“I am nothing… that is to say, everything. […] That’s my role—to tap lightly,” the late Dutch ninth-dan Chris de Korte (1938–2024) once told us, describing a vocation he spent his life trying to deepen, even to the paradoxical wish of making himself almost invisible. What does “teaching judo” mean in 2025? Are teaching and coaching the same job? And legally, where does a judo teacher fit—who are they, and what exactly do they do? While the figure of the teacher remains central, the profession itself keeps finding— and defining—its place at a crossroads, as we noted in 2021 on this site in The Transpacific Judo of Yoshihiro Uchida and Hiroshi Nakamura.

“Paradoxically, combat experts are the least able to defend their own professional standing,” says sixth-dan Yann Leroux, a well-known provocateur in French judo, tireless on questions about the future, social recognition, and properly planning for retirement in a profession that too often isn’t equipped to look past the next season—or even the next weekend. The job has become hybrid, caught between the prestige of its noble beginnings and the realities of an age that tries to amplify everything and sometimes forgets the bare minimum—namely, the respect owed to those who embody and guide it.

A Matter of Passion

Everyone says it: “The foundation of everything is passion.” Passion—and a few strong values gained along the way: love of effort, perseverance, sincerity, and passing knowledge on. Giving back some of the good received, like restoring balance to a cosmic scale. After the years of discovery and often of competition, comes the time to step to the other side: bring people together. Lead. Demonstrate. Rephrase. Listen. Observe. Correct. Lift up. Raise. Encourage. Congratulate. And repeat, again and again. Judo no longer just for oneself, but for others, with—at least in principle—a demand for exemplary conduct always in mind, all the more so after abuse-of-authority scandals that shook two leading judo nations: Japan after the London Olympics and France as lockdowns ended.

“These babies looking up to us, it’s up to us,” rapped Method Man in 1997 on Wu-Tang Clan’s “A Better Tomorrow.” That’s the example –66 kg judoka Kevin Azéma set for his own group in November 2024 at the Colisée in Chalon-sur-Saône. Semi-retired, the former international became French champion that Saturday—his second straight title and third overall—at age thirty-one. The feat was all the more remarkable because his teaching responsibilities, now several hundred kilometers from France’s Paris-based high-performance centers, forced him to pare back his own preparation to the bare minimum. Less fixated, therefore more relaxed; less razor-sharp, therefore more rigorous: the performance was cheered from the stands by the children and parents of his club, who came with banners and full-voiced support. Teaching also means showing that there are often several paths to the same destination.

A Matter of Structure

How do you become a teacher? In Japan, the profession is divided into three levels—C, B, and A—explains sixth-dan Hide Chikudate. To earn level C, you must be eighteen and a second dan. For level B, you must be at least twenty and a third dan. Level A is obtained after age twenty-two for those who hold fourth dan. As in many countries, Japan distinguishes between teacher and coach. Justin Fumiya Imagawa, head of international events at the All Japan Judo Federation, explains: “A teacher focuses on education on the tatami, while a coach (kantoku) also manages athletes’ daily lives, competition preparation, and performances. The coach may also oversee other coaches, essentially acting as a general manager.” He also reminds us of the basics: “The Japanese system is deeply connected to the school system. Many teachers teach physical education and budo, advise students on academic choices, and even help them find jobs in schools or with the police.”

In France, shared pedagogical frameworks are a prized asset, as are mentorship under notable elders and the proving ground of competitive years. Frédéric Demontfaucon, director of education at the French Judo Federation since 2021, emphasizes the need to “devalue neither rank nor role” and to “put the teacher back at the center of the project.” This view matured over a career marked by resilience—tearing the ACLs in his left and then right knees early on—then rewarded by patience (an Olympic podium, a world title) and the perspective that came from absorbing those setbacks. Is this wishful thinking? The question is fair, given the stringent prerequisites once required for the State Diploma versus the lighter requirements now needed for the Professional Qualification Certificate (CQP). It’s the familiar injunction to “do more with less,” very much of our era—fortunately offset by the competence and expertise of many new leaders who happily round out their training with self-directed curiosity about management practices from other sports.

Trained at Romain Pacalier’s storied Judo Club du Rhône (1934–2020), sixth-dan Thierry Robin embodies the teacher as cornerstone. A solid national-level competitor, this former aspiring accountant was quickly tapped by his sensei to gradually take over—though in the end it didn’t happen. Sports–study in Marseille with the respected Hector Marino, State Diploma in Montpellier, Armed Forces Sports with Jean-Paul Coche and Richard Melillo—he follows the lineage of teachers who enter the profession as others enter a calling. “We didn’t talk about money or hours at the club. If we needed to be there from eight in the morning to ten at night, then Saturday morning, then Sunday at competitions, that was part of the job—because that’s the level of commitment our elders like Romain Pacalier gave too. What mattered to us was proving ourselves. And proving yourself takes time.” A keen observer who prefers substance to the spotlight, he co-founded Dojo Undôkai, which now counts 450 members after fifteen years. It’s a feat in a Rhône department that, over a few decades, went from about twenty clubs to more than 110 for nearly 17,000 members—where teachers must deal with sometimes overprotective parents and, in his view, growing confusion about the profession’s status. “We are teachers. That’s not the same as being a coach or an activity leader—even if many clubs’ pro-competition tilt, which ties subsidies to medal counts, creates the conditions for this misunderstanding… and for early burnout in a profession trying to be everywhere at once.”

“In Argentina, there is no requirement for formal academic training to become a judo teacher. A black belt is enough,” says Laura Martinel, national technical director since 2016 in a country with roughly 350 clubs and 5,000 members. Head coach of the women’s team during the peak years of Daniela Krukower (2003 world champion), then Paula Pareto (2015 world champion, 2016 Olympic champion), she is one of the pioneers of a less gender-segregated judo, cutting through “cultural barriers, stereotypes, and resistance that often force women to prove themselves twice over to be treated equally.” While competition experience is a common denominator for many teachers, the new generation is trending toward professionalization. “They seek training in pedagogy and sport science and want to integrate teaching methods adapted to judo’s current demands.” Whether this momentum lasts—alongside rising expectations for both training volume and quality—now depends on policymakers’ ability to plan long term. Given the country’s “chainsaw” political news cycle and its impact on a sport that “relies almost entirely on state funding,” that is far from assured.

A Matter of Pathway

“When I see young teachers, I can’t help wondering: do they know what’s ahead? Will they have the skills and patience they’ll need?” So says France’s Stéphane Auduc—the man who, as some clips in the France Judo documentary Talents Bruts suggest, “whispers to judoka.” For him, this profession would be nothing without a constellation of key ideas learned—sometimes the hard way—along the path: having the spark; getting a foot in the system; earning the trust and loyalty of students, colleagues, the board, a partner, and children; learning to delegate; making time for what truly matters; finding the right expertise wherever it is.

Auduc gained all this through experiences that led him from the Lyon area to the French national team, via the Orléans training hub, Sucy Judo, Olympic Judo Nice, and now managing foreign teams on the tatami at the 400-member Institut du judo. “There are several jobs rolled into one,” he says, sometimes happily filling in on Friday nights at Nicolas Chansseaume’s bustling club, returning to the family feel of his early days. “Beyond the traditional teacher, there’s the coach—and that can mean club coach, national coach, or a French coach working abroad.” Would that last experience—one he hasn’t had—make him feel he’d come full circle, like Jigoro Kano’s final white belt? He sees it differently: “For me, the ultimate challenge is to act across the whole pathway. When you understand what’s expected at one level and at the next, that’s when you can act and bring relevance and coherence. In the end, each season brings new challenges—personally, collectively, and for the discipline itself. That’s also what makes this adventure beautiful.”

Across Germany, too, the “old certainties” are being re-examined daily. Organizational charts are refreshed, and with them a finer understanding of the work. Former European and world medalist Heide Wollert works with the Saxony Judo Federation since November 2020. “For a long time, coaches relied on their own experience. What worked for them had to work for others. And what worked then was often a collective, group-based approach. Over time, the approach has become more individual.” A finalist at Beijing and London, she recalls the common two-week wait at the Olympics after settling in the village and the opening ceremony: “We now know an athlete’s needs differ if they have fourteen days before competing versus ten. Coaches factor that in today.” The equation also grows more complex as the coach–athlete relationship becomes less top-down: open-ended discussions about calendar options (e.g., post-injury return), deep exchanges about how a proposed plan feels, and lessons from video analysis that’s easy to find online. The watchword behind all this? “Professionalization,” whether real or symbolic, of every actor in performance. One could date its formal “birth” to August 2009: at the Rotterdam Worlds, coaches were asked—for prime-time respectability—to swap national tracksuits for suits or dresses on the final block. A few months later, at the Paris Grand Slam, some even posed at the podium with giant checks—rituals that didn’t last, though the image lingers.

A Matter of Approach

“It’s always better when a coach truly leads,” says Patrick Roux, drawing on his stints heading the national teams of France, Great Britain, and Russia. Now in a cross-functional role at INSEP’s training division, the former European and world medalist wrote Judo – Cognitive Training and Activity Analysis (4Trainer, 2021), a reference work on the subject. Talking with him feels like a Socratic walk-and-talk—precise references, carefully weighed arguments, and a mind that moves with the conversation. Lived experience sharpened by time and perspective.

He knew the 1980s: a Japanese-modeled approach and a near point of honor to arrive at competitions exhausted and sore. A pain-driven view of performance—“No pain, no gain,” “Hard today, easy tomorrow”—relying on aerobic endurance and a sometimes poorly tuned lactic capacity. Rooted in high-performance sport’s military DNA, it’s an approach Roux gradually left behind, notably influenced by his contemporary Fabien Canu. In what he calls an era of “informed amateurs,” today’s INSEP director went from world medalist (1983, 1985) to double world champion (1987, 1989) by choosing to prepare apart with Michel Pradet, a coach… in athletics—a field (like weightlifting) then seen as cutting-edge in profiling, periodization, and peaking. Roux confirmed this intuition across his career, especially during two Olympic cycles with the Russian women’s team (2013–2021), where he was struck—much like Moldovan Paralympic coach Vitalie Gligor noted on our site JudoAKD—by manager Ezio Gamba’s opposite stance: “arrive fresh on the day.” Without freshness, no clarity; without clarity, no opportunities. “Performance should be heard in the English sense: to perform, as an artist or musician, means to deliver.” A drummer in his spare time, Roux points to the conductor-coach’s grail: setting your “artists” up to deliver the best version of the work forged by thousands of hours of practice.

“The last quarter-century changed the job under pressure from the English-speaking world,” he continues. “Bringing sport science, the human sciences, and mindfulness into the mix let us account better for personality and individuality. I don’t see a return to the past.” And if now and then there’s a relapse into tough-talk nostalgia, it never lasts. The 2022 stumble, for instance, helped launch a data-driven “coach 2.0” profile—think Baptiste Leroy—one eye on the tatami, one on the numbers, WhatsApp buzzing at all hours, and a readiness to cut through when needed, even at the cost of bruised relationships. In high performance, results rule.

A Matter of Status

For others, everything starts with structure. “In my view, the difference between a teacher and a coach is not the most important one.” says Anthony Dangre, a familiar figure in northern France and director of the Sainghin-en-Mélantois club, which turns fifty this fall, as well as a driving force behind the Eurometropolis Masters. “For me, the real dividing line is between technical director and director. The technical director leads the teaching team and administration, while the director handles events and accounting.” The club’s keystone, he always has one foot on the tatami, one in meetings with teachers, and an ear for local officials. Balancing this with family life takes rigor—honed by years of volunteer work alongside a lengthy CV. “The job is all-encompassing,” notes the former administrative and financial director of the Nord–Pas-de-Calais Athletics League.

“These days, people focus on the strongest, but I think we should start with the most fragile,” says this advocate of inclusion through judo. “I think a generation of teachers is disappearing—the volunteers who coached—since we now see teachers invoicing for that work.” He worries about fragmentation that produces athletes “trained for a year by this teacher, then a year by that one.” Another strong trend he sees—close to southern French teacher Bruno Douet, whose pedagogical commitment he praises—is the rise of “Williams Method”-style approaches: over-invested, self-taught parents around a child’s success, to the point of reducing the coach to an administrative aide handling registrations, bookings, and meal plans. “The epic, joyful group trips of a few years ago have been replaced by sessions where you feel like a taxi driver, with students glued to their phones—then struggling to listen to instructions during bouts.” Even if his well-used body creaks a bit now, that won’t dim his fire. For him, “there’s an age for transmitting passion, an age for guiding to black belt and giving a taste for competition, and an age when each person decides what to do with it all.”

A Matter of Standing Up

Enter Yann Leroux again, general manager of JC Thouars, four hours from Paris toward Bordeaux. A sixth dan who came to judo later, he now heads France Judo’s working group on teacher status. The role suits this son and grandson of farmers who’s also trained to teach badminton, soccer, and MMA. He challenges the legal gray zone around judo teachers’ social protections and pushes colleagues—if not to unionize, at least to question their own assumptions—because the profession can look prestigious from the outside but feel insecure and precarious from the inside. “Many don’t take the time to think about the profession’s social framework, about a collective agreement you can rely on in disputes. Some of the labor files I see are a disaster. We have to stop fearing we’ll end up with less. By pooling our efforts, we can gain more.”

“No medal is worth a teacher’s health,” he says—echoing an old book title to make a new point. COVID revealed a blind spot for many dojo leaders: yes, it is possible to spend one or several evenings in a row—and sometimes even a whole weekend—on the couch with your family. A silent shock after decades of martial, even sacrificial, self-denial. Thinking of oneself and making time for one’s loved ones is no longer taboo. It even counters the devastating “Dad, I don’t know you,” heard on a daughter’s twentieth birthday by a now-deceased senior teacher who later asked us to remove that passage from an article because it was too painful in light of the thousands of hours given to other people’s children.

“We need to think about the job’s sustainability to make it last. Is it reasonable for a cadet to do fifteen or twenty competitions a year? And is it reasonable for the teacher trying to keep up?” Asking already points to the answer. He targets early “trophy fever” and its consequence: the real risk of proving Jacques Brel right—“worn out at fifteen.”

At the end of August 2025, a statistic on L’Esprit du judo struck him: after the Cadet Worlds in Sofia, the French men again failed to place a single athlete—for the third time in ten years. “A clear lack of efficiency in one of the world’s few mass systems: 34,845 cadets this season—10,057 girls and 24,428 boys. Perhaps unique density worldwide, as is the network that puts a dojo in almost every village.” He contrasts this with systems abroad that pull teens out of school to focus entirely on judo, then asks the hard questions: What does French judo want for its cadets? Is the current setup good—or should it be corrected, refined, or transformed? Move toward early specialization (with the sensitive issue of athlete weight)? Or favor the long view: strong as cadets, stronger as juniors, peak as seniors? That implies many follow-ups: minimal technical/physical/tactical prerequisites, organization and monitoring for high-potential cadets, and staffing with age-specific skills.

This last point resonates most for Leroux: “Paradoxically, for a kid’s own good, it can be better to fly under the federation’s radar during adolescence.” In France—and as a father of four he knows this well—this period is marked by more parental separations and fragmented schooling with classes often split into small groups. That double erosion of structure makes the emotional roller coaster of high-level sport even riskier. “Teaching, to me, means helping the student love what they do and seek the three B’s: because it’s Beautiful, because it’s Good, and because it’s Right.” He cites champions like swimmer Léon Marchand, pole vaulter Mondo Duplantis, and rugby player Antoine Dupont: all grew up in supportive environments with progressive training. Human performance is as much genetics and construction as creativity. “Our role isn’t to mold but to suggest and support—staying as close as possible to each student’s uniqueness.”

In September 2025, JC Thouars signed a partnership with PSG Judo. Even if Leroux and Baptiste Leroy don’t work on exactly the same field, their paths were bound to cross. A passionate, polarizing figure with a universally acknowledged “judo IQ,” Leroy—who lives, eats, and sleeps judo—is, in Leroux’s view, “ten years ahead of most of us.” After spearheading the revival of a struggling French men’s program when he took over in late 2022—then shining at the Paris Olympics—and moving on to the massive challenge at PSG Judo, the former coach of Peugeot-Mulhouse, FLAM91, Étoile sportive de Blanc-Mesnil, and the Moroccan and Mauritian teams is already onto the next stage, shifting with the tectonic plates of the moment—combining a heavyweight roster of internationals with bridges to a reflective, technical approach to building judo as it comes.

A Matter of Renewal

Despite its strict codification, there are as many ways to teach judo as there are teachers. Japan’s Ryunosuke Haga—2015 world champion, 2016 Olympic medalist at –100 kg, and winner of the first post-lockdown Zen Nihon in late 2020—developed an engaging public presence as his career wound down: climbing stairs in a sauna suit, giving technical demos to children, always with a concern for uprightness and example—signs of a fine coach in the making. Daniel Ray, who shaped generations until 2016 at Monday-night university sessions on Lyon’s La Doua campus, would regularly ask students to demonstrate their favorite technique to the group. Aware of his own limits against seasoned competitors but also of his strengths as a PE teacher and trainer at Lyon’s renowned École des cadres, he then restated—in clear terms—the steps the demonstrator hadn’t fully expressed. It was a mutually beneficial approach that fed the excellent atmosphere reported by all who trained with him (including the author of these lines, over two decades).

How do you follow the path paved by that pioneering generation, raised on certainties and towering figures from a bygone era? “It’s difficult—very difficult,” admits Brazil’s Sarah Menezes, 2012 Olympic champion and coach at the 2024 Games for Larissa Pimenta (–52 kg bronze) and Beatriz Souza (+78 kg gold). “Successors exist, of course, but they don’t have the same preparation, the same quality, the same foundation…” For her neighbor Laura Martinel, even a country in severe political-institutional crisis like Argentina has reasons for optimism: “There is real enthusiasm among many young coaches seeking training and aspiring to meet international standards. That desire to grow and professionalize is very encouraging for the future. The big challenge is creating stable, sustainable conditions so this enthusiasm doesn’t fade. If we can implement long-term policies and channel the new generation’s energy, coaching in Argentina can have a very promising future despite current difficulties.”

From Japan, the challenge is clear. Justin Fumiya Imagawa notes: “When a teacher retires, there are fewer and fewer young people to succeed them, especially where resources are limited. The problem is sharper in small family clubs in suburbs or rural areas facing demographic decline.” We seem far from the glorious Japanese ambassadors of the 1950s—and yet: “My sensei, Hiroshi Nakamura, pioneered judo in Canada and the Middle East. Today, a major framework is the government’s JICA program, which sends experts in judo, sport, and Japanese culture to many countries. Kodokan and the All Japan Judo Federation also support exchange projects with national federations, NOCs, and public bodies. Nonprofits like Mr. Yamashita’s Judo Solidarity, and now Kosei Inoue’s NPO JUDOs, help as well.”

“I long believed in a complete model of judo, with a constant search for balance between teacher and coach,” says Patrick Roux. “One without the other bores me. Of course, there are periods when you have to focus more on one than the other. But to last, you need side interests—hence my passion today for interdisciplinarity.” Could a judoka thrive without a coach—like Roger Federer in the mid-2000s? “That’s precisely the subject of my 2021 book: adopt a low posture; lead the athlete to think for themselves; ultimately rebuild the relationship horizontally, with the coach as a partner.” He cites the closing minutes of Future Champions, The Price of Glory (2024) by Pierre-Emmanuel Luneau-Daurignac, in which he appears. A young Norwegian biathlete takes cooking classes to prepare everything her body needs. Her coach, Espen Norby Andersen: “We must build trust to create a healthy relationship. So we talk a lot. Of course we have our view of good training, but we try to create a dialogue so the athlete is involved and understands what we teach and why.” The voice-over concludes: “Instead of a young champion pulled between the coach, the federation, parents, and the public, Norway aims first to develop fulfilled men and women in control of their own paths. Far from utopian: at the 2022 Winter Olympics, Norway topped the medal table.” — Anthony Diao.