Different Values, a Different Sport

On the hardened temple courtyard, in the shade of four trees—pine, maple, cherry, and willow—marking out a 15 × 15 meter field, several aristocrats of the Heian-period imperial court stand in a circle. They are dressed in ceremonial suikan with wide sleeves. Their postures are upright, their faces serious, their movements minimal. Only their feet come to life, precisely bouncing the leather mari ball, made from deerskin and stitched together with horse sinew. The ball must not touch the ground, and each bounce is a subtle battle against gravity and one’s own inattention. From the players' mouths echo harmonized cries: “Ari,” “Yaa,” “Ō”—rhythmic like breath, like a mantra, like the pulse of another world—not filled with emotion, as we are used to expecting in sport, but ritualistic. There is no competition here. The score does not matter. Only the uninterrupted harmony matters.

At first glance, all this might seem grotesque. Overdone. Perhaps even ridiculous—as if someone were parodying the gravity with which Japan can imbue even the smallest acts. In our eyes, it’s a childish game of foot-juggling, but instead of children, there are grown men with solemn expressions. But if we pause our snicker for a moment and look more closely, it turns out that behind this game lies an entirely different way of thinking. A different world. Because kemari was not about scoring, opponents, or victory—it was about attention, control, and harmony. Seemingly similar to soccer—in reality, it is closer to karate. Each movement was meant to be minimal but perfect. The movement of the legs—without nodding the head, waving arms, or bending the torso—was like a sword cut in kenjutsu, like an inhale in zen meditation. Subtle, focused, controlled—minimal. Those who have trained in martial arts will understand: all bodily movements that are not necessary to bounce the ball—through mastery of body and mind—are restrained. Through absolute concentration on the ball's flight path and one’s own body movements, we arrive at minimalism in motion. The goal here is not “action” but “non-action”—wu wei in its Japanese form.

What we observe here—seemingly absurd in our eyes—is a practice that combines game, ritual, bodily discipline, and philosophy into one form: kemaridō, “the way of the ball.” And it’s not a joke, though it may sound like one. Its dramaturgy followed the structure (known from nō theater or tea ceremony) of jo-ha-kyū—from a calm beginning, through development, to a climactic acceleration. The players embodied the ideal of 足魂 (sokkon)—“spirit of the feet,” which manifested in three virtues: sugata (posture), takumi (skill), and shiki (knowledge of form). Kemari is a game that feels very foreign to us, incomprehensible. It does not merely transport us to Japan—it takes us beyond the familiar system of values. As if to an entirely different planet. Let us today take a closer look at this unusual “sport.”

A Scene from the Heian Period

Kemari on the Temple Grounds

The silence of the afternoon envelopes the temple courtyard like the lazy echo of a bell that rang moments ago in the main hall. The air is heavy with the scent of camphor trees, whose canopies cast uneven shadows on the carefully packed gravel. A solitary cormorant flies over the temple, and the sound of its wings disappears among the soft rustling of silk robes. That rustling is intensely audible, though unaccompanied by other sounds or speech—only now and then a kind of thud. In the very center of the courtyard—marked by four trees: a pine, maple, willow, and cherry—four mature men with waxen faces and gentle, yet focused gazes have arranged themselves at equal distances, seemingly awaiting something in full concentration.

Their attire is no less ritualistic than their gestures—mari-suikan, ceremonial versions of daily suikan, have sleeves wide as fans and flutter with each movement. The fabrics bear the colors of faded gold, morning blue, and the shade of young grass. Each player wears a tall, slightly tilted eboshi cap (more on its symbolism here: The Samurai Rite of Genpuku – When a Boy Receives His Name, His Weapon, and the Fate of a Warrior), and on their feet, leather kamogutsu—shoes tied with cords that will not fall off even during the highest kick. But—“kick”?

Exactly—the ball (鞠, mari) lies in the center, round as the moon. The deerskin from which it is sewn is the color of milky amber. One of the aristocrats, an official of the Ministry of Ceremonies, approaches and lifts the ball with his foot, as if raising it out of respect rather than for the need to play. A frozen moment—and a soft “A-ri-ya…” escapes his lips as he bounces the mari gently, as if he didn’t truly wish to touch it, only to keep it suspended.

The ball rises lazily into the sky, and the second player, standing under the cherry tree, approaches with the grace of a gagaku dancer. He stops the mari with his foot, guiding it along his shin before bouncing it further. At that moment comes a short “Ō!”—a signal that he is taking over the ball. These sounds—ariyaa, Ō, ari!—repeat like a rhythmic refrain, in which there is neither joy nor solemnity, only focus. No face smiles, and yet no one looks stiff or excited. The whole scene resembles a tea ceremony—a sequence of gestures in which not only the what, but the how and why matter. The sight is exceedingly strange—a whole set of gestures, behaviors, calm solemnity, and ball juggling that, in our European view, do not fit together. We want to slot it into some stereotype, to categorize it somehow—but nothing here matches up...

Around them, under the cloisters, sit young courtiers and servants. Someone carries a lacquered bamboo fan, another murmurs a quiet comment. But no one dares to disturb this harmony—for though it appears to be a game, everyone knows that kemari is something more. It is a theater of balance, a prayer of the feet, a community without words. And though the ball rises above the ground only briefly—philosophy tells us that the present moment is eternity, and the only time that truly exists.

Game Terminology

蹴鞠 (kemari / shūkiku) – literally “kicked ball”; the character 蹴 (keru) means “to kick,” while 鞠 (mari) is a spherical ball, usually made of deerskin. Together, they form the name of a game which, though it resembles modern soccer exercises, is deeply immersed in the ceremonial aesthetics of Japanese aristocracy.

鞠足 (mariashi) – literally “ball feet”; this term referred to the main players participating in the match. Their task was not only to keep the ball in the air, but to do so with dignity, grace, and without unnecessary effort.

まり壺 (maritsubo) / 鞠庭 (kikutsubo) – terms for the kemari court, usually square and symbolically marked by four trees: pine, maple, willow, and cherry. In some variations, names such as mariniwa (“ball garden”) or kakari were also used.

後ろ鞠 (ushiro-mari) – a stylish backward kick, often executed with the heel; most famously performed by Fujiwara no Narimichi, who turned it into an almost poetic gesture.

掛け声 – rhythmic vocal calls such as “アリ” (ari), “ヤア” (yaa), “オウ” (ō), uttered during the game. They synchronized movements, signaled passes, and created the ritual atmosphere of the match—something between chant and moving meditation.

It is also worth mentioning some of the variant names and accompanying terms: 鞠始 (mari-hajime) referred to the symbolic first game of the year, while 掛りの木 (kakari-no-ki) was the name for the trees marking the field. Interestingly, the character 鞠 is shared with its Chinese predecessor—the game 蹴鞠 (cuju), which was more competitive and less ceremonial than the Japanese kemari.

A 15 Hundred Years of the Sport

It began like a scene from legend, whose details over the centuries took on an almost mythological shape. The year is 644, the temple of Asukadera, courtiers in ceremonial robes, and among them Prince Naka-no-Ōe and Nakatomi no Kamatari—the future architects of radical state reform. And then: the prince’s sandal slips off during a game of kemari. Kamatari picks it up with grace and, in a gesture full of respect, returns it to its owner. From what now seems like a trivial incident involving a ball, a political alliance was born—one that would change Japan forever. It overthrew the Soga clan and planted the seeds of the great Taika Reform. Thus began the history of kemari—a game that was never meant to be just a game.

The Heian period was the golden age of this art. In the imperial courtyards, the ball would not touch the ground for many minutes, as men in kariginu and eboshi solemnly kicked it upward as if bowing not to the spectators but to the heavens. Among them was Fujiwara no Narimichi—so perfect in his movement that he was called the “saint of the ball.” His kicks, especially those delivered with the heel backwards—ushiro-mari—were described in poetry as suspended between the earth and the spiritual realm. Kemari became not so much a sport as a ritual of presence, concentration, and harmony of bodies and souls.

In the Kamakura period, when warriors seized power from the aristocracy (more on this here: How Did Japan Become the Land of the Samurai? – The Pirate King Fujiwara no Sumitomo’s Rebellion at the End of the Heian Era and here: What Does “Shōgun” Really Mean? One word that forged the Japan of samurai in steel and blood), kemari did not disappear—on the contrary. The first schools were established, and the term kemaridō—“the way of the ball”—emerged. Samurai, imbued with a new ethos, saw in this game a form of spiritual training—without rivalry, without winners, without trophies. Only harmony and the eternal challenge—to keep the ball from falling. This led to a formalization of rules, attire, and the aesthetics of movement. Kemari became like zen—simple in form, infinite in substance.

But then came the shadow. In the turbulent Sengoku period, during the multi-generational “game” for everything among rival daimyō domains, kemari lost to sumō—more brutal, more spectacular, more in tune with the spirit of the warring age. Only in the Edo period did it regain its voice, though no longer in imperial gardens but in the crowded alleys of cities. Townspeople, merchants, and scholars—fascinated by ancient elegance—recreated the rituals of kemari, giving them a new, more social character. From spiritual training toward a nostalgic memory of past harmony.

And then, history nearly ended. In the Meiji era, Japan raced to catch up with the West, shedding its old garments and modernizing everything. Kemari nearly vanished, but in 1903, the emperor himself intervened—founding the Kemari Preservation Society (Kemari Hōzō Kai). Thanks to this, in the 20th and 21st centuries, one can still hear “Ari! Ya!”—for example, on New Year’s Day, January 4th, at Shimogamo Shrine in Kyoto, during the Kemari Hajime performance, or in spring and autumn at Tanzan-jinja, where priests and actors dressed in Heian-period attire revive the old movements, gestures, and voices. This is not a reenactment—it is an homage to a different rhythm of life. Imagine—how alien it feels? Not just to us. It is so distant from the modern world that this game remains quite “exotic” even to the Japanese themselves.

蹴鞠

Kemari

Game Rules

Physical

Kemari is not a game in the European sense of the word. There are no winners or losers, no points or goals. There is only the ball—fragile, light, and capricious—and a shared desire to keep it from touching the ground. Instead of competing, the players cooperate—against gravity, chaos, and the distraction of the mind. Within this harmony of movement and breath lies the essence of kemaridō, the way of the ball.

The field, known as maritsubo (まり壺) or kikutsubo (鞠庭), is roughly square-shaped with sides about 15 × 15 meters. In traditional units, this corresponds to 6–7 ken—a length based on the outstretched arms of a builder. The four corners are marked by four sacred trees—pine, cherry, willow, and maple—symbolizing the four cardinal directions and the four seasons. In private aristocratic residences, these trees were often planted permanently, but in more practical versions, potted trees were used and placed only for the duration of the game. Their presence is not merely decorative—each tree carries meaning: pine for endurance, cherry for impermanence, willow for flexibility, maple for changeability.

The ball, or mari (鞠 or 毬), was made from two elliptical pieces of delicate deerskin, sewn together with horse sinew. The interior was filled with finely ground sawdust. The finished ball had a diameter of about 20 cm and weighed between 100 and 130 grams. Various types of balls existed, depending on the color and tanning method: shiro-mari (a white ball for New Year ceremonies), ibushi-mari (darker, smoke-treated leather), or the rare kara-mari (imitating balls from the continent).

The game involves six to eight players, with four core players (mariashi) positioned in front of each tree. The remaining players are assistants, who can support the game from outside the field. Crucially—this is not about scoring points or eliminating opponents. The entire game revolves around keeping the ball in the air as long as possible, passing it among each other in smooth, soft foot movements. The body may be used to guide or cushion the ball, but only the foot may touch it—most often the inner part, with a gentle lift, sometimes with the heel. Each player may bounce the ball several times before deciding to pass it on.

The game follows the structure of 序破急 (jo-ha-kyū)—the classical dramaturgical pattern known from nō theater, gagaku music, or the tea ceremony. This means it begins slowly and cautiously (jo), then gains rhythm and complexity (ha), finally reaching a dynamic yet harmonious pace (kyū). Kicking styles are also codified:

   – nobiashi – an extended, gentle pass from a stretched leg,
   – kaeriashi – a backward heel kick (especially prized),
   – mi ni sō mari – literally “ball close to the body” – a short-range pass.

Players move to the rhythm of breath and voice. Every upward kick is preceded by the cry 「アリヤー」 (ariyaaa), and a pass to another player by 「アリ！」 (ari!). The receiving player intones 「オウ！」 (ō!) as the ball reaches the peak of its arc—the loudest and longest call has priority in taking the ball. These modulated cries act like an archaic musical score—synchronizing bodies and attention.

The game also includes auxiliary roles outside the field:
– nobushi – those who retrieve the ball when it falls or goes out of bounds,
– kenzō – ceremonial referees, overseeing order, sometimes giving sound cues (e.g., by tapping a staff), sometimes simply present in quiet vigilance.

All of this forms a game that may resemble a child’s play to us, but in reality is a ritual of concentration, purity of movement, and human harmony. Kemari does not reward spectacular acrobatics or strength—it rewards mindfulness, rhythm, and an understanding of the mood of the moment.

Game Rules

Spiritual

Though to the uninitiated kemari may resemble a stately juggling act in old-fashioned robes, for the players themselves it was a form of spiritual practice—not only an exercise in coordination and balance, but also in purity of mind, attentiveness, and self-discipline. This game had no winners or losers. Its goal was not rivalry, but harmony—between the players, with the ball, with the space, and with one’s own body.

The ball had to be kicked with absolute composure—without a single gesture more than necessary. One was not allowed to tilt the head, twist the torso, move the arms, or betray effort on the face. The entire dynamism of the game was concentrated in one point—the foot. The movement had to be minimal, precise, and soft, as if the ball itself wished to cooperate with the player, if only the right inner state was maintained. This economy of gesture—like in iaijutsu or sadō—was both a form of training and a test of inner balance.

Both the observation of the ball and awareness of one’s own body were equally important. But even observing the ball could not be aggressive or possessive—one had to look at it like a zen adept looks at a falling leaf: attentively, but without attachment. It wasn’t about “catching” the moment of the bounce—but about harmonizing with its inevitability.

The kemari participant was not so much an athlete as an ascetic of movement, who through the game practiced mu—emptiness, zanshin—a state of alert presence, and rei—respect for others and for the act itself. A good game of kemari was not “impressive.” It was invisible to the untrained eye, but perceptible—like a subtle tremor in the air before a storm, like the rhythm of breath that cannot be heard, but carries life.

At this level, kemari becomes something radically foreign to the Western imagination of games and motion. It is not “action,” but “non-action,” wu wei in its Japanese form—action through non-action, movement in rhythm with things, not against them. In this sense, kemari was like a dance in a temple—a ceremony of silence and balance, suspended between earth and sky, between the weight of leather and the lightness of thought.

Attire, Equipment, Landscape

In the early centuries of the game, still during the Heian period, kemari was played in the everyday clothing of an aristocrat—loose, comfortable kariginu, or “hunting robes,” worn daily by courtiers outside of official protocol. Suikan or hitatare were also used—freer garments, sometimes reinforced with leather elements, tied at the chest with ornamental cords (muna-himo). With the institutionalization of the game during the Kamakura period, a special ceremonial outfit for players developed—mari-suikan (鞠水干)—a variation of the classical suikan, but with exaggeratedly wide sleeves and a flared cut.

The mari-suikan was paired with the traditional black headgear—eboshi (烏帽子)—and kuzu-bakama (葛袴) trousers, which were reinforced for stability with large leather flaps (tsuyu), resembling the later suō. On the feet, players wore kamogutsu (鴨沓)—leather, low-cut shoes with straps tied around the ankles, designed to stay secure during kicks—eliminating the risk of repeating the famous scene of 644, when Prince Naka-no-Ōe lost his sandal during a match.

An interesting scenic element of the match was the rank fan, sometimes used by referees (kenzō) or participants—the number of ribs (e.g., 10, 12, or 15) indicated the court rank of the owner.

The landscape also played an important role during the match. The scent of moist earth, regularly sprinkled to reduce dust, mingled with the fragrance of fine fabrics and leather. Sunlight filtering through the canopies of pines or maples painted the ground with the shadows of players and ball, creating a near-ritualistic scene. Sometimes—especially in temples—a subtle tinkling of wind chimes (fūrin—more on them here: Fūrin Chimes– Spirituality Can Have the Lightness of a Summer Afternoon) could be heard in the background, and the entire game was accompanied by the rhythmic melody of cries: “ariyaaa… ari!” and “Ō!”

A Philosophy of Ball Play?

At first glance, the game of kemari appears to be a light, slightly old-fashioned pastime—a juggling act for courtiers. Yet a closer look reveals a philosophy deeply rooted in Japanese culture—based on a subtle harmony between body, mind, and shared space, between gesture and its social and symbolic meaning. This game was an embodiment of the principle of wa (和)—community, concord, and harmony, so essential to the etiquette of the Heian court (wa—和—was originally also the name of Japan itself—from “dwarfs” to “harmony”—more here: Why Do We Say "Japan" While the Japanese Say "Nihon"? From Oyashima to Zipangu – A Millennia-Long Game of Telephone). There was no competition for points here. Success was not dominance, but continuity, the absence of error, the fluidity of gesture—and above all, consideration for the other person. Each player was an equal participant in the rhythm, and an ideal passing sequence resembled a teacup passed in silence, a sword strike delivered without anger, or the breath of a zen monk, undistracted by the world’s changes.

Just as in zen, the tension between naturalness and effort creates a field of practice, so in kemari every movement of the foot was the result of both long training and inner freedom. Beauty could not be forced—through too much control or ambition. But one also could not completely let go. The game thus became a walk along a thin line—where only masterful balance allowed the ball to stay aloft with the player’s minimal movement.

The most important qualities of the ideal player centered around an informal triad of virtues:

   – posture (姿 – sugata), meaning a dignified and unshakable bearing,
   – dexterity (巧 – takumi), the ability to pass purely and subtly,
   – knowledge of form (式 – shiki), mastery of tradition and etiquette.

This threefold perfection was embodied in the concept of 足魂 (sokkon)—the spirit of the feet. It was not a physical technique, but a spiritual attitude in which the lower limbs—so often underestimated—became tools of contemplation, extensions of awareness, and means of communicating with the heavens (no matter how amusing this may sound to us now—in truth, it is not amusement we see here, but foreignness, otherness). The player was not to “kick” the ball, but to meet it. Not to strike it—but to respond to its weight. In this way, every pass became a moment of truth—just like in samurai archery (kyūdō) or the folding of origami.

In tradition, the patron of kemari was Seidai-myōjin (精大明神)—a local deity worshipped at Shiramine-jingū Shrine in Kyoto. Today, it is identified with Emperor Sutoku, who—according to legend—became a spirit of pure devotion to the game after death, and now patronizes both kemari and modern soccer. It is no coincidence that the emblem of this shrine features Yatagarasu (八咫烏)—the three-legged crow that guided the imperial ancestor to Yamato. Its three legs symbolize heaven, earth, and humanity—that cosmic balance reflected in the game.

Like Another Planet

Although kemari is now nearly forgotten, it has followed a surprising path. In the late Edo period, it had become less a ritual and more a spectacle—a component of street juggling performances, stripped of its original meaning. And yet, with the advent of the Meiji era and modernity, the first voices arose in defense of this tradition. Today, there are reconstruction clubs, workshops for children are held, and temple performances—like the New Year’s Kemari Hajime at Shimogamo or tournaments at Tanzan-jinja—attract tourists and enthusiasts. The craft of making mari balls, sewn from deerskin with horse sinew, is now preserved by only a handful of masters in the Kyōtango region. Kemari—once an elite ritual of the imperial court—is gradually becoming a heritage accessible to all who are interested.

It appears in classical literature—from Makura no sōshi to Genji monogatari—in Yoshitoshi’s prints, in Nō drama, and even in the Japanese Football Association’s logo, where the three-legged crow Yatagarasu carries an echo of those ancient beliefs. In NHK historical dramas—such as Kamakura-dono no 13-nin—scenes from the game serve today as vivid reenactments. Kyoto advertises itself as the “birthplace of football”—perhaps an exaggeration, but not without some basis in reality. Even if kemari is not the direct ancestor of modern soccer, it is certainly the ancestor of a certain idea of movement and community, rooted in a different understanding of the world.

And here, perhaps, lies the greatest value of this story. Because at first glance—watching court dignitaries solemnly kick a leather ball with stone-faced expressions and pretending it’s something serious—one is tempted to shrug. A snort of laughter seems a natural reaction. But if we take a moment to understand not only the rules, but the intention with which this game was created—then an entirely different world begins to reveal itself. A value system in which beauty does not arise from emotion, but from composure. A game that does not serve rivalry, but the preservation of order. Movement not for expression, but for harmony.

In encountering kemari, one encounters not only old Japan—but also one’s own limits of perception. It is like a journey to a distant planet, where the rules of daily life are different, and the logic of the world emerges from another philosophy of existence. In a world that has accustomed us to noise, competition, and spectacle, a game of an un-kicked ball and silent feet teaches something unexpected...

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"Strong Japanese Women"

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    未開    ソビエライ

 An enthusiast of Asian culture with a deep appreciation for the diverse philosophies of the world. By education, a psychologist and philologist specializing in Korean studies. At heart, a programmer (primarily for Android) and a passionate technology enthusiast, as well as a practitioner of Zen and mono no aware. In moments of tranquility, adheres to a disciplined lifestyle, firmly believing that perseverance, continuous personal growth, and dedication to one's passions are the wisest paths in life. Author of the book "Strong Women of Japan" (>>see more)

Personal motto:

"The most powerful force in the universe is compound interest." - Albert Einstein (probably)

  Mike Soray

   (aka Michał Sobieraj)

未開    ソビエライ

 An enthusiast of Asian culture with a deep appreciation for the diverse philosophies of the world. By education, a psychologist and philologist specializing in Korean studies. At heart, a programmer (primarily for Android) and a passionate technology enthusiast, as well as a practitioner of Zen and mono no aware. In moments of tranquility, adheres to a disciplined lifestyle, firmly believing that perseverance, continuous personal growth, and dedication to one's passions are the wisest paths in life. Author of the book "Strong Women of Japan" (>>see more)

Personal motto:

"The most powerful force in the universe is compound interest." - Albert Einstein (probably)

Mike Soray

(aka Michał Sobieraj)

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