“If the roof is fine, what are you doing up there in your underwear?” Hanasato shouted.
“Just a little exercise,” Funakoshi grinned at his neighbor who was squinting over the side fence, trying to keep the blowing rain out of his eyes.
“Is it one of those martial arts things?” Hanasato asked. “I suppose it is,” Funakoshi said.
Hanasato shook his head. “Does your wife know you’re up there?” he called.
“Oh, yes,” Funakoshi answered. “She’s inside, though.”
“Most sane people are,” Hanasato replied. “Do be careful.” He pulled his jacket more closely around him and trotted back to his house.
Funakoshi climbed to the peak of the house. From there he could see that the sky had turned a sickly shade of gray-green. A branch blew off a nearby tree and struck him in the chest. He looked down. No blood but a large red mark. The wind blew hard against his face, making it difficult for him to catch his breath.
Stability, he told himself, is partly a matter of body, but partly a matter of mind. If a man thinks he will fall over, he will. Slowly, carefully, Funakoshi bent over and picked up the tatami. The wind tugged at it, trying to rip it from his grasp, but Funakoshi held tight, bringing it up edge on to the wind. He took a solid horse straddle stance and turned the tatami flat to the wind.
The wind caught the tatami and lifted Funakoshi up off the roof. His feet scrambled against the wet tiles, trying to find footing, but the wind was in control. A powerful gust grabbed him and threw him off the end of the roof. He landed in the mud, the tatami on top of him.
“Are you all right?” his wife called from the door.
“I’m fine,” Funakoshi answered, standing. “I just need to take a stronger stance before I tip up the tatami.”
“Come inside,” his wife shouted.
“In a minute,” Funakoshi replied. “I know what I’m doing.”
The door to the house closed, and Funakoshi tucked the tatami under his arm and started up the ladder. It was a matter of using the strength of the stance, he thought to himself. He needed to stand sideways to the wind.
Funakoshi squinted against the wet sand, branches, and other debris that beat against him. The wind was picking up. He would have to go inside soon. He took a low stance on the peak of the roof, spread his feet wide apart, tightened his leg muscles, pictured himself gripping the roof with the center of his body. When the straddle stance was the best he could make it, he flipped the tatami up. The wind hit it hard. Funakoshi stutter-stepped back, then caught his balance again. The force blew the tatami hard against his shoulder. The top of it flapped stiffly against his face. Slowly, his muscles straining, he pushed the mat away from him, then let the wind push it back. Again he pushed it away from him, tightening his legs against the force, forcing his arms to hold against the raw power of the wind and rain.
Gradually, still holding against the wind, he shifted his stance—front, back, straddle stance again. His body strained. He fought to keep his mind focused. Slowly, he lowered the mat to the roof. It was a mess, covered with mud, bent and broken in places. Funakoshi smiled to himself. He wondered if he looked that bad. Carefully he climbed down off the roof and entered the house, dripping and cold.
His wife met him at the door with a towel. He wiped off the mud and debris before stepping up onto the tatami floor of the living room.
“Was it worth it?” his wife asked, an amused look in her eye. “Oh, yes,” he replied. “Most definitely.”
Funakoshi dropped his books and shoes inside the front door of his house. On the way to the closet, he stripped off his uniform. Hanging it carefully in the closet, he put on his good kimono and checked his hair in the mirror. The school where he taught was out for the day. His wife and children were already at her parents’ house, and he wanted to get there in time for dinner. Quickly he snatched up a couple of small cakes to offer at the family altar when he got there. It was a two-mile walk, and he didn’t have time to waste.
After a day in the classroom, he enjoyed the late afternoon air. The road to his in-laws’ village took him through pine groves and farmland. He breathed in the smell of the trees and the crops. The cool breeze felt good against his face. It would be good to see his father-in-law again.
A rustle in the bushes brought Funakoshi out of his thoughts. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw three shapes half-hidden behind the trees of a small pine grove. Keeping his eyes forward, he continued to walk. Behind him he heard the sound of footsteps on gravel. He stopped and turned around. Behind him stood two men. A third was making his way out of the woods. All three had towels tied over their faces.
Funakoshi stood quietly assessing the situation. They didn’t move like martial artists. They didn’t seem to be trying to surround him. He guessed that they were thugs, not trained fighters. He could probably handle all three if it came to that.
“What’s wrong?” one of the thugs said loudly, approaching Funakoshi with a swagger. “Don’t you have any manners? The least you could do is wish us a good evening.”
“Good evening,” Funakoshi said simply.
“That’s ‘Good evening, sir,’” the other thug said. “Good evening, sir,” Funakoshi repeated.
“Kind of scrawny,” the first thug said, loudly. “He isn’t going to be much of a challenge.” The other two laughed.
“I’m sorry, sir,” Funakoshi said politely. “I think you’ve mistaken me for someone else. I’m not looking for a fight. I’m just traveling to my in-laws’ house in Mawashi. So if you’ll . . .”
“Shut up,” the largest of the three commanded. He picked up a stick that was lying beside the road and slapped it into his other hand. “I ought to beat you over the head just because I find your voice so annoying.”
“You could do that,” Funakoshi answered. “But it wouldn’t prove anything. As you’ve pointed out, I’m a lot smaller than you. You have a stick. I don’t . . .”
“So you’re saying you’re a coward, that you don’t want to fight.” “Why should I fight a fight with such lopsided odds?”
Funakoshi replied.
“Never mind the fight,” said the loud one. “He’s not worth it.”
“Just give us your money,” said the big one, poking Funakoshi in the chest with the stick.
“Terribly sorry,” Funakoshi replied, turning the large pocket in his sleeve inside out. “I don’t have any money.”
“Figures,” said the loud one. “Then give us some tobacco.” “Sorry,” Funakoshi said. “I don’t smoke.”
“No money, no tobacco. Looks like we’re going to have to beat you up after all.” The big thug took a step forward, slapping his stick into his hand.
“Perhaps you’d consider taking these, instead.” Funakoshi held up the small sack he was carrying. The loud thug snatched it out of his hands and peered inside.
“Cakes,” he grumbled. “Is that all?” “Yes, I’m afraid that’s all.”
“Well, I’m feeling generous,” said the loud one. “Get lost, squirt. We’ll wait until next time to beat you up.”
Funakoshi sat with Itosu, his teacher, the next night. They sipped tea together and Funakoshi told him about the thugs he had faced on his way to Mawashi.
“You found a way not to hurt them,” Itosu nodded approvingly. “Good. Very good.”
Funakoshi lowered his head modestly. But inside he was beaming at his teacher’s praise.
“But you lost your cakes,” Itosu observed. “What did you offer at your in-laws’ altar?”
“A heartfelt prayer,” Funakoshi answered smiling. His teacher laughed.
“I think you offered your wife’s family something much more valuable than cakes,” he said, pouring Funakoshi another cup of tea. “You offered them the knowledge that their daughter is married to a good man, one who can pr
otect her if he has to, but who can control himself and his temper even when challenged.”
Funakoshi sipped the tea and smiled.
Morihei Ueshiba was the founder of the Japanese art of aikido. As a young man, he studied jujitsu, as well as sword and spear techniques. While in the Japanese army he was certified to teach combat arts to soldiers. Later in his life, however, he decided that attacking another person, even for a good reason, upsets the harmony of the universe. He developed aikido, which is a completely defensive art. Aikido students refer to Ueshiba as Osensei, which means “honored teacher.”
The Strange Disappearance of Morihei Ueshiba
Morihei Ueshiba was a man of rare abilities. One day during a demonstration he asked five American military police officers to hold him down, to restrain him as they would restrain a dangerous criminal. The police officers surrounded Ueshiba Osensei. Five young, strong soldiers latched onto the small, eighty-year-old man. One by one, the police officers were tossed off the pile like rag dolls until Ueshiba Osensei was able to stroll through the midst of them completely free. The people who observed the demonstration say he wasn’t even breathing hard.
Another time during a demonstration he defended himself unarmed against a sword master with a bokken, a wooden sword. The man could easily have knocked out or even killed a lesser opponent. But Ueshiba Osensei seemed able to read the sword master’s mind. He ducked and dodged, smoothly, easily. The sword master used his most effective techniques against Ueshiba Osensei, but was unable to touch him. Later Ueshiba Osensei said that he could see the path the sword would take before it even moved. The path appeared to him like trails of light in the air. All he had to do was stay outside the trails.
These demonstrations were remarkable, without a doubt. But perhaps more remarkable, and perhaps more unbelievable, was the time Ueshiba Osensei vanished into thin air.
Ueshiba Osensei was talking with several of his students at home one evening. The students were talking about the mysterious powers of the ninja.
“It is said,” a student remarked, “that a ninja can climb straight up the side of a building without ropes or ladders. Surely that takes mysterious powers.”
“That’s not so mysterious,” said another. “They have claws they strap to their hands and feet. The claws dig into the wood or the mortar between the bricks. A ninja climbing a building is no more mysterious than a cat climbing a tree.”
“But what about their invisibility?” said the first student. “How do you explain that?”
“Camouflage,” said the second student. “Black clothes at night, green clothes for hiding in trees, white clothes for hiding in snow. The army does the same thing.”
“But what about their ability to disappear?” “Like I said, camouflage,” said the second.
“No I mean to really disappear, to vanish into thin air,” said the first. “That,” said the second, “is not possible.”
“Mmm,” said Ueshiba Osensei, who had been listening in on the conversation. The students’ heads all turned to look at their sensei.
“It isn’t,” said the student. “It isn’t possible. People don’t just disappear.”
“You’re quick to label something impossible,” Ueshiba Osensei said. “Have you tried it?”
“No,” said the student, a little less sure of himself now.
“Do you know anyone who has spent years of his life trying to learn how to do it?”
“No.” The student began to squirm.
“I see,” Ueshiba Osensei said. “But still you believe it is impossible?” The student was silent.
Ueshiba Osensei stood gracefully, then walked to an open place on the floor. “Come,” he said to the student. “Come.” He motioned for the rest of the students to stand and join him.
The students stood and faced their teacher.
“Attack me, all of you at once,” Ueshiba Osensei commanded.
The students knew what their teacher was asking. They had attacked many times as a group on the training floor. It didn’t seem to make a difference to Ueshiba Osensei whether he was attacked by one person or by a mob; he always managed to throw off his attackers and free himself. The students looked around at the furniture, trying to gauge whether they had room to roll out of the throws Osensei would be doing.
“Attack me,” Osensei said again.
The students converged, each trying to grab a wrist, or a shoulder, or a lapel. They came together on all sides of their teacher, a large, teeming mass of hands reaching out for the grab.
Slowly, steadily, the students stepped back from the group. They looked around. All they saw were other students. Osensei was nowhere to be seen.
“So,” they heard the voice from the top of the stairs. “So,” Osensei said, “do you still believe it’s impossible?”
The students tripped over each other to get to the base of the stairs. Looking up they saw their teacher sitting casually at the top.
“How?” asked several students at once.
“Can you teach us?” asked another. Heads nodded throughout the group.
“It’s a matter of the proper use of ki, or energy,” Osensei said descending the stairs. “Once you’ve developed your ki to a sufficient degree, no explanation will be necessary. Until that time, no explanation will be sufficient.”
“Would you do it again?” a student asked.
“Am I a circus act?” Osensei asked. “No, these things take a great deal of energy. I won’t expend that kind of energy just to satisfy your curiosity.”
The students were silent.
“Maybe some other time,” Osensei said with a smile. “Right now it’s time for me to disappear into my bed for a good night’s sleep. I suggest you do the same.”
Masutatsu (Mas) Oyama is the founder of Kyokushinkai Karate. When he was a boy, he studied the Eighteen Hands, a Chinese martial art. At age fifteen, he left Korea, where he had been born, and China, where he had grown up, for Japan. He wanted to become a fighter pilot and test his courage serving inWorldWar II. But the war ended before he could sign up, and Mas Oyama turned to the martial arts to provide him with the challenges he sought.
Why Mas Oyama Shaved His Head Twice
Mas knew that most of his friends thought he was crazy. They all gathered at a local Tokyo restaurant to see him off.
“I like the haircut, Mas,” one of his friends commented. “It makes you look like an egg.”
“Yeah, what’s going on, Mas?” another taunted. “Don’t the mountain spirits like hair?”
Mas ran his hand over his smooth scalp. It felt strange but good. It felt good like a fresh beginning feels good.
“Well, boys,” he said, taking another sip of his drink. “I’ve decided that if I’m going to train, I’m going to do it right. I’m not going to come down from that mountain until my hair reaches my shoulders. I figure it’ll take about a year, maybe two. When you next see me, I’ll be a new man.”
“Well, certainly a hairier one, I hope. You really don’t have the head to make baldness look good.” The friend raised his glass in a salute.
Mas’s friends laughed. But they knew better than to underestimate Mas’s willpower. If he said he would be up there for a year, he would do it.
Mas dropped his pack in the center of a small grove of trees. The sound of a waterfall roared and splashed just over the hill. The smell of damp moss filled the air. The cool, spring breeze felt good on his bare scalp.
Stripping off his jacket, he scanned the grove until he found a tree about three inches thick. Taking a solid stance he faced the tree, then swinging his hips, he whipped his leg into a powerful round kick. His shin landed on the tree trunk with a thud. The pain spread like a fire up Mas’s shin.
“I have some serious conditioning to do,” he said to himself as he prepared for a second k
ick.
The waterfall had ceased to be painfully cold. It was now only bonechillingly, muscle-numbingly cold. But deep in his belly, Mas could feel the powerful core of warmth as he rose from his morning meditation. The sun was beginning to come up as Mas stood, the icy water still streaming down from the rocks above onto his head and shoulders.
“It’s going to be hot today,” he said running a hand through his bushy short hair. Hot days were good. They could be just as good a test as cold.
Finding a spot where the water from the waterfall beat down hardest, Mas took a strong stance in the knee-deep water and began his body-hardening exercises. His feet tight and stable beneath him, he tightened his entire body and punched slowly, as though trying to push his fist through a huge pile of sand. Then relaxing completely, he pulled his fist back, tightened and punched again. One hundred times on the left side. One hundred times on the right side. Mas shifted his feet slightly and began working on his blocks.
The snow made the rock slippery. Mas’s feet skidded out from under him and he fell to the ground. Rising, he stood again beside the waist-high boulder. Bending his knees deep, he sprang into the air. Again his feet reached the top of the rock, but slipped off the edge. Mas slid down the side of the rock and landed hard on his left hip. He stood, pushed the pain out of his mind, backed away from the rock, and took a few practice jumps. His short hair bounced on his forehead. What he needed to do was get his knees higher. Again he stood next to the rock, sprung, and this time landed squarely in the center of the rock. To make sure he had the technique, he tried again, and again landed squarely on the rock. A grin spread across his face. Hopping down, he began scanning the area for a larger boulder.
Legends of the Martial Arts Masters Page 7