The Final Minutes

“Stand tall!” he shouts from behind the polished metal grill of his men. I gasp for air, stretching my lungs in a desperate attempt to move the hot, used air trapped behind my own mask. I think he’s yelling at me; I am bent at the waist, hands on knees, giving my lower back a short reprieve from the weight of my sweat-heavy uniform. Dry, all the gear weighs around ten pounds—enough to slow a fighter, enough to drain him, and throughout the course of the two hour training session, I dump copious amounts of fluid into it. By the end of practice, everything is heavier, hot, holding the salts of my anguish.

We are nearing the end of the session, and my vision fights to blur and the walls would dance about me if I didn’t hold them in place with grave determination. I am dehydrated, I can tell, but I don’t know how serious it is. The strength and violent vigor of the eager warrior is gone, lost with my water and breath. We are nearing the end. I have to continue to remind myself, because I want to throw myself to the floor and rip my men from my face, pull free the dou, the oven clamped across my chest. I want to take the weight off my feet, which are battered, torn, and tenderized from the repeated launches and stomps involved in this samurai sport. I want to breathe.

There is nothing in me except a refusal to quit, and the knowledge that I do not suffer in vain. I endure, as the sword endures the fires of the forge, so I might be shaped into the perfect tool, the impeccable weapon. My spirit is the hand inside a puppet. I lift myself. We are nearing the end.

I stand tall. It is almost over.

In truth, I do not know if this is true, and I do not dare steal a glance at the clock, lest it leave me with anguishing news. I trust that it is almost over, because if it is not, then even a spirit indomitable could not keep my spent body from toppling.

I stand, and imagine bloody footprints. I form myself into my stance, my kamae. The small muscles of my lower back cramp as I tuck my spine into position, and a pain steals its way into my skull. My stomach turns as my body’s self preservation systems scream into high alert, preparing to eject whatever poison has so wracked my body. I tilt my head back and swallow the threat of vomit. The angle change sends blood rushing through stressed vessels in my head. I might loose consciousness. I might black out and tilt backward on my heels. I would be limp before the back of my head hit the ground.

My neck tenses. The muscles across my back tighten and my core gathers my organs and straightens my spine. My jaw clenches and I say it to myself.

“No.”

I send my conscious mind deep within my own being. Digging deep, people call it. I find my resolve. I find the embers of my intensity. I scream. It’s called kiai, my battlecry. I empty my lungs, my voice shaking my men and echoing through the high-ceilinged gymnasium. There is so little left—so little fuel for the fire. I dig deeper, desperate for something. I wonder if there is anything left to give. I let loose another lungful. The shouting forces blood to the head, and the pressure becomes blinding, so unbelievably intense is the pain. Tears wash the sweat from my eyes and run down my sunken face. The pain does not abate, and part of me wants to slam my head into the wall and escape into darkness. The pain does not abate, and the tears steady rivers down my cheeks. The pain does not abate, but the fire is lit, my body is alive, and I fight. I cannot remember that I am tired, or that I am thirsty, or out of breath. I do not need air. I do not need water. I will fight until my feet are mangle knobs. I do not care. I have abandoned human concern for self. I believe that I am insane, an unreasoning beast. The pain does not stop, and I fight.

The fire rages. The intensity of my kendo exceeds my limit, and the limit is shattered as I pour every mote of my existence into that fire.

“Yame! Kamaete.” Stop. Assume your stance. He calls out the words that stop the fight, but the fire does not die. I am not gasping. I am ready to fight again.

It is his decision. He might have us rotate, and continue training. I do not know the time. Instead, he says the words my body delights to hear.

“Osame, toh.” We crouch and set our shinai into their imaginary sheathes. We are done.

Almost.

We must remove our armor from the kneeling position. Tired hands often fumble, but my fingers find their way easily. I am not rushed. I am not panicked. I carefully coil the cords that keep my mask tight. I set it down gently and fold the tenegui, the dripping head rag. We bow, showing respect to the Sensei, to our comrades.

And then words. The fire is still on, and I control my body with an iron force of will. I am graceful, even. I sit kneeling as I listen to comments, suggestions, and administrative announcements. The blood stops flowing to my feet, and I notice my eyes see in different shades, and my focus is shifting rapidly between the two. My right eye sees more red, my left more blue. It is a bizarre effect.

The headache loosens itself, but does not release me. We bow again. I can let the fire die, but there is more to do. Practice is not over until my equipment is packed, and because it is a Japanese sport, there are specific and painstaking methods of doing so.

The hardest part is folding the hakama, the flowing pleated pants we wear. It must be arranged in such a way that the arrangement of the folds and pleats are preserved, so that it is presentable at the next practice. It is hard to describe how tedious this really is to someone who has not tried. I complete this well, and then lie down and close my eyes.

I am awake no longer.