Against All Odds: My Story by Chuck Norris, Abraham Norris, Ken Chuck, Chuck Ken; Norris Abraham, Ken Abraham Page B
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me on, although the voice sounded familiar. Nevertheless, I suggested that Steve and his son come by the studio in Sherman Oaks the next day.
I didn't mention the call to anyone in the studio because I wasn't certain whether McQueen would actually show up. At the appointed time, however, I heard a motorcycle roar up the street. One of my black belts who was standing by the window turned to me and shouted, “Steve McQueen just pulled up on a motorcycle!”
Dressed in motorcycle gear, Steve came into the studio, followed by his son, Chad, who looked to be about seven years old and was dressed almost identically to his father. They both carried their motorcycle helmets under their arms.
Steve introduced himself and got directly to the point. Chad had gotten in a fight in school, and Steve wanted him to learn to defend himself. I talked with Chad a bit to determine his willingness to participate in the process. He seemed to be a fine young man, so I agreed to teach him.
Chad was a quick study and easily picked up on some basic karate techniques. Steve came to a few of Chad's lessons and observed. One day Steve told me that he would like to take a few private lessons. Steve, too, took to karate quickly because he had excellent reflexes and natural athletic ability. He was a born fighter, not afraid to mix it up with anybody. Once he made up his mind to do something, he went all out. His biggest problem in training was his lack of flexibility and difficulty with executing high kicks. We worked on those two areas for quite a while, and one day we came up with an idea that we hoped might help.
Steve's wife, actress Ali McGraw, invited Steve and me to join her at her exercise class in Beverly Hills. “We do a lot of stretching,” she said.
When we arrived, Shirley Jones and Susan Dey, stars of television's The Partridge Family , were already there. Ron Fletcher, the instructor, gave Steve and me a pair of flimsy skintight leotards to wear. One pair was pink and the other blue. I grabbed the blue pair. We went into the locker room to change clothes.
It would be an understatement to say we looked ridiculous in those outfits. Moreover, the tight-fitting leotards left nothing to the imagination. Steve looked in the mirror and said, “I'm not going out there looking like this!”
“Look,” I said, “if we just walk out there and act like we've been doing this forever, no one will even notice us.”
“OK,” Steve said reluctantly. He walked out of the dressing room first, wearing his pink leotard. As soon as he stepped out, I slammed the door behind him and locked it. Steve must have heard the door locking because he returned and began pounding on it, but I refused to let him in. I figured that by the time the girls got tired of looking and laughing at him, they wouldn't pay any attention to me.
A few minutes after I heard the laughter subside, I left the dressing room. Steve was sitting on the floor of the studio, talking to the women. I casually walked over and sat down next to him. I was right. The only one who even looked at me was Steve. But if looks could kill, I'd have been dead!
The class was fun for me because I was already limber, but Steve complained about his stiffness for days and, of course, my tricking him. During the time Steve was taking lessons from me, we got to be pretty good friends. Often we'd sit around after class, just talking candidly. One evening after a workout Steve surprised me by asking, “Chuck, how do you know if someone likes you because you're who you are or because you're a star?”
“I'm not a star like you,” I said, “but if I enjoy being with that person, I don't worry about their ulterior motives. If you worry about it, the only person getting depressed is you.”
Steve McQueen was probably more open with me than with most people, but the emotional wall that he built to protect himself precluded much personal vulnerability in our relationship. Although we were good friends,
I didn't mention the call to anyone in the studio because I wasn't certain whether McQueen would actually show up. At the appointed time, however, I heard a motorcycle roar up the street. One of my black belts who was standing by the window turned to me and shouted, “Steve McQueen just pulled up on a motorcycle!”
Dressed in motorcycle gear, Steve came into the studio, followed by his son, Chad, who looked to be about seven years old and was dressed almost identically to his father. They both carried their motorcycle helmets under their arms.
Steve introduced himself and got directly to the point. Chad had gotten in a fight in school, and Steve wanted him to learn to defend himself. I talked with Chad a bit to determine his willingness to participate in the process. He seemed to be a fine young man, so I agreed to teach him.
Chad was a quick study and easily picked up on some basic karate techniques. Steve came to a few of Chad's lessons and observed. One day Steve told me that he would like to take a few private lessons. Steve, too, took to karate quickly because he had excellent reflexes and natural athletic ability. He was a born fighter, not afraid to mix it up with anybody. Once he made up his mind to do something, he went all out. His biggest problem in training was his lack of flexibility and difficulty with executing high kicks. We worked on those two areas for quite a while, and one day we came up with an idea that we hoped might help.
Steve's wife, actress Ali McGraw, invited Steve and me to join her at her exercise class in Beverly Hills. “We do a lot of stretching,” she said.
When we arrived, Shirley Jones and Susan Dey, stars of television's The Partridge Family , were already there. Ron Fletcher, the instructor, gave Steve and me a pair of flimsy skintight leotards to wear. One pair was pink and the other blue. I grabbed the blue pair. We went into the locker room to change clothes.
It would be an understatement to say we looked ridiculous in those outfits. Moreover, the tight-fitting leotards left nothing to the imagination. Steve looked in the mirror and said, “I'm not going out there looking like this!”
“Look,” I said, “if we just walk out there and act like we've been doing this forever, no one will even notice us.”
“OK,” Steve said reluctantly. He walked out of the dressing room first, wearing his pink leotard. As soon as he stepped out, I slammed the door behind him and locked it. Steve must have heard the door locking because he returned and began pounding on it, but I refused to let him in. I figured that by the time the girls got tired of looking and laughing at him, they wouldn't pay any attention to me.
A few minutes after I heard the laughter subside, I left the dressing room. Steve was sitting on the floor of the studio, talking to the women. I casually walked over and sat down next to him. I was right. The only one who even looked at me was Steve. But if looks could kill, I'd have been dead!
The class was fun for me because I was already limber, but Steve complained about his stiffness for days and, of course, my tricking him. During the time Steve was taking lessons from me, we got to be pretty good friends. Often we'd sit around after class, just talking candidly. One evening after a workout Steve surprised me by asking, “Chuck, how do you know if someone likes you because you're who you are or because you're a star?”
“I'm not a star like you,” I said, “but if I enjoy being with that person, I don't worry about their ulterior motives. If you worry about it, the only person getting depressed is you.”
Steve McQueen was probably more open with me than with most people, but the emotional wall that he built to protect himself precluded much personal vulnerability in our relationship. Although we were good friends,
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