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The hall is cold. We wait in two rows. The last time I felt like
this was as a schoolboy, lined up for public inquisition. I get the same
feeling that I'm about to be found out. Sensei
Russell Jenkins gets up from his table and stands in front of us. 'Kaisoku
chudan gamae,' he says. 'Step your left leg out to shoulder width, mei uchi
with both hands, then back into fists.' He demonstrates. We've done it
hundreds of times. 'Kaisoku chudan gamae - gamae!' he orders. No-one moves. Sensei
Russ sighs. 'Let's try again,' he says patiently. 'What am I doing
here?' I wonder. And he probably does too.
It all began eight months earlier when I reached 39 and realised I was pushing 40 without benefit of any exercise more strenuous than opening the Snickers drawer of the office vending machine. I thought vaguely that a martial art might benefit me and my seven-year-old son William. One day, as William played football at Oaklands community school, I saw a poster advertising Shorinji Kempo, whatever that was. The pictures looked good. I wasn't sure about the bloke with the big stick but the Sunday morning time suited us so I phoned and arranged to have a go. I'm not exactly a natural athlete, in the same way that Southampton isn't exactly in Australia, and I wondered what I'd let myself in for. Amid the melee Sensei Peter Moore introduced himself. This is the thinking man's martial art, he explained. If that meant I wouldn't have to head butt planks of wood, that was fine by me. Norman Mohammed, 1st dan, warned me not to expect to become Bruce Lee. Still breathing hard from climbing the steps, I felt there wasn't much danger of that.
We soon learned what Shorinji Kempo was - a subtle martial art that values science over brute force. It uses techniques adapted from Shaolin kung fu by Japanese philosopher Doshin So, who merged the physical discipline of a martial art with his Buddhism to forge a new spirit in ruined post-war Japan. That first session we learned, among other things, mei uchi - a flick to the eyes - and sitting the samurai way. William was impressed by Sensei Pete's explanation that samurai had to be careful how they sat in case they got their heads cut off. I was impressed by the fact that kempo involved sitting down.
So we signed up and milestones came and went: First kick without falling over backwards; first kick without falling over forwards; first twisted knee, etc. I was also becoming aware of grading, and the awful realisation that one day it would be my turn. After the summer break I returned to training with determination and a support bandage (that knee). It started coming together, with the help of the black belts. 'Your shoulders are too tense (punch to shoulder). Relax (punch). You're (punch) still (punch) too (punch) tense.' ‘But someone keeps punching me, sensei.'
September saw a junior grading. A few weeks before his eighth birthday William earned his yellow tip and solemnly stepped up to shake hands with Sensei Pete. 'Cheer up William,' he said. 'You've passed.' Back home he crowed: 'I'm higher than you until your grading.' I continued sewing the tags on his belt, enjoying a mental image of flooring him with a devastating take-down.
November 11 was an auspicious date for the grading. I got up earlier than usual for a calm Zen breakfast, rather spoiled by William's nearly-two brother Ed, who dropped Coco Pops in my green tea and yelled 'Willy bum poo' at me.
At the dojo we trained as normal, except that at 11am Sensei Pete stopped us for two minutes' silence. With the ruins of the World Trade Centre still smouldering the gesture never seemed more appropriate. There was some last-minute coaching then we were off to the university.
Things went well up to the point where we couldn't find our way in, finally reaching the hall after a Tomb Raider-style adventure through dusty corridors, a fire exit and a bar. There were three other Oaklands white belts among the candidates: Steve and Dave, who started training shortly after me, and my grading partner Matthew, at 12 a four-year veteran who had shaken off junior status and was ready to trade his tags for a yellow belt. The last formality was a public confession of age because they forgot to ask as we signed in: I was the second oldest there, Matthew the youngest. 'You bully,' came the rebuke. 'What are you doing beating up an old man like that?' Then it began.
The umpoho – footwork, with instructions in Japanese - brought one panic-worthy moment (what's sashikai-ashi?), but at least I was facing the right way most of the time. Then techniques. All went well until yori nuki, an escape from a held wrist and counter-attack. Matthew was flashing warning glances and smacking my hand away with unusual venom. I realised I was grabbing with the wrong hand, inside his wrist instead of outside. I was still cursing myself during the verbal test - whatever my question, I wanted the answer to be 'I know it's an outside grab'. Then came a written test on dojo etiquette. After scrounging pen and paper (mental note - be better prepared next time. And remember it's an outside grab) I started. Should I mention that it's an outside grab? Perhaps not. We then watched the higher grades finish, a sobering lesson in how far we still had to go.
Later that week we got our results - we all passed, so my mistake was forgiven or just so funny they thought they'd pass me anyway. So now I've got my yellow belt and, with hard work, in a few months I'll think about my green. I may be more Bruce Forsyth than Bruce Lee but if there’s trouble I might be able to defend myself - or at least run away quicker. And William is learning something that will stay with him for life. That’s really what it’s all about.
Steve Matthews,