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Cultural Differences

Barcelona 1991, World Judo Championships A year before the Olympics, the World Judo Championships took place in Barcelona. Oren Smadja was eliminated in the first round by an unknown New Zealand competitor. Yael Arad made history by winning a bronze medal, the first for an Israeli at a World Championship. I was there with both of them, closely following the entire competition. On the final day, in the open-weight category, a 23-year-old Japanese judoka named Ogawa faced off against the Belgian Van Barneveld in the semifinals.

The previous day, Ogawa had won a bronze medal in the heavyweight category (then 95+ kg) after defeating a Finnish competitor. The open-weight division, as its name suggests, allows anyone to compete regardless of weight, though it’s typically dominated by heavyweights. Ogawa was known for his exhausting style: he’d engage in power struggles for the first three minutes of a match, only attacking aggressively toward the end. From my seat in the stands, I watched Ogawa barely defeat the Belgian in a grueling five-minute match decided by the judges. Exhausted, Ogawa stepped off the mat and headed toward the warm-up area near the stands. His coach, a short, wiry Japanese man who barely reached Ogawa’s chest, approached him.

אוהד ודוד

Ohad Maoz with David Khakhaleishvili

The coach gestured for Ogawa to sit on the railing surrounding the arena. In front of nearly 6,000 spectators, he began shouting at him. From my seat, I couldn’t understand the Japanese, but it was strange to witness. Ogawa sat, head bowed, clearly having done something in the match against his coach’s instructions. The coach, standing, was now at eye level with the seated Ogawa. After another round of shouting, the coach raised his hand and slapped Ogawa hard across the face—once on the left, once on the right. These weren’t gentle taps; they were aggressive slaps delivered with full force. Ogawa’s only response was to bow his head further and nod to his coach. He then stood, followed his coach to the locker room, and returned about an hour later for the final, where he defeated the Georgian David Khakhaleishvili (then representing the USSR). It was astonishing to witness the rigid Japanese culture—the hierarchy, the stern coach, the athlete accepting everything in submission, and still managing to return and win after what, in Western eyes, might be seen as humiliation.

A year later, at the Barcelona Olympics, Khakhaleishvili defeated Ogawa in the heavyweight final to claim Olympic gold. A former wrestler weighing over 130 kg, Khakhaleishvili moved as if he weighed 60 kg. Despite the typical heavyweight belly of that era, he was far more athletic than his peers—quick, agile, and dynamic.

During those years, another Georgian judoka, Vladimir Dgebuadze, competed in Oren Smadja’s weight class. In many ways, he was the best judoka I’d seen during my years with the sport. I first saw him at the Junior World Championships in Dijon, France, in March 1990. It was my first trip with the Israeli judo team, and I was mainly there to learn the logistics and atmosphere of a major competition. It was incredible to see nearly a thousand young judokas, men and women from around the world, concentrated in two or three hotels, spending most of their time in the competition and training halls. The energy was electric—colorful, vibrant, with constant interactions between coaches and athletes, sports activities during the day, and socializing at night. I was in learning mode, trying to understand the routine of the team’s coach, Ponti, and the young men’s team, as Ponti managed the delegation with professionalism and authority.

On the first morning, Ponti and I went down for breakfast. A skinny guy with black hair, dressed in athletic clothes, rode the elevator with us. “That’s going to be the world champion in Oren’s weight class,” Ponti told me. I looked at him skeptically. He didn’t look like a judoka, let alone a strong one. Of average height, thin, with slouched shoulders, he didn’t even glance at us. As we exited the hotel’s revolving door, he lit a cigarette and stood smoking outside. “This guy’s going to be world champion?” I said to Ponti. “I think I could beat him; he doesn’t look serious.” “Wait and see,” Ponti replied. “He’s the best judoka in the world right now, with incredible technique.” Ponti, who knew global judo inside out, was aware that Dgebuadze had won every tournament he entered that year, both junior and senior.

On the day Oren competed, I was focused on him but also eager to see what Ponti was talking about. Dgebuadze stepped onto the mat radiating a unique confidence I hadn’t seen before. His body language and expression seemed to say to his opponent, “Don’t waste your time; I’ll beat you in a minute.” He had a cat-like movement and a low stance, borrowed from Georgian wrestling. He didn’t waste time adjusting or fighting for grips (kumikata). He’d come in low, grab the lapel he wanted, and immediately execute a throw for a waza-ari. After the match resumed, he’d repeat the process with a different technique, finishing all his opponents up to the final with two waza-ari (equivalent to ippon) in under a minute.

In the final, he faced Oren Smadja (who had defeated all his opponents by ippon) and beat him with two waza-ari in less than a minute. It was astonishing. I’d never seen anything like it before or since. His incredible confidence, bordering on disdain for his opponents, and his unmatched technique were awe-inspiring. His nonverbal message and the power he projected on the mat (despite his frail, unimposing appearance off it) showed me what a judo match should look like and the mental state an athlete needs to bring to a fight (backed, of course, by the right skills). Later, I tried to instill Dgebuadze’s “spirit” in my work with Yael Arad.

I saw Dgebuadze again at the 1991 World Championships in Barcelona. As usual, he easily threw all his opponents up to the semifinals. Between matches, he could be seen smoking outside the arena, looking frail, slouched, and far from the image of a professional athlete.

In the semifinals, he faced Spain’s Joaquín Ruiz, the 71 kg national champion. As usual, Dgebuadze threw him for a waza-ari within 30 seconds and prepared for the next throw. Waiting for him in the final was Japan’s Koga, the 1989 world champion who had won nearly every tournament in the past two years. From my seat, I could sense Dgebuadze was already mentally in the final against the unbeatable Koga. In those fleeting seconds, when he didn’t seem fully present, Ruiz grabbed him and executed the simplest judo technique—a small tap from right to left and a sweep. Dgebuadze’s feet flew into the air, and he landed on his back. Ippon.

Dgebuadze was in shock. He lost his chance at the final due to a split-second lapse in focus and an overconfident, dismissive attitude toward his opponent. It was a profound lesson for everyone watching, including me and the athletes I worked with.

After that, we barely saw him in competitions. The Russians didn’t send him to the Olympics, and his star faded. He was an immense talent who soared high but fell due to his careless, dismissive approach.

This experience highlighted the stark contrast between the rigid Japanese culture and the Eastern European culture of the time (the early 1990s, during the dissolution of the USSR and the transition to the West). One culture revered discipline, hierarchy, and hard work; the other broke conventions, showed disrespect, and lacked professional standards. Over time, it’s clear which approach consistently delivers better results.

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