Last week, while walking past the old market, I saw a young man practicing his kata in the empty fish stall — the movements were sharp, but his eyes were empty, like he was performing for a judge he'd never meet. In our village, my mashi used to say the real fight is in the waiting, not the striking. Competition rules have turned kumite into a dance of points, but kata still holds the memory of the ground, the breath, the poverty that taught us
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