Fiction

We don’t look like dorks

We are standing in a powerful, proud line and the photographer has his thumb up. We look strong, possibly too strong – is he intimidated into offering the thumb? No, we’re not to be messed with – we have our fists up! The photographer knows to treat us with care and respect. Our aura is forceful. When we meet after training, we won’t be stopped from getting our coffees extra hot, and when we drive home, we’ll know exactly when to stomp on the gas or hit the brake, when to bang the horn or lift our fingers to apologise and greet. Our dinners will be hot and our children will agree that it is definitely time for bed. The beer will be cold and our couches will be the right kind of soft.

Okay, perhaps we are too many men. There’s risk in too many men looking like dorks. And we’re wearing the clothes, the gi – not the most flattering attire, even with our fierce rainbow of belts. Some of us wear the skintight things that look like we’re about to beat up the surf, and there are a few hoodies with our ancient logo peering from the chest (it is also a fist), but most of us are wearing the gi and most of us are men. Someone suggested throwing a couple of kids on the floor, but then they would have had to stay late and we would have needed to get the forms signed. The photographer said it wasn’t that good an idea anyway. He says we want to look like a herd of bulls. We love this idea, because if bulls had herds they would definitely be serious and strong.

Also, yes: we know the lighting could be better. But this isn’t Hollywood – it’s an elite dojo/school hall and neither we nor the school can spend our limited budgets on something so insecure as good lighting. And what are we going to do, have our hair sprayed? Are we going to dab on theatrical make-up? Are we newsreaders? Well Troy is, but from 6 to 7 on a Saturday night he’s an Okinawan warrior. Still, we’re aware that the colours aren’t ideal. Those grey blocks of brick holding up the wall where our red-and-white sign dangles off a couple of stray nails. The blue mats that carpet the floor like an unreflective pool. The photographer says things are fine. Terrific, even. He stands there in a neat white shirt and part-ironed jeans, smiling like he knows important things that will help us. Explains that he doesn’t need fancy lighting to show us as we truly are; that we’ll overcome greater challenges than bland colours. We’ll overcome our weaknesses of spirit, indisciplines of mind, temptations of the flesh. We’ll overcome the risk of looking like dorks.

The grinning photographer has told us we need to stand this way; our sensei has instructed us to agree. Our sensei is a fifth or a sixth dan. He has many dans, an abundance. He has been practising our art since he was five years old; his grandfather learnt from a Japanese master after World War II, swapping secret lessons for contraband tobacco. He has photographs and testimonials, gold-plated medals and the deepest respect of many contenders for the state championships. He’s also an experienced massage practitioner and offers discounted rates to his students. His soothing treatments are forceful; he uses his elbows, his fists. He gives a deep massage and our muscles squirm as they try to wriggle from his power. Our sensei is blessed with gifts of violence and healing – he’s standing in the middle of our picture and his fists are raised the highest. His firm jaw and determined eyes. I know he prefers a latte and this week it’s my turn to shout.

The photographer is winking now. We aren’t sure what this means; it’s harder to interpret than a thumb. Is he winking to himself? Is that a thing? Perhaps he’s just an echo of his shutter. He’s at one with his camera. The photographer came highly recommended by his website; he has taken images of many famous actors and a number of local businesses. We are sure that he will honour us: after all, we are devoted, heartfelt. Our sensei’s dojo can trace its line of succession like the kings of England. It is a sacred place; we are disciplined and authentic. Our fists are like hammers and our feet are like bigger hammers. We can even use swords … well, a few of us own swords. Sometimes we practise with the wooden ones but they leave bruises that take more than a week to heal. We considered using swords in the photo. Instead, we have a bo, which is kind of a long staff, and it’s definitely covered by insurance. I wanted to hold the bo, but Troy got there first. He’s next to our sensei, lifting it up in the air like he’s about to slam the end on the ground.

The photographer says we are done. He invites us to gather round. Look at our photo! We are mighty and unstoppable – anyone who sees it will want to join us. We are soldiers, gladiators, invincible warriors. We are also welcoming and our fees are competitively priced. There are attractive discounts if you pay for multiple sessions in advance and the annual camp is cheaper than a holiday up the coast. The photographer is laughing with us as we admire his screen. We slap him on the back, gently, with an open fist. He is one of us, almost. When his image is released, there is no one who would dare to call us dorks.

This article was first published in the print edition of The Saturday Paper on August 30, 2025 as "We don’t look like dorks".

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