Chapter 3
PRESENT DAY
OSCAR
Sweat rolled down between his shoulder blades.
Kill or be killed. Strike or be stricken.
This is bushidō, the way of the warrior.
The man standing only feet in front of him stood six inches shorter and sixty years older.
Oscar’s youth, height and reach advantage should help, but this fight would not end well.
The man’s eyes narrowed and hinted at a smile, daring him to blink or move first. The caged masks over their faces could not hide the man’s piercing stare or Oscar’s terror.
The Japanese government had banned the samurai one hundred and fifty years ago, but Oscar’s opponent’s ancestry ran deep with historical warriors, and Oscar imagined a razor shape blade pointed at his head.
One slice and his head would separate from his shoulders.
Fortunately, the man held a bamboo shinai sword poised to strike him.
The shinai would not inflict such damage, but even with all the protective gear, it could leave long-lasting marks.
Just to stand in front of this eighth-dan kendo master brought honor.
There were no longer any living ninth- or tenth-dan, and the world held only a handful of these highest ranking kendōka practitioners—those who taught kendo, the way of the sword.
Oscar had seen the eighty-five-year-old man with his shirt off in the dressing room, and he’d imagined those relaxed, wiry muscles tensing and twitching to strike.
Oscar’s instructor had warned the class all month about Sensei’s approaching visit, and to abandon the idea of going easy on the unassuming elderly man from Berkeley.
“He will smell your hesitancy and knock you into the next century for the disrespect, besides not even considering you for promotion to first-dan black belt.”
Oscar willed his feet to move, slowly circling his opponent, looking for an opportunity or tell of what the Sensei’s strike might be.
He knew that in a fraction of a second, he’d have to decide to attack or defend.
He filled his lungs with air and exhaled deliberately through his nose, trying to shift his attention to the man’s bōgu, his protective armor: the helmet with the metal grille and hard fabric flaps protecting the head, throat, neck, and shoulders; the hard breastplate covering the chest and abdomen with the thick fabric flaps protecting the groin and upper thighs; and kote, the sturdy, padded gloves.
Not because the Master decorated the armor with accolades due his renown reputation, but because of their simplicity.
A true follower of bushidō—of respect, honor and courage.
He let his sword convey the questions and the answers.
Oscar wondered how many years the Master had worn this same set of bōgu.
How many hours had he trained in it? How much beating had it taken at the hands of his own master?
“Kiai!” Sensei shouted for action. “Hi-yah!” He waggled the tip of the bamboo shinai, and Oscar’s mind and body snapped to attention.
But he wasn’t fast enough. With the speed of a cobra, the Master jumped forward and smacked Oscar’s elbow just millimeters above the protection of his kote, forearm shield.
Other students, gathered around the periphery of the dōjō, the space for practicing martial arts, gasped at the snap against Oscar’s flesh. Oscar’s instructor echoed Sensei’s kiai in appreciation for the beauty of the blow.
The precision strike felt like the cobra sank its fangs to their hilt into his forearm, tempting him to loosen his grip on his own shinai or, even worse, shake out his arm. Show no weakness.
“You ready to fight yet?” Sensei said in his broken English and grinned.
Oscar readjusted his two-handed grip on the leather-wrapped handle of his sword.
The four strips of bamboo, tied together with straps of leather, tensed under his hands.
Swordsmen had developed the flexible bamboo to reduce the number of injuries when practicing with a razor-sharp katana sword or even the less lethal bokken, a wooden sword.
But it’s all irrelevant once the Master strikes you on the bare skin.
“Should I go rest?” Sensei taunted.
An eye for an eye, Oscar thought. He slid forward, striking hard and fast at the Sensei’s padded glove. The old man floated sideways, escaping the strike by a calculated fraction. Oscar spun and struck at the man’s abdomen protector.
Sensei blocked the strike with his shinai, and with some mysterious force, pulled Oscar’s sword forward, throwing him off balance.
With the speed and gracefulness of a ballet dancer, the old man spun; his black hakama pants billowing, and with the end of his shinai, he struck not one, but two blows to the top of Oscar’s helmet.
The crack of the blows stung Oscar’s head and brought stars to his eyes, as well as loud cheers from the other students, and a gleeful laugh from the Master.
“Yes, yes.” The old man said, playfully grabbing Oscar around his neck and rubbing at the top of his helmet like a gentle father. “You are doing great. Maybe even come to Berkry and help teach with me.”
Oscar bowed deeply to the Master. His compliment and pronunciation of Berkeley made the stinging on Oscar’s head subside. He backed off the fighting area and bowed to his instructor, who returned a nod in support of his hard work.
Oscar joined the other students who had watched the exhibition.
Some of them patted him on the back, telling him he should feel good about his performance.
Oscar nodded thanks, but his shoulders drooped.
He couldn’t shake the feeling of inadequacy.
Trying to mask it with a smile, he told his classmates, “A game of cat and mouse—except I was the mouse.” He chuckled.
Oscar understood the Master did him a favor after his excellent testing all afternoon.
He had performed all the required exercises with speed and precision and had dominated all his matches with the other students testing for their first-degree black belts.
Despite everything, he couldn’t ignore the fact that he had so much more to learn.
Humility would go a long way, the Master’s sword would say.
* * *
The three new Sho-Dan, first-degree black belts had the privilege of sweeping and then mopping the wooden floor of the upper room of the Veterans of Foreign Wars building.
Even though they kept the walls of the dōjō sparse, free of posters and paraphernalia, the students took great care of the wooden floor.
Their attention went beyond hygiene. Becoming a higher rank in kendo meant more than your physical ability.
It meant a clear understanding that every movement, every intention, and every action achieved a greater purpose.
How a practitioner bows, cares for his armor and shinai, and enters or leaves the dōjō became as important as swinging a sword.
At the end of practice, practitioners carefully fold their black, skirt-like, traditional Japanese pants, the hakama, to preserve the seven deep pleats that represent the seven virtues of bushidō.
Even an inanimate room is given respect and gratitude for providing a place to practice.
It always struck Oscar as paradoxical that they used the VFW as a practice location.
Just a few months earlier, an older vet had wandered upstairs to investigate the noise, only to get the surprise of his life.
He stood wide-eyed, staring at the group of samurai invading the homeland.
He turned on his heels and raced back down to the bar, intent on getting a drink.
After practice, Oscar’s head instructor caught up to the vet, bought him a beer, and explained the situation.
A cultural war averted, and an incident the students laughed about.
But the airy, large room made for a perfect dōjō, and most spaces like this in Missoula were filled with Yoga students. Currently, the kendo classes shared this room with a veteran’s Alcoholics Anonymous group that met at noon.
After cleaning the floor, Oscar walked down the creaking wooden stairs of the VFW with the other two new black belts, when he felt a sensation that he had rarely experienced in his life.
He didn’t even know the words for it. Inner confidence maybe?
Pride sounded too arrogant. Satisfaction?
Perhaps somehow, all really is right in the world.
This feeling had now struck him twice in six months.
The first of the year, Oscar had asked Caroline to marry him.
Just as the New Year’s ball dropped and fireworks exploded seemed like a reasonably romantic time to propose.
She’d given an unabashed, “yes.” Maybe his life rose above the fray after all.
He wished Caroline had watched the testing today.
Her presence would have made the day so much sweeter, but she’d made it clear long ago that she found kendo too violent.
She didn’t like all the shouting or seeing him get hit.
Besides, she didn’t mind hanging out with friends while letting him have his own space.
She also confessed that the dinners with the visiting Sensei left her feeling uncomfortable, making it clear that this was “his thing.”
Oscar pulled the door open to the VFW, walked to the bar, and nodded, handing the upstairs key to the bartender.
Oscar looked at the three patrons hunched over their beers.
They wore ball caps, signifying their military service.
He truly hoped the kendo club’s practice and testing hadn’t disturbed their peace too badly.