Russell Wood: The unexpected pioneer of Koryo Taekwondo

Kids in crisp white doboks are lined up, their belts knotted, their eyes on the mirror.

And though he resides 200 kilometres away in Melbourne’s sprawling suburbs, the presence of a wiry, 84-year-old man with a calm smile and level temperament looms larger than ever over the dojang.

This is Russell Wood, grand master, ninth dan, and founder of the Koryo Taekwondo Centre.

And, if you’re being honest, the accidental godfather of the sport in Victoria.

Shepparton might seem like an unlikely outpost of a Korean martial art started half a world away.

But every time a student there bows before stepping on the mat, they’re part of a lineage that began with one man’s experiment in a rented hall.

“I started off when I was a youngster, 14 or 15, in boxing,” Wood said.

“Then judo. Then karate. And then I discovered taekwondo walking home from work one day and I thought I’d give that a try. I’ve just continued with it since.”

Wood was bitten by the martial arts bug from an early age.

And in 1976, he kicked off Koryo Taekwondo in Whittlesea — but it didn’t come without its drawbacks.

“It was very, very difficult from the point of view that no-one had ever heard of it, and didn’t understand very much about martial arts,” he said.

“It was very hard to get the official approval from the national body — they’re very selective — however, I just kept punching and moving along.”

Forty nine years later, the Koryo Taekwondo Centre stretches across Victoria like a constellation — from Craigieburn to Wallan, and, crucially, Shepparton.

Ask anyone in the Shepparton dojang and they’ll point to another name alongside Wood’s: Sammy Rachele.

In 2000, Rachele opened the local centre, and in Wood’s estimation it’s “by far the best privately owned area in Australia.”

He lights up when he talks about its programs for members with disabilities, para athletes now competing nationally, and the culture of inclusion that has become a Koryo hallmark.

“I think he has developed, not only for able bodied people, but for people less fortunate than ourselves who have limitations on their mental and physical ability,” Wood said.

“Sammy has been able to develop that so much so now that it’s taught in Australia as well.

“We now have teams for para kids; he would be the most knowledgeable person on that in Australia that I know of.

“It’s through a lot of hard work from his point of view, and I’ve got to give it to him, he hasn’t given up.”

For all the expansion, Wood himself remains anchored in tradition.

Achieving grand master status was not only ceremonial but gruelling as reaching ninth dan — the highest rank available to the living — requires an examination in Korea.

“Ninth dan is the highest you can go when you’re living; you have to be over 50, which I didn’t have any problem with,” he said with a laugh.

“You can get 10th dan, but that is after you’ve passed — if you’ve done such a good job in your period from start to finish, they’ll award your 10th dan.

“In fact, the Korean master that taught me, he got his 10th dan when he passed — I think he’s about the only one in Australia that has it.”

Wood’s own master, Jung Myung Oh, remains the gold standard in his mind: sparring, poomsae, self-defence, breaking.

Yet if there was ever a man to continue Oh’s legacy, Wood is undoubtedly him.

Just ask about his training regimen back in the day and you get an idea of what sort of cloth Wood is cut from.

“She was a bit hard back then, I could tell you that,” he said with a grin.

“Obviously you did push ups and sit ups and stretches and all that, and you’d walk out of the club after each session, and if you weren’t limping or hurting, then there was something wrong.”

Two hundred body punches, real blocking — the kind that left both limbs bruised — and a tacit acceptance that if you weren’t limping after class, you weren’t trying.

Today, he admires the athleticism of the modern competitor, but laments the dying art of blocking and the drift toward point-collecting.

“When you were blocking, which is a dying art at the moment, you’d bash the guys shin with your forearm to try and weaken that leg as well as have it not contact you,” Wood said.

“That’s sort of gone away, it’s much safer because now the headgear, the mouthguard, the body protector, the forearm and shin guard, the gloves, the footsocks, they’re more designed to scoring points rather than hurting your opponent.”

Yet here’s the paradox.

Despite his nostalgia for the old-school, Wood has built one of the most progressive, inclusive taekwondo organisations in the country.

Para-stars, all abilities athletes — in Shepparton at least, that’s part of the fabric.

It’s a place where people from all creeds and cultures loosen their limitations and learn to kick on with life.

And if you ask Wood about his legacy, he doesn’t talk about titles or revenue.

He talks about continuity.

“I’d like to see the martial art attitude and teaching stay there, because what’s happening is since it’s become a sport, the martial arts side of it has dropped in my opinion,” he said.

“Whereas we were very dedicated to doing the right thing all the time and teaching people the best we possibly could to turn out to be good martial artists.”

One only needs to look at Wood for a gleaming example of a good martial artist and a good man.

Like its founder, Koryo Taekwondo is still punching — literally — almost 50 years on from its humble beginning in a rented Whittlesea hall.

So here’s to Koryo, and every metronomic kick that slices through its centre’s air for the next half decade and beyond.