Legends of the Martial Arts Masters (11 page)

“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.”

M
asutatsu
(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 w
ar ended before he could sign up, and
Mas Oyama turned to the martial
ar
ts 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 kick.

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.

The fall leaves crackled under Mas’s feet as he made his way to his punching rock. The path was familiar to him. Each day for a year and a half, he had made his way to the same spot. At first he had punched his hands into wet sand, then pebbles. Then he found a fallen log and used that for a few months. The skin on his knuckles and palm had hardened and calloused. The nerves had died. And Mas’s hands, when formed into fists, had come to look like heavy clubs.

Tucking his hair behind his ears, Mas knelt before the smooth flat rock. He liked to think that if he looked hard enough, he could see the indentations where his fists had pounded over and over into the surface. Breathing, relaxing, he began striking the rock. Steadily he punched. Harder. Harder. Harder. Crackle. Mas stopped. In the center of the rock, a small crack had formed. Mas took a deep breath and punched. His fist broke the surface, and the rock split into two even pieces.

Standing, Mas made his way back along the path. He stopped at the clearing, tied his hair back in a ponytail, gathered his pack, and started down the mountain.

Mas and his friends stood on the edge of the ring, watching two fighters compete. The first All-Japan Karate Tournament looked as though it was going to be a resounding success. Karateka from all over Japan awaited their turn to compete. Mas ran his hand over his head. He had kept the long hair and had just oiled it and pulled it back for the tournament. His friends joked that it made him look like one of the old samurai. He figured he’d cut it soon. But somehow it just didn’t seem time yet.

As Mas waited for his turn, he watched some of the most skillful karateka he’d ever seen. He was not the only one in the auditorium who was in good shape. He hoped his training would be enough.

From the front table, Mas heard his name being called. He reported to the front table and learned which ring he was to fight in. He reported to the ring and began his warm-up.

The official strode into the ring. Standing opposite his opponent, Mas bowed, and on signal took a fighting stance. The other fighter did so as well. Mas saw the hole in his defense immediately. Seizing the opportunity, he faked high, then punched hard to the man’s solar plexus. The man sagged, and Mas caught his chin with an uppercut. The fight was over mere seconds after it had started.

Mas’s friends crowded around him, slapping him on the back. “I think I blinked,” Mas said.

“What?” a friend asked.

“I think I blinked, when I threw the uppercut, I might have had my eyes closed for a second. I shouldn’t have closed my eyes.”

“Who cares?” the friend said, slapping him on the back again. “It was a great uppercut. It was an incredible fight.”

The crowd gathered around the mat where Mas was scheduled to fight his last fight. None of the opponents he had fought had lasted longer than a couple of minutes. Word had spread through the arena that a strong twenty-four-year-old fighter was defeating every opponent he fought. The ring where the final fight was to be held was surrounded by people eight or ten deep.

Mas stepped into the ring. He bowed to his opponent. He bowed to the referee. He took his fighting stance, and again immediately saw the opening. His opponent’s defense was weak. He could blast right through it. When the man moved to attack, Mas hooked over his arm and punched him solidly in the chest. The man staggered back. Mas followed. His opponent tried to get his guard back up, but Mas punched through it, around it, past it, landing several short sharp blows to the man’s ribs. The power knocked him over. On the floor, clutching his ribs, he tried to stand, but grimaced at the pain. The referee called the fight and declared Mas the winner.

“I think my concentration could have been better,” Mas said to his friend later outside the arena.

“I don’t see how,” the friend answered. “It looked great to me.”

“The focus was there,” Mas said. “It was a good fight. I’m glad I won. All I’m saying it that I think I could have done better. There was something I should have learned out there on the mountain that I don’t think I’ve gotten yet.”

“Mas,” his friend replied. “Stop worrying about it. Don’t you understand that after this tournament, you’ll have people from all over the country wanting to study with you? Even if it wasn’t a perfect fight, it was still the best one at the tournament. You are the best fighter in the country.”

“Maybe so,” Mas replied.

“Definitely so,” his friend replied. “Now, we have some celebrating to do. You’re going to meet us at the restaurant in an hour, right?”

“Right,” agreed Mas, running his fingers through his hair. “I’ll meet you there. I have a few things to take care of first.”

A small crowd gathered at the restaurant. Mas’s friends were telling stories of how they had trained for their black belts together. Now and then they would shoot a glance at the door, wondering where Mas was. It wasn’t like him to be late.

It was nearly nine o’clock when he finally came through the door. He sat down at the table and removed his cap.

“I like the haircut, Mas,” a friend said. “It makes you look like an egg. You’re going up the mountain again?”

Mas nodded. “One more time.”

C
hatan Y
ara grew up in the village of
Chatan in Okinawa in the late eighteenth
century. When he was a boy, his pa
rents began considering what would be
a good career for him. Because he w
as large for his age and strong, they
sent him to China to learn martial ar
ts. He lived there for twenty y
ears, studying withWong Chung-Yoh. When he
returned to Okinawa he made his living
as a Chinese translator,
teaching martial
arts in the evenings.