aikido

When I was younger (much younger), I remember getting signed up for some summer classes at the Northridge Park community center. We’re talking twenty-plus years ago. I remember seeing other kids my age, shouting something (counting?) in unison, doing jumping jacks on tatami mats. They wore white robes. They were learning how to beat up other kids; kids like me, who were instead signed up for piano lessons with the overbearing old man. I reckon that overbearing old man was part of why I would eventually rebel against the ivory, giving up a bright future on my Yamaha keyboard.

Fair enough, I never got beat up, but it would have been so cool to earn a black belt. Whatever: I eventually blocked out the painful memories and picked up the alto saxophone, earning me the respect of all the babes in high school. Hell, I practically dated Winnie Cooper (sorry: perhaps an arcane reference)! I’m all growns up now and in Belgrade, and all but forgot about this episode of my life (well, the piano teacher/karate bit). And then Miloš told me about and invited me to the aikido classes he takes three times a week. As all the memories returned, a puddle of tears collected at my feet. I would earn my black belt, damnit, even if it is too late to regain my dignity. So I tagged along, ironically checking my dignity at the door.

Like most of my time in Belgrade, for every five minutes of instructions in Serbian I got an average 30 seconds’ translation. Still, as awkward as it was to try and join the routine, I got to rather enjoying the classes. I tried to pay for the class but (yes, you guessed it) my money was refused on the grounds of my visiting guest status. My favorite class was when we ran around the room (fast) for 20 minutes before proceeding to do all manner of squat-jumps, somersaults, and the like. I pushed my old out-of-shape body much too far and ended up barely limping home later that night—it was great to have such a thorough workout.

All went well until one class when my foot ended up under Miloš’s. No big deal. We switched sparring partners and then, long story short, my other foot’s big toe made an audible (to me, anyway) snap as his foot came down on it in an awkward way. It got pushed back and mildly fractured. I, expertly playing the part of wimp, buckled down in pain. I limped home that night and, between my toe and my increasingly-busy work schedule, never ended up making it back. Alas, my black belt would have to wait until my return to Boston…