(Flashback, Sept. 1999)
The first time I saw Master H’s studio, it awed me. I had come in from the street, not knowing what to expect. The room had beautiful hardwood floors, and floor-to-ceiling windows adorned
the south wall overlooking 23rd Street. As I stood in the doorway letting the calming atmosphere wash over my body and mind, Master H excused himself from the class he was teaching and told a high-ranking student to fill in for him. He looked me directly in the eyes as he told me about his school and about himself. He was a Korean man about 6 feet tall—a very handsome man with beautiful thick, long hair and a kind face, which was filled with intelligence and wonder. Awards and trophies he had won during his tournament days adorned the walls.
I found Master H easy to talk to and gracious. He had the reputation of having the fastest and most powerful kicks on the East Coast—something Tyler was a little jealous of, as I found out later. There was something different and special about Master H. I knew this from our first encounter, but I did not realize the extent of his insight.


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