PUNCH THE SANDBAG
MACH by J. Tenney. Original Photograph by Dan Herbertson.
The beat, and heading out fighters of passion have always weighed heavily on my mind. As a young boy I felt it necessary to walk hand in hand with these sorts of fictional men like my great affection for characters like Wolverine and Rocky Balboa who alongside the ninja turtles drug me through a relatively wondrous and happy, yet forever geographically transitioning childhood. Great men! golden men with far more to lose than their imperfect teeth;like pearly bullets guarding tongues from the world past their wonderfully sad, hacked apart chin-flesh. Pro wrestlers, boxers, karate boys, street brawlers and Judoka- all with an alternative notion of existence, competition and a striving towards the treasure of victorious. What in their star-filled heads drives these men and women to battle their lives away like noble piñatas gently rocking under the shady branches of an elm? Could it be something fictional? There are multiple reasons of varying degrees for each individual, but I know there must be a meeting point…some connection or mind changing dream-tub in which they were sleepily baptized in by their private, sacred waters and they’re shared under the veil of dreams, or something else fantastically pretty to think of.
On the eve of my 27th year, I was fortunate enough to spend a rainy day with one of my old prize fighting heroes in Hayato “MACH” Sakurai, at his gym here in Tokyo. I wrote up a 2,000 word piece on the experience for http://mma-japan.com/, which has received some moderate thumbs up. With some luck and a dash of my own cool hand I’ll continue following these gifted mashers of muscle and bone, so that I might find something resembling an answer to the reason why I find them, simply put, so beautiful.
EXCERPT:
“THE MACH DOJO is a small rectangular room on the bottom floor of a short building North of Shinjuku at the Sugamo train stop. It is a damp afternoon. There are piles of shoes, sandals and boots scattered under the awning of the gym and spilling out into the wet street. It has just finished raining. Two older Japanese journalists stand at the door looking up at the sky talking about the weather. “It’s not going to stop raining,” one of them says.
Today the iconic Hayato “MACH” Sakurai is doing a live training session and press conference at his gym in Tokyo, Japan. It is a one room gym with low ceilings. The floor is bright yellow padding and the soft walls are lined with beat-up training equipment, photos of fighters and popular Japanese animated characters. A signed picture of Kinikuman, a popular wrestling comic book hero sits above the glass doorway. It is quiet. I am talking to a young, attractive interpreter about Sakurai’s mood as of late. He has been grumpy, apparently, from having to cut weight.
“He hates cutting weight,” she says. “Makes him testy.”THE MACH DOJO is a small rectangular room on the bottom floor of a short building North of Shinjuku at the Sugamo train stop. It is a damp afternoon. There are piles of shoes, sandals and boots scattered under the awning of the gym and spilling out into the wet street. It has just finished raining. Two older Japanese journalists stand at the door looking up at the sky talking about the weather. “It’s not going to stop raining,” one of them says.
Today the iconic Hayato “MACH” Sakurai is doing a live training session and press conference at his gym in Tokyo, Japan. It is a one room gym with low ceilings. The floor is bright yellow padding and the soft walls are lined with beat-up training equipment, photos of fighters and popular Japanese animated characters. A signed picture of Kinikuman, a popular wrestling comic book hero sits above the glass doorway. It is quiet. I am talking to a young, attractive interpreter about Sakurai’s mood as of late. He has been grumpy, apparently, from having to cut weight.
“He hates cutting weight,” she says. “Makes him testy.”
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