Scholarship Award

In his more than 40 years of martial arts training, Papa Joe Hays had developed extraordinary fighting expertise and coaching experience and raised fighting technique to its most efficient and effective levels. His unique coaching methods have produced numerous regional and national champions. Yet his martial accomplishments are dwarfed by the greatest gift he offered his students and colleagues: His love and spirit that contain the essense of Karate-Do.In honor of Papa Joe Hays, who has helped many young people to get back to basics and enjoy a happier, more fruitful life, the ASKA provides a financial award to give a youngster under the age of 18 an opportunity to benefit from the positive influence of training in a Karate school. This award is based on emotional and financial need.

Joseph R Hays, (Papa Joe) 68, of Moyock, NC, formerly of Columbus, OH, died peacefully on September 27, 2006 after a 13 month battle with ALS. He resided with his niece and nephew, Tara and Don Crosby.Born August 8, 1938 in Rochester, PA, he was the son of the late Samuel and Frances Hays. He owned and operated Hays Brothers Harley Davidson Shop in Deland, FL, before returning to Columbus, OH. He served in the United States Air Force where he was a member of the Judo Team. Papa Joe was best known for his love and knowledge of building custom Harley Davidson Motorcycles. He was a sixth degree black belt in karate and his teaching ability of Karate in the Shito-ryu system. His unique coaching methods have produced numerous regional and national champions. In 1988 he was awarded the ASKA Winter Budo Camp Spirit Award. By special invitation, Papa Joe came out of retirement and attended the 2002 American Shorin-ryu Karate Association Budo camp where he was presented the Lifetime Achievement award for his more than 40 years in the martial arts. He also served as a member of the Executive Promotion Board of the ASKA.In addition to his parents, he was preceded in death by his brother, Samuel Hays, Jr in 1983 and his Grandson, Michael Mounts in 1983.Joseph is survived by his brother, William Hays and sister-in-law Carolyn, Lodgepole, NB, and his sister, Mary C. Holby, Chesapeake, VA, his children, Danny Joe Hays, Michael and his wife, Michelle Hays, his daughter, Toni Ann Hays, seven grandchildren, Sam, Cory, Gina, Nicole, Maria Hays, Anthony Mounts and Vincent Davis, one great grandchild, Santino Warren, all of Columbus, OH. In addition to numerous nieces and nephews, Joseph leaves behind his special friend Papa Jules Pommier and members of the ASKA.

At the request of Joseph there will be no public viewing. Private interment will be in the Sylvania Hills Mausoleum in Daugherty Twp, PA where he will be laid to rest with his parents.

Memorial contributions can be made to the American Shorin-Ryu Karate Association, c/o Papa Joe Hays Scholarship Award, Beldon Village Tower, Suite 208, 4450 Beldon Village St, SW, Canton, OH 44718.

A tribute . . .I can’t remember exactly when I first met Papa Joe. It might have been at a seminar or camp way back in 1992 or 93. What I do remember is that when I met him, we were like two magnets – drawnand stuck to each other from then on. He reminded me of the men in my own family: small, wiry, arrogant, huge chip on the shoulder, a tease, a scrapper, intelligent, big talker, great teacher, filled with love and hugs. He was 5’5” and bigger than life.Go take a look at his biography in the old ASKA handbook (or click on his bio at: http://www.askakarate.org/about.html). It’s been cleaned up a bit: … he and his fellow students… became known as the “John L. Sullivan Gang”. They traveled the Midwest in the days of bare-knuckle free-fighting competition. Papa Joe confided that they also trolled the streets and bars in search of some good ole “bare-knuckle fighting.” He loved a good fight. Rolling on the ground, taking a man down. Getting good and dirty doing it.He also loved his Harley. And his bikers. They were his family as much as his actual family was.They loved him right back. Fiercely. No one in their right mind would toy with Papa Joe – not if they cared to live without pain. He taught his “boys and girls” judo, karate, ground fighting. He gave many of them a place to crash. Straightened out more than a few young boys. And a couple young girls, too.

The first time Papa Joe met my mom, he fell in love. He didn’t even wait to be introduced. Just walked up, said “Hi, Mom,” and wrapped her in a bear hug. Mom was a wee shy and quite embarrassed. But Papa Joe had won her over by supper and had her laughing in spite of herself.

Papa Joe wasn’t much for kata, or breaking things down scientifically. He just knew how to do it, and he showed you. He was so fast. He reminded me of that old joke: a guy says “Wanna see how fast I am?” but he doesn’t move. Then says “Wanna see that again?” That was Papa Joe – except he DID move, and it WAS that fast; so fast you never saw it. Ask any black belt who ever sparred with him.

When he did explain something, we’d have at least 10 minutes of down time while he regaled us with anecdotes – from his past, from his family, from other students, from his bikers. Papa Joe justloved to talk. And talk, and talk. I for one loved to listen. Because if you followed the stream of his ramblings, you’d find the path to his heart. His very big heart.

Papa Joe was nothing if not passionate: toward everyone who ever crossed his path, good and bad. His love was real. It was permanent. You knew when he was pleased with you. You also knew when he wasn’t. But that was only for a moment. The next moment was a different one, and Papa Joe never lingered long in any given moment. He was a feisty bugger. I spoke to Papa Joe not too long ago. He was wheelchair bound already.

The disease that took him (ALS) is aggressive and unforgiving. Yet even in his worst personal moments, he had me laughing as he told me how he had to relearn his house. “Everything is dented,” he said, “especially the frig. And there’s this guy who rides one of those bmx bikes who wants to race me!” I cradled the phone having visions of him racing some bearded Harley guy across a parking lot in his wheelchair. We reminisced, and cried, and laughed some more, then he got tired. That was the last time we spoke. I hung up knowing I’d never see him again. God, how I loved him. Rest in peace, Papa Joe. At least give the others up there with you a little peace – after you give them all a big hug.

Lynda St.James

September 29, 2006