Free Giri by Marc Olden

lights. The dojo, once a small hat factory, was a large airy room with high ceilings, polished wooden floor, one mirrored wall and windows that looked out on Lincoln Center and Broadway. Now Decker was home.
    In the instructors’ changing room, he stripped, toweled himself down, then wrapped his right knee in elastic bandages. When he had changed into one of the two gis he kept in the dojo, he left the small room and walked to the center of the floor, knelt in a formal bow, weight on one heel, bad knee to one side.
    He knelt in front of a large photograph of Gichin Funikoshi, a gray-haired Japanese man whose small face radiated dignity and strength. Funikoshi was the founder of modern karate, the man who had systematized the ancient fighting form and introduced it to Japan from his native Okinawa. Decker closed his eyes in meditation and sat silently for five minutes. When his mind was tranquil and clear, he opened his eyes, bowed to Funikoshi and rose.
    He began with thirty minutes of stretching exercises, starting with neck rotation, then moving down his body, arms, spine, legs. Spreading his legs he slowly sank to the floor in a perfect split, and then held the position for a full minute. Next, he swung his legs forward, stretching the tendons and muscles in his calves and thighs and spine. On his feet he twisted his trunk left, then right, before stretching it by swinging his upper body in large circles. After shaking his wrists and ankles, he kicked high with both legs, forward, then left and right, and behind. He was warmed up.
    For the next half hour he practiced katas, selecting Ten No Kata Omote, a sparring kata, or form, designed to be practiced alone. These techniques were aggressive and powerful in the Japanese style. Nothing evasive, nothing eventual. Power delivered to the opponent.
    He began slowly, always with an imaginary opponent before him, one who wanted his life and would not compromise. He stepped forward with his right foot in a front stance, using his right hand to punch to the stomach. Drawing the foot back, he stepped forward on the left side, punching with the left hand. Next he stepped forward, punching right fist to the face, repeating to the left. Then he switched to reverse punch, left foot forward, punching right hand and doing the sequence to the other side. Blocking techniques followed, lower body, middle level and face. When he had done the sequence a second time, he started over again, faster, this time with a kiai, a yell, on every punch. He did the entire kata at top speed twice more, pushing himself to eliminate seconds from his reaction time, emitting a stronger kiai, drawing more spirit and commitment from himself. Punch, block, counterpunch.
    Finished, he stretched lightly, then began basic kicks: front, side, back, roundhouse, always starting slowly, gracefully, and steadily gathering speed until his gi snapped with his power and sweat poured off him onto the floor. The sun rose, found its way into the dojo, first casting long, thin shadows, then laying down golden carpets and Decker, warm, intense, committed, felt the sun on him and met it, wrapped himself in its fire and continued training.
    He moved to the mirrored wall on his right. Instead of hand techniques this morning he practiced empi, elbow strikes, attacking upward, forward, sideways, left elbow, then right, performing from different stances. He knew who the enemy was now; the enemy was inside him. It was fatigue, hunger, the desire to quit. And he knew he would defeat that enemy, as he had before.
    He saw the beauty of his form and was pleased, pleased at its clean lines and purity and he committed himself more, pushing his body, mind and spirit until the salt from his own perspiration blinded him and his arms ached.
    When the truth he lived by in the dojo told him he could do no more, he stopped. And walked around the empty dojo, warming down, getting his breath back, satisfied with what he had achieved and allowing his