loved the process of learning to punch, kick, and push myself harder each time.
At school, martial arts took on a different form. At Lilleborg Barneskole, there was a 2x2 meter wrestling square in the schoolyard. When the bell rang for recess, it was a race to the square. The first kid there became the defender, and the rest of us lined up for a chance to challenge them. The rules were simple: step out of the square, or touch the ground with anything other than your shoes, and you were out. The winner stayed in, and by the end of recess, whoever was still standing was the champion of the day.
It wasn’t about being the strongest—it was about who could adapt, who could hang on just a little longer. Some of the older kids would put on impressive matches that drew crowds, even teachers, who couldn’t help but watch. Occasionally, a younger kid would pull off a win against an older student, and that was always celebrated.
For me, wrestling during recess was just as valuable as the striking I was learning at Sandaker. I didn’t realize it at the time, but I was beginning to understand the importance of being well-rounded—not just in martial arts, but in life. Wrestling taught me patience and persistence, while striking gave me speed and focus.
When I moved back to Trondheim the summer before fifth grade, I really missed the wrestling square. I tried to start something similar at my new school, but it never took off. The closest thing was “King of the Hill” in winter, where we’d fight to stay on top of a snow mound, but it didn’t have the same structure or excitement.
Looking back, those early experiences shaped how I view martial arts. It’s not just about mastering one thing; it’s about learning to adapt, finding balance, and enjoying the journey. Whether I was throwing punches at Sandaker or wrestling in the schoolyard, I was learning lessons that would stay with me for the rest of my life.
