That is, until 19-month-old Connor arrives. He toddles into the room, spilling a cup of water on the floor and making his way over to where his mom is following the tai chi moves in the back of the room. Connor's dad, Mark Richardson, scrambles to catch him, but, as is fitting with his robes and the black belt knotted around his waist, he stops to remove his sneakers, bow toward the instructor and softly utter the word oss to show his respect.

Richardson, a Sunnyvale resident, is running this event, which is a fundraiser for a nonprofit organization he named in honor of his own father, Lowell Slater Richardson. Determined to keep the workout as professional as possible for the students, Richardson scoops up Connor and hustles him out of the room. "Mark likes a very traditional environment," his wife, Caroline, says.

The fundamentals of martial arts have been a huge influence in Richardson's life. They're what led him to begin volunteering as a martial arts instructor at the Foundry School in San Jose—an alternative high school for at-risk youth. His relationship with the Foundry only grew from there and spurred him to found the LSR Foundation, which provides college and trade school scholarships to Foundry graduates. The dedication to those same martial arts principles are currently leading him to investigate the opening of his own martial arts studio, or dojo, to serve youngsters from difficult backgrounds as well as bankroll his foundation. Richardson hopes he'll be able to reach this goal in 2004.

"You look at these kids, and think 'How can I not help?'" Richardson says. "We all worry about whether we have the car or the job or the love interest that we want, but dealing with what they deal with is truly hard." In 1995, Richardson, now 41, read an article in the San Jose Mercury News about the Foundry and immediately wanted to volunteer at the school. But what also caught his attention was the fact that one of the Foundry's longtime employees, program manager John Malloy, is a third-degree black belt in the Japanese martial art known as doshinkan.

Richardson took up martial arts as a youngster after finding intrigue in a karate-themed movie, but gave up after a month. "That always bothered me," he says. But after sampling activities such as acting and lacrosse, he returned to martial arts at the age of 26 and worked up to a third-degree black belt in another Japanese style called shotokan. He continues to train at Satsuma Dojo at San José State.

The stamina required in training strengthened his ability to deal with difficulties in his life, especially when Caroline suffered from a pregnancy-related condition called pre-eclampsia while delivering their son.

"There was a point when I thought I might walk out of that hospital alone," Richardson says. So when Malloy invited Richardson to volunteer at the Foundry, his martial arts experience was a natural fit. "These kids aren't zoo animals. They need something to focus on, and that could be pottery or acting or whatever," he says. "This is what I feel competent in. I'm sticking with what my past has taught me."

Richardson ended up teaching shotokan as part of the Foundry's physical education program for seven years. Malloy says Richardson's emphasis on martial arts tradition, including rituals like bowing to the instructor, fits in with the Foundry's philosophy. "He insists on the full cultural package," Malloy says. "There's a way to kneel, a way to show respect, a way to address the instructor. That kind of discipline is one of the backbones here."

The methodology involves plenty of counseling to get people back on track as well as developing intellect and undergoing physical training in an environment that respects all cultures and mindsets. The Foundry, which has been in existence for nearly 30 years, takes in high school students that Malloy describes as having been "pushed out" of the regular educational system.

"We get people who have been displaced and are now homeless, and those who come from families who are well-off, but something's just not working," he says. "Our students run the continuum from withdrawn to aggressive." Malloy says that students come into the Foundry from all over Santa Clara County with legal problems from drugs to assault, but others enter with mental health issues from tremendous losses that supersede school as a priority. "They've lost their confidence along the way, and they just need to learn how to learn again," he says.

Richardson is complimentary of the Foundry's approach. "Western society doesn't give kids the boundaries they need," he says. "They only have about 60 kids, but they'll get them working with each other, and the peer pressure gets them to do what they need to do."

Richardson regularly taught teens who were juvenile delinquents, homeless or prostitutes. Female students would tell him that he was the only safe male they knew. One young woman, who Richardson thought was bored by the class, later told him that she used a front kick to defend herself against her father.

"Mark helps give them their own voice back," Malloy says. Richardson worked with the Foundry's mentoring program, taking on individual students for a year, including a summer retreat where he offered to train any student in martial arts—if they were willing to wake up at 5 a.m. "I always assigned him those kids who have a touch of arrogance, the ones that not just anyone could work with, just because he's so demanding," Malloy says. "But he will do anything for a kid and they know it."

Richardson's connection to his students stays strong. Many keep in contact, despite life circumstances that haven't much improved. Eight years ago, these relationships led Richardson to set up a nonprofit foundation to provide financial assistance to Foundry graduates seeking higher education. Most grant recipients go to junior colleges or trade schools, and the foundation has awarded more than $40,000 over the course of its existence. The most recent cycle bestowed $8,000 on seven candidates. A single mom who graduated from San José State and wants to go to law school recently became the LSR Foundation's first student to graduate from college.

That single mom is Virginia Ballantyne, 24, of San Jose. She received her bachelor's degree in behavioral science and is working at a domestic violence agency for several years before applying to institutions such as Santa Clara University and UC-Berkeley. She was on a far different path when she entered the Foundry at 15. "I was on the verge of dropping out, and it was the last place for me to go," she says. "They had something special. I actually wanted to go there."

Ballantyne's parents were alcoholic, and she had been experimenting with drugs and courting friendships with gang members. She graduated from the Foundry while pregnant with her son, but when she wanted to pursue an education, a Foundry teacher pointed her in Richardson's direction. "I used to be on welfare, but this way, I was able to focus on school and just have a part-time job," she says. "[The foundation] is so great. They give every penny to the kids." Ballantyne had received other scholarships, but she pinpoints the LSR Foundation for also providing emotional support.

"We've helped 50, and about a dozen of those are in school right now," Richardson says, admitting that it's a bit of a gamble to award money to such a high-risk group. "We have to be strict about what we hand out. You can't just give a former heroin addict that amount of money without being sure they're going to spend it well." Foundry graduates who are interested in receiving a grant have to fill out an extensive application outlining their dreams and goals as well as present a budget for the foundation's board, of which Malloy is a member.

"We want to make sure they're spending more time studying than working," Malloy says. "Mark's thinking long term."

In addition to nudging unlikely scholars along, the LSR Foundation has also helped the Foundry—the oldest community school in the country—further develop its identity. "The scholarship thing's amazing," Malloy says. "It really has a life of its own and helps [the graduates] stay connected with the school." Decades after its opening, former Foundry students and parents are returning to the school to teach subjects like social and Latino studies. "Mark has helped us create alumni," he says.

The cash for the LSR Foundation comes from fundraisers much like the one that took place on Dec. 6 at San José State—called the first annual Winter Kokan Geiko, which means "exchange of courteous training." Richardson brought together instructors from within the Bay Area martial arts community to give students the opportunity to sample styles other than the specialties of their own dojo.

He estimates that five or six different schools were represented at the event, including students from the De Anza Shotokan Karate Club. Pete Rabbitt, a karate instructor at De Anza, says that he and his group try to attend the foundation's yearly summer martial arts fundraiser, an intense training session at Montara State Beach in Half Moon Bay. "We try to promote a family atmosphere in the Bay Area martial arts community, so we always try to bring a good-sized group," he says.

That atmosphere extends back to the Foundry and to San José State, where Richardson's instructor at his own dojo, Jay Castellano, provides as much assistance as he can. "I've been involved from the get-go, from the time [Mark] formed the foundation," he says. "We have a really close, collaborative relationship." Castellano helped Richardson procure the facilities at San José State for the Dec. 6 fundraiser, and he taught the first two sessions of the day—including tai chi and kata, a set of prearranged movements in the Japanese martial arts.

This kind of karate sampler plate is what Richardson wants to incorporate into his own dojo that he hopes to build in Sunnyvale. First and foremost, the studio would be available for rent as a revenue generator for the LSR Foundation. Martial arts groups, dance troupes, boxing instructors or anyone with a need for space who passes Richardson's background checks would be allowed to use the space. "I want a healthy atmosphere for everyone. People would have to leave the place cleaner than when they came in," he says.

Additionally, the dojo would be a place where high-risk youth could come through and learn martial arts from traditional groups for free. "It'll be a very strict, rigid program," he says. "If you cause a problem, you're out." Richardson says martial arts taught for a profit dilutes the purity of the training. If high-risk kids have a problem with the intensity, they can leave without the dojo risking its existence with the loss of funds.

Having been instructors for a number of years, Rabbitt and Castellano can see the potential benefits of martial arts to such a group. "The canned response is that martial arts improve flexibility, coordination and self-confidence, but you can find that in other sports with coaches," Rabbitt says. "Karate is an individual act. Everyone has the ability to go at the same pace, so you've got to sit there trying to concentrate." He says that karate forms are taught in physical education classes in Japan to build character.

Castellano mentions that martial arts took hold as a life philosophy in Japan after the feudal era ended, and has since returned. "They fell back onto that spirit after World War II to rebuild their country," he says. "It's still part of their culture today." While the image many have of martial arts is the glitzy, Jackie Chan-style of round kicks and high body counts, it's not the physicality of the sport that provides the benefits. No one knows this better than Malloy, who has seen the effects martial arts training has had on Foundry students.

"For a lot of the kids, they come in with these ideas of glamour. They go for the excitement, but the training wears them down," Malloy says. "They don't have to be disciplined from the outside because they're disciplined from the inside." While Richardson's stopped teaching martial arts at the Foundry because of the school didn't have a room where students could practice uninterrupted, he still volunteers in Malloy's boxing classes and brings the same level of skill and enthusiasm he did previously.

"He lives and breathes it," Malloy says. "He would introduce the martial arts program to the whole school. It was captivating." Richardson would bring members of his own dojo to the Foundry, which Malloy says was very encouraging to the students. "They loved that. The kids were surrounded by a community that cared about them," he says.

Richardson's work on his plan is slowly progressing. He had previously hoped to get property donated to his cause, but that approach hasn't worked so far. He currently works as a Realtor for MGM Real Estate in Sunnyvale. "One of the reasons why I became a Realtor was for this dream," he says. He's currently drafting a business plan, one that he hopes to show to local luminaries like San Jose Mayor Ron Gonzalez and Apple co-founder Steve Wozniak for letters of recommendation in order to secure a corporate sponsorship. "I could go ahead and buy now, and pay off a mortgage," he says, "but I want this to last."

For all of his effort, Richardson doesn't consider himself a philanthropist. He says he's just doing what he should do. "This doesn't 'take my time.' I don't want to make myself look good," he says. The LSR Foundation doesn't even have a website—nearly all the money raised goes straight to scholarships. "I am the foundation, and I meet twice a year with the board of directors," he says. "There's no overhead. We've raised $42,000, and we've given away $41,000." In much the same way that martial artists learn their style of karate from their sensei, Richardson says he owes his nature to his father, for whom the foundation is named, who lived through the Great Depression. "I am my father's son," he says.