Tower of Endings

Fox hung from the railing with one hand, trying to catch a clear grip with the other as his savage opponent chiseled deep into his knuckles with his fingernails. The pain was sharp, but he had to bear it. From that position there were only two possible outcomes, an arduous ascent into a battle on the platform or a long drop to injury and defeat.

In the beginning, the two boys had been friends. Fox and Michael had spent a few seasons together running through the forests and the hills, hunting, fishing, and fighting imaginary foes along with a few others from the surrounding area.

Fox and his brother had moved from their suburban home to a new life in a rural area far to the north and Michael was one of the first to welcome them. They had gone to church together and lived relatively close to each other; Michael’s family had even been part of the group that had helped Fox’s family move into their new home. Their adventures were many and their times together were frequent and fun. Michael’s father was a metalworker who had access to unusual resources which allowed him to build his son all manner of interesting playthings, including a monumental tower topped with a wide platform accessible only through a spiral staircase running up the middle of the central support column which opened a hatch in the platform floor. To the young boys it was the ultimate place from which to launch their adventures – a watchtower that was impenetrable from the outside, towering high above the surrounding grounds amidst a forest of tall hardwood trees.

For a long time they pursued their varying interests and improved their lofty base of operations, with Fox eventually accepting a role as the de-facto leader of the group. As had been the case in the past, Fox repeatedly proved himself to be the most intrepid of the little band, leading them on adventures both dangerous and profitable. They had walked the riverbed together, swam the lake together, rebuilt an abandoned boat together, and together rode their bikes to the end of all the roads they knew. However, this was an age of great inner turmoil for boys who, upon reaching their teens, would soon begin to pursue their roles as young men. As such, Fox’s fame as the heroic leader of the club was a fact that began to irritate young Michael, as did the fact that Fox carried with him such unanimous support from his brother and from the few adults with whom they had regular dealings. Over time, this seed of irritation cultured and manifested itself as a sprout of bitterness. With each new interaction, this sprout grew larger, spreading its roots and maturing to blossom into jealousy.

For a relatively long time, this second in command carried this jealousy unbeknownst to his friend Fox, who visited his home and laughed and joked with him and his family on regular occasion. It may have gone on forever this way, had they not decided to upgrade the tower. The varying designs fueled a debate which eventually ignited the volatile garden of jealousy that Michael had been cultivating for such a long time.

The argument was loud and long and Michael ended it by sealing himself in the tower and announcing that he no longer had any use for Fox or his brother. The tower was his and the age of democracy on his property had come to an end.

Rather than submit to the insult of this sudden change of policy, a confused and infuriated young Fox took it upon himself to prove that the tower was not a defense that could stand against him – and that Michael’s hold on it afforded him nothing.

It was well-known that Fox was not one at which to scoff when it came to a conflict between peers; even though he was not one to invite discord unnecessarily, he had even at his young age gained repute as one willing to exhaust every resource at his disposal for the sake of principle.

He attacked the tower for hours and was viciously bombarded by a seemingly endless barrage of pinecones from the stockpiles he and Michael had long since stored in baskets on the platform. He dodged and defended himself with an improvised shield, but was careful never to return fire. Instead he continued his futile attempts to open the locked steel door at the base of the giant supporting column. He hammered and pried, but somehow Michael had locked it from the inside. It appeared that Fox’s second had every intention of using the club’s complete defense strategy against him, but he was determined to succeed. Fox knew that if he continued, he would lose his right to freely access the tower and possibly create a rift between himself and his jealous friend; but his wrath only continued to grow as Michael’s continued attempts to thwart him began to wear at his pride. He had to break through the defenses and show that jerk that the tower was no prize and that having it did not make him a leader.

Fox fought the column until the rain of debris halted. As he had expected, Michael exhausted his ammunition in his frantic attempt to halt his enemy’s siege. He was defenseless, and the young former leader of what was once a club of good friends laid on with his real plan to take the tower.

Taking a thick piece of livestock rope and tying the end to a piece of timber about 3 feet in length, he moved to the outer edge of the platform as it hung suspended 20 feet above him. He threw the wood up to and over the railing along with a coil of rope, pulling it tight as fast as he could in order to avoid Michael’s inevitable attempt to catch it and toss it back to the ground.

Michael saw the line come up, and frantically attempted to grasp the piece of timber just as the rope tightened and pulled it just out of reach. It caught the side rail of the platform and flipped over the edge, swinging dangerously close to his face. He ran to the side and cackled down at Fox, who was already engaged in tossing the line a second time.

On the second attempt, the angry boy on the ground threw the chunk of timber like a javelin, wrapped tightly in several coils of rope. It passed between the third and fourth rungs of the heavy steel railing, nearly hitting the boy a second time.

Michael stumbled back as the chunk of wood clattered to the deck of his highly defended embattlement. He rose to his feet in shock as it rapidly unraveled as it was pulled back to the rail, where it lodged between the parallel bars through which it had initially passed. He rushed to the edge to loose the board from where it had taken hold, but found it firmly fixed by the weight of his adversary, who was already ascending.

He scrambled to the toolbox, but found nothing that could quickly sever the kind of rope Fox was using to penetrate his impregnable fortress. At the bottom of the box that he and Fox had prepared in the event they had to deal with a possible siege, he found a pair of school scissors. They were barely sharp enough to cut cardboard, but they would have to do. Fox was not the fastest climber in his school, but would surely reach the rail swiftly.

Michael rushed to the edge again, rapidly sawing at the thick rope supporting Fox’s weight as he ascended. He was frantic, out of ammunition, and was about to face a powerful adversary on even ground. He had to get through the rope before Fox reached the rail.

As the rope began to fray, Michael called out, “I’m cutting this rope! You should give up, or you’ll fall and break your legs!”

There was no answer on Fox’s end, but only a few seconds after that sentence left his mouth, a hand rose up and gripped the bottom bar of the rail. Michael paused. The other hand rose with some apparent effort to grip the second bar and the plank dropped to the deck. Fox was at the rail and there appeared to be nothing he could do to deter him; it seemed that a fight was imminent.

Fox climbed to the top rung of the rail and was in the midst of pulling himself up when the timber he had used to ascend smashed into his left hand. The sudden pain almost caused him to let go of the rail, but he held fast. The angry boy could see his former friend raising the board for a second hit, so he released his left hand and grabbed the rope, pulling it sharply and with all the force he could muster. The sudden shock of the rope tugging from the center of the plank yanked it from Michael’s unprepared grip and the weight of the rope dangling over the side aided in dragging the improvised weapon off the platform and to the ground.

With the piece of wood and all of the pinecones gone from Michael’s arsenal, Fox forced his fatigued arms to resume the ascent. The only thing keeping him going was the fear of falling and the need to show himself better than his former second’s challenge.

Frustrated with Fox’s irrational tenacity, Michael tossed out the unwritten rules of childhood fair play and gouged his fingernails deep into the knuckles of Fox’s uppermost hand. Fox pulled up and swatted at him with his left hand before gripping the top rung and attempting to gain a foothold on the deck. Michael could see in Fox’s narrow gaze that he had no intention of giving up. The bleeding scratches in his right hand seemed only to make him more determined.

Desperate to end the battle and save face, Michael committed a taboo among schoolboys, slapping Fox in the face and immediately going to work on his hands with the scissors. Even with all of the interesting encounters Fox had faced up to then, he had yet to feel the pain of a former ally carving into his flesh with a dull metal blade. It was an egregious crime that kids of his kind never even considered, regardless of the circumstances. Knives and scissors were adult weapons designed to permanently injure or kill people.

Fox was stunned by the sudden deterioration of the situation, but he had to finish his advance before the frantic defender seriously injured him. The pain was brutal but brief as Fox gained a foothold and vaulted over the rail onto the platform within seconds of Michael’s final onslaught.

The two stood face to face. The taller, older Fox bleeding from both hands and panting from a grueling ascent and the stocky, young Michael red-faced and sweating from his last failed attempt to thwart Fox’s incursion. Before Fox could do or say anything, his defeated rival stood on his toes and screamed into his face, “GET OUT!”

Fox looked down at the backs of his hands and raised a particularly gory laceration to his mouth. He strolled wearily to the hatch and unlocked it, taking his knuckle out of his mouth again and looking at it, “You should be ashamed of yourself, you coward,”

Michael stomped up to him, stopping just out of reach and screamed again, “GET OUT OF HERE AND NEVER COME BACK!”

Before he had finished, Fox was already descending the stairs. His last words to the boy who had once been his friend were, “Don’t worry,” and with that, he closed the hatch behind him, descended to the ground level, and walked home.

In this story we see a new side of the main Character’s personality as he plays a more ambivalent role, facing a friend after a jealous argument. Since both the setting and the characters have changed since the last adventure, the reader can see that Fox’s charisma in his earlier years did not translate as successfully into his new environment as it had in his old neighborhood. Once his family moved to a new location, the main character was forced to carry on without his former allies and the comforts of his past reputation. From here the reader might expect to see the main character less willing to form new friendships with the sparse candidates in his new locale.

Relaxation

Through some life experience and a great deal of humbling training with a few great swordsmen over time, it has become apparent that the need for a calm and relaxed body and attitude as absolute as one progresses deeper into the truth of duel-type combat. This is a mysterious element of higher fighting directly connected to one’s own grasp of the void and is difficult to explain in common terms. Essentially speaking, it is the ability to face your opponent in a state of uncommitted readiness. You must be ready to react, but with a mind clear of If and Then. If your mind is cluttered with thoughts about what the opponent does or does not do, you will distract yourself. In swordplay especially, I have seen many times when preemptive flinching gave away enough intent for the opponent to adjust his attack and score. This goes for fencing as well as Kendo.

Musashi Miyamoto expressed this several different ways in his Book of Five Rings, even going as far as to describe proper posture and shoulder position in detail. Perhaps I will find time to post some excerpts of his work for the reader’s reference, but for now let it suffice for me to say that the body of a swordsman should not change its way from regular life to combat and vice-versa. To remain upright, to be strong in the lower leg and back, and relaxed in the chest and shoulders – this is the bearing common of individuals who try to maintain proper posture in daily life. The feeling of the fighting stance is essentially the same, since it lends itself to rapid movement in any direction and generally sustains good balance when at rest. To be without intent is important for two reasons; the most obvious reason is that your intent can be read by your opponent if he is clever or if the intent is deep enough to be revealed by the myriad subtleties of your body, face, or movements. The other reason (the big and hidden reason) is Newton’s Law. Your body has the property of inertia just the same as everything in the material universe, therefore, if your body moves, it is committed to that movement until you exert effort to change said movement. This includes tiny movements of nervous muscles within your body – muscles that will tighten and pull in order to prepare you to pursue your intended attack or defense. Experience tells us that this is not good for speed, since the body has to work against itself in the event that something unexpected occurs. To be relaxed is to be neutral, and to be neutral is to be equally ready for anything. I believe that this must be examined thoroughly before it can be understood. I often find it difficult to put into practice when in the heat of practice, but it must be mastered if one intends to progress.

The higher aspect of this same concept is the relaxation of the mind. This is necessary for a person to effectively neutralize attack and defense bias within the body, but it can only be refined once the body comes into subjection and is forced to relax despite the urgency of conflict. The brain controls the body – this is medically proven fact. But it is not always so with the mind; the mind can be occupied with thousands of things while the body goes about its business and the two might have little reason to communicate during mundane daily routines. So we develop the habit of acting in a disharmonious way which causes us to become distracted in situations in which focus is required. To have a calm body when the mind is not calm is possible, but only with effort. Training reduces this effort by unifying both the body and the mind. Once again, the clarity achieved by relaxation is most easily attainable during the absence of intent, since powerful intent stimulates the imagination and clouds one’s view of reality. To focus upon a single detail in battle is like suffering from tunnel-vision. If the opponent realizes that you are preoccupied with some strategy, he can attack and overpower you with speed or surprise. In this case, your only hope of survival would be an error on his part or the off-chance that your strategy involved the attack he decided to execute at the time.

The best metaphor for the calm mind is the relaxed eye. When you relax the focus of your eye, you may notice that everything seems to loose focus, but at the same time you become more aware of things that are visible in your peripheral vision. You can see the movements of a wider range of things, even though you lose the detail you once saw in the finite object in front of you. This is the same of the mind in a neutral state. While one sacrifices the detailed thoughts of intent, one gains a wider view of the situation and the ability to react more swiftly as a result. As I mentioned before, this is a necessary skill, but only comes with great practice.

Bike Gang!

The streets ripped by beneath our narrow wheels as we hurtled down the hill to the safe line, the point past which we knew the Yellows wouldn't follow. Sticks and stones splintered and clattered to either side as salvos of debris rained down by the efforts of our adversaries. We had succeeded in our raid, and it was just a matter of making it back to the safe line – the area defended against their aggressive pursuit…

I think back to those summers when we children were free of school and responsibility, banding together into our little groups, loosely organized according to the graded caste system imposed upon us by our schools. We ran and played with our friends, enjoyed lemonade and the neighborhood swimming pool, played the latest NES games, and rode our bikes everywhere and nowhere. It was the bike that was the defining factor of a young middle-school student’s influence in the neighborhood back then. It was a display of one’s status as well as a key to the rarest of commodities – independent mobility. But with independence came a certain degree of trepidation, because the farther a child travels from the safety of his yard, the more his safety rests in his own hands; and on a bike, safety in numbers was little more than a bluff. These were the days of wooden swords and makeshift armor, pinecone fights, bullies, and barking dogs; the days when knights, jedi, cowboys, and samurai battled back to back against enemies unnumbered for ultimate supremacy on the hot concrete of the cul-de-sac. The days seemed endless and we were as old as we had ever been, with the world stretched out before us and the thought of tomorrow never crossing our minds.

This story begins with the introduction of the enemy known as the Yellows, who came on the scene one summer initially as baseball team rivals of an acquaintance of ours. At first it seemed to be of little concern to us; my brother and I were more than content to allow the rivalry escalate to whatever degree the participants saw fit. It seemed that the boy and his brother would bother our associate everyday, and it escapes my memory how it first began, but I believe it was with a pinecone. A toss heard around the block and the beginning of a faction war that would continue almost all summer and stretch from one end of the subdivision to the other. You see, I was never involved with the extracurricular sporting activities subsidized by our schools, so I had not been called into the rivalries that had been instilled in some of my peers. However, as a leader of my respective street, I was compelled to join the campaign, adding my forces to those of the other streets belonging to our school. In the end, our headcount averaged about 20, which was supported by the 8 with whom I regularly dealt. Of those, I usually rode with 2 or 3 other people, including my brother and the friend who was with us during the backyard battle the year before. This however, isn't the story of the war, but of one of our little campaigns - the first and last 'big one' in which I recall being directly involved.

The bike raid was not a new concept, but it was something we had not experienced before the Yellows, who attacked some friends of ours with rocks and pinecones in a sort-of adolescent drive-by. Of course, this was generally considered bad form, since my lot was of the classical school of mano-a-mano dueling, so we began carrying rocks with us in the hopes of ambushing them on the next pass. Twice more they came, hurling more debris each time, and we laid on with everything we had, but found the cyclists infinitely harder to hit than traditional pedestrian assailants. In addition, they wore skater gear, which protected several parts of their bodies and made them unafraid of getting in close or even wiping out.

It was around that time that we decided to fight them as we had fought others before, focusing on the leader of the formation, then chasing the remnant to their base. There were only four of them and they were growing more daring with each passing day, making more passes each time and yelling provocative insults all the while.

Two days before we would make our first raid, I carried my wooden longsword to the house of our associate and asked my friend to bring his lance as well. The lance turned out to be the critical element of our plan, since it was the perfect shape for the plan we intended to hatch. Little more than a discarded pool cue with an improvised basket guard made from a ‘Big Gulp’ cup, it was the longest and straightest of the weapons at our disposal.

We had seen them preparing near their hangout in the park by the swimming pool, collecting ordinance in bike baskets and the like – already decked out in their indestructible skater armor. We waved at them, yelling and shaking our backsides, doing all that we could to get them to deploy as quickly as possible. We were wearing our own rag-tag armor as well: knee pads, elbow pads, soccer guards - I had on a hard hat, my brother wore a football helmet, and our friend wore his signature Texas Rangers junior baseball helmet. I am sure we were not the most intimidating opponents those rich Northampton kids had ever seen and so much the better, because they came at us like hornets from a fallen hive, just like we planned.

Their momentum was a big part of our strategy, so we ran as fast as we could as if to somehow escape them. Our flight stirred raucous verbal abuse and shouting from our highly excited pursuers who undoubtedly pedaled all the more swiftly. We rushed to a large tuft of pampas grass where we had hidden our weapons and turned on our heels to meet the curb as they closed on us. We were bombarded by a hailstorm of pea-gravel, acorns, sweetgum seeds, and pinecones as they raced upon us. So much so that we advanced with our heads down, unable to see our targets.

I lunged in with my sword and missed, my weapon being promptly run over as the leader passed. My brother met the ground before reaching the street, taking too many hits to continue. But the man with the lance, executing a classical baseball belly-slide, thrust his pool cue into the spokes of the leader’s front wheel. The lead bike came to an immediate stop, turning end-over and hurling its stunned rider onto the street like a ragdoll. Regrettably, I only saw a part of the crash from under my helmet, as the whole thing happened before I could return to my feet with the hilt of my broken sword still in hand. As if in slow-motion, two of the remaining three bikes smashed into the tumbling lead bicycle, leaving the second man on the street, and the third afoot working to free his ride from the tangle of wheels and tubing we had made.

Unable to retrieve his weapon and suddenly feeling in well over his head, our friend fell back, essentially fleeing the field, while my brother and I were left to fend for ourselves with a broken sword and a broomstick.

I do not recall exactly how the leader and the other rider managed to get away, but their two comrades left them behind, only stopping to check on them once they were well away from the action. One of the defeated pair was crying like a baby and the other was cursing like I had never heard before. I am certain that both would have readily attacked us if our cowardly associate had not suddenly appeared with his two cousins to bombard the living daylights out of them with their own stockpile of prickly tree castings. My brother and I made a tactical retreat, deferring to the might of our debris-hurling backup as the enemy pair separated their bikes and fled in humiliation.

We had no way of knowing what lie in store for us now that we had utterly beaten down and humiliated the enemy. Their snappy yellow skater gear was now scratched and stained by the thousand rolling impacts of a full-speed bicycle pile-up and the mouth of the group had undoubtedly lost some of the confidence of his followers – followers who had realized they were now facing some kids who were not afraid to step up when attacked.

Meanwhile, we rebuilt our equipment, adding additional bits to our armor to protect us from rocks (particularly our faces) and prepared for the second phase of our plan, anticipating that they would attack us even more powerfully than the previous day. Matters were further complicated by the fact that our fellow the lanceman was grounded for his participation, having told his parents part of the story when questioned as to how he had sprained his wrist and torn the knee out of his pants. So we were out one veteran and our young associate (his two cousins included) was not mobile enough to take the fight off his own street. This left myself and my brother to carry out the finishing blow and re-earn our reputation as untouchables, effectively removing us from the war and absolving us from any possible retaliation. The original plan was for a dozen fully armed bikes to ride into the park and utterly destroy the operation there, then occupy the area, but since it was just the two of us, our goal changed. The enemy would still be crushed, but it would not be by our side of the subdivision, it would be by us – and after that, we were out. We even planned to tell them so. By that time, my brother and I had no intention of continuing with battles that had nothing to do with us but also had no intention of keeping it from continuing without us.

The sun rose early that weekday morning and our mother allowed us to ride our bikes to our caretaker’s house, the home of the young associate who was partially the cause of this war. We waited until we had the opportunity to take a ride on our bikes and returned home, where we loaded up with our gear, which included our lighter ‘riding armor’, new lances, plastic bags full of ammo (pinecones, acorns, and sweetgum balls), and a bag full of playground sand each.

Riding back to the battleground, we found a new assault already in progress, but it was different than before. The riders had dismounted and were using their bikes as shields (they had duct-taped some thick cardboard to the frames of their bicycles to defend them from bombardment) while they engaged in a projectile battle against the entrenched cousins, who were using everything they had to keep the aggressors at bay, including the water hose. In addition, there were only three of them instead of the initial four.

Calling out to each other, we charged in at our top gear, bringing our thick lances to bear. We intended to severely damage the Yellows’ bikes, dashing them to the ground with our lances while simultaneously scattering our foes like birds. It was a good plan in theory, but they saw us coming and mounted long before we reached them. They fled down the street as fast as they could but their single-speed freestyle bikes had only a fraction of the speed of our fleet 10-speeds and we were upon them faster than they must have expected. One of the Yellows slowed and tried to hit me with a rock from his saddlebag but I hit the breaks to match his speed and ran my lance through his rear spokes to return the favor. He skidded to a crashing halt an fell on his side, his locked wheel yanking the stick from my hand, but we held our speed as we chased the other two.

My brother closed on the leader with his own lance, but the same turned, having a stick of his own. My brother broke off as the Yellow made an attempt to send him endo with the stick. The enemy had to reach too far in an attempt to send the stick through my brother’s front spokes and was forced to drop it in favor of regaining control of his bike.

The two Yellows broke ranks and went their separate ways, so I called to my brother to head to their base in the park.

The Yellow base was essentially a picnic table and a jungle-gym with a hand-drawn yellow flag at the top. There was not much to destroy, but they had gone through the trouble of making the flag and organizing their arsenal atop the picnic table, so that was our target.

We swept in, finding the fourth man there without his armor. The boy ran without saying a word and we swept the whole table into a nearby trashcan and took the enemy’s banner forthwith. The last two came upon us as we were leaving and shouted at us, cursing as if we had urinated on their mother’s grave.

We were already past fearing them, but we knew we had the advantage at full speed, so rather than fight, we merely employed the SR-71’s most famous evasive maneuver: When there’s a bogey on your six – just open the throttle and leave him in your jetwash.

They followed us furiously even as we climbed our gears to our cruising speed and began tossing our loads of ordinance over our shoulders and into their paths. I recall that the stuff just bounced off their helmets and pads, doing little to distract them from us. They yelled and threatened, understandably upset, throwing the remainder of their weapons at us as we flew to our safe house several blocks away. We knew that with only two of them, it wouldn’t matter how mad they were. The cousins would take them apart if they followed us too deep into our own territory.

As we neared the end of our own street, I called to release the chaff, at which point my brother and I slung our sand into the paths of the two riders chasing us. They were taken aback by this tactic and looking back I saw that they had stopped cold as if they had hit a wall. I am not sure if it blinded them like we expected, but it certainly had the anticipated effect of stopping their pursuit.

As we rolled up to the house covered in dirt, sand, pine needles, mud, sweat, splinters, and bruises, we could see our defeated foes roll out in the direction of their own homes. Aside from a few minor encounters at school the following season and a bit of hearsay from unfortunates on the other side of the neighborhood, that was the last time we had any dealings with them. Peace had once again been restored and our reputation around the block had (for better or worse) been increased.

This is the second story in the main plotline detailing yet another of the main character’s adventures as a child. Though there was slightly more action than the first, the stakes were a bit lower. However, the greater scope of the story shows a great deal of development in the area of strategy – at least in a childish sense. Despite the fact that this account seems to describe the violent rampaging of unsupervised youth, it has within it an element of chivalry which reflects the interests of the main characters, in this case the two brothers and their friend. This account helps to further develop the main character’s past and establish his familiarity with ‘action’ as well as to further reinforce the concept of his willingness to fight for his friends.

Defend your ride!

The Grip

The grip is an important facet of swordsmanship which is all-too-often overlooked by the novice and the casual enthusiast. It is a common oversight which frequently results in injury to the wrists, or at the very least, the development middling swordsmen who spar like animals and are easily defeated.

From what I have seen from the lesser-experienced knifemen wielding swords and similar weapons, I gather that the most common improper holding method is the ‘Hammer’ grip. In this grip, a person clutches an object in the midst of a tightly pressed fist as if to prevent its escape. This type of hold is appropriate for very heavy tools an tools with an end-ward center of balance, such as an axe or hammer, because swinging heavy tools hazards one losing his grip due to centrifugal force amplified by asymmetrical weight distribution between the two ends of the tool. I would generally limit the appropriate use of this grip to sledge hammers and large axes, since using these tools is more a matter of resisting shock than retaining grip. It has been my experience that the proper sword grip easily translates into the use of hand tools with practice.

According to the form of Kendo and Kumdo, the proper grip could be likened to that of the basic grip used in golf, but more distributed (for two-handed sword use) and with the thumb resting in line with the index finger rather than on the back of the handle. To avoid confusion, I have added pictures of both grips. Rather than noting the differences, look carefully at the similarities between the two grip styles. Remember that both arts require a swing with accuracy, speed, and finesse. Both focus on these rather than power and both seem to show a great deal of similarity for this very reason. As a sidenote, I have heard that some tennis players also use the so-called fencing grip, which is logical, but unfortunately not included in the attached image.

Note: The left two pictures are for golf, while the right are for the katana; the smaller sword grip image is actually a bit more proper than the one on the far right. The proper grip has a smoother grade between the angle of the forearm and the angle of the thumb. Acute bends in the wrist betray an unsteady grip or a rigid 'Vice' grip.

The science of ergonomics is still in its relative infancy, but it has a lot to say about the way we use our hands to hold things. For the most part, human hands are basically operated like the limbs of a marionette, pulled and twisted by myriad sinews and tendons attached to muscles in the forearm. Since the hand can pivot at the wrist, the orientation of the hand has a direct effect upon the efficacy of the muscles in the forearm and vice-versa. As a result, certain grips are better suited for ease of movement, for crushing strength, for pinching grip, for twisting (like a screwdriver), for lifting over the head, for writing, etc. The sword and golf grips are essentially a synthesis of several of these grip methods, allowing for the greatest range of motion and sensitivity of control without compromising too much holding power. In addition, the angle of the grip allows for greater reach without requiring the hold on the handle to loosen, as would be the case with the hammer grip.

This element of tactical swordplay is one of the few cases in which fencing and kendo/kenjutsu generally agree, though the arts tend to go about cultivating proper grip habits in completely different ways. To further complicate matters for the diligent student of swordsmanship, the East and West are further subdivided into dozens of different mainlines, which are each broken into several different schools. As such, we will limit discussion to the basic, stereotypical foil fencing and shinai kendo. In the first, we have the grip as it would be employed to support the weight of the weapon as well as to guide it forward into its target. The fencer uses a single hand to move the needle-like foil according to an angular thrusting pattern, deviating essentially only to parry or edit the angle of attack. To move the tip, the wrist and fingers are employed to make subtle, accurate adjustments. To move the hand, the arm is used, flowing from the body, which is empowered by proper footwork. In this type of swordplay, the grip is usually maintained through the use of an odd pistol-ish handle that supports all the fingers so as to encourage proper form. The heft of the sword is managed by the grip of the last two fingers of the hand against the base of the thumb, while the thumb, index, and middle fingers guide and control the direction of the weapon.

With Kendo, the handle is more simple, but the grip dynamic is the same, the base of the hand holds the weapon, while the two front fingers help to maintain the proper angle during the strike. Unlike fencing, the kendoka’s attacks are strikes achieved by swinging the weapon with both hands. The left hand holds the weapon and initiates the strikes while the right gently guides the weapon along, merely to prevent its being shocked out of control during a fierce engagement. All striking originates in the lower body, where the power of movement is gleaned from proper footwork and transferred through the muscles of the trunk and the arms to the datostubu area of the shinai which, like the real katana, encompasses the center of percussion of the weapon – the ‘sweet spot’. An improperly tuned grip constitutes a break in the chain of movement between the floor and the target, which results in poor attacks and awkward balance. The two-handed grip offers more swinging force than the single-handed grip, but also requires greater coordination. Coordination of grips during the execution of a technique, however, is a deeper subject best left to personal instruction and diligent practice.

I would like to conclude this entry with an excerpt from the Go Rin no Sho, by Miyamoto Musashi; a swordsman acknowledged by many to have been the greatest in Japanese history. It would be difficult for me to close with better instructions for the swordsman’s grip.

“Grip the long sword with a rather floating feeling in your thumb and forefinger, with the middle finger neither tight nor slack, and with the last two fingers tight. It is bad to have play in your hands.

When you take up a sword, you must feel intent on cutting the enemy. As you cut an enemy you must not change your grip, and your hands must not "cower". When you dash the enemy's sword aside, or ward it off, or force it down, you must slightly change the feeling in your thumb and forefinger. Above all, you must be intent on cutting the enemy in the way you grip the sword.

The grip for combat and for sword testing is the same. There is no such thing as a "man-cutting grip".

Generally, I dislike fixedness in both long swords and hands. Fixedness means a dead hand. Pliability is a living hand. You must bear this in mind.”

Judge Book by Bookshelf?

I often wonder whether anyone takes the time to research the various profiles for disturbed and dangerous individuals for the sake of learning how many profiles said person or said person's friends actually match.

This odd thought occurred to me one morning while I was getting ready to work with the TV playing the last 10 minutes or so of Discovery Channel's 'The Most Evil' documentary series. Apparently some sociobiology geniuses gathered some grant money and made a scale upon which to grade psychos who commit heinous crimes based upon what they can gather of their respective psyche, motives, stimuli, etc. Near the end of the show, they often do some explaining about this or that - basically how they determined so-and-so's place on the chart. As I half-listened to the doctor's explanation of what 'sociopaths' generally do and how to identify them (while tossing on my attire in the chill of my drafty little flat) I found myself mentally listing several people I know who fit that description. I even felt that I could be fit into a similar profile by a person who didn't know me very well. That has a way of making a person feel a bit uncomfortable - especially when you think that lots of people watch shows like that. How many folks are out right now pigeon-holing misfits as sociopaths and potential spree killers? It's like a cut out of the movie Minority Report.

Despite what the modern education/media system likes to portray, people in general are still very deeply affected by stereotypes and the mind has a natural tendency to classify and categorize things accordingly. That being the case, it seems a bit socially irresponsible to go about saying things like "A sociopathic spree-killer candidate is the type of person who keeps to themselves, but has a domineering attitude; doesn't like to socialize unless it's about them, doesn't have many friends..." - or whatever. I would say that an appreciable portion of the world population has at some point matched that vague description in somebody's mind at some point in their lives.

As a semi-humorous sidenote, if the reader might take a moment to look it up, the DSM-IV definition of 'sociopath' seems almost purpose-written to match politicians and movie stars.

Anyway, why would this be a problem for me? I suppose it isn't, really. It's just another one of those things I notice while about my daily business that causes me to say (or at least think) to myself, "Gee, that's stupid - I wonder if anybody else picked-up on that," Being a law-abiding citizen myself, I'll just note here that should I ever become a suspect in a multiple homicide based purely upon the fact that someone told an investigator, "Yeah man, I bet it was him - I mean, he lives alone!" then my congressman can expect a rather irritable Email from me forthwith.

RPG Hunting!

In my travels I have hunted many animals, both dangerous and benign. I don't see any reason why I should take the time now to get into the various interesting hunts I have undertaken or the varying countries and environments in which such hunts have taken place. This post is more the effect of my observation that hunted animals rarely seem to yield gold, armor, or weapons when killed.

As a hunter, I do not find this surprising; but as an individual who has played his share of video games on various platforms, I find this a bit confusing. Take Super Mario 64 as a well-rounded example. The enemies in this game can be taken out in all sorts of entertaining ways, after which they vanish, yielding their worth in Mushroom Kingdom tender. Now, is this inside them or what? Take your pick of early RPG games and you'll see the same: "Evil Monster takes hit; loses 2500 HP. (victory music) You gained 25,000 EXP; you got 130 Gold!" That manner occurrence is so far removed from anything remotely 'real-life' that I can't imagine that it was just developed as a simple way for the characters to earn the money necessary for game progression, thus alleviating the need for long term in-game career plans. Although one doesn't have to spend much time with certain game-philes to detect a certain fear of the concept of 'job'.

Of course, I have taken the time to reason that this is actually representative of the value harvested from the creature's carcass - assuming that the characters broke the monster down into profitable parts and the value thereof was equal to 130 gold - making the assumption that such transactions take place in the next town 'off camera' as it were. That seems well enough - but that's assuming that mercenary Mario's lucrative kills are a phenomenon that only occurs in the the parallel dimension of the Mushroom World(s). I won't bother to touch the relationship between the coin in Mario's pocket and the level of health he maintains; but I'm sure I would feel better each time I encountered an frizbee sized gold coin too. I think he learned this pecuniary healing technique from Sonic the Hedgehog during the Nintendo vs. Sega arms race, but I digress.

Anyway, it would seem that Square caught this confusion recently, since I noted that you actually have to find someone with gold before you can get any in Final Fantasy 12. Monsters only have pelts, teeth, horns, etc. You have to find somebody dealing in the loot trade to actually make any money off a kill. This is much more realistic and brings back memories of hunting bounty varmints in Texas. I used to get $0.50 for every dead crow and a bit more for a rabbit in a farmer's field - though it would have been much more fun if the animals just dissolved into their average cash value.

I also thought during even those days, that it would be much nicer to be able to just sell off something like a rattlesnake or a winter jackrabbit whole without having to first divvy-up its anatomy into usable parts. Both animals are technically edible, but not meant for gourmet cooking - most people only care to lay down a dime for the skin. This takes time to remove and cure, and they are not really worth a whole lot as a single item, so I couldn't see a smart fellow wasting time or energy on them unless he had an empty stomach, an interested buyer, or a bounty ticket from a farmer citing and open season notice. Why would I take note of this fact? Because I see a lot of the gaming community's younger generation bartering conjecture as to how profitable and fun it would be to do the RPG-style hunting ala EXP grinding in real life. I can't really see that as being viable.

However, I recently saw a recording in which a certain fisherman had made a bit of money off the stuff he had found inside a shark. I'll have to take a moment to find the video, but the contents of certain sea animals has been documented to include such things as treasure, furniture, booze, and apparently even a suit of armor. Now that's a monster right out of video game fare. "Player kills greatwhite! You got steel armor!" or "Player slays tigershark! You got severed hand with gold wedding ring!" (Victory music and heroic poses all around!).

So, the those RPG fantasy buffs who want to hunt deadly high-level monsters for the treasure: toss out the replica landskneckt two-hander and pick up your harpoon gun! There's a new frontier out at sea and rumor has it the quarry love meeting novices up close. The EXP you gain depends on what you learn and your level at the time (an issue for another day).

Level 75 Great White Attacks!

Alpha Folder

And now for the swordsman's review of another fine product, which has provided me with years of reliable service and has been an article of pride among fellow enthusiasts of edged tools: the Buck Alpha Folder.
This folding knife is what one might consider the leading design in Buck's impressive new line of hunting knives, but it's a lot more than a modern twist on the eternal Buck 110. It is a new type of multipurpose full-size liner-lock that is built sturdier, having a thicker blade, more sturdy geometry, and a more ergonomic handle incorporating a skinner's trigger-grip finger grove.
The whole platform is stainless steel and the handle is a tail-bound open design that allows dust to be cleared from the blade channel unlike its predecessor, which has a U-channel that can only be cleaned with a Q-tip or an air compressor. But, true to its roots, Buck offers these impressive cutting tools with the buyer's choice of tactical plastic grip scales or 2 choices of dense grain wood (mine is the walnut, which is most resistant to wear and moisture).

I have had mine since 2004, and I have used it almost daily as I run through my regular chores and supply functions at work. I make good use of the lanyard hole, lashing it to my belt with a length of military cord, so it won't fall to the ground it it manages to make it out of my pocket unbidden. I can say from experience that this knife is made for cutting. that may sound like an unnecessary observation, but almost any experienced user of knives in the workplace will tell you that there are plenty of mainstream knives out there that aren't made for cutting. The thick, drop-point blade bites through all manner of common cuttables and is quickly resharpened. Granted, stainless steel blades do not retain an edge like I wish they would, but the Alpha Folder holds up to daily rigors quite nicely.

In addition to being a hard worker, the large folder's ergonomic design and pommel-ward center of balance make this knife a fierce fighter as well. The handle fills the hand, and the trigger groove helps to ensure both weapon retention and avoidance of reverse slippage (a.k.a stab-slip, in which the hand move forward while the knife remains static, resulting in the user sliding up the blade - ouch!). The sturdy liner lock assures that the blade will not close on the hand without the application of tremendous pressure, so an emergency engagement is not likely to result in lost fingers, and the blade length is such that it can inflict a very deep penetration without being too big to carry in most places.

In both cases, the ambidextrous one-hand opening is a major plus and the pivot screw can be adjusted to allow for faster opening if that's your thing. With practice, the knife can be deployed with a flick of the wrist, making it significantly faster to employ than a balisong or lockback in an emergency.

With all that, the traditional look and the rich color of the wood scales makes this knife look too much like 'Grandpa's Knife' to stand out when it leaves your pocket - even despite its size. This is of course another advantage; since it disturbs certain people to see that you have a large folder on you at work, the grocery store, etc., especially if it's one of those mechanized, matte back, Navy Seal wannabe style knives. Even though this knife can do more than its fair share of damage, it maintains a wholesome, 'Americana' profile that makes me feel a whole lot more comfortable carrying it around.