Values in Winning and Losing

I competed recently in a kendo tournament at one of the local universities. I don't compete often, maybe 3 or 4 times a year. Some people love to compete, to vie for honors and glory. To be the victor and prove yourself the most accomplished sword fighter among one's peers is a pinnacle achievement, and I mean that sincerely. But it's not why I study kendo, and it's probably why I do not often achieve that prize.

For me to compete in it, I had to take a vacation day from work, and drive for more than an hour to get there by 9 am. My division was not scheduled until mid-afternoon, and so I was assigned shimpan duty to one of the courts, refereeing some of the junior divisions. This is an honor, a recognition that one is trusted to know the rules, and the many elements that constitute a valid point. It is also part of my training, a test in which the senior instructors evaluate the ability of yudansha, the graded ranks, to properly judge matches.

In kendo, it is not enough to simply hit the other person with the shinai. For a strike to be yuko-datotsu, the first 6 to 8 inches of the sword must strike the appropriate target at the correct angle, and in a deliberate manner. It must have rei, a reason for being struck, the footwork and posture must be correct. It must be executed with good form, accompanied by a strong spirit indicated by the kiai, or shout. It must have good finishing form, and zanshin, remaining spirit, demonstrating no loss of intensity and a mental awareness of the strength of one's strike and the ability to strike again. There are three referees (shimpan) on each court, and at least two of the three must agree spontaneously that a valid point has been scored in order for it to be recognized. It is a very high standard and responsibility. Not only the competitors are evaluating their judges, but the other shimpan, the spectators, and the senior instructors are all watching and taking notes on our actions. A full rotation for shimpan is to judge 9 matches--3 each in the lower judge positions, and 3 as the head judge, starting and stopping the match, calling the points and announcing decisions concerning points or fouls.

After my rotation off the court, two very senior sensei for whom I have the deepest respect critiqued my judging. I was told that I was too quick to award certain points, that I was often mistaking strikes or hits for points when they had lacked the finishing elements of yuko-datotsu. Conversely, there were points that I refused to recognize that had all those elements. As I am new to judging, an inexperienced shimpan, these are not uncommon or uncorrectable flaws, but show that I have some things to learn. I will need to practice, and to pay attention to other matches to see how more experienced shimpan call points.

It was now time for my own division, the 2-dan and 3-dan. I was assigned to fight a college-aged kenshi from Canada. I could tell from his movements that he was psyched, ready to go. I could also tell he was eyeing me and thinking to himself that I was a greying, middle-aged, easy warm-up match for him. The shimpan were ready, we entered the court, bowed, approached the center line, drew our swords and crouched to the sonkyo position. The head judge commanded, "Hajime!"

I changed my usual strategy, which has been to feel out my opponent with some caution, and I initiated the attack quickly and with loud kiai. My attack was unsuccessful, he blocked it and returned a strike which I countered. I could tell that I had taken him by surprise and upset his expectations of me. I could also tell by the way he fought that he was certainly 3-dan, not 2-dan, and no slouch at that. He was a vigorous, strong opponent, and I had my hands full. There was no way I could back down, or revert to oji waza, defensive, countering techniques; if I did he'd be all over me. So I maintained the offensive, taking the fight to him. Alright, young fella, show me what you've got.

He tried tsuki, a one-handed stab to the throat. It's a very aggressive technique that you don't see very often because it is difficult to perform successfully. He missed the target, a leather tongue hanging below the face mask and covering my trachea, and it also missed the top of the leather chest protector of my do, stabbing me just below the collarbone and next to the shoulder, leaving a painful, silver dollar-sized bruise on my upper chest. "Oh, yeah?" I yelled, "Yeah? HA!" From his eyes, I knew I had him. "Qui est ce vieux fou?" he was thinking. I used my kiai and posture to intimidate him. I poured it on, and we fought a hard, intense fight, very fast and fierce. We were both using good footwork and technique, but neither of us was landing successful blows. Elegance was sacrificed for expediency. At the end of the 3-minute regulation time, the head judge yelled, "Yamei!"

According to the rules, the matches were 3-minutes, followed by two 1-minute encho (overtime periods). If there is no clear winner after the second, the judges declare hante, and award the match to one or the other, based on the somewhat subjective opinion of who they thought fought the better fight. If it were to come to that, I was determined to be declared the winner.

We fought the encho much as we had during regulation time. My blood was up, and I could tell he was weakening, tiring. He was panting hard, using tsubazerei to rest more, where the swords are crossed and the bodies very close together. Suddenly, he launched backwards using hiki-waza and aiming a cut at my kote. He missed, hitting my unprotected forearm midway between the kote and the elbow, leaving another painful bruise. "Kote!" All three shimpan's flags shot up, and he was awarded the winning point. I was eliminated from the first round of competition and done for the day.

Why did I lose? Well, the judges made a mistake, thinking a definite miss was on target, but he had executed the technique properly, with beautiful form, decisive kiai, zanshin, all of the other elements were there. And my mistake: I was caught holding my tsubazerei too high, exposing my forearm and being caught flat-footed and vulnerable. So I can't blame the judges at all; if I'd been that much better than him I would have beaten him decisively in regulation time. In encho, the standards are necessarily lowered somewhat. And besides, if it had been a real fight with real swords, my arm would still have been lying on the floor. The length of the stump would have been the only difference. Whether or not he was on target, I gave up the point.

My opponent went on to win three more matches before he was eliminated, still shy of receiving a third place trophy. Out of several hundred competitors, only a small handful win trophies. 50% are eliminated in the first round, and the numbers decrease by half until the final in each division. To stand up front and receive the the recognition of your skill before your peers is something to be proud of, a memorable experience, and for some of us a very rare one.

So what did I learn about winning and losing? I fought a damned good fight, one of my best. While it is better to win with honor than to lose with honor, I felt pretty good about the day. I held my own with a much younger, quicker fighter, and gave him a run for his money. I daresay I was as hard a fight as he faced all day. And another thing; for all the sacrifices I made to be there that day, he had caught the charter bus down from Canada with his team at probably 4 or 5 am. He had to pay the same as I did, and travelled a lot farther. He waited half the day to fight. If the tables had been reversed, and I had been awarded a questionable victory after a hard fight and eliminated him in the first round, a humiliating defeat at the hands of an old duffer, his ego would no doubt have suffered it far more bitterly than mine. I don't really need the strokes and the trophies and the accolades to know that I am a good kenshi. If I did, then I think there would be something wrong with me, needing to grasp and cling to material trappings. But then, perhaps I'm just consoling myself for losing, licking my wounds.

"Next time, D'Hubert!"