lenger, no one knew. He was dressed
in a black kimono (Japanese robe). A
wide, round hat resembling a basket
was tilted on top of his head. And a
pair of geta (wooden sandals) pro-
tected his feet from the hot road.
As the traveler approached the
crowd, anxious faces registered
dejection. Their foreheads wrinkled.
Their eyes squinted. Their mouths
curled. “This couldn’t be him!” they
murmured with disgust.
The stranger, who could easily be
mistaken for a sumotori (sumo wres-
tler), nonchalantly bowed to them and
cheerfully introduced himself: “I am
Morihei Ueshiba from Wakayama.
If you would pardon me, could I put
aside my gear before we start?”
The champ nodded with approval.
The expressions of the villag-
ers changed from dejection to
near hilarity. While the challenger
placed his gear under a tree, the
people chuckled and commented
among themselves: “He’s too fat —
he’ll be butchered.”
After removing his hat and geta,
the youthful challenger used a thin
string to strap the baggy kimono to
his body, then trotted to the center
of the unpaved road. In his right
hand, he carried his favorite bokken
(wooden sword). He stopped about
six paces from his elder opponent
and bowed. They both drew their
bokken. The match was on.THE SLAUGHTER
The noisy crowd suddenly hushed.
With eyes opened and jaws droop-
ing, they fixed their attention on
the swordsmen. It was a long wait
for them to witness the impending
slaughter. Only the cool breeze, car-
rying the fetid odor of manure from
the rice fields, prevented them from
going into a trance.
The first few minutes were dull.
Both men, with swords drawn, stood
motionless. Then unexpectedly, the
challenger raised his bokken over-
head and swung it directly toward the
champ’s head. The champ, at the last
second, sidestepped and countered.
But Ueshiba blocked the thrust.
The “tok” sound from the wooded
swords and the “ugh” sound from the
fighters shattered the stillness of the
air. But the flurry ceased as abruptly
as it started. Both men again stood
motionless, sizing each other up.Until now, the match was even.
But this waiting under the torrid
sun was taking its toll. Ueshiba felt
his throat burning and his arms get-
ting heavy. Sweat trickled into his
eyes and rolled down his back. His
kimono was damp and sticky. He
felt miserable — so miserable that he
wanted to tear his garment off. But
amid the discomfort, he kept repeat-
ing to himself: “Be careful, be care-
ful, don’t be duped.”
By chance, Ueshiba noticed that
the champ was blinking in the sun-
light. “What luck!” he uttered to him-
self, whereupon he conceived a plan.
If he could attack the instant his rival
blinked, he believed he could pen-
etrate his defense. Slowly and cau-
tiously, Ueshiba positioned himself
so his back was toward the sun, cast-
ing a shadow in front of him.
The champ, unaware, moved simul-
taneously. Suddenly, he realized the
trap — but it was too late.
Ueshiba, bellowing an “ee-ei!”
that sent chills down the spines
of the onlookers, swung his sword
at the side of his opponent’s head,
stopping the blow just before con-
tact. A clean cut. The village heroOCTOBER/NOVEMBER 2019 BLACKBELTMAG.COM 71