Stopping a Murder Wasn’t the Plan for My Summer Job
I had gotten into the University of Miami at 17 on an early admission program… my high school GPA was 4.6 —I choose UM because it was only blocks away from Sensei Wise’s dojo (Karate School) and training there as much as I could was my number 1 priority.
I had just turned 18. College was out for the summer, and I decided to bring my girlfriend to stay with me at my mom’s house for the summer. Somehow, I had earned a reputation in the dorms—I’d met her when she came with friends to see the wild dorm room everyone was talking about— she never left.
My mom gave me the classic wake-up call
“If you’re staying here, you get a job and help with rent, food—everything.” She told me to go work with my dad for the summer. It had been two years since I spoke with my dad, but we were back on good terms. So, hit the road and work for Dad? Sounded simple enough.
What I didn’t know was that this trip would turn into a real-life and death thriller—cops, a thief, a murderer, and hardcore business people—a lesson in violence, control, and choices that would stick with me forever.
I thought it’d be a laid-back break… I was wrong.
The story is real
Even though I am not sure these guys even used their real names, the names have been changed and scenes are illustrated.
I didn’t look at Rocco, but I was watching. Always watching.
When we arrived, I introduced my dad to my girlfriend.
Then he introduced me to Rocco.
Rocco was a mountain of muscle. Fresh out of prison. On parole. Hired by my dad as a bouncer and bodyguard. Apparently, my dad had bragged to him about his son—me—being a black belt.
Rocco came up to me, stuck out his hand… and as I reached to shake it, he snapped a jab with his other hand at my face.
“He’s not very fast,” Rocco said smugly to my dad. “I could’ve killed him just now.”
Dad grinned, and I just smiled with my best sarcastic “Bruce Lee” smile.
“Nice jab you got there,” I said.
No need to react. You don’t block what isn’t going to hurt you and Rocco wasn’t actually trying to hit me.
But I kept him in my peripheral vision. Just in case.
As we walked together—my dad on my left, Rocco on my right—I sensed Rocco shifting his weight, leaning in for another jab.
Really?
As Rocco’s arm came up for his jab, without stopping my stride or missing a word in my conversation with my dad, I launched a quick sidekick into Rocco’s ribs stopping his punch and sending him flying.
He was caught in the act and totally off guard. BAM! He hit the pavement gasping. I continued walking and talking with my dad like nothing had happened.
One clean strike. Calm, controlled. That was all it took.
Rocco on the ground, holding his side, looked up stunned. My dad? He just chuckled as if saying, “I told you so.” Rocco never tried me again after that.
We weren’t friends—but there was a new respect. I could almost hear him thinking, Damn, that skinny kid was fast and it hurt, there must be something to that karate stuff.
Side Note:
This took me back to when an older student, close to my rank but full of attitude, started giving me grief. He was terrifying—the kind of guy who once scared off a whole gang of punks with nothing but a roar and a death stare. I warned him to back off, but at 118 lbs, I didn’t exactly scream “threat.” He kept pushing… until I snapped. One clean sidekick—boom!—sent him flying into the dojo’s giant mirrored wall. The whole thing shattered like a scene from an action movie. I stood there frozen, heart pounding, waiting for Sensei’s wrath. He walked in, glanced at the broken glass, looked at me, then turned to the other guy and asked, “What did you do to piss off Mr. Israel?”
Later, Rocco came to me with a secret.
He said Mick—an ex-cop working for my dad—was skimming money. I told him, “That’s between you, my dad, and my uncle who run the business. You want to fix it? Talk to them.”
I didn’t realize what would come next… well, maybe some of it, but definitely not the intensity in which it came.
There was gonna be trouble
That night, we gathered in a dark alley behind the office: my dad, my uncle, Rocco, Mick, and me. Ever since I was 14, whenever trouble was expected, they would have me standby. Not really sure why, as my uncle is 6’4″ and both of them carry concealed weapons. I guess dad liked to see the surprise on everyone’s face when his young son handled the bad guys. Holding the meeting outside was a sure indication there was gonna be trouble, I just didn’t know how much!
Mick sat on the back steps. Rocco loomed in front of him, demanding he confess.
“Tell them what you told me,” Rocco said.
Mick denied it. “I don’t know what you are talking about.”
BAM!
Rocco hook punched Mick so hard it sent him flying off the steps onto the pavement. Blood was already dripping from his mouth.
Mick, dazed, tried again: “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Rocco lost it. He went into berserker mode.
He pounced on Mick—literally jumped on his chest—fists flying, blood spraying. He didn’t stop. Over and over, punches landed. I could see Mick’s head bouncing off the pavement, and then… going limp.
My dad and uncle were frozen like deer caught in the headlights of an oncoming car. Mouths open. Eyes wide. These were men who’d seen trouble before, but nothing like this. It was a vicious scene like a demon going wild trying to kill its victim.
In a split second, things went from tense… to terrifying
If I didn’t act right now, Mick was going to die.
I stepped in. Slipped behind Rocco locking in a rear choke around his neck pulling him to his feet off of Mick—tight enough for him to know I could end it right there.
I leaned in and said calmly, “I’m going to release you. When I do, you have two choices:
One—leave and never come back.
Two—stay, and I’ll take you apart.”
If they’d been a minute later, Mick wouldn’t died and stayed dead.
With Rocco in his berserker state, I expected to have to fight but he didn’t say a word and just took off.
Mick was bloody and unconscious so we called an ambulance. We didn’t know if he’d make it.
We saw him a month later and heard his story—He survived. Barely. His heart had stopped—multiple times. But somehow, the paramedics revived him on the way to the hospital.
That night, I went back to the hotel with my girlfriend. I needed space. Needed to move. My body and mind were still in fight mode and full of adrenaline. So I went to the workout room.
And there he was.
Rocco.
Relaxing in the hot tub. Laughing. Bragging about how he “won a fight.”
Won a fight?
I probably should’ve walked away.
But I couldn’t let it go.
I walked right up—this skinny 118-pound kid—and told this mountain of muscle the truth.
“You didn’t win a fight. You sucker punched a man sitting down and might have killed him. That’s not strength. That’s cowardice.”
Everyone in the room went quiet.
Rocco didn’t move.
He’d killed before. With his hands. And almost killed again.
That’s when I learned the truth: Rocco wasn’t just any ex-con. He was paroled for barehanded murder.
That summer reassured me that my years and countless hours of training had not gone to waste.
Martial arts works—I had saved a life. Not because it lets you hit harder.
Because it teaches you when not to hit. How to control chaos. How to stay calm in the storm.
And those lessons carried forward.
Today, I swing a paintbrush instead of a fist. I create live art performances that are full of energy, impact, and inspiration—often at charity events supporting causes like crime prevention, domestic violence shelters, and children’s programs.
Martial arts gave me the physical and mental tools to act with purpose. Now, that same discipline flows through my brushstrokes. Every painting I create in front of a crowd is a celebration of life, courage, and redemption.
I may not stop fists with kicks anymore, but I still fight—for hope, healing, and humanity.
Advice:
Learn control. Train your body—but train your mind even more.
Know when to walk away.
And when you must act…
Act with purpose.
Act with clarity.
Act with honor.
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