Bad Dojo

Former senseis and business partners accuse Tiger Schulmann of building his $35-million-a-year martial-arts empire with Mafia tactics. But you don't become America's No. 1 karate kingpin without busting a few faces. What, you expect him to apologize?

- David Gauvey Herbert

The New Jersey Convention and Expo Center is nestled among a series of fading industrial parks just off I-95. Most weekends, it's overrun with model-train enthusiasts, hot-tub salesmen, and fly fishermen. But on a sunny day in December, the cavernous hall's permascent of pretzel grease is cut with a new odor: the tangy smell of cowhide gloves connecting with flesh. For today, Daniel "Tiger" Schulmann, the strip-mall karate kingpin of America, is holding his semiannual Challenge of Champions.

Hundreds of kids in headgear, some as young as five, whale on one another as their parents stalk the sidelines, urging them on in a dozen languages.

Ringside scoreboards glow with names like Menendez, Mohammed, Wang, and Gelashvili-a far cry from the villainous dojo full of bleach-blond teens in The Karate Kid to which this franchise is sometimes compared.

In the far corner, away from the kids, grown men uncork body shots that send a shiver all the way down into my testicles. And there, on the sideline, is the man himself. Before I can procrastinate with another trip to the hot dog stand, an instructor takes me by the arm and presents me to Tiger Schulmann. After weeks of back-and-forth, I'm finally meeting him in person. Surrounded by muscle-bound lieutenants and former UFC fighters, he considers me with suspicion. "You know more than I do about my company," he says. "It scares me." As we talk, Schulmann taps my shoulder and chest, almost like he's range-finding, in case he decides to flatten me with a jab-cross combo.

Only the steady stream of children provides reassurance, as they gather around him shouting, "Shihan! Shihan!"-or "teacher of teachers"-and clamor for selfies.