The Buddhist priest at Eishō-ji had a complaint about the noise.

Bodies kept hitting his floor. Nine young men, in the study room of his temple in the Shitaya district of Tokyo, throwing each other onto twelve tatami mats from February of 1882 onward. The pounding carried into the hall where he held services. He asked their teacher to take it somewhere else. The noise was the sound of men learning to fall so they wouldn’t break.

Their teacher was twenty-two, stood five foot two, and weighed ninety pounds. Kanō Jigorō had gone looking for jujutsu years earlier because larger men could handle him however they pleased. He found teachers, learned their systems, and then started cutting. Out went the strikes to the eyes and the throat. Out went the joint-wrenching a man could not walk away from. What remained he named judo, and he kept the syllable dō, the way, because by then he had stopped building a fighting method. He engineered a practice safe enough to repeat, care by design, so the body could be refined daily instead of ruined bravely.