I wanted to do something a bit different today as I attempt to make a return to updating this blog, so instead of a colorful rant on a videogame or anything, today I'll be sharing the first 7 chapters of an original work of fiction I had been working on last year before dropping it to return to work on my novel (Save the Gem City).
First though, a little about this piece. As stated, these are the first seven chapters (about 15,000 words) of my attempted National Novel Writing Month project. It was going to be the story of a Judoka (guy who practices Judo) who decides one day to take up "Walking the Earth" and living like Ryu from Street Fighter, albeit in the "real world". I still really like this idea at that basic concept, and I enjoyed my main character (who still doesn't really have a name) but I found I really disliked writing something based so much in the real world, and that I missed being able to randomly insert stupid or cheesy attempts at humor. The dialogue I feel tends to be pretty boring, while in other things I've written dialogue is one of my favorite things. In addition, I'm not particularly fond of any of the characters other than the protagonist and his mentor, Mr. Hayashida...who may have wound up channeling a touch too much Mr. Miyagi in this early draft.
Anyway, I hope you'll read a little bit (I don't expect anyone to read all 30+ pages, honestly) and let me know what you think. Note also that this is a 100% raw first draft which I've not even looked at since initially writing...so be gentle please.
Oh yeah, this should be obvious but everything below is copyright, so no thievery please.
Chapter 1
It wasn’t until I was somewhere around 5/8 to the top of Mt.
Daisetsu that I remembered why nobody trains in the wilderness anymore. The
first why on my mind was how overwhelmingly, unbearably, insufferably hot a
forest can be in the middle of July. So hot and humid, in fact, even if you’re
wearing a weather-beaten blue judo gi littered with holes and tears for extra
ventilation, you feel as if you’re swimming in a strange green ocean made up of
a mixture of trees, dirt, and your own sweat.
Neglecting to wear socks or shoes (as was now my custom) at
least prevented my feet from suffering the same degree of sweltering torture as
the rest of my body, but at the moment I found it to be of little comfort.
Seeing as I had already stopped to ponder my present misery, I decided to take
a proper break from my climb to catch my breath.
With a quick twist of the hips and a brief exertion of my
right shoulder, I flung the 100 lb. sandbag I was hauling on my back into the
air. A sort of lazy, armless shoulder throw (or Seoi-Nage for the purists). Taking a seat upon the bag, my right
hand soon raced to my jaw when it was stricken with a sharp, jolting pain.
Throwing me with that move of all
things. I would have never even considered it was so practical. The world
really was a huge place.
Something popped inside my mouth as I massaged my jawbone,
and suddenly a small trickle of blood was creeping down onto my chin. Startled,
I reached inside my mouth and produced a whole tooth. I couldn’t tell you what
kind it was, I’m no dentist. Still, losing any real teeth is never very fun, and I was fortunate enough that this
was only the fourth I’d lost in this manner.
Sweat was pouring down my face now, the kind of dirty sweat
you might have after a day spent outside doing yard work, or playing football
or soccer. Of course, I didn’t really partake in either of those activities
anymore, and I had been outside for much longer than a single day at this
point. My hair was beginning to become soaked with perspiration as well, and
black-brown strands fell haphazardly over my eyes. The second reason not to
train in the wilderness: your hygiene goes to hell.
Don’t get me wrong, I don’t think I look or smell that bad. Yes, my hair is a bit of a
greasy and sweaty mane, and I’m sure it has split ends. However, you can do a
lot with dirty hair through creative use of bandanas and braids and ties of
various sorts, and I’ve employed them all throughout the years. Alternatively,
you can go the Buddhist route and shave your hair off. I tried that once, and my
head got cold. There’s also of course the expected dirt and grime that begins
to coat your body, and the inevitable stench, but I learned early you can
really help yourself by bringing a few modern conveniences, be it floss and a
toothbrush or soap and shampoo. Whatever hygiene area gives you the most pain.
I’ve personally always been a stickler regarding my pearly whites, so being
able to brush once in a while helps. You can also take a decent bath in any
body of running water. I swear to you I’ve met plenty of people in the
“civilized” world who look, smell, and even sound far filthier than me.
Just as I was reminding myself to find a place to freshen up
as soon as I established camp, a gentle summer wind made its way up onto and
over the mountain, cooling my damp face and blowing my hair right back over my
eyes. Somehow I was never able to look as cool in the wind as characters in
videogames did when I was younger. Gazing out from behind the drapes of hair, I
watched the winds sweep over the forests of the surrounding countryside and
create a comforting wave of billowing treetops. As far as I could see, nothing
but emerald waves. Nearby, several indistinct birds chirped and sang, and I
felt a strange mixture of loneliness and a zenlike peace. There couldn’t be
another human around for miles. Probably not, anyway.
“That’s pretty cool!!!!” I shouted off the mountainside,
hoping my words might echo and reflect back at me over and over. They didn’t.
I doubled over and reached towards dirty toes with equally
dirty hands, stretching my back this way and that as I did so. Something
cracked and popped, abrupt pain and then gradual relief. More side effects of
yesterday’s match, no doubt. Chuckling, I slowly pushed off the sandbag and
stood tall once more. Break time was over, and I still couldn’t quite see the
end of my journey. Crouching low, I scooped the sandbag up in a fireman’s carry
before throwing it back into the air in a modified version of kata guruma. The bag sailed and spun
through the forest top over bottom over top again, its rotation spurred on by
the instantaneous downward pull of my left hand and the upward thrust of my
right. The bag crashed into a clump of brush, sending stray birds fleeing into
the sky. Kata guruma was such an
awesome throw.
Picking the bag up yet again, I began again my march towards
the peak of Mt. Daisetsu. Between the heat and filth and hunger, I knew why
nobody trained in the wilderness anymore. Then the shooting pain from my back
to my jaw and the taste of warm blood under my tongue reminded me that I also
knew exactly why I still did.
Chapter 2- August 7th,
1993
Nearly twenty years ago, my mother brought me to Mr.
Hayashida’s dojo for the first time. I remember the date so well for a couple
different reasons. For starters, it was only a few days after my fifth
birthday, and the trip was to be part of my complete birthday extravaganza gift
package. Secondly, I remember because I had just received the third Ninja
Turtle movie as a birthday gift in the mail from a faraway relative. A great
aunt, though I had very little real knowledge or recollection of that at the
time.
Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles III (not subtitled Turtles in
Time, as countless people may in fact try to tell you) may be remembered in
history as the weakest of the TMNT films, but when you’re freshly five and get
to watch gigantic turtles beating samurai to the point of delirium with ninja
weapons all day long, you hardly care.
In those days, when I wasn’t playing with my Ninja Turtle
action figures I was watching the movies or cartoons over and over again,
clumsily acting out the battle sequences with any person, inanimate object, or
imaginary robotic Foot ninja foolish enough to cross my path. Leaping about the
family living room twirling a makeshift “Donatello Stick” as I so creatively
called it; I would spin and kick and howl with all the expertise one might
expect from a child whose only real training in the martial arts was watching a
cartoon from the ‘80s. In retrospect, it may have been the most normal time of
my life.
Fittingly, I was (I suppose) a very typical, average little
boy. I was small and wiry, but tough enough to weather a tumble off the swing
set or a couple of scraped up knees and continue playing without serious
interruption. I had a bowl cut, which isn’t really so bad when you’re five and
the year is 1993. After all, several kids in my kindergarten class had rat
tails. Someday I’ll have to be sure to thank my mother for not forcing anything
like that on me.
At any rate, it was on this Saturday in the last month of
summer that my greatest wish was going to be granted. My mother, a bespectacled
woman in her twenties of average size and shape with a shoulder-length head of
dark hair, was finally going to take me to a special school where I would become
a ninja. I had been so overwhelmed with excitement the night before that sleep
was (almost) impossible. This was Christmas, Easter, Halloween, and my birthday
all rolled into one.
Mom got me up at around 9 AM with a gentle shake. “Wake up,
bud, it’s Saturday.” She said in that caring, affectionate way only a mother
can. She didn’t have to ask twice. My kid brain quickly processed and recalled
all the data and urged my little body into action. I leapt from my bed, threw
my pajamas to the winds, and assembled a forgettable ensemble of shorts and
t-shirt perfectly suitable to a summer’s morning.
“How much longer until we’re there?” I excitedly whined up at
my mother from the back seat of our maroon Oldsmobil sedan. Like most
travelling children, I had little concept of time spent in the car, and any
trip longer than five minutes was something not unlike torture.
“It’s just ahead, sweetie. A couple more blocks.” She
replied, and sure enough after a handful more turns we coasted into the parking
lot of a smallish strip mall located in what passed as our town’s business
district.
The strip was made up of four storefronts, one of which was
currently vacant with a large sign reading “FOR SALE OR LEASE” posted in the
display window. Next to this was a pizza parlor, one of about half a dozen in
our town, all of which served the same kind of pizza cut into square slices
with an incredibly crunchy crust. Each had a different Italian sounding name
and slight differences regarding what made their pizza better than the other:
some would have better crusts or sauces while others had delicious pepperoni.
It was a generally accepted rule of thumb by locals that the dirtier the
parlor, the better their pizza.
Disgusting, but true.
There was also a clothing store of some kind, but since
clothes are the most boring thing in the world to five-year-olds I have no
recollection what they specialized in. In the coming years this property would
change hands multiple times and always transform into a new shop that would
struggle for half a year or so before changing yet again. I think there’s a
Goodwill there, now.
These places are really not of that much importance, other
than for establishing just how indistinct and forgettable a place it was. I’m
sure there are countless other shopping strips just like this all over the
country, but I know that my town’s was the one and only to feature Hayashida Judo instead of something like
USA TAE KWON DO or ROGER POWERS KUNG FU SYSTEMS. Little did
I know what a blessing that was at the time.
It wasn’t until we were right at the door that I noticed
something was a bit fishy. I had been told we were going to a place where I
could at long last become a ninja. Why, then, weren’t there any nunchaku
(nunchucks, as we called them at the time) or bo staffs strewn about the
training grounds? Where were the sais and ninja swords my greatest heroes used
to defeat robots and ninjas and all kinds of scary mutants every single week?
Looking in through the window, I felt like my heart was going
to rise up into my throat and choke me to death. Inside, there were indeed
several children around my age smiling and waiting around for class to start,
and there were a few older kids (teenagers, I suspected) milling about in the
back stretching, but none of them were dressed like any ninjas I had ever seen
on TV or in the movies. Instead of black hoods or colorful masks with black
pajamas, there were all wearing baggy white or blue Judo uniforms, the kind you
would see in the Olympics. This is, of course, the official Judogi, a
traditional uniform of the style that has been adopted throughout the years by
other styles ranging from Karate to Brazilian Jiujitsu.
To a five year old who wants to be a ninja, that would have
been little comfort.
The glass door of the dojo opened with the chime of a small
bell, and my mother led the way inside. We were greeted by a slightly chubby
teenage girl wearing a blue uniform. Her dark hair was tied back in a loose
ponytail, and her face was peppered with freckles. A perfectly black belt was
tied around her waist, and something was written on it in golden Japanese
characters. She smiled warmly at me before turning to speak to my mother. I
only felt a tiny bit better.
“Good morning, are you new students?” she asked. My mom
laughed, I guess at the thought of herself as a martial artist, and quickly
explained that I was the only one who would be trying to classes out. They set
about doing something I didn’t pay much attention to, perhaps paperwork or
negotiation of class fees or something. In the meantime I wandered off a few
feet to really take a look at the dojo.
It was a large, single room, and mostly empty. Right by the
entrance, to the left of the door, was a sitting area with neatly arranged rows
of brown folding chairs. Several parents (or other legal guardians) were seated
here, visiting with one another. Adjacent to this was a large wooden counter
that was carved in such a way that it appeared to be made of bamboo. As I grew
older I always thought it looked more at home in a jungle-themed nightclub than
a dojo. Behind the counter, a shelving unit was built into the wall which
housed a plethora of uniforms and bags of varying sizes and colors. Two little
cubby holes in this unit housed the ranking belts: one for black and one for
white. There were no other colors visible.
The walls of the room were painted white, though light brown
faux-wood paneling rose up about halfway to the ceiling. A few pictures hung on
the wall to my left, mostly of elderly Asian men or trees. Opposite this wall was
a gigantic mirror that stretched from ceiling to floor and wall to wall. It
certainly looked interesting, though I had little idea what a mirror could do
for ninja training.
Farthest from me, across the dojo, was a door. An incredibly
ordinary door, the same shade of brown as the room’s paneling, with a flimsy
looking brass knob. It wasn’t labeled or decorated in any fashion, much less in
such a way that would indicate it was the office of one of the greatest men
I’ve ever met.
Like I already mentioned, there were several children
scattered around the room talking or playing or warming up. Occasionally in the
midst of their playful wrestling one child would manage to trip or shove the
other and somehow send them tumbling to the padded blue floor. I couldn’t help
but wonder how these kids were so clumsy that they fell over that much. They
all seemed to be very familiar with each other, which meant they’d all been
there quite a while. All save for one, a little Indian boy standing to my left,
whose black hair was cut in the same dorky bowl style as my own.
He wore oversized wire-frame glasses with circular lenses,
and the same baggy white uniform as the other students. A white belt was tied
around his waist, though it looked quite a bit sloppier than everyone else’s.
The boy was clutching his father’s (a very important-looking man in a
sweater…in August, for whatever reason) hand in a vice grip, and looked utterly
terrified.
“Hi!” I said to him, being anything but shy at that age, “are
you gonna be a ninja too?” I asked. With those glasses, I just knew he could be
the Donatello of my ninja posse. You know, the smart one who built all of our
gadgets. What good would the group be without that guy?
The boy just stared at me in abject horror, his mouth opening
only the smallest bit. He didn’t say anything. I stared back, smiling.
His father, taking note of his nervous son’s reaction (or
lack thereof) tugged at the boy’s hand to get his attention and shot him a
stern, yet understanding glance. “Raman? This little boy is talking to you. He
asked you a question, won’t you answer him?” His voice was thick and
commanding, much like his beard, and it gave his words the same air of importance
his appearance did. The boy, Raman, slowly looked up towards his father with
eyes that were huge and glassy like marbles. This was only amplified by his
enormous glasses.
“Wha…eh…huuuuh?” he mumbled up at him.
“That boy,” his father repeated, “asked you a question. He
was wondering if you were going to be a ninja, like him.”
I just kept proudly smiling at them, perhaps somewhat
stupidly.
Raman’s petrified face turned back towards me and he gulped
before managing to utter “Well…um..n-no.” This, of course, terribly confused
me.
Just then, there was a loud thumping smack from out on the
dojo floor, which made me and Raman both almost leap out of our skin. Two of
the older kids were wrestling at each other now, and one had been fiercely
thrown to the floor.
“Hey! Settle down! You know the rules!” the girl who had
greeted us shouted at them from behind the counter. “Sorry about that,” she
continued, speaking to my mother, “anyways, that should just about do it. Now
we just need to put him in a uniform and get him a belt and he’ll be ready for
his first class!”
“Great, thank you so much.” My mom replied to her before
calling me back over to them. The freckle-faced girl quickly sized me up and
asked me what color uniform I would like. Blue or white. It wasn’t much of a
choice, but Raman was wearing white, so I decided I would go with blue. She
pulled a tiny uniform down from the shelf and handed it to my mother, along
with a fresh white belt.
We were led around the counter and to the corner of the room,
where there was another door. This one looked nearly identical to the door on
the far wall, and led to a corridor with several changing rooms. The girl told
me I could put my uniform on in there, and that she would help me with my belt
when I came back out.
So, into the hallway I went. It was quiet here, save for the
buzzing hum of fluorescent lights overhead. The floor was an off-white (from
age) speckled tiling, and to my immediate left was a row of black doors, all of
them ajar. I walked into the first room and changed into my gi.
My first thought was that it was much heavier than I had
expected, and stiff to boot. The fabric of the uniform was rough and
uncomfortable on my skin, and I found it slightly difficult to move my arms and
legs, since the material seemed so reluctant to fold like normal clothing. The
uniform smelled funny, too, like it had been treated with some kind of chemical
before being sealed for shipping.
A mirror in the dressing room allowed me to see how I looked.
Awkward, to put it lightly. Definitely not like an imposing warrior of the
shadows. The uniform was large and baggy and my fingers and toes barely reached
out of the sleeves and pants. I frowned, that swollen heart feeling coming
back. Maybe the belt would help, I thought, so I shuffled a discouraging
shuffle back out of the dressing area into the dojo.
My mom and the freckled girl greeted me just outside the
door, and freckles quickly set about wrapping the white belt around my waist.
She attempted to explain the steps to properly tying the belt to me as she
went, but they were completely lost on me. There were so many different loops
and knows going on, and I just couldn’t follow. Hell, I could barely tie a shoe
at the time. It would be a few years before I finally got the hang of tying my
Judo belt properly.
“Got it?” she asked with a friendly smile once the belt was
secure.
“Yeah.” I managed to lie. Mom seemed to pick up on the fib
and patted me on the shoulder.
“We’ll just practice it at home to be sure.” She said.
“Ok, great!” Freckles said to me, “You can go ahead and line
up now, class will begin in a couple minutes.” She turned to my mother. “Mrs.
Calumet, you can wait in the seating area if you want, or feel free to come
back in an hour or so. Youth classes don’t last much longer than that,
usually.”
I looked out onto the training floor and saw that the
disorganized bunch of kids from before had all lined up against the wall
opposite the mirror. Even nervous Raman had joined them, though his belt was
still poorly tied and his eyes seemed to have grown even larger. Quickly taking
off my sandals, I scampered out onto the mat to join them, slipping into
formation next to Raman on the end of the line closest to the door.
Feeling at the cold rubber with my big toes, my disappointed
feeling was replaced with nervousness; my stomach tying itself into new and
creative knots every moment. My own reflection stared back at me from the
gigantic mirror, and I could see that I looked nearly as scared as Raman did.
We were both easily the smallest in the class, and of course the newest. This
got worse by the minute.
Quickly looking to my right, I hoped above all else that my
mother had not left. Thankfully she was a mind-reader, and I found her sitting
in a folding chair talking to Raman’s important-looking father and his imposing
beard. She must have noticed my distraught, imploring expression, because she
smiled and waved happily at me. I felt a bit better and turned my head back
towards the mirror. I could do it! I knew I could! Still, I hoped our teacher
wouldn’t be too scary (although I
expected him to be at least a little intimidating).
The nondescript door to our collective left opened with
little notice or fanfare, and out shuffled a small, gray-haired Japanese man.
My immediate thoughts at the time were that he was as old as time itself, or at
least as old as my grandpa (who himself only in his mid fifties, not all that old really). To say he was small was actually quite an
understatement, he was downright diminutive, in reality measuring only an inch
or two over five feet tall. He smiled gently at the class, without showing his
teeth, and had eyes so relaxed it almost appeared that he was sleepwalking.
The tiny man had a full head of rapidly graying hair,
actually a bit long for someone of such advanced age, but it was combed back
and neatly styled. His uniform was blue, like mine, but so worn that the color
had faded to more of a gray shade, not unlike the sky on a gloomy day. His
black belt was similar, frayed around the edges and faded with age. Like the
freckle-faced girl, he had something written on his belt in Japanese. As he
shuffled out in front of the class he produced a thick-rimmed pair of glasses
from within his gi and perched them upon the bridge of his nose. His eyes
seemed only the tiniest bit more alert afterwards. He nodded this way and that
at students before coming to a stop in the center of the room.
Studying his humble, quiet appearance, I tried my hardest to
figure out who this guy was supposed to be. Maybe he was the Ninja Master’s
butler, or something. I didn’t see why a Ninja Master couldn’t have a butler. I
was sure he would call his employer out before long.
“Good morning, everybody. Awfully warm today, isn’t it?” he
said. His voice was as gentle as his appearance, and I’ve always thought he
sounded like he could narrate commercials for Werther’s candies or some kind of
coffee.
“Good morning, Hayashida-sensei!” the entire class, save for
Raman and myself, shouted back. It was that typical sing-song tone groups of
children always use when addressing teachers or officials or whatever.
Wait. Did they call him sensei? Something was wrong here. At
5 I had no idea what ‘sensei’ meant, but I knew for sure that I had heard a
Ninja Turtle call Splinter that at one point. So if Splinter was their father
figure and Ninja master, then that must mean...oh. Oh, no. It couldn’t be.
“I see that we have some new students in class today,” Mr.
Hayashida said, “my name is Ryoma Hayashida, but you may call me Mr. Hayashida or
Hayashida-sensei. Or Sensei. Or teacher. Just don’t call me bald!”
At that small crack he gave himself quite a chuckle, though
nobody else seemed to quite get the joke. Perhaps embarrassed, he ran a hand
through his hair and shook off the laughter to refocus on me, Raman, and our
parents: the newcomers.
“Welcome to the Hayashida School of Judo! I’m looking forward
to getting to know all of you, but for now I’ll start with my two new students’
names.” He said and looked directly at me and Raman, his sleepy eyes studying
us from behind those large glasses.
“I-I-I-I’m R-Raman.” Raman stammered, quivering.
Mr. Hayashida bowed his head to Raman. “It is a pleasure to
meet you, Raman-chan.” He said with a smile. The rest of the class smiled and
bowed towards Raman as well, and he finally seemed to relax just a little bit.
Mr. Hayashida then turned towards me, his eyebrows rising a little bit when he
did. Probably in reaction to the fierce and confused scowl on my face.
“And who might you be, little warrior?” he asked.
“What’s Judo?” I answered him. The
class laughed. Even Raman giggled a little bit. After laughing a bit, perhaps
at how forward I was, Mr. Hayashida looked a bit more puzzled before replying,
“Well, Judo is the martial art I teach at my school. It is a gentle art which
utilizes throws and holds instead of physical strikes...like punches or kicks.”
The last part being added for my benefit.
“Oh,” I mumbled, “I wanted to be a
ninja. Not a… Judo… man.” I felt tricked, disappointed, and very sad. This really
wasn’t a ninja school at all.
The sensei frowned at me, though it
was not from disapproval. Perhaps he’d heard this before, because he knew just
what to say next. “I see. Why were you hoping to become a ninja, my little
friend?”
“Because being a ninja is so cool!
You punch and kick bad guys and get to do flips and fight with cool weapons!
It’s awesome! Judo sounds boring…” I replied. I didn’t look at her to verify,
but I’m positive at this point my mother’s face must have been flushed crimson.
The entire class was now focused on me and my little five year old’s bowl cut.
“So it does, so it does,” Ryoma
Hayashida, Judo master, admitted, “but how can you be so sure that it truly is
boring if you’ve never seen it? Or tried it? They say that seeing is believing,
you know.”
“Well, I dunno,” I said, “I just
think it is! Holding is like hugging, isn’t it? I don’t think I could beat many
bad guys that way…”
Everyone laughed again, including Mr.
Hayashida. “Well alright, little one, would you like to see a quick
demonstration of Judo? If you see it and still think it boring, you will have
both my permission and my blessing to seek training elsewhere. What do you
say?”
I was beginning to feel a little bit
silly and embarrassed, so I just nodded quickly while looking at the floor.
“Alright then,” he said and motioned
for one of the older students (a teenage boy with a black belt) to stand up,
“Josh here is going to attack me in any way he wishes. He can use Judo, Karate,
wrestling, or even a dirty trick from the streets. I have no clue what he will
try, but I will react and neutralize him using only Judo techniques. Fair
enough?”
Again, I only nodded. Josh, however,
was not quite as receptive.
“S-sensei, you want me to attack
you?” he stammered, “Without any restrictions? I can’t do that…”
Mr. Hayashida only smiled. “Don’t be
scared, Josh. I won’t hurt you.”
The other students laughed.
The teacher continued, “I insist,
Josh. Be as serious and vicious as you can.”
At those words, Josh gulped slowly.
His hands hesitantly closed into fists before clenching firmly. He resolved
himself to attack, and I was focused on his every move. Forgetting any Judo
training he had learned up to that moment, he pulled his right fist back behind
his head and began to charge. The teenager leaned forward and sprinted at his
teacher, yelling out with his best imitation of a karate kiai that he had
probably seen on TV at some point. He flung his right fist straight forward
towards Mr. Hayashida’s face. It was a sloppy, untrained punch, but it still
seemed more than sufficient to defeat the miniscule man who I was convinced
hugged people into defeat.
That punch never reached Ryoma
Hayashida’s face, however. Just as the attack was being thrown out, the Judo
master lunged towards his attacker and ducked low, shoving his shoulder into
Josh’s stomach. He moved like lightning, such that I had no clue what he had
done, and Josh seemed almost to trip over Mr. Hayashida and go tumbling into
the air. He flipped a full rotation before landing with a shock on his feet on
the opposite side of his teacher. His face was ghastly white and his eyes wide.
Had I been able to follow Mr.
Hayashida’s actions that day, what I would have seen was that in the instant he
ducked and forced his right shoulder into Josh’s stomach, he had reached up
with his left hand and grabbed hold of Josh’s punching hand’s wrist. His right
arm, meanwhile, had stretched underneath Josh’s body and scooped him up onto
his shoulders. The smallest fraction of a moment later, he had pulled violently
downwards with his left arm while thrusting upwards with his right. This was a
throw known as kata guruma, or the
shoulder wheel.
Normally, the throw would have ended
like this with Josh being thrown brutally to the floor. However, Mr. Hayashida
had promised not to hurt Josh, and he was a man of his word. Instead of pulling
his victim into a savage slam, he instead flung him into the air, which
resulted in the spectacular midair flip. Then, in order to prevent gravity from
doing the damage on its own, he swiftly caught the boy by the gi and eased him
into a safe landing. Olympic judges would have given him a 9.95 for sticking
it.
The class applauded wildly at this display,
and my mother (along with several other parents) looked just as shocked as
Josh. Next to me, Raman seemed very excited, unable to hide his smile. Mr.
Hayashida, Sensei Hayashida, turned
again towards me.
“So, little friend, did I pass your
test? Is Judo cool, after all?” he asked, already knowing my answer. The
admiring spark behind my eyes had to give it all away.
“That. Was. AWESOME!” I exclaimed.
Judo was so cool. He knew it. Everyone there knew it. Now I knew it.
And just like that, I was hooked for
life.
Chapter 3- Random Encounter
The moon was full tonight. I didn’t
really know what day it was, how late it was, or even what town I was in, but
the moon was full. Just going off the temperature and my internal calendar, I
knew it was late in spring, probably May. My mother’s birthday was in May, and
unfortunately it didn’t look like I would be able to make it home to celebrate
with her. I was so far away tonight, and the moon was full.
It was my first night in the city in
quite some time; perhaps months. I had set out for a training journey right as
winter was ending, since I never really cared to sleep in the snow. I did try
it once before, but thought I was going to end up losing both feet and one hand
I was so cold. After that I attempted to avoid colder climates whenever
possible, either by living a slightly more normal existence or by travelling
south where the winter months didn’t quite matter as much.
Spring had been very productive, and
I thought I had made quite a bit of progress both physically and spiritually. I
was even finally starting to really get the hang of living off the land;
trapping and gathering were almost second nature now. Still, even I had limits
on how long I was willing to stay out in the wilds. No matter how accustomed I
grew, there were still moments when I longed for civilization. To eat hot food,
sleep in a soft bed, catch a movie. To see another human. Sometimes even lone
wolves like to catch a glimpse of the pack.
Even though the night was warm, it
was also incredibly humid and stifling. There had been a fierce storm that
afternoon, and the moisture still hung thick in the air. The streets and
sidewalks were still soaked through with rainwater, and they chilled my bare
feet something awful. I really ought to stop and get the straw sandals out of
my bag, but something told me it wouldn’t be wise to linger in this section of
this particular town for very long. I subconsciously quickened my pace, hoping
to find somewhere hospitable to take a breather. I’d been walking since long
before sunset, which I knew had to have been several hours ago.
Again, I had no real idea where
exactly I was. When I departed for this excursion back in late February I knew
I had been facing south, but I wasn’t sure how far I’d gone or if I’d veered
east or west much, if at all. The town I now found myself in seemed small but
well-populated and bustling. From a distance it had reminded me a lot of home,
but now that I was actually here it gave off a much more menacing feeling. This
street in particular.
It was a large street, both in width
and length, stretching from one end of town to the other. Maybe Main Street?
Seemed awfully shady for that, though. Numerous cars were parked alongside the
curbs that didn’t look like they’d moved in centuries, even though that was
obviously impossible. They were mostly rusted and decayed, missing windows or
hubcaps or both. Some were hybrids, but not of the fuel-efficient variety. The
chimeric variety; comedic fusions of parts lifted from a plethora of drastically
different vehicles. Black cars with a red door, trucks with mismatched beds,
and so on.
The road was lined with numerous
street lights, but the vast majority were nonfunctioning, or at best rapidly
flickering like unintentional strobe lights. It didn’t seem like the street
needed them working for much, though. The majority of buildings were
dilapidated storefronts; their windows boarded, caged, or altogether missing
and their interiors long since gutted. What buildings were still operational seemed
to have closed up shop for the night, and the steel gates concealing their
entrances were littered with illegible graffiti.
A small cyclone of trash rushed past
my face through the air and off into another alley. What a dump. I had seen
hardly anyone since coming into town, only a few perplexed faces in windows or
uncaring glances from passing cars. I felt agitated, disappointed, lonely.
Maybe I should have stayed in the mountains after all.
Sighing, I glanced up to the
marvelous full moon as I continued down the damp, depressed street. The lunar
face shone back down on me with a yellowed, mystical light. All around it, the
stars danced and shimmered. The sky was perfectly black and clear, which sounds
awfully paradoxical, when you think about it. For a moment, I forgot my
troubles and felt at peace again. The heavens were the same, at least.
I was brought back to reality by a
wild stabbing pain in my left foot. Instinctively clutching at it with both
hands, I felt a warm stream of blood flowing out from my heel. It had already
started to pool beneath me. Cursing loudly, I felt around the wound to find a
massive shard of broken glass sticking out. Definitely should have stayed in
the mountains.
Taking a seat upon the curb of the
sidewalk, I removed my backpack from my shoulders and set it in the street
between my legs and opened it up. Though it was dark, my eyes had adjusted
enough that I was able to find a roll of bandages and the simplistic first aid
kit I always carried with me. Nearly out of supplies, particularly Neosporin.
Making a mental note to visit the first pharmacy I found, I set about cleaning
and wrapping my foot. A quick swab, a bit of the Neo, some gauze, and a wrap
would make me good as new, or at least good enough to get out of this stupid
town.
“Hey man, you need some help there,
man?” an unsteady voice called out from behind me. Oh, no.
Glancing over my shoulder, hands
still busying with my foot, I saw two largish men standing between me and a
pitch-black alleyway. They were both tall and pale, with dark, shabby excuses
for mustaches. As they crept forward out of the shadows, they smiled at me:
sinister smiles without a hint of friendliness. Or healthy teeth.
“Yeah, man, like, anything we can
help you with, buddy?” the one on the left, taller and thinner, said. He
glanced over towards his partner.
Finishing the wrap on my foot by
then, I kept my eyes fixed on them the entire time. “No, I’ve already taken
care of it. Thanks.” I answered, cold but unthreatening. They kept creeping forward,
their bodies twitching and writhing in unnatural ways. I had little doubt they
were high. Painkillers or something, maybe? Their eyes had a glassy, yellowed
look to them.
“You sure, there, man? We’re pretty
useful. Maybe somethin’ we can get you oughta that bag, huh?” the other man
said. He was shorter, but only slightly so. He was wearing a greatly oversized
black coat on top of a soiled white tank top. Little warm outside for something
like that. He reached awkwardly towards my bag, but I quickly grabbed it up and
threw it over my shoulders. I was standing now, squared off with the two of
them.
“Whoa, whoa, easy man, we’re just
trying to help, you know?” tall and skinny said, “Don’t gotta be like that.”
I tried not to scowl, but there was
little helping it. They made me sick, watching them twitch and writhe through
their drug-haze. Staring and lingering was a mistake on my part, no doubt. I
should have left by now, but I was rooted by disgust. “Look, I’m tired, and I
don’t need any help. I have to be going.” I said, and perhaps my aggravation
shone through in my voice. It had been quite a while since I’d slept, and being
stabbed in the foot by broken glass hardly helped my mood.
“Yeah. Yeah, alright man, we get
you. But hey, look, maybe you can do us a favor, yeah?” the one with the coat
said. “We just lost our jobs man, you know how the economy is, you know? It’s
like, depressed, right?”
Why was every sentence of theirs a
question? His friend joined him now.
“There’s no work, you know, and we got
wives and kids to feed, man. We’re just scrapin’ by, so can you help us out or
something, man?” He put his hand on my shoulder, and I didn’t see anything that
even remotely resembled a wedding ring. Not that I needed to be told they were
lying.
“Do your eyes work?” I snarled at
them, “I’m not even wearing shoes. What makes you think I would have any
money?”
I thought it was a legitimate
question. There I was walking the streets in a terribly worn judo gi, my hair
long and unkempt, carrying nothing but a leather backpack. Sure, I knew I had a
little bit of money, but my appearance would hardly give anyone that
impression.
“C’mon now, buddy, everybody’s got a
little something. We just need a few bucks for some smokes, you know?” The hand
on my shoulder gripped me tighter.
“No, I don’t know. I don’t smoke.” I
replied. Pretty clever, I thought. I don’t think they agreed.
“Yeah, well maybe you’ll know…if…you
know…what’s good for you, man, you know?” The tall one managed to stammer out
in reply. His eyes had gone from glassy to crazed and intense…though they were
still grossly yellow.
I acted reflexively, and instantly.
Grabbing his forearm with my left hand, I pulled him towards me while gripping
his shirt with my right hand to increase the force. Moving slightly to my
right, I extended my left foot to the side just as he was stumbling forward
into the empty space. Savagely hauling him forward and over my foot, I tripped
him into the street where he landed in an unceremonious heap. Perfect sasae-tsurikomi-ashi.
“Yo man, what the fuck, man? You
think you Kung Fu or some shit!?” his
friend shouted at me, and reaching into his coat, withdrew a small black
object. With a flick of his wrist, the black object sprouted a gleaming silver
blade, six inches long. Minimum length for a mortal wound. Or at least that’s
what a movie told me once. “I got news, man, you ain’t shit, man!”
My eyes locked on the blade of the
knife. Knives were always dangerous. Even a child could get lucky in the midst
of frenzied stabbing. Forget someone with any degree of practice. I’d have to
be perfect. Still, did he just call me kung fu?
“Wait, did you say I thought I was Kung Fu?” I couldn’t help asking.
“Yeah, you think you walkin’ tha
earth like Kung Fu or whatever, you know? But you ain’t. You ain’t nothin’ to
me, man!”
“You’re saying I’m walking the
earth…like a 1970’s TV show starring David Carradine? That doesn’t make any
sense at all!” I yelled at him, frustrated.
“You don’t make no sense, son! You
pissin’ me off now!” he shouted, then charged like a wild boar. The knife
gleamed in the moonlight as it came screaming towards me, flashing upwards
right into my face. I sidestepped just in time, and the blade flashed alongside
my right cheek, slicing through several stray hairs. I was due for a trim,
anyway.
At the same time, I latched onto his
stabbing wrist with my right hand and turned slightly, stepping into his chest.
Bringing up my left arm, I pressed my bicep beneath his arm and forced it
upward while pulling his wrist down. I heard an aggravated crunch and yelp of
pain from him as I did so, which I hoped meant his elbow had been
hyper-extended. Turning further, I used this leverage on his arm to force him
into the air and flipped him over my shoulder. These events all transpired in
less than a second, and I knew there was no way he could react in time to
perform a proper ukemi.
With all the strength and speed I
could muster, I slammed him face-first into the street next to his friend. Just
to be safe, I grabbed hold of his remaining hand and held it up, quickly
snapping his other elbow with a swift kick. He didn’t holler in pain like I had
expected, and that’s when I noticed that blood was pouring from his face,
rapidly flooding the street. Had he not been wielding a knife, or had I been
less experienced, I might have thought I went a bit overboard. The scars
striping my torso, arms, and legs reminded me that I had probably not been
brutal enough. Still, it would be a bad idea to linger here much longer.
“You meant to say I was like Kwai
Chang Caine, dumbass. That was Carradine’s character IN Kung Fu. I always thought I was more of a modern day Sanshiro…but I
guess I’ll try to take it as a compliment.” I told his unconscious form. When
there was no response I decided to make good my escape, and continued walking
down the street.
Just before I was out of sight, I
turned back to ensure neither of them had gotten up to follow me. Their prone
forms still lay in the street, yet to be discovered by any passersby. Sometimes
it still amazed me how devastating gravity could be with a little help.
Chapter 4- Once More, August 7th,
1993
“Now, our newcomers may not believe
this,” Mr. Hayashida said, standing in front of the class, “but gravity can be
truly devastating if you give it a little help.” He held a small red ball
straight out at shoulder level and dropped it. It bounced gently off the ground
and rolled away down the mat. “You see, by itself, not so much,” he continued,
“but with help?”
Here he produced a second ball and
fiercely threw it into the floor. The ball ricocheted off the ground and back
into the air before smacking into the ceiling and falling once more. “The
result is quite a bit more sinister, no?”
The entire class agreed.
“With that in mind, the most
important thing you can learn is how to prevent gravity from doing its worst to
you. Hence, the very first thing you will learn,” and this was directed towards
Raman and myself, “is how to fall and get back up.”
Now, at this point we were actually
almost half an hour into the class, so learning to fall wasn’t technically the first thing we learned.
The first thing we learned was
sitting. More specifically, sitting at attention in the traditional Japanese seiza style. Now, there is actually
quite a bit of detail in the form of seiza,
but to be blunt its basically kneeling down and resting your butt on the heels
of your feet, which are flat on the floor. As you might imagine, this is
incredibly uncomfortable for those unaccustomed to it, and so Mr. Hayashida
only made the beginners maintain the form for a few minutes before allowing us
to change over to the agura
(cross-legged, or Indian-style) form of seating. I didn’t really get why we had
to sit either way, but tradition was tradition, and I did as I was told. I
figured I would have to if I wanted to learn to throw people the way Mr.
Hayashida could.
After learning how to sit, Mr.
Hayashida stepped away from the front of the class and was replaced by the
freckle-faced girl, who would apparently be leading us through our stretches
and warm-up. This was my first exposure to organized exercise drills, and I
found all of them to be surprisingly challenging despite having a very active
outdoor playtime scheduled each day. Pushups, sit-ups, jumping-jacks, squats,
running in place…and I was already exhausted! Thankfully, Raman was about the
same, so at least I didn’t have to suffer alone. The majority of our classmates
seemed very accustomed to the routine, though a few of the more portly children
struggled almost as much as Raman and me.
We also stretched our arms, legs,
backs, shoulders, and necks with a variety of moves, and I found that I was
surprisingly flexible. My long arms easily reached to my toes, and I could
almost even touch my head to my knees like the freckle-faced girl! Even though
it was difficult, I couldn’t help but smile as we warmed up and stretched. It
was fun!
Anyways, once that was all over and
done with, and Mr. Hayashida had made his brief speech about gravity, we began
to learn the mysterious (but surprisingly simple) art of the ukemi. Ukemi is, more or less, a fancy Japanese way of saying defensive
roll. The primary form (which anyone can use to lessen the impact of a throw
such as seoi-nage) involves rolling
forward as you hit the ground in order to spread the impact over a greater
surface area on your body. Years later, I was amused to learn that ukemi and similar techniques were also
widely used in parkour, which you may
remember seeing your little brother try in the backyard right before he broke
his arm.
To perform this basic ukemi, you
start by placing your hands upon the ground to brace for the fall. You then tuck your head down and a little to
the side, allowing yourself to roll forward onto your shoulder of choice
(probably your dominant hand’s side). Then, simply roll forwards on a diagonal
line from that shoulder to your opposite hip. Keep rolling and you’ll be able
to land on one knee ready to continue fighting. With some practice, you can
even leap right back up into a run to escape, create space, or really do
whatever else you want.
There are naturally different ukemi for defending against different
throws, but that’s the basic method for your knowledge banks. It might sound a
bit complex, and at the start in can be, but rolling in such a way is actually
very natural, and before long you’ll be amazed you weren’t just born
understanding it.
So, that was more or less what Mr.
Hayashida and the freckle-faced girl explained to us for the next several
minutes before allowing us to begin practicing the form. We lined up facing the mirror-wall and began
to roll about. It looked more like gymnastics class than Judo. Little kids
clumsily rolling about this way and that with varying degrees of skill and
success. Since Raman and I had obviously never even heard of an ukemi before that day, we received a
little extra attention and instruction from Mr. Hayashida and the teenaged
assistant instructors.
Step by step they walked us through
the technique. Hands on the ground, tuck head, point shoulder, roll to opposite
hip, fighting stance. We were anything but naturals that day. Like most
children, we wanted to do headstands before awkwardly somersaulting and smacking
down hard on our backs. Sadly, this was at least 100% the opposite of we needed
to do, and in a match could’ve resulted in snapped necks and/or seriously
injured spines and tailbones. In this manner, the clock ticked away and before
anyone knew it, class was at an end without my learning even one throw.
Yet I wasn’t upset, not at all. In
fact, I hardly took notice of the lack of badass attacks I had learned.
Something had changed in my mentality since I walked through those doors;
perhaps I had grown up just a little bit in that short time. I didn’t want to
be a Ninja Turtle anymore. Sure, I would still watch their show, and I thought
they were super cool, but I no longer aspired to be them. Instead, I was
fascinated by a diminutive, elderly Japanese man who seemed to possess endless
strength. If he could throw a teenager like Josh so effortlessly in a
demonstration, how amazing was he in real combat? He was friendly and smart,
too, and I wanted to be just as strong and wise as he was.
Class ended much like it had begun.
Everyone lined up again and bowed to Mr. Hayashida, who congratulated us on a
productive class and urged us to practice our ukemi at home, preferably with adult supervision for the younger
kids. He bowed to us, us to him, and we were dismissed for the day as he
shuffled back into his office. The freckle-faced girl moved to the fore at this
point and made a few announcements of her own. It was forgettable, mostly
targeted towards the older kids and grown-ups, I figured. After she finished
speaking, everyone got out of line and prepared to leave.
Most of the students had gone to the
changing rooms to remove their gis, but I was so excited about Judo that I
wanted to keep mine on, even though it was still incredibly stiff and
uncomfortable. Raman apparently felt the same way, as he followed me off the
mats and towards our conversing parents. I learned later that he didn’t
actually like wearing the gi at all, he was just too afraid to go into the
changing hallway alone. He really was such a chicken back then. Both Raman’s
father and my mom seemed surprised when we walked up to them.
“Oh, you’re done already?” Mom asked
us.
“Yep!” I exclaimed, nothing but
smiles.
“Huh! And here I thought all that
rolling around was just part of the warmup,” She said to Raman’s father, then
turned back to us kids, “did you two have fun? Learn anything?”
“Yep!” I said again, “We learned how
to do an oo-oo…uhh…” I had forgotten the word already.
“A-an ukemi!” Raman offered helpfully, raising his voice the loudest I
had yet heard it. His father looked impressed with him; smiling behind that
magnificent beard.
“That’s wonderful, Raman,” he said,
“you’ll have to show me once we return home!”
“Well then, are you ready to go?” my
mother asked me. When I nodded excitedly she turned back towards Raman’s father
and shook his hand, exchanging pleasantries. Taking a cue from her, I turned
towards Raman and extended my own open hand.
“Good to meetcha, Raman! Let’s be
friends and get strong!” I shouted. I faintly heard some of the older kids
laughing. Raman hesitated at first, but after a prodding cough from his father
he took my hand and we shook on it.
“O-ok,” he replied, “strong
friends.” He almost cracked a smile, but looked to be embarrassed at the last
second and reconsider it.
“Come on, little guy.” My mom said,
and she led the way out of the dojo. I waved goodbye to Raman and his father
and marched after her, feeling happier with every step I took in that damned
uncomfortable gi.
Chapter 5- Saplings
Before anyone was the wiser, two
years had passed. Yes, just like that. They were a pretty uneventful two years,
really. I started kindergarten not long after that first judo class, and thanks
to a happy coincidence I was in the same class as Raman, with whom I became
fast friends. Like most five year old boys, we had plenty in common; mostly a
love of similar cartoons, video games, and most recently, judo.
Though he was near mute when we
first met, Raman came out of his shell before long, becoming more open and
confident with each visit to the dojo. However, he remained mostly introverted
at our regular school. Particularly when it came to encounters with the other
boys. Raman seemed to be picking up judo rather well, but he was hardly a
natural at more conventional sports. This, of course, is unacceptable in the
wilds of childhood life.
As for judo itself, we had learned
plenty of things since that first day back in ’93. After the ukemi came more advanced defensive
rolls, and then the basic throws and rehearsed practice. After Mr. Hayashida
had deemed our understanding advanced enough, we moved on to real practice
matches and more advanced techniques and counter-techniques. The entire class’s
knowledge seemed to grow at an alarming rate, and our masterful teacher made
sure we understood the applications and practicalities of everything we were
taught.
Whenever a new throw or counter was
introduced, Mr. Hayashida would explain its use. Seoi-nage is incredibly pragmatic and useful both in self-defense
and sporting competition. Hane-makikomi
is great if you’re fighting another judoka,
particularly in an official match. Not so much if you’re up against some random
hood. That was the sort of teach Ryoma Hayashida was. Practical and realistic.
We were constantly reminded that judo was for discipline and protection as a
last resort, and that there were limits to how effective even such a beautiful
art was. We were also constantly reminded that we were only children, and until
our bodies grew and strengthened, it would be difficult to get the most out of
any of the moves we learned.
It was during one such lecture that
Mr. Hayashida decided to talk about the then newly-formed Ultimate Fighting
Championship. At the time, the controversial, no-holds-barred fighting
promotion had held over five tournaments, each more spectacular and damning of
traditional arts like karate and kung fu than the last. Our sensei seemed to
have been holding his thoughts on this in for quite some time, and we all
listened in silence as he spoke.
“What these tournaments have shown,
to me at least, are the truths behind not only my personal beliefs regarding
the martial arts, but even the guiding principles of judo as laid out by our
founder, Jigoro Kano,” he said, shuffling about the front of the class, “ primarily, maximum efficiency with
minimum effort.”
I sat in agura position, scratching at my chin, trying my best to fully
absorb what he was saying. I could tell Raman was doing the same, staring
intensely from behind his monstrous glasses.
“The simplest, most practical
techniques are best,” he declared, “whether they are from judo, boxing,
wrestling, or anything else. Even more primal strategies, so basic they don’t
even seem to be true techniques; can be horribly effective if used against a
weak or unprepared enemy.”
Here I knew for sure what he meant.
Not even a few months prior, Raman’s father had allowed us to watch a VHS
(remember those?) recording of one of the UFC tournaments. He had started the
tape intending for us to see Royce Gracie winning with Brazilian Jiujitsu,
which he understood to have some roots in judo. What he didn’t mean for us to
witness was an incredibly violent second round match where a large, muscular
man nearly elbowed a self-proclaimed ninja’s face through the mat of the cage.
It wasn’t a technique at all. The man tackled his opponent, climbed on top of
his stomach, and just kept hitting him until he couldn’t fight back any more.
The footage scared us both, but at
the same time it stirred some kind of excitement deep within my small warrior’s
soul. It was an excitement merely amplified when I saw that same giant,
terrifying man defeated in the final round by the relatively puny Royce Gracie,
wearing a gi and using techniques similar to what I learned and practiced every
Tuesday, Thursday, and Saturday. I saw that grappling was worthwhile, that it
was effective. Mr. Hayashida continued speaking.
“There has been a wild outcry
against the traditional arts,” he said, “claims that karate, kung fu, boxing,
and even judo are obsolete in the face of something like Brazilian Jiujitsu or
western wrestling. I tell you all, this is not the case. There is a need today
for us, as martial artists, to grow and evolve in our understandings of combat.
We must intensify our training on all fronts, particularly the physical. Even
with encyclopedic knowledge, there is little one can do without a body fit for
combat, you know!”
I nodded enthusiastically, and the
rest of the class seemed to reciprocate. After all, how many times had any of
us seen the 90 lb. karate master? The 300 pound man who claimed he could strike
you down with one punch, even though he was incapable of running half a mile?
Raman and I had classmates who took karate and taekwondo. We heard their tales,
saw pictures of their “Grandmasters” of various mystical styles. Mr. Hayashida
was trying to warn us about them, I guess.
Now, I know what you might be
thinking. Mr. Hayashida was small, and old. And small! What right did he have
to talk about physical strength and fitness when he was so physically inferior
to the massive wrestlers who were striking fear into the great masters of the
world? He had plenty. Small as he was, Mr. Hayashida possessed a wholly
incredible degree of strength in his little frame. He performed all of the same
exercises the rest of us did, often doing twice as many pushups, sit-ups, or
whatever other task was at hand. Point is, the sensei was strong. You couldn’t
throw people twice your size by being weak, even if you understood things like
leverage and joint manipulation.
Trust me, there’s a point to this,
just like there was a point to Mr. Hayashida telling us all this that day.
Our teacher sighed to himself next,
adjusting his little glasses as he did so. “Forgive me, children,” he almost
whispered, “I’m afraid I’ve preached at you a little too much. Let’s change
course, shall we? I’d like to tell you all a story. One of my favorites.”
He shuffled closer to the class and
took a seat on the floor. Seated, he was nearly as small as the children he
taught. “Now, this is a true story, so keep that in mind if you start to think
it sounds like something out of manga,
alright?” he warned. Not knowing what manga
was at the time, I was a little confused by the sentence. Thankfully I’m able
to understand now.
“This is the story of a man named
Masahiko Kimura,” our teacher began his story, “and in the world of judo he
borders on legendary…in my eyes, at least. Kimura-san was born in 1917, and
began his judo training at the age of 11. Quite a bit later than some of you
lucky kids! By the time he was 15 he had earned his 4th degree black belt, and by age
18 he was promoted to 5th degree; the youngest in history. Though it
is difficult to verify, the stories say that he only lost four judo matches in
his life. Now, this was out of hundreds, possibly thousands of matches!”
My jaw dropped. What a record! The
story continued.
“Now, unlike me, Kimura-san was a
physically imposing man gifted with a phenomenally strong body. Even so, he was
not one to lapse in his physical training. In fact, I’d dare say he trained
even harder than those he already had natural advantages over. The next time I
have any of you do twenty push-ups and you think I’m terrible…just remember
that Kimura was said to do one thousand every day!”
Several students murmured in
astonishment, and with good reason. Most of us were plenty strong for our age
thanks to Mr. Hayashida’s training, but even the strongest among us would
struggle with any more than 80 or so push-ups. I had managed one hundred on a
dare from Raman once, and even that was something I didn’t want to try again
anytime soon.
“Oh, does that shock you, children?”
our teacher asked, “The legends also say Kimura trained as many as nine hours every day! Judo was his life; from dawn
to dusk it was practically all he did. Kimura-san also cross-trained in karate
to strengthen himself even further, and fought numerous special matches outside
of the official judo circles. The most famous was in 1951 against Helio Gracie,
one of the founders of the Gracie Jiu Jitsu that is garnering such praise and
attention today.”
Mr. Hayashida went on to tell us the
story of Kimura’s battle with Helio Gracie. How Kimura dominated the fight from
the very start, withstanding each of Gracie’s attempted throws. How he threw
Gracie almost at will with a variety of devastating moves. Eventually the fight
moved to the ground where Kimura continued to press his advantage, applying
multiple chokes and holds before finally securing a gyaku ude-garami, which is the Japanese term for what’s known in
wrestling as a double wristlock. Basically an armlock that applies tremendous
pressure to multiple joints. Though Kimura twisted and twisted the arm,
Gracie’s fighting spirit refused to allow him to admit defeat, even after
Kimura broke several of his bones. The fight was concluded when Gracie’s corner
finally threw the towel, and the smaller man never conceded his defeat.
I can’t speak for the others in
class, but I was stunned. To think that men like that existed…I could barely
contain my excitement, smiling stupidly from ear to ear. It was like something
from a movie. I felt energized, ready to take on the world just like Kimura had
with nothing but the power judo would provide.
“Now, I have shared this story with
you for several reasons, children,” our teacher said, “for one, to show you the
benefits and necessities of serious physical training. Secondly, to illustrate
the might and efficiency of judo as a martial art, and lastly, to show you that
even in defeat, a fighter can maintain his pride and dignity, just as
Gracie-san did that day.”
I felt as if I should applaud.
“But enough stories, shall we
continue our training?” he asked, and was answered with our enthusiastic cheers
in the affirmative. For the rest of the day, I watched as my classmates trained
with a fire and intensity I had never seen before. Of course, I did everything
I could to match their passions. The session flew by, and before I knew it,
freckle-faced girl (whose name was Jamie, it turned out) had made her usual
announcements and dismissed us. I began to make my way towards the changing
rooms, when I noticed something a bit out of the ordinary.
Typically, whenever class was ended,
Mr. Hayashida would shuffle back into his office to take a short break before
the intermediate and advanced students arrived. Today, however, he remained
standing at the front of the room watching us disperse with a look of quiet
approval. I stopped to watch him for a moment, then decided to go up and talk
to him. Though I had been training at the dojo for over two years now, I
scarcely spoke directly to Mr. Hayashida. Really, that first day in ’93 was
probably the most we had ever talked to each other (not counting instruction).
As I approached him then, I was overcome with a strange uneasiness, like the
air grew heavier and oppressive closer to him. I wasn’t even sure why I was
going up to him, but I felt that I had to.
He noticed me coming before too
long, and smiled down at me. Almost immediately, the atmosphere seemed to relax
and I felt a bit more comfortable. “What is it, little one?” he asked. Though I
had never really stood out in class until then, he always called me that in
place of my name. Perhaps it was his way of remembering that first day when I
refused to introduce myself.
I stuttered a little, trying to
figure out just what the hell I wanted to say to him. “Well,” I finally managed
to spit out, “I just wanted to know if you had any more cool stories about, um,
Kimura-san.”
He seemed genuinely touched by my
questions. The joy a teacher experiences when truly connecting with a student,
perhaps. “Ah, you like Kimura-san, do you? Well, there are other stories, but
they are perhaps best saved for when you’re a little bit older.”
The stories he was referring to
involve Kimura’s later years as a pro-wrestler, and featured some rather
unsavory rumors regarding his matches with a wrestler named Rikidozan, and the
latter’s violent death.
I was a bit disappointed he had no
other stories, but I said that yes, I thought Mr. Kimura sounded really cool
and strong.
“Well, there is one thing I forgot
to tell the class.” He added.
“Oh, what is it, what!?” I
exclaimed.
“A peculiar training ritual of his,”
Mr. Hayashida said, “stories say that Kimura-san would practice his osoto-gari on trees. It’s pretty extreme
if you ask me, but it would certainly be a challenge!”
That
was so cool, I thought. This man was something out of a comic book. Then I
thought of another question. “Did you ever try osoto-gari on a tree, Mr. Hayashida?”
This was a question that seemed to
catch him slightly off guard, and he gave a wry laugh. “Oh, little one, that’s
something only a crazy person would want to do.” He winked at me and grinned,
and I thought that he probably did similar things when he was younger. Maybe he
still did. My sensei was awfully cool, himself.
“Um, is Mr. Kimura still alive,
sensei?” I asked.
“Oh…no, no,” he replied, “Kimura-san
died a few years ago. He was of rather advanced age, and had become sick. Even
the strongest warriors cannot defeat time, little one. Now, why don’t you go
get changed?”
He patted my head and sent me on my
way. I bowed and thanked him for the stories before rushing off to the dressing
room.
*
A few days later while walking home
from school, Raman and I were passing by a local park when a freshly planted
tree caught my eye. Instantly, I was reminded of Kimura and the story of his osoto-gari practice. I grabbed Raman by
the shirt sleeve and stopped him. He jumped in surprise.
“Wha!? Don’t scare me like that!” he
all but screamed.
“Did I tell you what I heard from
Mr. Hayashida the other day!?” I asked, even though I knew the answer was no.
“I’m sure you would tell me again
even if you had…but what?” Raman replied.
“He said that Kimura guy used to
practice his throws on trees! How cool is that!?”
Raman didn’t seem quite as impressed
as I had been. “You can’t throw a tree. They’re too big! It sounds like a good
way to get hurt.” He said.
I frowned for a moment, but then
pointed to the young sapling that had reminded me. “Maybe, but what about a
little tree!? I bet even we could budge that one over there a little!”
“No way!” he said, “You’re not that
strong, you’ll never move that tree!”
We argued like kids do for another
couple minutes before I had finally had enough, and declared that I would throw
the tree right then and there. I marched right up to the tree and threw my book
bag aside in the grass. Rolling up my sleeves like I had seen a tough guy in a
movie do, I looked the tree up and down. It was small still, but not quite as
much so as I had initially thought. Thinking back, I would say it was nearly 6
inches in diameter and a few feet taller than me, which would put it at over
five feet. Raman sat down in the grass near my bag and goaded me on.
“Alright tough guy, let’s see it!”
he said, waiting for me to fail.
Telling him to shut up, I took a
deep breath and tried to focus on the method behind a perfect osoto-gari. You step behind your target
with your inner leg and use it to sweep their legs out from under them while
simultaneously pushing their upper body forwards, combining two opposing forces
to facilitate a threw that is half trip, half shove. Really, it’s about the
only throw I knew of that could even be practiced on a tree.
With the form firmly in mind, I
exploded into action. My hands latched onto the trunk and I shoved as hard as I
could while sweeping the tree’s base with my right foot. I put all of my might
into it, and I couldn’t wait to hear the trunk splinter before my judo prowess.
The look on Raman’s face would be priceless. If only I had a camera…
Except there was a problem. The tree
didn’t splinter and crash to the ground. Far from it, the plant barely even
shook at my attack. A few leaves might have rustled or fallen, but nothing
more. Perhaps more importantly, a terribly painful vibrating sensation was
shooting all through my right leg now.
I yelped in pain and leapt away from
the tree then, clutching at my lower leg as tears welled up in my eyes.
“See, dummy?” Raman taunted me,
adjusting his glasses, “It’s pointless! You’ll never be able to do it. Not in a
million years! Kids aren’t that strong.” And so on.
Curling into a ball, I wrapped my
arms around my legs and sighed into my knees. He was right. My osoto-gari wasn’t near strong enough. We
sat in silence for a moment as I thought it over. I scowled and grimaced,
trying my best to come to some kind of understanding about things. About judo,
about the stories of Kimura, about my own childish lack of strength. Raman
whistled nervously.
Suddenly it hit me. I sprung to my
feet and walked back to the tree. My right leg was still throbbing, so I may
have limped slightly. I gently placed my right hand on its trunk and stared up
at its fledgling branches. A warm breeze played on the leaves.
“Oh geez, you’re not gonna try
again, are you? I already toooold you, it’s no good!” Raman hollered over to
me.
I turned around to face him, my hand
still on the tree trunk. “I know,” I said, “it’s no good today. But, I’m still small. And so is the tree here.”
He didn’t seem to get what I was
saying, gawking awkwardly at me.
“I’m gonna get strong, Raman,” I went
on, “really strong. So will this tree. We’re just kids now, but one day we’re
both gonna be real big and real strong. Maybe then it won’t be pointless any
more, and I can win. Until then, I’ll practice hard to beat an unbeatable
opponent!”
I smiled awkwardly. I sort of felt
like a dork saying something so dramatic.
Chapter 6- New Strength
I woke up the next morning before
the sun came up. The night before I had come home and asked my mom to get me
out of bed extra early because there was a new cartoon on I really wanted to
watch. That wasn’t the truth, really, but I felt silly telling her I wanted to
wake up early and practice before school. She might not like the idea, for
whatever one of those weird reasons moms dislike things.
My room was still pitch black
without the sunlight, and my eyes were nearly sealed shut with sleep crust. So
tired. I just wanted to go back to sleep…just for…five more…minutes…
“I thought you had a show you wanted
to watch!?” I heard my mother’s confused voice shouting in from the hallway.
Snapping back awake, I shifted my bewildered eyes towards a red digital clock
perched on the dresser across from my bed. 6:50. I had fallen back asleep for
nearly twenty minutes! I would have to start getting ready for school before too
long. Had to think fast. How could I get stronger? How!?
The only exercises that came to mind
were those we did for warm-ups in class. Push-ups!
I shouted inside of my mind, and slid out of bed onto the carpet. I felt a
sudden pang in my right leg; still sore from smacking against that tree, no
doubt. Squinting at my calf there in the dark, I could make out the dark
outline of a mammoth bruise. Oh, gross.
Groaning with a mixture of pain and
sleepiness, I slumped to the floor for a moment before adjusting into a plank
position to do push-ups. My bones and joints and muscles all creaked and
strained as I got started, slowly descending until my nose was pressing into an
errant sock carelessly discarded on the floor. Gross. I quickly brushed this
aside before pushing myself back up into starting position. One. Back down,
back up, and I still felt like my body was falling apart. Two. Maybe I should
have stretched first.
I tried to speed up a little,
ignoring my cold muscles. It helped, and before I knew it I was at ten. That
many was nothing at practice, so I kept going. Suddenly twenty came and went,
and thirty was on the horizon. I realized then that I hadn’t set a goal for
myself, and so I just kept going and going. My pace increased with time, but
around the late fifties I began to slow again, my entire body shaking with the
effort. Pushing against my limits now, I managed to reach somewhere in the
mid-sixties before my arms gave out and I fell to the floor. Awake for barely five minutes and I was
already exhausted. Maybe this wasn’t the best idea I had ever thought up.
When my mom came back a few minutes
later to check up on me this was how she found me: face down on the floor with
arms like wet noodles.
“What are you doing?” she asked,
obviously perplexed.
“I have no idea.” I grumbled into
the floor.
“Well, you had better start getting
ready. It’s already past seven!”
I managed to lift my head from the
floor for just a moment to check the clock. It read 6:58. “No it isn’t!” I
pouted at her. She always tried to trick me into thinking it was later than it
really was in the mornings. I had no idea why.
“Close enough! Get up and get ready,
mister!”
I exhaled heavily into the floor and
tried to push myself back into a seated position. My arms had no strength at
all, and my leg still hurt, so I continued to lie like a slug on the floor.
Minutes later my mother returned to reenact our previous exchange. Thankfully,
I was able to climb to my feet this time, and proceeded to get ready for
school.
The day was a blur, probably
consisting of learning multiplication tables or phonics or some sort of basic
elementary school subject. I never paid too much attention, and most things in
school came easy enough.
On the way home, Raman and I once
again stopped at the young tree so that I could attempt another osoto-gari. Still favoring my right leg,
I opted to sweep with my left this time. It made no difference, and the tree
remained as solid as ever. I returned home defeated, discouraged, and
despondent.
Night led into morning, and again I
trained in secret before school, doing as many push-ups as I could until my
body gave out. It was harder this time, as my whole body was sore from my
efforts the day before, and I didn’t even reach fifty before collapsing. There
was still time before I had to get cleaned up and ready, though, so I began to
do sit-ups because they were all that came to mind. Again I pushed myself to my
limits before crumbling onto my back and clutching at my abdominal muscles. I
was so used to doing a mere twenty five sit-ups at judo class that going beyond
that boundary taught me a whole new definition of muscular misery.
Outside my room, I could hear my
mother coming up the stairs to prod me along into my morning routine. Out of
time. Still nursing my aching stomach muscles I crawled first to my knees and
then my feet and shuffled out into the hallway to begin the day. Again it was
routine and dull, my disinterest in school amplified further by these new aches
and pains from the secret training regimen. That night at judo I felt horribly
drained and sore, though I did my best to pay attention and keep up with our
exercises.
Mr. Hayashida, being observant as he
was, took note of my weariness and pulled me aside after the warm-up while the
other students were practicing ukemi.
“Little one,” he began, “is anything the matter? You seem to not be altogether
with us tonight.”
Trying my best to look “normal”
(which never works, mind you) and healthy, I assured him that everything was
just fine. The look he gave me showed that he didn’t quite believe me, so in
order to assuage his suspicions I admitted that I had been doing some extra
training on my own after hearing those awesome stories about Kimura. I felt
nervous that he wouldn’t approve, for some reason.
The old master shut his eyes and
smiled warmly at me. “Do not look so ashamed of it, my boy. It’s good to be so
motivated. Just be careful, and do not push yourself so hard that the rest of
your life suffers, alright?”
“Y-yes sir!” I exclaimed. With that,
he sent me away to practice my ukemi with
the others. Quickly scampering away, I turned mid-run to bow in respect and
gratitude before joining Raman in practice.
“What was that all about? Are you in
trouble?” he asked me, looking suspicious.
“Oh, nothing really,” I replied,
figuring that Raman would only make fun of me for my extra training.
Thus, with my teacher’s blessing and
advice, I continued my independent every morning, adding new and varied
exercises every so often if I started to feel too accustomed to the workload.
Still, no matter how many pushups or pull-ups I did, no matter how strong I
thought I was becoming, my invincible natural adversary grew ever larger and
stronger; always sturdy and motionless against my osoto-gari. For nearly a year this went on with no visible
benefits. I could do more of certain exercises, and I wasn’t as tired at school
or judo class, sure. And yeah, maybe it would’ve made for a pretty interesting
and humorous montage in an action movie. Of course! That was all, though.
Then, one day when I was in third
grade that all changed.
Chapter 7- Fruits
Like I said, I was eight years old
and in third grade the first time I beheld the results of my training for the
first time. It was a Thursday in October, though I can’t actually remember the
date anymore. Yes, I could probably look at a calendar and have a one-in-four
shot of getting it right, but it isn’t important. I was, of course, at Judo
class, and that day we were doing our monthly kumite, or practice matches. While we often sparred with one
another during class, it was typically less official and easy-going. During
daily sparring you were supposed to be practicing and learning, not competing.
However, once a month we would have kumite
day, where after stretching and a few other drills, the entire class would
engage in matches under official sporting rules. Students would compete two at
a time while Mr. Hayashida and the rest of the class watched and studied.
Now, Raman and I both loved judo,
make no mistake. We enjoyed almost every aspect of it: the physical, the
mental, and the spiritual; even if we didn’t quite understand those more
abstract facets just yet. The one thing that neither of us enjoyed, however,
was kumite day. While Raman enjoyed
learning special techniques and theory fighting, he very much disliked direct
competition, and rarely did well at it. In normal practice sparring, he was
able to forget that it was a match and treat the session like what it was:
practice, not fighting. However, during kumite,
with all eyes on him and confronted by a real, tangible opponent, he would fall
apart.
Unlike my nervous friend, I relished
competition. Every time I tangled with an adversary I got a wonderful
adrenaline rush that would only intensify as we wrestled for holds and
positioning. No, what I hated was losing. More specifically, losing by points. See, official judo matches are
decided entirely on the basis of points; there is little actual fighting that
occurs. The first judoka to reach one
point wins. The full point is awarded for a clean, powerful throw such as seioi-nage, while half-points and less
can be awarded for lesser attacks and actions. It’s a bizarre system. Karate
sometimes uses a similar point system.
Boxing (and later mixed martial
arts, but not back in 1996) also use point systems to decide a winner if there
is no other stoppage within the allotted time, but these sports still allow for
a natural combat flow and the existence of power and damage. I didn’t know how
to articulate it at the time, but this was the issue I had with the point
system. I had lost countless matches on kumite
days when my opponent managed to land a sloppy trip or throw that never hurt,
but scored them the winning point. It was horribly frustrating for me.
At any rate, I now sat in seiza (as did everyone else) against the
rear wall of the dojo watching Raman fight his match with another boy about our
age. My. Hayashida was seated in seiza
at the front of the class, judging the bout. Raman was doing much better than
he normally did, especially considering this boy was a good bit larger and
stronger, and his father was watching intensely from his seat near the door.
They had both managed to score half a point, and the match was definitely
nearing its conclusion.
Tommy, Raman’s opponent, was at an
obvious advantage with a much better grip on Raman’s gi. He continually tried
to throw Raman with the more basic, powerful techniques, shooting for ippon and the win. Thankfully, Raman’s
brain was functioning at alarming speeds and he was able to stay mobile and
slippery, escaping every throw attempt, though never taking an advantage for
himself.
Continuing to mount a bulldog
offense, Tommy pushed and pulled Raman around the mat like a toy, constantly
looking for the easy overpowering victory. Likewise, Raman continued to play
passively, narrowly avoiding each and every throw attempt. It was looking like
this might go on for a while, when Raman abruptly shifted gears and took firm
hold of the lapel of Tommy’s gi and pulled. The shock was painted all over
Tommy’s face as he began to fall forwards, he seemed truly flabbergasted that
his physically inferior adversary had dared to take the initiative.
Unfortunately, that surprise lasted only a moment before he remembered he was
far stronger and pulled back to resist. The match would go on, it seemed. Damn!
However, no sooner had Tommy pulled
back when Raman lunged towards him, pushing now. Startled, Tommy stepped back
with his right foot to brace himself and halt Raman’s advance. That’s when I
saw Raman’s scheme! Wasting no time, he stepped between Tommy’s feet and swept
the left (front) leg while forcing their entire combined weight back onto
Tommy’s right foot, which was unable to sustain and balance the force. Tommy
crumbled to the mat with Raman on top of him. It was a textbook o-uchi-gari!
I clenched my little fist in
vicarious triumph for my friend, using all my willpower to contain an overly
obnoxious cheer. Raman’s father seemed to have less control of himself, and
emitted a loud whoop momentarily before getting himself back in check. Raman
and Tommy both returned to their feet and bowed in respect to one another, then
to Mr. Hayashida, who commended them both on an excellent match before having
them return to their seats.
Raman kneeled down in his spot next
to me smiling like a lunatic with pride. I patted him on the back and
congratulated him on thinking to use such a tricky technique. He only smiled
brighter in response, lost for words in the joys of victory.
Mr. Hayashida stood then, clasping
his hands behind his back and surveying the dojo. He appeared to be debating
something to himself: his eyes squinted and darted about, and his jaw tensed
and relaxed as his brain seemed to wrestle with itself over something. He
turned his gaze towards me, looking serious.
“Tell me, little friend, have you
continued to train diligently over the past year?” he asked. Of course he was inquiring about my
extracurricular tree-throwing activities, though nobody else there save for
Raman knew this. I gave a solemn nod.
“Yes, sensei, I have.” I said,
sounding far more serious than I think I ever had before. I felt a bit
embarrassed when I realized.
The master brought a hand to his
chin and nodded slowly, continuing to ponder something over. His eyes strayed
to the right, towards where some of the older students sat. What was taking so
much consideration?
“Alright then,” he finally said
after another minute or so of silence, “let’s see if all your hard work has
paid off, shall we? Come up to the mat.”
I did as I was told, springing to my
feet and marching to center mat.
“As for the opponent,” he said,
“Clark, if you would please join us.”
My very soul seemed to freeze at
those words. Clark? Was he serious here? Clark!?
The hushed murmurs from the class seemed to echo the terror I felt inside. In
the far corner of the classroom, an impressively large 12-year-old boy got to
his feet and slowly walked out to join us.
Though he was “only” twelve, Clark
was much taller and heavier than I was, to say nothing of the four year age
difference. He wasn’t so much physically fit as he was just naturally large,
but until that point in life it had been all he needed to dominate most matches
in our young class. With our limited technical skill and physical strength, the
majority of us were simply unable to resist his throws for very long at all. I
had practiced with him on a few occasions before, but it was rarely
constructive; he merely tossed my small body around at will. What was Mr.
Hayashida thinking, matching me up with this giant? My milk saucer eyes stared
up at my teacher, begging for an explanation.
He rested a hand on my shoulder, and
instantly I felt at ease. “Just do your best, that’s all anyone can ask,” he
said, “and it should be enough. Think on your goal, little one.” Perhaps not
wanting to look like he was picking favorites, he turned to Clark and said
something similar.
I said that I understood, and turned
towards Clark, who seemed to be just as confused as I was. Probably afraid he
might break my arm and get in trouble. At Mr. Hayashida’s signal we bowed to
each other before assuming ready position. He shouted hajime and the match began.
Before I could even think to make a
move, Clark had shot towards me and grabbed hold of the sleeves of my gi. He
had actually been at the dojo one year less than me, but he was in no way
inexperienced. Plus, he had remarkable speed for a big kid who might look like
a bit of a butterball to a stranger. As his grip tightened on my jacket, I
could see him smiling in triumph, and I could feel my face flashing red with a
mixture of negative emotions. Exerting his will, Clark pulled at my lead right
arm and jerked me up into the air for a simple shoulder throw and ippon.
Flawless victory.
Except for one thing. I was still
standing in my ready position. He had pulled me, but I resisted with all I had.
He was strong, no question, but not as strong as I had remembered. Feeling my
confidence rise up, I stepped back and to the side, attempting to shift the
momentum in my favor. Stunned, Clark fell forwards at my pull, but only for a
moment. Recovering quickly, he stepped to his right in an attempt to circle
around me and reestablish control by redirecting the force in his favor.
Moving right along with the
centrifugal force, I was able to balance myself and square up with him again,
though he still held an iron grip on my uniform. I narrowed my eyes and glared
at him, trying to pierce right through him with my gaze. Where we now stood he
was blocking one of the fluorescent lights on the ceiling, casting a dark
shadow over my entire body. It was just like the tree I visited every afternoon
blocking the sun.
Lifting my right foot, I took one
long stride forward as I reached up to grab hold of his shoulders. Just as I
had done every day for more than a year, I planted my foot behind his right
ankle and swept. And, just as I had done for the past year, I forced the upper
body down with all the strength I had worked so hard to build.
Clark was tall, but he was not as
great as the tree. Clark was strong, but he was not as solid as wood. Clark
cast a shadow over me, but it wasn’t near as dark as what I had stood in every
day, and the light he blocked wasn’t a fraction as majestic as the sun. With my
osoto-gari of 400 days I threw him,
and with every push-up and sit-up and pull-up I had suffered through I pressed
him into the floor in one explosive moment.
His confident smile was gone,
replaced with a vacant, unbelieving stare.
Chapter 8- Dojo-yaburi
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