The Sensei gave Eric a kind smile and spoke sympathetically.
“I think that you have been beaten many times. Is this correct?”
Eric nodded and blushed as his shame burned bright in his cheeks.
“Yes, Sensei.”
“For a young man in your situation, it is natural that you want to fight these boys — to try and right a wrong. Is that the way you feel, Eric?”
Eric cast his eyes to the floor.
“Yes, Sensei,” he mumbled.
The Sensei crossed his arms.
“If you are to learn the way of Wado-Ryu, you must promise not to fight with these boys, Eric.”
“But why, Sensei?” Eric asked in shock. “These boys beat me up, and other people as well — I just want to stop them.”
“I understand how you feel Eric, but karate is not a tool of justice. The founder of Wado-Ryu karate, Hironori Ohtsuka Sensei, taught us that. He said, ‘Violent action may be understood as the way of martial arts, but the true meaning of martial arts is to seek and attain the way of peace and harmony.’”
The Sensei looked into Eric’s eyes.
“I am very sorry young man, but I cannot let you learn this skill, if I believe you intend to use it as a weapon.”
Eric huffed and crossed his arms across his chest.
“Great! Now what am I supposed to do?”
“You have a decision to make. If you stay, you must promise that you will try to walk away from confrontation. If that is impossible, then you must run — there is no shame in avoidance from a position of great strength. Finally, when there is no other option, you may use your skill to defend yourself, or another person.”
He knelt down to put himself at Eric’s height.
“Now do you understand?”
Eric bowed his head in respect
“Yes, Sensei.”
“So now you have a choice. If you wish to fight, you must leave, but if you want to learn the way of peace and harmony, you may stay.”
“Thank you, Sensei.” Eric nodded. “I wish to stay.”
The Sensei smiled. He decided that he was talking to a very brave and remarkable young man, who deserved the best training he could provide.
The young Eric Stone kept his promise. Under the expert eye of The Sensei, he trained hard and soon came to see that there was no shame in avoiding confrontation. Perhaps the bullies sensed his growing confidence, or heard about his quick progress through the karate grading’s, but very soon afterwards the beatings stopped and they never came after him again.
Now twenty-five years later, Sensei Eric Stone was a respected martial arts and self-defense instructor with his own dojo and a staff of twelve. Skilled in the disciplines of Wado-Ryu karate, Jujutsu and Aikido, Stone had also developed an excellent reputation as a fitness coach, training people of all ages and abilities. Along with his regular clients, he privately trained several celebrities, their bodyguards, and a former police officer turned private detective. Occasionally he was contracted by the Army to give unarmed combat training at the local Army barracks. This was normally to help build the confidence of young soldiers who were about to go somewhere hot and very dangerous for the first time.
It seemed like an age since a young and frightened boy had promised his Sensei that he would walk away from confrontation, and throughout that time, Eric had done his utmost to keep his promise. It had become a matter of personal pride, a commitment to a long dead friend and mentor. However, now he was going to break his promise — three times in short succession.
After leaving his dojo for the day, Eric’s route home took him through Braintree’s Town center market place. It was late afternoon and the market traders were taking down their stalls and getting ready to move on to the next town on their schedule. Along the street, council garbage collectors were hard at work clearing away the piles of empty cardboard boxes and heaped fruit and vegetables, discarded earlier as unfit for sale.
As he squeezed his little blue Ford Focus between a council dustcart and some inconveniently situated road works, Stone spotted something round, yellow, and about the size of a soccer ball, curving through the air towards the car. It was a melon. He ducked instinctively as it exploded against the window pillar, spraying water and bits of rotten pulp across his windshield and hood.
“Damn kids!” Stone muttered to himself, shaking his head in dismay.
There was nowhere convenient to stop in the market square, so he drove for another hundred yards, turning left twice as he followed the one-way traffic system. The car’s wiper blades had smeared the gunk across the windshield, dangerously degrading his forward visibility, so he found a place to pull over and began to clean away the mess. He picked off the bigger pieces of fruit with his fingers and dropped them into a nearby bin, and used a water bottle to wash away the remaining juice, before wiping the screen clean with an old t-shirt that he had in his gym bag.
As Stone was about to get back into his car, some boisterous laughter attracted his attention. Even though the noise from the nearby diesel generator and pneumatic drill made the laughter difficult to hear, there was something disturbing about it. Suddenly, Stone realized that by following the one-way system, and turning left twice along the way, he had parked in an open area a little way to the rear of the market place. From a distance of about fifty-yards, Stone had a clear view of three lads who were laughing and bumping fists. They were using the council dustcart for cover, so that they could throw discarded fruit at passing cars unobserved.
All three appeared to be in their teens; Stone speculated that perhaps they were friends from the same gym. They were all heavily muscled and tattooed, with the same short-cropped hairstyles. Almost like a uniform, they sported similar scruffy jeans and white t-shirts, in keeping with the local fashion at that time. Stone watched them for a minute, dismayed by the callous arrogance that they displayed as they threw fruit at unsuspecting drivers. They egged each other on, offering different fruits from a cardboard box that Stone presumed they had found in the back of the dustcart.
“Try a peach,” one lad shouted. “They really go splat when they hit!”
Another pointed. “Get that taxi — it’s that Pakki bastard.”
The lad in the middle threw like a baseball pitcher, and they all whooped in delight as the rotten peach struck the side window of the cab, startling the hapless driver. Stone sighed in silent disappointment and shook his head.
“Don’t get involved Eric — don’t get involved,” he whispered in warning to himself. “This isn’t your fight.”
He was about to climb into his car when he heard another shout. Stone’s shoulders slumped when he realized the implication.
“Look! Get the old bitch, the one with the shopping bags.”
“Yeah!” Another joined in. “Let’s all throw together!”
“She’s coming this way, wait until she gets a bit closer.”
Stone closed his eyes for a moment and swore under his breath.
“Perhaps I can just warn them off,” he said hopefully.
Stone jogged up a sidewalk that connected the market square to the area where he had parked his car. From that direction, he was able to approach the three lads from behind — unobserved. At the top of the sidewalk, he paused for a moment to assess the situation. The old lady was still about forty-yards away, slowly shuffling along, weighed down with her grocery shopping. He decided she was out of range and in no immediate danger for the time being. Stone scanned the buildings and light fixtures for CCTV cameras and decided that the men had inadvertently chosen a position behind the dustcart that gave perfect cover from any spying eyes — electronic or human. If things turned nasty in the next few minutes, Stone would be on his own, without the prospect of any aid from the police; but by then, so would the men.