Watching my grandson go through the paces of his Taekwondo class brought back memories of my own martial arts experience. It was a long time ago, and I wrote about it in my now-defunct Hilo Days website.
I thought I'd share it with you here.
Hilo Days: Judo
Lessons
A bunch of us
kids took judo lessons in the fourth grade. Now there was an experience. Our
judo teacher was a bonsan who had just arrived from Japan. He was a black belt
and an accomplished judo expert – relatively young too. I would guess that he was about 30 or so.
That first judo
class we attended gave us an opportunity to test out this guy, so we peppered
him with questions about where he had been, what he had done, and how he liked
Hilo. More than anything else, we liked his Japanese accent and the way he
murdered the English language.
"I rike Hawaii," he told us. "I was pirot in Japan."
A pirate?
Really? So did he fight during the war? "Yesu."
Did he help bomb Pearl Harbor? "Yesu."
Yesu? I reported
this to my parents that evening and I remember Dad shaking his head and saying
the sensei better not go around telling people that or he'd get into trouble.
Personally, I think he was just trying to position himself and impress his
young charges. He never mentioned Pearl Harbor after that.
We'd meet for
judo class every Wednesday afternoon for an hour after Japanese school ended.
And at every practice for the first three weeks, all he'd do was make us
practice falling on our backs ("Justo fawru bahku – pa-TAH! Riku dat! Andu slappu yo hamuzu on gloundu!")
Actually, it was
kind of fun. There were some older boys in the class – some toughies, in
fact – and that was the only chance we got to push them to the ground. They
loved it. In fact, everybody was going around practicing how to fall.
Eventually, we
got around to the part where the sensei taught us how to do the basic leg
sweeps and throws. "Yuzu hizu momentum. Yuzu hizu momentum." I remember
going home with some pretty sore ankles and bruised hips week after week after
being swept by an opponent. My only consolation was that everyone else's ankles
were probably just as sore.
Then, we
progressed to the part where you actually competed, and wrestled with your
opponent once he (or you) hit the ground. That's where things got serious.
That's where learning how to fall really paid off.
If you failed to
counter a move and didn't "yuzu hizu momentum," and got thrown over your
opponent's shoulder flat on your back, you could get the wind knocked out of
you as he moved in quickly to apply a suffocating headlock. We were taught that – move in quick on our opponent as soon as he hit the ground, and pin him to
submission. Real macho stuff. Unless you were the one on the ground – then it
was not a manly situation to be in, and no fun at all.
"You
clying!?!" "NO, SENSEI!" Hell no. If sensei caught you crying,
you were chastised, crucified and mortified. We didn't cry. We were tough men.
We were masters of the martial arts. Well, okay, so we were 10-year-old
cry-babies.
I competed in a
couple of tournaments. I always won my first two or three matches, but then
would blow it to the older guys. Not so good, not quite the samurai I thought I
was. Most of us didn't return for the second year – but it was fun while it
lasted.
And it impressed
the girls – not that I cared about girls anyway.
