The story behind the last story went something like this:

There’s a ninjutsu dojo in the CBD.

One night, a group of these ninja decided to test their skills by dressing up in ninja garb, arming themselves with the likes of swords and throwing stars, and then proceeding to climb over buildings.

They got caught, of course.

I shook my head when I heard. I knew the dojo. I had been a student of their head sensei, up north, when he gave up Kung Fu and opened the first official ninjutsu dojo in NZ.

And I had sparred with some of those “ninja” at martial arts seminars.

They were wearing fucking masks. Carrying weapons.
I would have attracted less attention had I attempted that feat wearing work clothes. And a clown wig.

They had totally bought into this TV/comic book fantasy view of what a ninja was and become a parody of themselves. They should have strapped on half-shells while they were at it.

It’s not about masks. It’s about learning to live with a good heart, being a productive member of society, and fighting injustice. With awesome samurai swords!

But it’s definitely not about getting caught by the police, playing illegal games.

Here’s the lyrics to that song, for those to whom NZ English is a second language:

I didn’t really like the guy who introduced the art to NZ.
I’m thankful that he did. I’m thankful that he deemed me ready for the black belt test and that I didn’t get too fucked up doing it.
But I always had a bad feeling about him.
And I feared him.

He handed the dojo I trained at over to one of his blackbelts (the person whom I still call Sensei. Well I would. If I knew where to fucking find him…) when he moved to Auckland to start up a whole bunch of other schools. Ultimately, he commercialised his art and it became more about the money than the grandmaster’s message. And that’s when I, and my sensei, lost interest in training under his umbrella.

We had a little chuckle when the guy who officially introduced the art was drunk one night and beaten walking home by a gang of teenagers. Even though it wasn’t all that funny. Kinda sad, really.

Every so often I would run a little internet search to check up on him.

Last year I got a shock. I found out he’d died from a heart attack while training at his home dojo. He was in his late 40s.

I also found out through a eulogy that he had a criminal record and had been in a motorcycle gang in his younger days. Uh-huh.

But still. I was shocked that he was gone.

So anyway. My sensei.
He was sort of like a father to me.

Then he moved away and I sort of lost contact with him. Sort of like a father who moves away and doesn’t stay in touch.
Although I did track down where he was living.
I always meant to write to him.
But I never got around to it for some reason. And then, after reading about the dead ninja, I decided I had better, before I write and discover he too has died.

But, he had moved on, so the address I had was redundant.

I could track him down. (Provided he’s still living). I’ve got some avenues.

But for some reason, I … don’t.