as soon as the training is finished,” I promised.
“Make sure you do!” he said sternly.
It took a moment for it to sink in. “Thank you, father!” I said loudly.
“One more thing,” he said, reaching behind his back. He handed me a small flat parcel wrapped in brown paper. I took it and stared at it dumbly. “Open it,” he urged gently.
Inside was a crisp white cloth. I looked at him questioningly. “You can wear it as a headband, if Miyagi permits,” he said. “It’ll stop the sweat stinging your eyes.”
I was touched that my father knew me so well and didn’t know what to say. Father filled the silence for me. “When you train, do so with all your body and soul. Don’t waste Master Miyagi’s time.”
“I won’t,” I promised.
“I know you won’t,” he smiled.
I rolled the cloth into a band and he tied it around my head. I hurried out of the house. Our exchange had made me late for school, and I’d have to run all the way to avoid a ticking-off by Mr. Kojima.
As it happened, Mr. Kojima ignored my hasty entrance that morning. He even overlooked the headband that I’d forgotten to take off when I bowed to the emperor’s portrait. He had a very special announcement to make and nothing was going to distract him from that task.
“Today is a proud day for the school,” he began, beaming with delight, “a very proud day! One of our teachers—a former student here himself, Mr. Uchihara—has been afforded the singular honor of fighting for the emperor!” At this point Mr. Kojima was so moved by the depth of his own emotions that he was forced to pause for breath. When he spoke again, he hurried to end his sentence before his passion overwhelmed him. “Mr. Uchihara will be leaving for Manchuria in the morning. There is passing-out parade taking place for him now by the school gate.”
We made our way into the yard and Mr. Kojima formed us into two lines that created a path that led to the gate. Some of the other teachers distributed flags and banners bearing good-luck messages and slogans: Protect the Home Front—National Unity—Do Your Best For Your Country. The girl beside me was given a banner that was too big for her to hold up alone, so I helped her. Our slogan read, Reproduce and Multiply! We held it high, beaming with delight, the irony of our particular message lost on us in our youthful zeal.
Mr. Uchihara appeared, accompanied by the head-teacher, who spoke at length of the honor and privilege of serving the emperor. He called Mr. Uchihara a flower of Japan, a hero. When the speech was over, one of the senior girls presented Mr. Uchihara with a senninbari, a traditional belt made up of a thousand stitches—a good-luck talisman given to soldiers by wives and daughters. Finally, Mr. Uchihara walked through the lines of students and banners to the car that was waiting to take him to Naha port.
That evening, I made my way to the elementary school in Naha where Miyagi taught to-te. It was larger than my own school, though similar in layout: three sturdy brick buildings with roofs of corrugated iron and a dusty yard. A row of trees had been planted around the outer edge as a windbreak, a common sight in Okinawa. As I walked I planned what to say to Sensei Miyagi, changing my mind several times on the way. When I arrived, the school gate was open and I wandered inside. I already knew which building Miyagi used as a dojo. The door was ajar and I peered in. Miyagi wasn’t there, but there was a small group of boys chatting and three other boys were practicing punches and blocks. Among them I saw Jinan Shinzato, the talented gymnast from my school. One of the boys ambled over to me. “Are you lost?” he asked.
“No, I’ve come to learn to-te,” I answered.
“You can’t just turn up like this. You need to make arrangements with Master Miyagi. He’s not taking any new students at the moment.”
“I have made arrangements with Master Miyagi,” I blurted out, praying Miyagi would remember me after such a long time. The boy shrugged and returned to his friends. I stepped a little way farther inside the training hall and stood with my back against the wall. Jinan Shinzato glanced over at me, but if he recognized me from school, he didn’t let on. Like the other boys, he was bare-skinned save for a pair of rough cut-off pants and his body was already covered in a sheen of sweat. He was the shortest in the class, but his muscles were broad and well defined and he looked the most powerful of them all. It was clear that Shinzato had trained hard with the iron weights that lay around the edge of the room.
I took a closer look at the equipment. Among the barbells and dumbbells, I saw several curious pieces: a short wooden handle sticking out of a stone, a set of iron rings, a giant oval ring about three feet long, two pairs of iron clogs, and several tall earthenware jars. Suddenly all the boys came to attention and I turned to see Miyagi’s broad frame in the doorway. They bowed and he returned their bow. I bowed hastily and opened my mouth to speak, but my carefully prepared speech had deserted me. Miyagi waited expectantly. “Master,” I stammered finally, “I’ve come because I am fourteen.”
Miyagi peered at me in the dim light. There was no indication that he recognized me. “It’s your birthday today?”
“Yes.”
I heard the faintest snigger from the other boys behind me, but didn’t turn around, “You said, when I met you before, that I should come when I am fourteen…”
“You have come to celebrate your birthday with us?”
“I have come to learn to-te,” I corrected him.
“Ah, well why didn’t you say so in the first place,” Miyagi said, “because we do not hold birthday parties in here.”
The older boys laughed openly now and I felt my cheeks burning with shame. “I can pay,” I said quickly.
Miyagi ignored this remark. “Remove your shirt,” he said instead.
“Can I wear a headband?” I asked.
“If you think it will help you,” he said.
“It will keep the sweat from my eyes,” I told him.
“Then wear it,” he said, and tiring suddenly of our conversation, he turned and clapped his hands loudly for the class to begin. The boys hurried to form a circle in the hall. There was no space left for me to stand, so I stood apart, in the corner, and aped their actions. Miyagi led the class through a series of warming up exercises that stretched every part of our bodies, starting with our toes and finishing with our heads. By the time we had finished, there was a puddle of sweat on the floor beneath each of us. Next, each student took up a different piece of training equipment and began to work out. I’d no idea what to do and turned to Miyagi with a question on my lips.
“You can train with me,” he said before I could ask, “since it is your birthday.”
He led me outside, to a small area of rough ground behind the dojo where two wooden planks were sunk into the ground. Each one had a straw pad near the top, positioned at chest height and covered with tightly wound string. Both pads had a dark red-brown stain in the middle that spread out and down, getting lighter at the edges. Miyagi placed his fist against one of the pads and planted his feet firmly on the ground. He waited until I’d done the same on the other, then stepped across and adjusted my fist until only the front two knuckles touched the pad.
“Now punch,” he ordered.
I
