acquaintances. Maybe Keiko-chan, she’s usually good for a few laughs. A late dinner, maybe that little Italian place in Hibiya, some wine, a hotel.
For the moment, though, the prospect of a night with Keiko-chan was oddly depressing. Maybe a workout instead. I decided to head over to the Kodokan, one of the places where I practice judo.
The Kodokan, or “School for Studying the Way,” was founded in 1882 by Kano Jigoro, the inventor of modern judo. A student of various schools of swordsmanship and hand-to-hand combat, Kano distilled a new system of fighting based on the principle of maximum efficiency in the application of physical and mental energy. Loosely speaking, judo is to Western wrestling what karate is to boxing. It is a system not of punches and kicks, but of throws and grappling, distinguished by an arsenal of brutal joint locks and deadly strangling techniques, all of which must of course be employed with great care in the practice hall. Judo literally means “the way of gentleness” or “the way of giving in.” I wonder what Kano would make of my interpretation.
Today the Kodokan is housed in a surprisingly modern and bland eight-story building in Bunkyo-ku, southwest of Ueno Park and just a few kilometers from my neighborhood. I took the subway to Kasuga, the nearest station, changed in one of the locker rooms, then climbed the stairs to the daidojo, the main practice room, where the Tokyo University team was visiting. After I threw my first uke easily and made him tap out with a strangle, they all lined up to do battle with the seasoned warrior. They were young and tough but no match for old age and treachery; after about a half hour of nonstop randori I was still consistently coming out on top, especially when it went to groundwork.
A couple of times, as I returned to the hajime position after a throw, I noticed a Japanese kurobi, or black belt, stretching out in the corner of the tatami mats. His belt was tattered and more gray than black, which indicated that he’d been wearing it for a lot of years. It was hard to guess his age. His hair was full and black, but his face had the sort of lines that I associate with the passage of time and a certain amount of experience. His movements were certainly young; he was holding splits without apparent difficulty. Several times I sensed that he was intently aware of me, although I never actually saw him looking in my direction.
I needed a break and made my apologies to the college students who were lined up, still waiting to test their mettle against me. It felt good to beat judoka half my age, and I wondered how much longer I’d be able to do it.
I went over to the side of the mat and, while I was stretching, watched the guy with the tattered belt. He was practicing his harai-goshi entries with one of the college students, a stocky kid with a crew cut. His entry was so powerful that I caught the college kid wincing a couple of times as their torsos collided.
He finished and thanked the kid, then walked over to where I was stretching and bowed. “Will you join me for a round of randori?” he asked, in lightly accented English.
I looked up and noted an intense pair of eyes and strongly set jaw, neither of which his smile did anything to soften. I was right about his watching me, even if I hadn’t caught him. Did he spot the Caucasian in my features? Maybe he did, and just wanted to take the gaijin test — although, in my experience, that was a game for judoka younger than he looked to be. And his English, or at least his pronunciation, was excellent. That was also odd. The Japanese who are most eager to pit themselves against foreigners have usually had the least experience with them, and their English will typically reflect that lack of contact.
“Kochira koso onegai shimasu,” I replied. My pleasure. I was annoyed that he had addressed me in English, and I stayed with Japanese. “Nihongo wa dekimasu ka?” Do you speak Japanese?
“Ei, mochiron. Nihonjin desu kara,” he responded, indignantly. Of course I do. I’m Japanese.
“Kore wa shitsuri: shimasita. Watashi mo desu. Desu ga, hatsuon ga amari migoto datta no de . . .” Forgive me. So am I. But your accent was so perfect that . . .
He laughed. “And so is yours. I expect your judo to be no less so.” But by continuing to address me in English, he avoided having to concede the truth of his compliment.
I was still annoyed, and also wary. I speak Japanese as a native, as well as I speak English, so trying to compliment me on my facility with either language is inherently insulting. And I wanted to know why he would assume that I spoke English.
We found an empty spot on the tatami and bowed to each other, then began circling, each of us working for an advantageous grip. He was extremely relaxed and light on his feet. I feinted with deashi- barai, a foot sweep, intending to follow with osoto-gari, but he countered the feint with a sweep of his own and slammed me down to the mat.
Damn, he was fast. I rolled to my feet and we took up our positions again, this time circling the other way. His nostrils were flaring slightly with his breathing, but that was the only indication he gave of having exerted himself.
I had a solid grip on his right sleeve with my left hand, my fingers wrapped deeply into the cloth. A nice setup for ippon seonagi. But he’d be expecting that. Instead, I swept in hard for sasae-tsurikomi-goshi, spinning inside his grip and tensing for the throw. But he’d anticipated the move, popping his hips free before I’d cut off the opening and blocking my escape with his right leg. I was off balance and he hit me hard with taiotoshi, powering me over his outstretched leg and drilling me into the mat.
He threw me twice more in the next five minutes. It was like fighting a waterfall.
I was getting tired. I faced him and said, “Jaa, tsugi o saigo ni shimasho ka?” Shall we make this the last one?
“Ei, so shimasho,” he said, bouncing on his toes. Let’s do it.
Okay, you bastard, I thought. I’ve got a little surprise for you. Let’s see how you like it.
Juji-gatame, which means “cross-lock,” is an arm-bar that gets its name from the angle of its attack. Its classical execution leaves the attacker perpendicular to his opponent, with both players lying on their backs, forming the shape of a cross. One permutation — classicists would say mutation — is called flying juji-gatame, in which the attacker launches the lock directly from a standing position. Because it requires total commitment and fails as often as it succeeds, this variation is rarely attempted, and is not
