Our School Dojo
Getting back to school was a matter of getting back into the swing of things. It’s easy to forget stuff over the holidays, like – how to clean shoes so they’re spotless, making sure one does not walk about with hands in pockets, or walk over the grass. Sixth formers can walk on the grass, underlings cannot.
Small infractions gain a prefect’s report. Three reports gets the cane from the housemaster, reports must be worked off doing jobs such as pulling burrs out of the oval, or digging useless holes and filling them in again.
Beds were lined up, bed, locker, bed, locker, and so on down the line. They had to be made military fashion – neat and tidy, with a top bedspread so flat a plane could land on it.
Morning assembly found us running for the parade ground. Nobody walked. We lined up in classes facing the gymnasium steps which were used by the Master on Duty to announce things.
I could tell you what I would be doing at any time of the day, and week by week the routines never changed. I guess it was a good way to keep discipline. At elevenses, we lined up in houses for mail call. Michael got a letter from Daniel. One of his teachers in the Blind Institute wrote it.
Dear Michael.
I hope you are well. I am fine now, and getting used to being blind. I walk everywhere with a cane, and I can find my way about. I am learning Braille, and how to use my other senses, like my ears. I have to keep them sharp, so I mustn’t use any MP3 players or Ipods, If they’re loud. My face doesn’t hurt any more. I’ve got two glass eyes. My carer puts them in every day. I think of Dad a lot. The police say that his disappearance is a mystery. Welfare wants families to stay together, so I’m allowed to come and visit you. Perhaps I can come to your school.
Love,
Daniel
Michael knew that Daniel hadn’t written it. “He can’t spell for nuts,” he said.
“They’ve got special schools for blind kids,” I said. “He’ll be better off there.”
That afternoon, we went off to Group Sports. This was a new activity to the school. The curriculum was being modernized. We could play table tennis, badminton, volley ball, and judo. Mr. Peters, our sports teacher, had a brown belt. He could teach us the basics. We’d tried to get Tugs as a sport, but there were a few problems, and the staff was still ‘thinking about it’, which meant it probably wouldn’t happen.
Jigoro Kano, the man who invented judo, had written a book on it, which we had in the library. There, on one of the pages, was a brief description of ‘Torinawa’ which was the Japanese word for ‘Tugs’.
That was the clincher. We could do Tugs as part of our Judo classes, provided we called it by its proper name, “Hojojutsu.”
So Torinawa or Hojojutsu was now an official part of our school sports program.
The school had an official policy against the wearing of jeans, but things were changing, and we were allowed to wear them in the Judo room while tying each other up. It was, after all, our official sports uniform.
The judo room became our ‘hidden place’ and the only boys we allowed in were members of our team. We had to make up a set of rules and hang them prominently on the walls:
RULES of HOJOJUTSU
No ties around the neck.
No thin cords allowed.
Always check circulation.
The tie must be ‘escapable’.
Uniforms must be worn.
No gags or blindfolds.
Only Ropes are permitted.
No ‘bondage’ gear or nudity.
In some ways, it was a bit limiting, but we reckoned that ‘Rome wasn’t built in a day’, so to have the school accept it as a sport was a major achievement.
Our next task was to recruit members. It wasn’t as hard as I thought it would be.
Boarding schools are noted for their nicknames. Nobody got called by his first name. The idea was to give a boy a nickname he’d hate. I was called ‘Sproggy’ for reasons I won’t go into. Steven was “Unca” a sort of play on the fact that he was filthy rich (Unca Scrooge) – even if he was cash poor. Michael got the name “Tank” and this is how it happened.
Our house had a resident psychopath and bully, with a bevy of ‘mates’ who were too scared of him to tell him to get lost. His real name was Ed Harris, but his nickname was “Chopper” after a well-known underworld character.
Not long after we arrived, Chopper had Michael, a small boy in 1st year of high school, in his sights. He probably thought that the boy would be a sitting duck. It was just a matter of catching him when we weren’t around.
With a bevy of his supporters in tow, Chopper surrounded Michael at his locker. He grabbed his right arm and twisted it behind his back.
“Lick my boots clean,” he ordered, pushing the boy’s head towards his shoes. Michael went down a bit quicker than Chopper expected. He grabbed the bully’s left foot and stood up quickly, putting Chopper off balance. Michael had no mercy. Chopper was on the floor, and the small boy’s foot, in good strong leather school shoes, contacted him on the ribs with a punishing thump. Meanwhile, his left hand let Chopper’s foot go and he slammed the boy’s head into the corner of the locker.
Chopper let out a scream that could be heard across the school oval. His offsider, Stodgy, wasn’t quick enough to dodge Michael’s fist which took him solidly in the eye. He dropped like a stone.
By the time Steven and I got to the house, Chopper had been carted off to sickbay, and Stodgy was nursing his eye in the bathroom. It was beginning to bruise up quite well. A shiner to be proud of.
Nobody told the staff or prefects what had happened. When prep was over, we visited Chopper in sick bay as a group of ‘concerned housemates’. He was lying on top of the bed, his chest tightly wrapped with a roller bandage.
“I said I’d slipped and hit the end of the bed then my head on the locker,” he said. Michael solemnly handed him a bunch of flowers he’d picked from the garden.
“Get well, soon,” he said.
“Yeah. You’re tougher than you look – took me by surprise. That won’t happen again.”
Teenagers often talk tough. I didn’t really mean it as a death threat – it was just something I said, “Maybe the next lot of flowers will be on your headstone.”
I saw by the look in his eyes that I’d scored a real hit. He rolled over and cried. You’re not supposed to cry at school. I put it down to his being in pain.
“He’s a good kid, Chopper. Help us look after him, right? No more bullying.”
He nodded, “I’m sorry, Tank,” he said, shaking hands with Michael. He’d just given him his nickname. It was a tough one, and we approved. We left soon after that. Chopper wasn’t badly hurt. He’d be back in class in the morning.
© 2009 by Romanirob
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