commitment and fails as often as it succeeds, this variation isn’t often attempted.
If this guy wasn’t familiar with it, he was about to receive an introduction.
I circled defensively, breathing hard, trying to look more tired than I was. Three times I shook off the grip he attempted and dodged around him as though I was reluctant to engage. Finally he got frustrated and took the bait, reaching a little too deeply with his left hand for my right lapel. As soon as he had the grip, I caught his arm and flung my head backward, launching my legs upward as though I was a diver doing a gainer. My head landed between his feet, my weight jerking him into a semicrouch, with my right foot jammed into his left armpit, destroying his balance. For a split second, before he went sailing over me, I saw complete surprise on his face. Then we were on the mat and I had trapped his arm, forcing it back against the elbow.
He somersaulted over onto his back and tried to twist away from me but he couldn’t get free. His arm was straightened to the limit of its natural movement. I applied a fraction more pressure but he refused to submit. I knew we had about two more millimeters before his elbow hyperextended. Four more and his arm would break.
“Maita ka,”
I said, bending my head forward to look at him. Submit. He was grimacing in pain but he ignored me.
It’s stupid to fight a solid armlock. Even in Olympic competition,
judoka
will submit rather than face a broken arm. This was getting dangerous.
“Maita ka,”
I said again, more sharply. But he kept struggling.
Another five seconds went by. I wasn’t going to let him go without a submission, but I didn’t want to break his arm. I wondered how long we could maintain our position.
Finally he tapped my leg with his free hand, the
judoka’s
way of surrender. I released my grip instantly and pushed away from him. He rolled over and then kneeled in classic
seiza
posture, his back erect and his left arm held stiffly in front of him. He rubbed his elbow for several seconds and regarded me.
“Subarashikatta,”
he said. “Excellent. I would request a rematch, but I don’t think my arm will allow that today.”
“You should have tapped out earlier,” I said. “There’s no point resisting an armlock. Better to survive to fight another day.”
He bowed his head in acknowledgement. “My foolish pride, I suppose.”
“I don’t like to tap out, either. But you won the first four rounds. I’d trade your record for mine.” He was still using English; I was responding in Japanese.
I faced him in
seiza
and we bowed. When we stood, he said, “Thank you for the lesson. Next time I’ll know not to underestimate the risks you’re willing to take to gain a submission.”
I already knew that. “Where do you practice?” I asked him. “I haven’t seen you here before.”
“I practice with a private club,” he said. “Perhaps you might join us sometime. We’re always in search of
judoka
of
shibumi.”
Shibumi
is a Japanese aesthetic concept. It’s a kind of subtle power, an effortless authority. In the narrower, intellectual sense, it might be called wisdom.
“I’m not sure I’d be what you’re looking for. Where is your club?”
“In Tokyo,” he said. “I doubt you would have heard of it. My club… isn’t generally open to foreigners.” He recovered quickly. “But, of course, you are Japanese.”
Probably I should have let it go. “Yes. But you approached me in English.”
He paused. “Your features are primarily Japanese, if I may say so. I thought I detected some trace of Caucasian, and wanted to satisfy myself. I’m usually very sensitive to such things. If I had been wrong, you simply wouldn’t have understood me, and that would have been that.”
Reconnaissance by fire,
I thought. You shoot into the tree line; if someone shoots back, you know they’re there. “You find… satisfaction in that?” I asked, consciously controlling my
If this guy wasn’t familiar with it, he was about to receive an introduction.
I circled defensively, breathing hard, trying to look more tired than I was. Three times I shook off the grip he attempted and dodged around him as though I was reluctant to engage. Finally he got frustrated and took the bait, reaching a little too deeply with his left hand for my right lapel. As soon as he had the grip, I caught his arm and flung my head backward, launching my legs upward as though I was a diver doing a gainer. My head landed between his feet, my weight jerking him into a semicrouch, with my right foot jammed into his left armpit, destroying his balance. For a split second, before he went sailing over me, I saw complete surprise on his face. Then we were on the mat and I had trapped his arm, forcing it back against the elbow.
He somersaulted over onto his back and tried to twist away from me but he couldn’t get free. His arm was straightened to the limit of its natural movement. I applied a fraction more pressure but he refused to submit. I knew we had about two more millimeters before his elbow hyperextended. Four more and his arm would break.
“Maita ka,”
I said, bending my head forward to look at him. Submit. He was grimacing in pain but he ignored me.
It’s stupid to fight a solid armlock. Even in Olympic competition,
judoka
will submit rather than face a broken arm. This was getting dangerous.
“Maita ka,”
I said again, more sharply. But he kept struggling.
Another five seconds went by. I wasn’t going to let him go without a submission, but I didn’t want to break his arm. I wondered how long we could maintain our position.
Finally he tapped my leg with his free hand, the
judoka’s
way of surrender. I released my grip instantly and pushed away from him. He rolled over and then kneeled in classic
seiza
posture, his back erect and his left arm held stiffly in front of him. He rubbed his elbow for several seconds and regarded me.
“Subarashikatta,”
he said. “Excellent. I would request a rematch, but I don’t think my arm will allow that today.”
“You should have tapped out earlier,” I said. “There’s no point resisting an armlock. Better to survive to fight another day.”
He bowed his head in acknowledgement. “My foolish pride, I suppose.”
“I don’t like to tap out, either. But you won the first four rounds. I’d trade your record for mine.” He was still using English; I was responding in Japanese.
I faced him in
seiza
and we bowed. When we stood, he said, “Thank you for the lesson. Next time I’ll know not to underestimate the risks you’re willing to take to gain a submission.”
I already knew that. “Where do you practice?” I asked him. “I haven’t seen you here before.”
“I practice with a private club,” he said. “Perhaps you might join us sometime. We’re always in search of
judoka
of
shibumi.”
Shibumi
is a Japanese aesthetic concept. It’s a kind of subtle power, an effortless authority. In the narrower, intellectual sense, it might be called wisdom.
“I’m not sure I’d be what you’re looking for. Where is your club?”
“In Tokyo,” he said. “I doubt you would have heard of it. My club… isn’t generally open to foreigners.” He recovered quickly. “But, of course, you are Japanese.”
Probably I should have let it go. “Yes. But you approached me in English.”
He paused. “Your features are primarily Japanese, if I may say so. I thought I detected some trace of Caucasian, and wanted to satisfy myself. I’m usually very sensitive to such things. If I had been wrong, you simply wouldn’t have understood me, and that would have been that.”
Reconnaissance by fire,
I thought. You shoot into the tree line; if someone shoots back, you know they’re there. “You find… satisfaction in that?” I asked, consciously controlling my
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