Kano started practising jujutsu for his own enjoyment, correct?

Yes, initially Kano practised jujutsu for his pleasure. He observed various schools that taught how to fight and defend oneself. Kano learned these different methods. Then, he realised that there was a relationship between jujutsu and physical education: the training of the body. From that point, he began to deepen his study of jujutsu. He understood that jujutsu techniques could form a discipline that would unite everyone. But for that to happen, it couldn’t remain a violent practice.

Because jujutsu was originally designed to kill, wasn’t it?

Yes, and for Kano, it was no longer about killing. He believed that the idea of risk involved in fighting should still be reflected, but the dangerous elements needed to be removed from jujutsu. It was with this intention that he developed the practice of falls. The fall was one of the first elements of his study to transform jujutsu into judo.

Did he then have to prove the effectiveness of his practice?

The school Kano created, the Kodokan, had to prove the effectiveness of his method against the jujutsu schools. This was done through challenges and matches.

How were these matches conducted?

They were conducted in a line. Practitioners from both schools would face each other: either each would meet their counterpart, and the victories and defeats were tallied, or the first in line would meet the first on the opposing side, and if they won, they would face the second, then the third, and so on until they had beaten everyone. The matches were very short. When competitions started in France, it was still like that. With Mr. Kawaishi, the fights were very short: it was one minute, one point.

What do you mean by that?

It means that a fight couldn’t last more than a minute. However, if a point was scored within ten seconds, it was over.

Did you participate in this type of competition?

Yes, in the first French championship I participated in, just after earning my black belt. Kawaishi was the referee.

According to the “one minute, one point” rule?

Yes, but ultimately, it was Kawaishi who decided. If he didn’t like a fight, he could adapt the rules. That’s what happened in one of my matches, actually. He didn’t like my opponent’s defensive behaviour. He first decided to extend the fight, and then, despite my opponent’s victory, he still demanded that we continue.

Why?

Kawaishi extended the fight to force the other person to attack, to engage. He knew what he was doing. He was aware that the competition was taking a wrong turn, that some participants weren’t fighting sincerely but were fixated on becoming champions. And he didn’t like that. There was strategy involved. That’s actually why I eventually stopped competing. I no longer agreed with how it was being conducted. That championship and Kawaishi’s attitude made me realise this.

So strategy already existed?

Strategy has always existed, throughout history. But competition isn’t about that. Competition was the fights I had in my dojo with my students, or in a friend’s club, anywhere.

But isn’t that randori?

No, there’s a difference between randori and competition. When I did a line-up, it wasn’t randori; it was competition. When I went to a club, we would line up the judoka according to belt rank, and we would compete.

So a competition isn’t necessarily the same as a championship? It doesn’t necessarily take on the character of an official event?

The official aspect is irrelevant. Competition in judo is a test of effectiveness. It’s a personal test to evaluate the quality of your judo. It has nothing to do with a championship where the goal is to be the best, the strongest, etc. Just like with randori, the point of competition is to succeed in executing throws. There’s no set goal of winning. If there’s a goal, it’s to do something better than what you did the last time.

What, then, is the difference between randori and competition?

The translation of randori is “free practice of judo.” This means that the fight can last as long as you want; it also means that you might fall five or ten times, that you throw your partner as often, and it doesn’t matter. Randori isn’t about evaluation. It’s about having a good time together without any consequences. Just trying to throw each other as much as possible, as best as you can, while staying within the practice’s framework.

Why, then, maintain competition? Couldn’t we just do randori?

I believe it’s necessary to face competition. Without that test, something is missing from judo. But you need to understand it and measure it properly. Most competitors aim to win, to stand on the podium, to get a medal. Once you set your sights on a goal or a reward, your mindset changes, and you no longer train in the same way. You want to be someone else in front of everyone. Competition is about pride and glory. It distorts the idea of judo practice. And that’s why I forced myself to do it. You have to master yourself in the face of the fear you always have, the pride of not wanting to be defeated, the fear of ridicule. Facing all that is necessary for progress. In judo, competition isn’t the goal of practice; it’s one of the exercises, a consequence, a necessity of practice. It’s a necessity because you can’t measure your progress on your own.

What form should competition take to be a valid test of effectiveness?

The best competitions I participated in were those that allowed everyone to compete, sometimes over several days. It’s enjoyable because even if you lose, it’s not over; you keep fighting. What I don’t like are elimination competitions. But above all, what I practised the most and loved to do were line-ups. In a line-up, you always find different values: the first are the least experienced, the last are the most experienced. My judo had to get better and better. I participated in some very significant line-ups. The most significant one I faced was a line of 76 people. Out of 76, about forty were black belts, and the others were brown and blue belts. Seventy-six is a lot; it makes a lot of noise!

Is the difference between randori and competition perhaps in the public nature of competition? The test of effectiveness is in front of others. There’s an external reference that doesn’t exist in randori. There’s a jury, sometimes spectators…

Yes, there’s an audience. There are also the other fighters watching. It’s a different mindset.

Is the public, the jury, everyone there to recognise the best judo, not the best judoka?

That’s what I was saying about Kano when he encountered other jujutsu schools. The first thing I would do when I arrived at a club to teach was to organise a line-up. I would line everyone up, and I would compete with each of them. It was also a way to establish myself, to establish the form I was going to teach. And regularly in my club—perhaps once a month—I would do a line-up with all my students.

So a decisive match is the best way to show someone what judo is?

Yes, but it’s not enough; there are people who still don’t understand and need to be explained how it works. But it’s true that it helps a lot. At the College’s training sessions, there were also tough people. People with shin guards all along their legs, with armour everywhere. When we practised with them, we would get bruises all over our bodies. But we forced ourselves to greet them. Sometimes I would work with one of them, with the goal of scoring one or two ippon. I’d come out with bruises, but I would succeed. You can’t just be content with throwing people who fall easily; you also need to work with those you can’t throw. The key is not to play the other’s game and not to be dominated by passion. When faced with a tough opponent, you want to go for it; you want to break through a door. That’s what comes immediately—not to your mind, but to your body. It’s important for yourself to succeed, but if you can’t, you must be patient. I will succeed, but not by going against. In another way. You shouldn’t encompass, you should impose yourself through the form of judo.

What is the judging element by which the effectiveness of judo is measured…?

The criterion of maximum effectiveness is ippon.

What is ippon?

The criteria for ippon are: throwing your partner onto their back or the side of their back with a judo technique, at a certain speed and from a certain height. And this must be within the well-defined framework of authorised, non-dangerous techniques.

Where does ippon come from?

In the days of jujutsu, when someone was thrown, it was onto their head to kill them. And if you didn’t succeed in killing them, as they arrived on the ground still alive and dangerous, you would follow up on the ground and control them so they could no longer attack. This control could involve strangulation or dislocating a limb. The idea of ippon stems from this sincerity.

So ippon is the decisive aspect of a technique?

It’s clear, and then it explodes. It happens almost simultaneously with the attack. The idea of a throw is: immediately to the ground. Not up to go down. When someone is thrown into the air and then falls, that