Wimps

I was sixteen. It was a preseason trial game for my footy team. Just one game against a club in another district. In a place that… Let’s just say… had its challenges.

As we were driven to the ground, we saw packs of big, scary brutes with big, scary girlfriends hanging out on the streets.

We checked that the windows were wound up and the doors locked.

Most of the guys in my team would leave school after that year to become apprentice tradesmen and eventually build the new suburbs that would quadruple the size of our city in ten years.

Most of the guys we were about to face off against would continue their education playing table tennis in juvenile detention centres.

Our new coach, a young man in his early twenties, had personally arranged this trial for us. He decided we needed toughening up for the season ahead. Become men.

At half time, his first impression of us was spot on. Soft! A bunch of wimps. We were losing badly.

“When I call out 49, it’s on,” he screamed, the last instruction he gave as we broke from our huddle, “All in. Got it!”

I didn’t get it. That’s not the way I played the game. Or, wanted to play the game, especially when I had never had a fight.

And why forty-nine?

True to his word, towards the end of the game, 49 boomed out from the sideline. I took a deep breath. Walked the ten meters across no man’s land up to my opposing player and threw a punch. Bang!

Actually, it was more of a swoosh. I missed.

He didn’t duck or swerve. He just stood there. I must have had my eyes closed.

The next thing I knew, three players were pummeling me with their fists, as I waited for the cavalry, my teammates to bail me out.

Was I the only one to hear the call to attack?

That was it. A hard lesson learned. I wasn’t tough. Not a fighter. I needed to make sure that I would never be in a position where I had to defend myself with my fists.

I didn’t like studying Shakespeare at school, but I liked what he said about Discretion being the better part of valour. Being a chicken was okay in his books, or should I say plays.

I had to get smart. Too right, Mr Shakespeare. Read my surroundings. Look for clues. Indicators of danger. Keep safe from those apex predators lurking in the suburbs.

Teeth and tattoos, I discerned, were huge red flags. If the smile was missing teeth, head in another direction.

Let’s face it… If they didn’t care about their appearance, they had no reservations about messing up yours. They were always angry because they had no job. No money. No girl. Lived on a sofa somewhere. Spoke like they were leaking air.

They accused everyone of thinking they were better than them. And, to be bluntly honest, they were right.

Those gummy-smiling types invariably had tattoos. A distinctive inking on the upper arm. A heart. Some kind of reptile or a weapon – a dagger. Sometimes a combination of both.

They were warning signs. Hazard lights flashing danger ahead. Not the works of art on skin canvases you see today.

Being in Japan all this time, I missed the transition of tattooing from menacing to mainstream. Now, it’s completely normal to be a walking colouring book.

Full-sleeve tattoos. Backs. Chests. Legs. Even faces.

No one takes a second look.

Your pharmacist. Your barista. Your cheery server. Your friendly neighborhood police officer. Your favorite footy player. Just everyday people going about their business.

Tattoos.

My head tells me that’s the way it is nowadays back home. But the chicken in me says avoid eye contact.

The stereotype remains because I hardly ever see tattoos on Japanese people. They are still considered taboo here. Associated with gangsters and the lower levels of polite Japanese society.

If you do spot a tattooed Japanese person, it might be an idea to cross the road to keep out of their way.

I was at my local gym the other day. As I was changing, I noticed a youngish guy in his thirties changing into his training gear. I don’t make it a habit of watching guys getting changed, but this guy caught my eye.

When he peeled off his T-shirt, his back and upper arms were covered in vivid blue, pink, and green hues.

Not a good sign.

No kids’ names. No inspirational phrases. No wrongly translated Chinese characters. You know those characters on the back of your neck, you thought said strong will… They can literally be translated as dog poo.

You are announcing yourself as a shithead to Asian communities around the world.

Here’s a tip. If you want to get Chinese or Japanese characters inked onto your body, don’t use Kevin, the tattooist, unless his family name is Chan or Wong.

The young guy in the gym was painted in a Japanese mural that said he was connected, a gangster, the infamous Yakuza.

I moved a few lockers further away just in case. In the cramped confines of the change room, I didn’t want to accidentally bump butts bending down to put on my shoes.

Moments later, dressed for his workout, there wasn’t a tattoo in sight. Everything was hidden under long sleeves and tracky daks.

He looked like any other guy in the gym. He had no choice, though. It was a public facility that banned tattoos. It was either cover up or go home.

That was the scary part. A gangster not showing off that he was a bad dude and following social norms. How do you know whom to avoid?

These days, I look at ears. The cauliflower ones. They either belong to a black belt in judo or a Greco-Roman wrestler. Guys and girls who could throw you around if challenged, like a puppy with a slipper.

But, beyond those with the looks of a Mr Potato Head, Japanese in general don’t dress to intimidate.

Years ago, I watched a friend’s grading bout in aikido. He passed, which wasn’t so amazing. What dumbfounded me was a gentleman in his seventies. A humble, grey-haired, old fellow who showed us to our seats when we arrived.

He, the usher, turned out to be the president of that aikido style, a seventh-dan aikido master. Movie star Steven Segal level, but without the Hollywood ego.

A practicing martial artist, which he demonstrated by throwing a mob of much younger instructors around the tatami mats like a kid tidying up their stuffed toys. Toby.

You just don’t know, so you better behave. That old Japanese businessman on the train in a loose-fitting dark suit, comfortable shoes, and a not-so-fashionable comb-over could also be a karate instructor.

Fortunately, in Japan, martial arts are seen as a form of defence, not a boast that you’re a tough guy.

No one is going to twist you into a pretzel just for something to do to impress their friends after a few drinks on a Friday night.

Be hard on yourself but gentle on others, the credo of Grand Sumo Champion, Takanohana.

So, it looks like my old coach got it all wrong. Throwing fists doesn’t make you tough. Doesn’t make you a man.

Choosing not to and walking away is tougher, which suits me fine, because I’m still that sixteen-year-old wimp.

Come to think of it… my old coach had a tattoo and I think he had false teeth.