If a ninja so wishes, he can stare at a horse with the intention of killing it. If a ninja does this for a day, the horse will get antsy and freak out. If a ninja does this for a week, the horse will go insane. True story. Scout’s honour.
Let’s give this some context. The other weekend, I went to a Ninja Combat Training course at Casa Loma. I wore a black T-shirt and tight pants. Now I have three hours of deadly training and a good story to tell people at parties.
I should start at the beginning, with Sensei Michael telling the class that a ninja would have no qualms using a rusted sickle on his opponents. “You cut someone with this?” he said straight-faced, “Certain death. Unless you cut off that limb…”
No. That won’t do. Like all good things, let’s start in the middle of things, with the instructor telling us ninja novices that actor/comedian Eddie Izzard (according to Matthew, it’s spelt like “lizard” but with an “e”) and Tony Roberts (the expletive comedian, not Woody Allen’s sidekick) both embody the philosophy of Ninjutsu. Their confidence, stage presence, and command of an audience would please any sensei, according to Matthew.
Fast-forward 10 minutes. Now I am walking around in a circle, except we’re doing a balancing exercise which requires us to move our legs as if stepping over a high fence, or to put it more clearly, as though applying for a government grant at the Ministry of Silly Walks.
How ninjas got from place to place in a punctual manner, I’ll never know. All I thought of was a ninja telling his master, in his best John Cleese voice, “I’m sorry to have kept you waiting, but I’m afraid my walk has become rather sillier recently, and so it takes me rather longer to get to work.”
Look what I’ve done. I’ve made a mess of things. No more Monty Python. This is not a joke. Let’s move on to a more enlightening anecdote.
I can’t remember if it was before or after Sensei Matthew punched me in the stomach (apparently, my defensive stance was not very defensive), but it was around that time that I approached the course a little differently.
The punch came after Matthew told the class a story about how he would sneak up on his girlfriend when he went to study Ninjutsu at the library. Perhaps my instructor, frat-boy demeanour and all, was not kidding around. This was his job, and he studied this stuff without a hint of irony. This course wasn’t some self-aware, hipster joke.
I took a second look at the people around me. Among the ninjas-to-be were a cute couple in their late twenties, a young teenage boy and his older sister, and an enthusiastic young man, clearly a subscriber of Ninjutsu philosophy, whom I heard telling his friend, “Fear makes a coward of us all.”
I had started to learn a lesson by this point. It relates to another of Sensei Matthew’s sincere, sage stories. Here it is: a ninja in command of his emotions will hide his intentions so as not to give himself away. The less a ninja gives away, the better. A true ninja could be ready to chop you in the neck and you would never know by his demeanour.
I certainly passed the “don’t give yourself away” test. When I was allowed to try on one of Sensei Matthew’s weapons, which I can only describe as resembling Wolverine’s metallic claws, what else was stopping me from jumping around like the X-Men superhero? I really should have strapped both sets of claws on my hands and smiled with an air of pure satisfaction like the man beside me did.
We played with other ninja weapons, too, which included some sort of long, wooden hammer and a big, wooden log (think of what a lumberjack would use for logrolling). I enjoyed myself, but I was waiting for the punchline. I was waiting for the comic relief. There lay my problem.
When we had to pair off with a partner to practice defensive and retaliatory ninja moves, including chopping someone in the neck, I ended up paired off with a girl of about 14 and a foot shorter than me. Yes, the situation was a bit ridiculous, but should I have been laughing or earnestly practicing deadly martial arts with her?
I guess what I’m trying to get across is, was I hiding behind a shield of smugness and irony? No one else seemed nearly as self-aware as I was, and they seemed to be enjoying themselves. Did I need to hide my emotions, like a ninja, behind a veil of sarcasm and pop-culture references?
Sensei Matthew made the comment after class that he could already tell some of us were not serious about mastering the philosophy of Ninjutsu. He wasn’t bitter and neither was I. I had no intention of becoming a ninja.
I noticed my 14-year-old partner, before leaving, walk up to the instructor.
“Arigato, Sensei Matthew,” she said with a little bow.
That confirmed it. This course was serious. People wanted to try something new. It wasn’t something to laugh at and in most cases it wasn’t even something to laugh with. As a young, city-bred urbanite, it was about time I learned this.
This ninja course shouldn’t just make a good story or a funny joke at a party. I can laugh when Sensei Michael conditions himself by beating his arms and chests with some sort of specialized bean bag, but is that really appropriate? Would I be laughing for the right reasons? Is it bad that this ninja course incites smirks and hyperbole among my friends and I?
I was having a good time. But was I having as good at time as the deadly serious Wolverine-wannabe, or the 5-foot-tall, 14-year-old? Sarcasm and smugness can only bring so much amusement.
Sensei Matthew taught us that a ninja’s preferred method of attack is from behind. Surprise trumps everything else. Death grips, ninja chops, and deadly weapons aside, the thing that truly hit me by surprise was how important it can be to take things seriously sometimes.
