Karate Kids

At 7.50, I meet Ike-san and his son in their big car. They have brought my protective gear, and we drive down the sunny motorway towards Takarazuka　at the end of the Hankyu line, where today’s competition will be held. “Did you bring any lunch with you, Anna-san?”
“No, I didn’t, sorry, but I will be ok.”
But his son is hungry, so we stop at a combini on the way, and I buy a tuna salad, diet coke and coffee for an extra caffeine dose, and some maki-sushi rolls for hunger pangs. Whenever Ike-san talks to his son next to him in the passenger seat, he starts speaking a different language - Kansai-ben - and I don’t understand him anymore. But today, I catch bits of their conversation. “How many people do you have to get through to win?” “Quite a few.” “Yes, the primary school kata are quite crowded. Gambatte ne.” Then Ike-san articulates clearly again, so this must be directed at me. “It’s nice to see your kids win. For you it’s the first competition with us today, so just enjoy yourself. Experience what it’s like.” “Yes, I’m looking forward to it!” Although thinking about my last competitions in Japan four years ago, when, fight after fight, tiny girls’ punches flew at my face out of nowhere and scored me into frustratingly quick defeats, I do not hold high hopes of winning anything.
When we arrive and drive into the big parking lot next to the sports centre, we meet T-Sensei who has already arrived with his dentist assistant wife and two kids. At about 6 years of age, his son Leo is the most amazing kicker I have seen in the dojo. But today, he is not in good shape. We have found the rest of the group and realised that we are in the wrong place. The gym we are looking for is a few hundred yards away. But the cars are parked, so we shoulder our protective gear and bags, and walk along the big street and across the bridge to the actual venue. Sensei’s little daughter bravely runs along holding his hand, her pig-tails bouncing, hairclips sparkling in all colours of the rainbow, but Leo is walking about twenty feet behind everybody else, falling ever further back. “Leo!” his mom calls. “Gambatte ne!” Then she turns to me. “He has a cold today, so his spirit is down a bit.” “Is he in the competition?” “Yes, he’s fighting and doing kata.” Poor Leo. “Leo is a cool name. He must be strong,” I comment. “Well, we’ve given him the name because we want him to become strong.” She smiles into the summer breeze. “Leo, Gambatte ne!”
We arrive and place our things at the side of the big dojo, near the entrance. The hall is full of people in dogi, and people in casual, who have come to watch. The keen mother from our dojo is one of them. She has arrived earlier than everybody else, to give her son the opportunity to adjust to the competition environment. She is rather large and does not look like an athlete, but her ambition for her son to win far supersedes that of her son, who is nimble as a Quiddich broom and does some breathtakingly precise kata, yet his mothers’ smiles seem to be reserved for greeting other moms and the Sensei.
We are called together by Sensei, who reads out our names and numbers. Sensei reads out our numbers from the competition booklet, and his wife hands out stickers with red numbers for kata – luckily I get to pass on that category today – and black stickers for kumite. I am number 9, but kumite is not on until afternoon.
We all line up according to categories, and listen to the Master of Ceremony giving us a short speech, telling us this is the 13th Takarazuka Karatedo-Senshuken-Taikai and he is happy to be able to welcome us all here today. Everybody’s efforts are appreciated, and don’t forget karate should not only be something we do in our free time but something we apply and rely on every day, and whatever we do.
The opening ceremony finishes, and the kata start. I am not fond of long waits before competitions, but as it can’t be helped, I relax and spend a rather pleasant morning watching the kids do kata in the A, B, C, and D courts of the hall. Some of them win a few rounds, two get through to the finals. The kids’ kata are impressive. Sensei directs a lot of attention towards training the kids, and today it shows. Ike-kun wins a few rounds, too, but the category is crowded indeed, so there is no trophy for him or his dad today. Ike-san loses his first round in the kata, but it is more bad luck than lack of skill. His kata looks tidy, but he is paired with the person who goes on to win it, so he doesn’t get chance to prove himself against more even competitors. Competitions are partly luck. Especially kata competitions. Only perfect skill wins every time. Everything up to that level is controlled, in varying proportions by the fortuitousness of the day.
At twelve a’clock, we have a lunch break, and I sit down on the floor where we have assembled our things to create a little Shorinji-ryu camp, and talk to Mo-san, a new acquaintance. She has started karate because her son did it, so she now has a purple belt. She lives near my house and invites me to come over some time, for tea and manju, and a chat. “You will win the women’s kumite, won’t you.” she says. “I’m sorry, but I don’t think so. I will do my best.” “You’re a good fighter.” Today is the first time I have met her, so she is obviously judging my fighting prowess by mere appearance. Or, more likely, just being polite. She trains on Wednesdays, when I can’t train because, like every day, I am working until late. “Well, I’ve heard some rumours from Sensei.” She says and smiles mysteriously. I think she is trying to encourage me, which is much appreciated. But all I’ve heard from Sensei is: “Your kicks are weak! Your punches are weak! More back kicks! More turning round and back fists! This is not Shorinji-ryu kumite!”
Finally, after the primary school first and third year fights are finished up to the final round which is saved for last in every category, the referee in court A calls up the women’s kumite participants. All the referees are wearing hakama, big samurai style skirt-trousers, like the blackbelts in aikido, a sign of advanced skill and authority on the subject of a given budo, or martial art. Sensei has given me shin and chest guards, and Mo-san and Mi-san help me tighten the latter, adjusting the straps in the back. A little girl from our dojo I have exchanged some smiles with before comes running up to me, gives me a stern look and touches my forearm. “Gambatte ne, Anna-san!” she whispers, and I want to win the competition just for her. I walk up to the group of women that has already assembled at Court A. The referee calls out our names and tells us what side of the fighting area to go to. I get put on the red side first. Once we have all been assigned a side, we stand in two lines facing each other, perpendicular to the referees in front and the dojo front on the other side.
The referee calls out: “Shomen ni rei!” and we turn and bow to the front. “Shinsa-in ni rei!” We turn and bow to the referees. “Otagai ni rei!” We bow to the other side, our opponents. We sit down, and the first two women are called up to fight. On my side, a little woman runs around behind us, tying red ribbons to the backs of our chest guards so the judges know who is who when we’re fighting behind the helmets. The other side is white and will be fighting without ribbons.
Ike-san comes up and tells me: “The women who do kumite in competitions do that because they’re strong.” What am I doing here then? I wonder. “Just relax. You can win.” I relax.
Then, I fight. It is only during the fight that I realise I must have done something during the last few days to seriously tire out my legs. I try to kick the girl, but I’m slow to pick up my legs, and when I manage to pick them up, I still don’t score. “Weak! Your kicks are weak!” I hear Sensei’s voice from somewhere nearby. I somehow manage to push the girl forward and out of the fighting area. She is not allowed to leave it. Leaving it three times results in a warning. I am determined to get in some sort of attack, but since my legs are not much use today, other than covering some distance and feigning attacks to prevent attacks from the other side, all I am left with is my right reverse punch and scary kiai. I shout at the girl and hail some punches at her. “Your punches are weak!” I hear Sensei’s voice. I pull back my right fist and whip it forward into the girl’s face, pulling it back all the way to the side of my hip. The referee stops the game and I am awarded a point. During the rest of the fight, I get even more tired but can’t stop trying for more, so I somehow manage to land another punch and win the fight. After that, I am put on the white side to fight my next opponent. I sit in seiza and take a breather while the next two girls fight. The next fight is similar. I am not in good shape, my kicks are useless, and I have to pull myself together even to land a proper punch. Maybe it is my voice that scares my opponents. Something seems to keep them out of my way. They don’t get through to me. This is what saves me. My point score is everything but impressive. I win the next fight with one point, another punch. Sensei encourages me to concentrate on my punches today. “Your kicks are weak.” My kicks are weak indeed. This is a sport. It has a bit of a fighting flair, but it is played to win. So I open the next fight with a bold face punch immediately following the referee’s “Hajime!” starting signal. It scores, and I win another fight. This is the last fight before the finals in which I will be fighting a girl who is at least as tall as me and has made her previous opponent cry with a punch. I am looking forward to the finals and regret that there is another long wait before they start.
I leave the court, kneel down in seiza, and take off my sweaty helmet. Gradually,
the world takes on normal dimensions again, adrenalin and the fighting mind giving way to everyday perception. I lift my head and feel like I’ve been woken up into a dream. Right there, in front of me, half the children from the dojo including my lucky fairy, are sitting neatly lined up, staring up at me with their mouths and eyes wide open, speechless and completely awe-struck. The view of the day, and quite possibly week, month, year. More than all the cool kata postures and mid-fight-kick-flights I would love to capture this moment on camera today, but it is not the kind of moment that could be captured on film. People don’t look like that at a camera. They look like that at me. I’m so surprised by this unexpected show of undeserved admiration that I bow to them and laugh. When I look at them again, their faces are still frozen in silent admiration, so I can’t help laughing again and say “Let’s all give it our best now, come on! Minna, gambarou yo!”
“There you go,” says Sensei. “You’re in the finals. Great. Three of our people have made it to the finals! When you fight later on, just be confident, and concentrate on punches, and high kicks.” High kicks? O well. Gambarimasu.
Several people from my dojo congratulate me, and I walk around aimlessly, until I find what I’ve been looking for: some fresh air in front of the gym. I walk around breathing for a while, then watch some other fights and take pictures. Finally, it is time for the finals. All finalists line up in the same way we have lined up for the single categories before. The kids start, youngest first. There are kihon, basics, then kata, forms, then kumite, fighting. I and the big girl fight second to last, before the men’s kumite. She has a long reach like me, so it is not easy to get to her. Luckily, she is not a kicker, either. Otherwise, I might be in trouble trying to escape her long legs, but she is relying on her punches, just like me. I try a few attacks but can’t get through to her. She stays too far away. “Your punches are weak! Try again!” calls Sensei. We both have a good go at each other at the same time. I can feel blood in my mouth, and when I look at her, I can see her head jerking back up from the impact of my own punch. The referee stops the fight but awards no score. “Attacks landed at the same time. No score.” We keep fighting, and unfortunately this time it is her who lands the first punch. It is a good, strong punch, and she gets a point. I try again several times, kicking, punching, but the fight ends there. She wins. We shake hands, and I walk off the court, happy for the nice fight, sorry to disappoint the kids, and Sensei who has given me a new dogi for this competition.
I grab a drink, and we all line up just like in the beginning of the competition, divided into categories and facing the front. The referees read out everybody’s name. It takes a long time, and we stand there waiting to be called up to collect trophies and participation certificates. I am surprised when they give me a big gold and blue trophy for not winning the finals. The referees smile at me and shake my hands. I get a certificate, a trophy, and a box for the trophy.
Everybody is happy when the competition is finally closed with a last short “Good effort and let us gather for this occasion again next year!” and we gather our things and make our way home. We are quiet in the car. It has been a long day. Silently, Ike-san and Ike-kun munch on the chocolate I have brought for everybody to enjoy. The contents of a large easter parcel from Mum that has arrived late for some reason. I thank them for taking me along and part with the usual. They must be tired.
Otsukaresama!
Back home, it is time for a shower. But it is early days, still, so once refreshed, I grab my new bike and cycle off towards some good company and food to enjoy the evening with. But whatever follows is another story for another day. Ossu!