Author's Introduction
This article is a personal account from Master Tenkei Fujisaki, the founder and head instructor of Hatenkai Aikido. Known for his practical, full-contact approach to the art and his decorated career as a three-time champion of a strike-allowed Aikido tournament, Master Fujisaki is a leading figure in the world of modern Budo. This story offers a rare glimpse into his formative years as a young martial artist, long before he established his own style, as he sought to test his skills and deepen his understanding of combat.
[A Martial Arts Exploration Record] A 22-Year-Old's Palm Strike: The Day an Aikido Body "Answered" in a Practical Tokyo Dojo
By Master Tenkei Fujisaki of Hatenkai Aikido
About the Author, Tenkei Fujisaki, and This Article
Author: Tenkei Fujisaki is an Aikido practitioner (martial artist) from Fukuoka Prefecture, Japan. He is the founder of the Aikido style "Aikido Hatenkai," where he serves as Soke (Head of the school) and Head Instructor (Hanshi 8th Dan). He has a distinguished competitive record, including three championships in the main tournament of the All-Japan Aikido Championships. This article is a collection of his valuable experiences and the insights he gained when, in his early twenties (around age 22-23) and before founding his own style, he joined a practical Chinese martial arts dojo in Tokyo in his personal quest for deeper martial knowledge. (His current physique is 180cm and 92kg, but he was about 10kg lighter at the time).
The Quest of Youth: A Challenge at a Practical Dojo
Was it a quest born of youth, or simply the work of overflowing energy? Around the age of twenty-two, when my days were spent immersed in Aikido training, I was driven by a bubbling-up interest in practical striking exchanges. I decided to knock on the door of a certain dojo to become a student. This Chinese martial arts dojo in Tokyo advertised itself as "practical" and, while its doors were open to all styles with a "welcome!" attitude, the training inside was bitingly serious.
The Dojo's Core Technique: The "Two-Handed Palm Strike Push" and its Friends
When I stepped into the dojo, it was filled with that unique "dojo air"—an atmosphere that can only be created by sweat, intensity, and serious training. Here, a form of sparring called Sanshou was actively practiced, but it was a little different from the general kickboxing of the time. What was most noteworthy was that it was done without protective gear—no headgear and with bare hands. Direct strikes to the face were, of course, allowed. However, the primary weapon for striking was not the fist, but the "palm," specifically the palm heel (shōtei). While the risk of injury is lower than with fists, it obviously still hurts if done with intent. This was likely their way of cultivating a razor-thin sense of real combat.
Among their technical systems, the one that stood out with a unique brilliance was the "two-handed palm strike push." This was a world apart from a mere "shoving match." One concentrates the full power of their body into both palms, captures the opponent's torso or chest, and literally "pushes them flying." To use a metaphor, it was like being hit by a small motorcycle... no, perhaps that's an exaggeration. But it was a technique that packed that much of an impact, and if you took it head-on, you would be broken down unless your center of gravity was exceptionally solid. It was truly the dojo's "signature dish."
A Curious Experience: A "Natural Vaccine" for Their Signature Move?
However, here is the strange thing. Despite this pushing technique reigning as the dojo's representative move, for some reason, it didn't work very well on me at the time. When I pondered why, I believe it was greatly influenced by the bodily senses I had cultivated through many years of Aikido and, before that, Judo—in other words, through grappling-based martial arts.
The ability to handle "the exchange of force from a state of contact" must have been unconsciously ingrained in my body, much like how a sumo wrestler absorbs the initial charge of a tachiai, or how a judoka manages the pressure of grip fighting. The moment I felt the pressure of my opponent thinking, "Here comes the push!" my body seemed to react on its own, smoothly dropping my center of gravity or shifting my feet to receive and redirect the force diagonally. It was a truly interesting personal discovery, as if all my Aikido training up to that point had become a "natural vaccine" against this dojo's finishing move.
Not Just the Push! A Wide Array of Techniques
Of course, the dojo's appeal was not limited to the pushing technique. For example, there was a sharp, singular, downward-striking palm heel that the head instructor described as "striking as if you're tearing apart a piece of mochi." (Translator's note: Mochi is a dense, sticky Japanese rice cake. Tearing it requires a sharp, heavy, downward pulling motion.) This, too, carried a solid weight behind it and possessed considerable destructive power if it accurately struck a vital point.
But please, don't misunderstand. This was by no means some hermit-like, mystical power. It was, for example, the same as a soul-filled reverse punch from a well-trained full-contact karateka. It was a purely physical, "effective" strike born from diligent training. In fact, I once took this palm strike to the chest from one of the senior instructors. It was a shock that resonated deep inside, and when I touched the area around my sternum later, there was an indescribable "gritty" sensation left behind. (Perhaps I had sustained a minor cartilage injury. The follies of youth.) Well, not wanting to be outdone, I gave one back in return, so I suppose we can call it a draw.
In addition to striking, there were also sticky, complex grappling techniques that started from a state of mutual arm contact, reminiscent of Tai Chi's Push Hands (tuishou). One had to sharpen their senses from the point of contact, read the flow of the opponent's power, and then receive, redirect, and use it to unbalance them. This, too, was a profound technical system that demanded advanced sensitivity and delicate control.
Furthermore, there was a full-contact karate black belt serving as an instructor at the dojo, and he was also strong (a different person from the one who landed the palm strike). However, to be honest, my personal impression was that the source of his strength was less from the Chinese martial arts techniques taught there, and more a result of the combination of his innately robust full-contact karate body, his toughness, and the thrilling experience of sparring with bare hands and face strikes at this dojo.
But even so, the technique that remains most seared into my memory is, after all, that two-handed palm strike push, filled with fighting spirit in a single blow.
A Cross-Style Encounter! A Fleeting Exchange with a Shorinji Kempo 3rd Dan
Now, for today's main dish. One day during sparring practice, the man standing before me was someone who, while studying Chinese martial arts at this dojo, also held the rank of 3rd Dan in the Japanese art of Shorinji Kempo. In other words, this had the makings of a real mixed-martial-arts battle, with the "DNA" of both Chinese and Japanese Budo. From his stance and the aura he projected, I could tell at a glance that he was a highly skilled practitioner.
The sparring began. The distance closed. A fleeting exchange. My opponent grabbed my left arm with his right hand in a reverse grip! In that instant, my body moved before I could think. There was no time to process. The "techniques" of Aikido, drilled into me for so many years, played back automatically.
Using the grabbed arm as a fulcrum, I applied the principle of leverage to his elbow joint—the form of sakate-dori nikyō, an Aikido technique. His arm bent into a "V" shape, the joint locked—and in that very second!
"Oh, standing joint locks are forbidden!"
The head instructor's warning echoed in my mind like a thunderclap. "No standing joint locks, okay!" Danger! I instantly released the technique and let go of the force. Even so, my opponent had completely lost his balance and collapsed to the floor, landing on one knee with a loud "BAM!"
But he was no slouch. A 3rd Dan in Shorinji Kempo is not just for show. From his low, collapsed posture, he now lunged at my feet, grabbing my ankle to try and pull me down! His plan was to take the fight to the ground.
Instantly, my body moved on its own again. This time, not to attack, but to defend. The "ukemi" [breakfall] that I had repeated thousands, tens of thousands of times in Aikido practice, came out on its own. Using the opponent's pulling force, I rolled forward in a circle. It was a forward rolling breakfall as smooth as if performed with a lifelong partner, elegantly neutralizing the attack. I might have been showing off a little, I admit, but it was a movement straight out of an old-school kung fu movie.
The Highlight Was the Sifu's "Face"!?
All of this happened in a matter of seconds. It was a breathless exchange. As I smoothly stood up from the roll and faced my opponent again, my gaze was, for some reason, drawn to the head instructor standing in the corner of the dojo.
And I saw it.
What was on the Sifu's face was... an expression of being utterly dumbfounded. His mouth was agape, his eyes were wide, and he was staring intently in our direction.
Was it exasperation at my near-use of a forbidden move (the standing joint lock)? Was it admiration for my unexpected body movement (the breakfall)? Or was it a mixture of both? I don't know his true feelings. But that moment—the look of shock on the Sifu's face, as if time had stood still—is what's seared into my memory as the most powerful "punchline" to that day's training.
Conclusion: Intersecting Principles, a Small Insight on Training Methods, and a Fond Memory
This series of events taught me, a mere 22-year-old upstart, a great many things. In the heart of a Chinese martial art that prided itself on being "practical," I unexpectedly realized that my Aikido body was "usable," and at the same time, I got to experience the tenacity of Shorinji Kempo. And above all, I was able to experience firsthand the kind of chemical reaction that occurs when different rules and different technical systems meet.
Overall, I think it was a good place to train, teaching techniques in stages from the basics and actively incorporating sparring.
However, as a personal opinion, I did have some thoughts on the format of bare-knuckle, no-headgear sparring. When striking to an unprotected face is allowed, both sides inevitably become more cautious, and as a result, a lot of time tends to be spent "staring each other down" or "feeling each other out." Of course, this is probably important for cultivating a real sense of combat. But from the perspective of honing one's striking "sense" and combinations, might it be more efficient to first create an environment where you can strike freely with safe protective gear, and then gradually remove the gear as you get used to it? That was a feeling I had. But this is, of course, just my personal impression from back then.
I also felt that how one applies the taught techniques in actual sparring—the "application" part—was largely left up to each individual's sense and experience. This might be a characteristic of a dojo with a free atmosphere, where people from various backgrounds gathered.
The "kotowari"—the underlying principles—of martial arts are truly diverse. No single style, no single technique is absolute. Each school has its own effective theories, a human body to wield them, and split-second judgments.
Even now, more than twenty years later, the memory of the Sifu's surprised face vividly brings back the depth, the fun, and the slight touch of humor in the martial arts, along with the memories of those intense and earnest training days of my youth.
