The Sword That Stays Sheathed: A Job of Counting

When the newsroom first asked me to write this column, my first question was, "What am I supposed to write about?" The editor said, "Write about the days you didn't draw." Not the days you did. I asked if that was really all right, and he said, "That's exactly right."

Today's job, from the morning, was event security. There was a big match with a title on the line, and I stood in a crowded place with one of our younger officers, doing nothing in particular. I think of it less as a job of doing something and more as a job of doing nothing. Sometimes people in line see the sword and their faces tighten a little. In moments like that, I think not drawing is far harder than drawing.

Readers of this paper have probably seen the number before: roughly one draw for every ten call-outs. Our school's statistics officer counts it every month. I tell the younger ones often, "You're not training for the one day in ten. You're training for the nine." The nine days never make the news. So this column is where I'll write about them.

Today's younger officer, on her first large-crowd assignment, kept her shoulders tight the whole time. On break she said, "I didn't do anything, so it doesn't feel like I worked." I told her, "That's the best report there is." Nothing drawn, nothing happened, the venue closed quietly and safely — I keep careful count of days like that.

Next month there's the autumn five-match tournament. I hear one of the young Minase officers is making his debut. I say "I'm not entering" every year, and every year I enter anyway. It seems a little strange, someone who trains at not drawing showing up to a competition built around drawing, but training and the real thing apparently belong on separate shelves.

Counting is quiet work. I think it's fine that it stays that way.