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he grabbed the metal pole in the center of the car and tried to wrench it out of its stanchion. I could see that one of his hands was cut and bleeding, likely from an earlier scuffle.


The train lurched ahead, the scattered passengers frozen with fear. I stood up.


I was young then, and in pretty good shape. I stood six feet, weighed 225 and spoke fluent Japanese. I'd been putting in a solid eight hours of Aikido training every day for the past three years. I liked to throw and grapple. I thought I was tough. Trouble was my martial arts skill was untested in ac- tual combat. As students of Aikido, we were not allowed to fight.


My teacher, the founder of Aikido, taught us each morning that the art was devoted to peace. "Aikido," he said again and again, "is the art of reconcilia- tion. Whoever has the mind to fight has broken his connection with the uni- verse. If you try to dominate other people, you are already defeated. In Aikido, we study how to resolve conflict, not how to start it."


I had listened to his words. I tried hard. I wanted to quit fighting. I had even gone so far as to cross the street a few times to avoid the the pinball punks who lounged around the train stations. They'd have been happy to test my martial arts ability.


My forbearance exalted me. I felt both tough and holy. Yet in my heart of hearts, I was still dying to be a hero. A part of me still wanted a chance – an absolutely legitimate and justified opportunity – to save the innocent by de- stroying the guilty.


'This is it!' I thought to myself, as I stood up tall and proud to confront this menace to society. 'This slob, this cruel animal, is drunk and mean and vio- lent. People are in immediate danger. If I don't do something fast, some- body is going to get hurt. It's time to take his ass to the cleaners.'


Seeing me stand up, the belligerent drunk relished the chance to focus his rage. "Aha!" he roared, "A foreigner! You need a lesson in Japanese man- ners!" He landed a heavy punch on the metal pole beside him to give weight to his words.


Holding on to the commuter strap overhead, I gave him a slow look of dis- gust and dismissal. I gave him every bit of pissed-off nastiness I could sum- mon up. I planned to take this filthy turkey apart, but he had to be the one to move first. And I wanted him mad, because the madder he got the more certain my victory. I puckered my lips and blew him a sneering, insolent kiss.


It hit him like a slap in the face. "All right!" he hollered, "You're gonna get a lesson." He gathered himself for a rush at me.


Yet just as he was about to lunge, a single-syllable shout pierced the air. "Hey!"


The word instantly sliced through the thick intensity of the moment. I was stunned by the strangely joyous, lilting quality of it – as though you and a friend had been searching all over for something important that was lost, and he had suddenly stumbled upon it and loudly shouted to you, "Hey!"


I wheeled to my left; the drunk spun to his right. We both found ourselves staring down at a little old man. He must have been well into his seventies, this tiny gentleman, sitting there immaculate in his kimono. He took no no- tice of me, but beamed delightedly at the laborer, as though he had a most important, most welcome secret to share.


"C'mere," the old man said in an easy Japanese vernacular, beckoning to the drunk. "C'mere and talk with me." He waved his hand lightly towards the seat next to him.


The big man followed, almost as if on a string. He planted his feet belliger- ently in front of the old gentleman, and towered threateningly over him.


"Talk to you!" he roared above the clacking wheels, "Why the hell should I talk to you?"


The drunk now had his back to me. If his elbows moved so much as an inch, I'd drop him in his socks.


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