Academy of Kenpo Karate studios is a cramped, unremarkable East Sahara dojo with walls festooned by martial-arts certifications, commendations and press clippings. Near one entrance, karate trophies and a small bench jostle for position on a sliver of cement. In another corner, trophies rise like tiny Eiffel towers amid a junky television, strewn-about papers and other clutter. Gloves lay on a counter; a dummy awaits pummeling.
Center-mat is Arlin "Al" Farnsworth, proud owner of the trophies and the honors. He's coaching five stewards. One group goes over attacks, another learns counters. A lone Hispanic man, a newcomer, gets the ABCs of fighting stances. The guinea pig for "flight of the crane"—a knee-to-the-face move meant to disarm a knife-wielding attacker? That's 20-year-old John Brown, who takes the beating in stride.
Pudgy and balding, Farnsworth cuts a benevolent presence, in direct contrast to the guy in the press clippings, who's a svelte, angular warrior with brown, mop-top hair tickling his shoulders. "Can't do too much at a time," he says with a chuckle. "I'm a little overweight." Then he heads over to a breathing machine.
Those two images—the virile young fighter and the stout fellow sucking air from a machine—suggest some of the dramedy that's been Farnsworth's life. He was taught the art of combat by Ed Parker, Elvis Presley's bodyguard, and went on to become somewhat of a phenom: championship combatant, karate-school operator, Hall of Fame inductee, 10th-degree black belt and a favored subject of martial arts magazines. But on the way to stardom, he lost a lung (a freak accident cut his breathing capacity in half), lost wives, including one to suicide, and became an enigma within the very profession he loved.
Born in Anaheim, California, Farnsworth grew up in Las Vegas and graduated from Chaparral High School. He began practicing martial arts at 10, winning tournaments and state titles (1978, 1979). In 1983, four years after joining the Kenpo style, he opened a school on Boulder Highway and Sandhill and, in 1988, opened a dojo on Desert Inn and Pecos McLeod. In that time, he says he mastered 19 forms of martial arts, built a name in the karate world and amassed numerous commendations, including becoming a certified American Jujitsu Federation instructor and winning the Grandmaster of the Year award from the International Martial Arts Hall of Fame in 1996.
"Martial arts was a way of life," he says.
Off the mats, though, life kept kicking him below the black belt. His first wife killed herself and his third died of cancer. He was divorced from two others. And he managed to gain enemies. Farnsworth traces the enmity—and his gradual excommunication—to high-profile disagreements with Parker and other notable instructors. He's been a rogue ever since.
Calls to random dojo owners presents the portrait of a once-promising talent with a penchant for conflict.
A dojo owner who requested anonymity doubts Farnsworth's martial-arts skills: "I've been training for 20 years, and people with my experience are usually sixth-degree black belts. We're about the same age. Unless you start training as an embryo, you wouldn't be where he is."
Another says he met Farnsworth in the 1980s, and claims Parker booted Farthsworth for copying his teaching materials; that Farnsworth has had trouble in nearly every group he's belonged to; that he awarded himself sixth through ninth black belts; and that his 10th-degree black belt was either fake or revoked. "His reputation in the community is not good. But don't take my word for it, call the International Combat Hapkido Federation and World Head of Family Sokeship Council."
They weren't commenting. No one returned phone messages.
Gary Marino, who's owned All Martial Arts Supplies since 1976, trained with Farnsworth and says his detractors are envious.
"I knew his three instructors. Ed Parker was the cat's meow in Kenpo. He had a falling out with Parker; he resigned," Marino says. "Degrees are nothing but politics. Degrees depend upon qualifications required. I've heard of people getting up to six degrees in two years. The kid worked hard."
One competitor acknowledged that Farnsworth had "worlds of promise" and "could have written his own ticket in the industry."
Put off by his dissenters, Farnsworth says it comes with the business territory. "Why would they say anything good about me, they're my competitors, and they're trying to drum up business." (He says profiteering isn't his motive. He had nearly a dozen students call to offer praise and corroborate his claims. There are many claims, although some, including one about him being kidnapped in 1976, beaten and dumped in the desert, can't be substantiated.)
"They're jealous because I created my own style."
That style is called White Dragon, and it's described as a "rapid-firing blend" of numerous martial-arts disciplines, including jujitsu, tae kwon do, kick-boxing and grappling.
Watching Farnworth execute the moves is like watching an aging Michael Jordan. As time has eroded Jordan's hops, it's also sapped some of Farnsworth's dexterity. Still, his footwork is ballet sharp, his movements precise. There's snap to his punches and blocks. But he can't go more than eight minutes without rest, a remnant of "the accident."
It happened in 2000. He went to clean up a chemical mess his father had left in a sink. The gunk got on his shirt and into his chest cavity. Today, he lives with decreased lung capacity. He'd already damaged his lungs singing in a local heavy metal band, Protest, so he relies on mechanical lungs, the Invacore breathing machine. As four students practice, Farnsworth pulls out a folder thick with University Medical Center reports and doctors' memos on his condition—he suffers from severe obstructive airways disease, has 50 percent lung capacity, can't walk more than 100 yards at a time. Unable to teach, he closed the school on Desert Inn and Pecos McLeod he ran for 12 years (the other school had since closed) and moved in with his parents.
Denied disability and behind on child support for his son, he was given a choice by a judge: Get a job or go to jail. His second wife would later sue for alimony. So he borrowed money from friends to reopen a karate studio whose profits are largely eaten up by alimony obligations.
He's back doing what he loves, but under some stressful conditions.
"I don't make any money from this," he says.
Done using the machine, Farnworth coaches the first-timer through a block-strike sequence. The student delivers a punch-block combination. Farnsworth coaches on form, widening the man's stance, showing him how to use the meaty portion of his forearm as a shield from a blow, and encouraging him to bellow "ki-ah!" upon delivering a strike.
Next to them, Larry Russell and Robert Comins take turns putting each other in headlocks and applying slight pressure to the carotid artery, a move meant to incapacitate an attacker. A three-year student of Farnsworth's, Comins appreciates the depth of instruction at the academy—punches, throws, grabs, locks, kicks, all done to real-world combat sequence. Ditto for Joe Morris, who met Farnsworth after ferrying him in his cab. Russell, a taller, heftier version of Steven Segall, who started training last year, fancies the bad-ass he's becoming—able to turn blocks into strikes and "go on offense against the enemy."
Frank Boetz, a student, says the industry has politicized a system predicated on honor, making "a very honorable man out to be a renegade."
Several weeks later, the studio is empty. Farnsworth's moving to bigger digs—another location 15 feet away; it has an office and four feet more width. In a two-minute span, he chats with his stepson, kisses his wife—she brought old pictures—and does a sales pitch to a backwards-cap-wearing man interested in lessons.
"All those people who don't believe my credentials, they can step on the mat and see what I can do ... I'll prove who am I there," he says, then changes the subject. "With this new studio, I can really do some things now."