My record against a six year old is zero and forty.His name is Mason. He owns two foam swords, one blue and one red, and he crossed the lawn to challenge me with the calm of a man who has never lost anything in his life."I bet I can beat you."I said nothing. He was not finished."I'm the best at swords."The best at swords. Said to a man who has drawn real steel. And my chest filled, because it is a rare and holy thing to be challenged by a warrior of that quality of confidence.He threw me the blue one. I tested its weight. It folded completely in half and made a small squeak. A fearsome weapon. I had underestimated the smiths of this country.We bowed. I bowed lower. The challenger honors the one he challenges, but the one challenged honors the brave, and I have never met anyone braver."Three, two, one, go."No stance. No guard. No form. Only screaming courage, both hands on the red sword, making an explosion sound with his mouth the entire time.I could have ended it in one motion. To do so would have been an insult to that heart. So I parried. I gave ground. I let our blades ring the length of the garden, and by ring I mean squeak, and I fought as though the fate of provinces depended on it, because to my opponent it did.He struck my knee.I went down.Hear me clearly. A folded tube of foam does not fell a samurai. But a samurai knows the exact moment a duel has located its rightful winner. So I went down the way a great oak goes down. Slowly. Correctly. Beaten by the better man."I win. I'm the champion."Then he stood over me and something in him softened."Are you okay?""I am defeated.""Do you want a juice box?"His mother apologized from the kitchen window. She should not apologize. She has raised something magnificent and she should be told so at the next town meeting.Forty duels. Forty losses. When he is grown and tells people about the summer he beat a samurai, do not laugh at him.He did beat me. Every time. On purpose.