(Originally written as a part of the Narrative Journalism class at Ithaca College, fall 2012. Available here as work preservation.)
The room is silent. It is bare, brightly lit, hot, and
smells of salt. The students inside are dressed for battle, clad as samurai.
The kendo students form a circle and place their bamboo swords, shinai, in front of them to form another
smaller circle. One by one, they inhale together and then exhale together. In …
Out. In… Out. In unison the group puts out a leg.
“Ichi, ni, san, shi!”
Martha, the president of the club, shouts the numbers one through four in
Japanese as each kendo student holds a count for stretching.
“Go, roku, shichi,
hachi!” The other students yell the following four numbers. The words echo.
Their hakama, the large pleated
pants, brush the floor.
In her naturally quiet voice, Martha announces, “Okay,
everyone.” The others talk among themselves over sips of water and Gatorade.
“Hey, guys,” Martha calls. A few turn people turn toward
her, but others are still talking. “Guys!” Martha repeats louder. All eyes are
on her. “As you all know, some kendo teachers from Osaka are visiting next
weekend. They’re going to lead us in practice, and then we’re having a mini
tournament. This is going to be a five-person team, and to decide who’s
competing, we’re going to have two-minute matches today.”
Gin, the club member who has practiced kendo the longest, acts
as the referee for the match. He signals for Martha and one other student to
come forward. Martha adjusts her helmet, tugging at the ties. Her hair, back in
a ponytail, is barely visible under the tenugui,
a cotton hand towel she wears under her helmet.
Martha and her opponent bow. They start with their swords in
their left hands, bow their heads, return upright, swords ready, and bend at
the knees. They back away a few paces. Now the match is ready to start.
“Hajime!” Gin
yells. “Begin!”
Martha immediately takes the offensive and shrieks a kiai during her first strike. Her
opponent blocks and the two bamboo swords clack against each other. He attacks
again, and Martha retreats, awkwardly dropping one hand from the sword as she
desperately blocks another strike. Clack! Clack! The swords continue to collide
until the two fighters get in close, wrists locked. They break free and spin
around each other.
“Do!” Martha
shrieks, emphasis on the “oh.” Her sword hits her opponent’s chest piece hard. Point
one for Martha.
They restart. This time her opponent is the first to attack,
but Martha advances on him in a second, slamming her foot on the wooden floor.
Both stand still for a moment. Martha’s foot twitches slightly, and she’s
moving quickly again, striking. Head. Head. Arm. Block. Chest. Chest. Chest
again. Her next strike hits his wrists.
Spirit, sword technique, and proper posture—all three are
required for a point, and most matches are played to two points. A person can
swing a sword around all he wants to, but without accuracy and spirit, it’s
just a child with a sharp stick.
Jess, the secretary, sits with a stopwatch. “Jikan desu!” she says. It’s time; the
two minutes are up. Martha and her opponent bow before returning to the sides
of the room.
At the end of practice, the kendo students line up on the
floor by seniority, sitting on the floor with their feet tucked underneath
their rears. The room is quiet with a moment of reflection. With hands placed
in front on the ground, they bow together, raising their heads slower than they
lowered them. Together they say, “Arigato
gozaimasu,” a formal thank you.
They file outside the gym one-by-one, but not without one
final bow.
* * *
Practices involve being hit over and over. Repeatedly.
Abulu, the vice president of the club, stands in the middle
of the room running drills with Martha. He holds his sword out for Martha to
strike with each step she takes. She finishes with a men strike and runs past Abulu while she shouts a nasally “aaaaaaa!”
Only Martha, Abulu, and Jess are present for the Wednesday
night practice. With exams coming up, most club members take the night off to
study.
“We’re going to go over some of the basics today,” Martha
says. “We should do this more often, anyway. Everything starts with the
fundamentals.”
As they continue doing drills, Martha sees Abulu adjusting
his grip on the hilt frequently.
“Make sure you have a strong grip before you strike, Abulu!
But you want your body to be relaxed. You can’t attack properly if you’re
tense. Just relax.”
He shakes out his arms and takes a deep breath. Even though
he’s the vice president, Abulu is a newcomer to kendo when compared to Martha,
who’s been practicing since she was a child. But there’s room for improvement
for everyone.
Martha starts another basic drill. She, Abulu, and Jess line
up, facing themselves in a mirror. On counts to three, they practice a series
of strikes. Jess counts off first, Abulu does it second, and Martha does the
third round.
“Ichi!” Swords up.
“Ni!” Step forward and strike. “San!” Return. “Ichi! Ni! San! Ichi! Ni! San! Ichi…”
Martha stands still with her sword above her head. Abulu and
Jess both step forward and strike for the second count, but they hesitate
halfway when they realize Martha hasn’t moved.
“Got you!” The three take a moment to laugh before it’s all
business again. “Oh, and make sure your back heel is raised,” Martha reminds
them.
* * *
Three older Japanese men walk in barefoot to a middle school
gym. Upon entering, they bow, and students—both Japanese and American—do
the same. Just outside the gym doors, Martha runs back and forth.
“Right this way,” she says in Japanese. She later recalls
that many of the students visiting from Japan knew English, but because she’s
fluent in Japanese, it was easier to converse in their native language.
“Arigato, arigato,” the
young Japanese students reply. They file in calmly, and soon Martha joins them
in the makeshift dojo. It was the gym of a nearby middle school, but for
today’s purposes, it is a dojo.
A long line of varying shades of dark blues and black tops
and hakama pants forms across the gym
floor, made up of students from Osaka University, Cornell, NYU, and Syracuse
University. Martha stands somewhere in the middle. The three sensei from Kyoto, Japan, stand facing
them. Of the three, one does most of the talking.
His name is Ichihara-sensei.
He is small, standing roughly at five feet and five inches. Martha sees the
muscles of his forearms, which aren’t covered by his kendo top, and notices he
is well built for his age. In fact, the only thing giving away his old age is
his graying hair.
“First, thank you to the Corneru
students for hosting us,” Ichihara says in English for the American students.
He struggles with double l in
“Cornell.”
Martha smiles slightly and the others from the Cornell Kendo
Club nod to Ichihara.
The other two are quiet for now. Actually, the second
teacher, Ikeda-sensei is quiet in
spite of a student asking him a question. The third, Kakinoki-sensei is the youngest of the teachers
and lets the others answer questions. But something blinking on his chest
catches Martha’s eye. Squinting her eyes, she can see it’s a nametag, flashing Kakinoki. It’s strangely out of place
compared to all of the embroidered nametags people wear.
“Now you all will have to know my name,” he says quietly,
but with a laugh. Turning to Martha, whose attention is clearly on the bling,
he adds, “I’ll even make one for you.”
The room erupts with giggles.
But kendo is no laughing matter; the room is serious minutes
later. The first event of the day is a mini tournament, one-on-one matches in
five-person teams.
Martha steps forward as the competitor. Her opponent is one
of the Japanese students from the Osaka University Kendo Club. Although she is
smaller than him, he is also short—a “fit but compact size.” She bows at the
knees and takes a long look at him.
His eyes narrow. It’s a look of determination, but also
perhaps of arrogance. She sees his eyes say, “I’m not losing to a girl.”
“Hajime!” Ichihara
yells. The match begins.
Each takes a few moments to size up the other, both in a
basic ready stance with the sword held out in front of the body, the end of the
sword pointed at the opponent’s neck. Martha takes one step forward.
He shouts. Martha feels the vibration from his sword on her
helmet, and the feeling reaches all the way to her stomach. A solid hit. He
scores his second point in less than ten seconds.
The match is already over.
* * *
Martha takes a swig from her water bottle and wipes away the
dribble on the sides of her mouth. Practice is quiet with only three people
present, and Jess tries to disturb the silence by playing on the piano in the
corner of the room.
“Ugh, I ate too much food over my fall break,” Martha
groans. “I got fat.”
No, she didn’t,
Jess mouths from behind her.
Abulu stifles a laugh.
Martha arranges Jess and Abulu for a lesson in nuki-do. She and Jess demonstrate for
him. They stand at the ready, and when Martha brings her sword down at Jess’s
head, Jess almost walks under Martha’s armpit as she swiftly drops her sword
parallel to the ground and strikes Martha’s exposed side.
Abulu gives it a shot. He and Jess line up across from each
other, staring at each other. Abulu towers over her. He’s tall and skinny, and
fighting someone of a radically different size takes some adjustment. As Jess
raises her sword to strike, Abulu closes the distance and tries to strike her
side, but she easily hits his head first.
“Faster, Abulu!” Martha says.
He tries again and again, but Jess hits him every time.
“If it makes you feel better, girls are naturally better at nuki-do,” Jess says.
“We’re smaller and faster,” Martha adds.
The two girls grin at each other. Abulu rubs the back of his
head and sighs.
“The key is to already be in motion—to anticipate their
attack,” Martha suggests. “And don’t wait for them to attack you. Force them to
attack. Kendo isn’t only about the physical.”
* * *
Jess sits at a small table, the only one in jeans and a jacket. "CORNELL KENDO CLUB" is printed on the back in large red letters. A series of papers lay on the table. She leans back in the uncomfortable school chair, jumping to attention when a young man in kendo gear appears. The nametag between his legs reads "ALLEGHENY."
"There's a problem with our liability sheets," he says. "We, ah, forgot to bring them."
Jess laughs and waves him off. "That's okay. Just don't get hurt."
During this weekend-long tournament, held by the Cornell Kendo Club each year, Jess greets the competitors and keeps track of paperwork. Inside the gym, Martha and Gin sit on opposite sides of the room at two different tables, calling competitors to their matches. Jess sits outside, alone.
"I'm supposed to compete today, but I honestly have no idea how because I'll be at this table all day," she groans.
She hears shouts of "Fight-OOOOOO, fight-OOOOOO!" from the gym. The rest of the day is going to be loud.
Helmets and shinai lay scattered across the gym floor. Students' embroidered nametags read "Rutgers," "NYU," "Yale," "Harvard," "Allegheny," and of course, "Cornell." Both undergraduate and graduate students from the east coast come to Cornell once a year for the fall competition.
“Wei
Lin from Cornell, red!” Martha calls from her table. Even from across the gym,
Gin’s shouts overtake hers. “Wei Lin from Cornell!” she repeats.
The competitor set to fight next stands at the corner.
Martha checks his ribbon to make sure it is tied securely to the back strings
of his chest plate. She gives him a thumbs up and returns to her seat.
A match on Gin’s side ends, and a man walks to the
bleachers. As he takes off his helmet, he wipes off a layer of sweat from his
brow. He, and the majority of people here, reeks of sweat. He slumps to a seat
and sighs.
“It was my first time,” he admits to a teammate. “I didn’t
do that well. Well, shit.”
His teammate pats him on the back. “It was close—nearly a
tie.”
“What would have happened then?”
“The judges would have made a decision based on your spirit.
That’s what it comes down to.”
Jess walks into the gym, now in her kendo uniform. She
sniffles and rubs her nose. The women’s tournament will begin soon. The table
will survive without her for a few minutes.
Martha also leaves her station. A few people wave to her as
she walks past. She returns the gesture, but scurries past.
On the gym floor, Jess steps forward as her name is called.
She and her opponent bow and wait for the judge’s signal.
“Hajime!”
Jess is cautious at first. Her opponent is larger and more
aggressive. She strikes at Jess with ferocity, slapping the floor with her feet
each time she attacks. Jess blocks and returns fire. They rotate positions,
circling each other.
“Men!”
Jess can see the strike coming. She raises her sword enough
to block the overhead strike as she slides to the left, bringing her sword down
to her right side and swinging it across. “Do!”
The judge’s flag shoots into the air. Outside in the
hallway, swords clack against each other as Martha loosens her muscles. She
takes a moment to roll her shoulders and stretch her legs.
“I’m not too nervous,” she says. “I’ve done kendo for years,
so this isn’t my first tournament by any means. I also have a by to the second
round because I’ve done kendo the longest.”
She coughs once and clears her throat. A bug is going around
in the chilly October month.
“I’ll be up in a few matches. Wish me luck.” She nods to
herself, firmly grips her shinai, and
walks to the corner of the gym where she waits her turn.
Jess finishes her second match with a loss. She drops
herself on the bleachers. “A cold plus sports-induced asthma is never helpful
for winning,” she says. “Martha will be competing against the girl who beat
me.”
She coughs and wipes the sweat off of her face. “Her match
should be fun to watch, so don’t miss it.”
* * *
“On deck, Joo
from NYU, red. Adams from Cornell, white!”
The two women bow and stare at each other. Martha adjusts
her grip on her sword, left hand on the butt of the hilt and her right hand
next to the handguard. Her left hand grips it strongly.
Her left heel is slightly off the ground. Her legs are
loose, but strong. The judges consult each other with quick head nods. Once
they yell, the two fighters spring forward.
BUM. “Men!” “Do!”
CLACK! BU-BUM. “DOOO!”
Martha and Joo move back and forth, screaming, slamming
their feet, and swinging their swords. Chatter from the sidelines has quieted.
“MEN!” Martha
shrieks as she strikes Joo’s helmet. A judge’s flag waves in the air.
Once the judge gives the signal, Martha and Joo strike at
the same time. Just like in practice, as Joo went to strike Martha’s head,
Martha blocked it, brought her sword to her side and struck Joo’s chest. The clack
against the chest plate echoes.
“Ooooh!” the crowd says.
From the corner of her eye, Martha doesn’t see the white
flag rise, so she continues. She and Joo both advance quickly and strike at the
same time. Their swords push against each other as both fighters’ wrists are
locked together. Joo pushes harder and jumps backward, almost tripping over her
feet. The crowd oooohs again.
Martha takes a swift step forward and stomps. “Do!” she shouts once more. With the
technique, her kiai, and the
footwork, the judge raises the white flag a second time.
The crowd screams in both English and Japanese. Martha and
Joo bow. They both walk to the sidelines and shake hands. Martha takes a moment
to breathe deeply. There’s no time for a water break, but the adrenaline keeps
her going.
Martha steps back on the court, waiting for her opponent to
do the same. She stands tall, legs together, sword at the side. Her white
ribbon hangs from her back. This match will decide the winner of the women’s
tournament.
The opponent, the one who defeated Jess, walks forward. With
their respective bows, she and Martha take a deep breath together. Martha holds
her sword comfortably, the tip in line with her opponent’s chest.
“Haaajime!” the
judge yells.
“Go, Martha!” somebody shouts from the crowd.
“Ganbare!” another
person says. “Do your best!”
“Kote!” her
opponent yells, swinging at Martha’s wrist. Martha moves to the side.
She stomps forward and attacks, but it’s no good. Martha
keeps stomping, shouting, and attacking. Her opponent stops Martha’s sword with
a block and moves in.
“MEN!” she
screams. Her sword hits Martha squarely on the head. Martha flinches only for a
second from the sudden strike. The red flag points upward.
A few whispered voices utter an “ouch” in sympathy. The
helmets soften the blow of all men
strikes, but the sound of the sword on the helmet can be more off-putting.
The second round begins. If Martha doesn’t get the next
point, she’ll lose. She ensures her grip on the hilt is secure before she dashes
forward. Trying to minimize wide open areas, Martha keeps her sword close to
her, doing small strikes at the wrists. Some of them connect, but she hadn’t
stomped or shouted.
Martha forces the young woman into the corner of the
boundaries for the match. She continuously swings her sword, forcing her
opponent to block. She backs up farther and farther until the judge raises the
white flag.
Through her helmet, Martha breathes in…and out. No one in
the audience dares make a sound. The two women on the court take a moment to
compose themselves. The next point will be the last.
“Hajime!”
Both are cautious this time. Martha’s toes grip the floor as
she waits for the moment. Her
opponent hesitates as her eyes meet Martha’s, but she slides forward and
attacks. Martha sidesteps and takes one step forward, forcing her adversary to
follow. As she does, Martha also runs forward, her bare feet squeaking on the
floor.
“MEN!”
“MEN!”
They shout and strike at once. Martha struggles to get away.
Retreating would mean putting herself in danger of being struck, but nothing
would happen if they were in a stalemate, too close to use a sword effectively.
Their gloved wrists push back and forth, neither competitor giving way. They
circle around, trying to use momentum, and both push upward, leaving themselves
open. They quickly step backward before running back in.
BUMBUM. Martha
stomps twice as she steps forward and attacks her opponent’s open left side,
but she’s too slow and it’s blocked. She puts more space between them. Neither
moves.
The crowd is silent, holding their breath in unison.
Martha suddenly screams and stomps hard enough for her foot
to tingle as she readies herself for a strong swing.
“KYAAAA!” she
screeches. Martha’s sword slams into the opponent’s side with a booming clap.
The judge whips the white flag in the air. The crowd jumps
in the air. Teammates let go of the breath trapped in their chests. As Martha
reaches the sidelines, she rips off her helmet and grins, sweat shining on her
face.
“I told you it’d be good,” Jess says, watching from the
doorway. “That’s Martha for ya.”
It may be Pokemon's first foray into 3D, but that aspect hardly matters when compared with all of the other things Game Freak added to Pokemon X and Y. Other than a hiccup with a game-breaking bug in Lumiose City (which has since been fixed; if you haven't downloaded the patch yet, it's on the Nintendo eShop), the game is solid.
Game Freak took a different turn with the rival character in X and Y. In the past, Pokemon games have one rival. More recent games have added two characters you occasionally battle. Sometimes they're both rivals, sometimes they're also friends, sometimes one is a great battler while the other finds other ways of enjoying a journey with Pokemon. In X and Y, you travel with four other characters. One is clearly your rival and the next best at Pokemon battling. The second is a friendly girl who you spend a decent amount of time with journeying through forests and routes or keeping each other company while watching the fireworks. The third loves to dance and isn't so good at Pokemon battling. The fourth also isn't good at battling and has decided his goal is to fill the Pokedex, and he will challenge you to see who has more entries in the Pokedex. You both travel on your own and with these four characters, meaning you get to choose to move at your own pace and also battle some recurring characters a few times. The rival, named Calem if you chose the female protagonist and Serena if you chose the male protagonist, and Shauna are with you the most of other characters, and these two become a bit more complex as you learn more about their goals for their respective Pokemon journeys. However, these characters are still fairly simple-minded. Even if Pokemon is traditionally a game marketed to children, there is no need for such simplistic characters in a story. Before people come in and say, "But you don't play Pokemon for the story!" I want to say that people choose their own reasons for playing a game. The beauty of Pokemon is that it feels like your own story. My favorite part of starting a Pokemon game is starting the journey, picking my starter, and catching my first few Pokemon in a new region with new Pokemon. I also get to choose which Pokemon to use in my party, which strategies to employ in battles, and what to name my Pokemon (if I choose to name them). At the same time, the plot of Pokemon games is linear. You are guided to which towns to go to next, which gyms to fight next, and to pursue whichever nefarious team is trying to hurt people/the world/Pokemon. With six generations of Pokemon games out, it's time for more stories that challenge the way you think about Pokemon.
Two other additions can be found on the bottom screen. By pressing L or R, you can navigate away from the online capabilities of the Player Search System to Pokemon Amie and Super Training. Pokemon Amie lets you pet your Pokemon, feed your Pokemon, and play three mini-games with your Pokemon. You don't have to do this, and it's never forced on you, but some Pokemon need to have a high affection for you before evolving (this is partly how Eevee evolves into the new fairy-type Sylveon). The mini-games can take less than a minute, so they never take too much of your time. Super Training is not nearly as cute; instead its purpose is to give you some control over which stats you want your Pokemon to improve. By playing short mini-games in which you shoot soccer balls at targets while evading balls shot at you, you can choose which stat to increase. If you don't feel like spending too much time on it, your Pokemon can hit a punching back once a minute to increase stats.
