Weaknesses

As I walk to the warm up area, I notice the silence, though if one were to listen carefully, one would hear my light footsteps on the mats.

Some of my teammates, who were friends yesterday but are now bitter rivals, have already arrived, and together, we stretch and wait with trepidation and excitement for our class – our test.

Too soon, our instructor, our teacher, our mentor, calls us to class.

“Cha-dyut.  Khun-yaeh,” he commands.  Attention.  Bow.  His forehead is creased once between his dark eyebrows, completing an imposing character of five feet two inches.  Nobody notices his height because of the control and attention he demands.  We respect him.  We admire him.  We fear him.

We wait.

And wait.

To any outsider he appears uninterested, as if nothing is of importance, least of all his students.  But I note the way the inner parts of his eyes closest to his nose pinch together and lower slightly.  My scalp, just above my right ear, itches as if someone is tugging on individual strands of my hair.  I focus desperately on not scratching my head which only highlights its irritation.

“Cameron,” I hear, jolting me from my thoughts.

“Yes, sir,” I reply, aware that my instructor noticed my wandering attention.

“You and Daniel first,” he orders.  So many thoughts bombard in my mind at once.  I can’t acknowledge one before the next strikes me, all of them jumbled and indecipherable.  But one thought echoes. Look for a weakness.  Find it and use it.  Don’t cry.

The others clear off the mats, sitting cross-legged on the hardwood floors.  I can see the apology in their eyes, but their whispers tell me that they are thankful they’re not me.

Slowly, deliberately, I pull at the cords on my back and feel my ribs expand against my chest protector with each breath.  I slide my mouthpiece into place, leaving my mouth agape and lips protruding.  Glancing down to note Daniel’s position, I glimpse the royal blue tape on the mats, worn from various feet stomping and various people sweating.  Finally I look up to meet my opponent’s eyes, which are surrounded by premature wrinkles.  His bulbous nose, too large for his pinched face, has been broken repeatedly, forming a question mark down the center of his face.  He scowls, which only accentuates his distorted qualities.

“Chest and head only.  Remember, one point for a regular kick or punch.  Two for a spinning kick.  Three for a kick to the head,” my teacher declares.  “Touch gloves.”  We bump fists.  “Begin.”

Immediately Daniel rushes towards me, feet heavy and fists low.  I slide left before his fist can connect with my jaw.  I feel the wind brush my cheeks.  

He spins to face me and smirks, an already grotesque smile further distorted by his mouthpiece.  Then he slides with surprising speed and before I can move, his leg smashes into my arm.  Though I could not have risked surrendering the points, most of me wishes I hadn’t blocked his kick.  Tears gather in my eyes and spill over, mixing with the sweat on my face.  Stop.  Gain control.  Get out of the corner.

Faking right, I slip left, aiming a hook at the weak, unprotected spot on his chest behind his right elbow.  After it connects I step back, out of reach, bouncing lightly on the balls of my feet, shaking off the pain in my arm.  When he turns, I can see his acknowledgement of my punch.  A mixture of impressed surprise and anger swirl in his expression.  I bask in it.  He catches me off guard.  Again.  His blows fall on my head.  I instinctively duck, curling into myself to protect my chest with my forearms and my head with my hands.  My instructor’s words bounce in my head, changing direction with each of Daniel’s punches.  Create…create a smaller …smaller target…Cover more…cover.

But I can’t cover enough.

Instead I change my approach.  Slowly, as the punches continue and I grow nauseous, I position my body between my instructor, now my judge, and Daniel.  Then I knee him in the groin with all the power I can muster.

He recoils in blind pain, bucking over, eyes blazing with uncontained fury.

Guilt tugs at the back of my mind but I suppress it.  Weaknesses. I assure myself.  Part of the fight.

Before he can recover, I pitch my leg as high as it will reach and execute a flawless crescent kick to the head, directly on his ear.  The kick’s rotation twirls me around, and I catch a glimpse of him, one hand on his aching groin and one on his ringing ears.  Guilt nags at me again.  

I finish him with a push kick to the chest.  He stumbles backwards and out of the ring.

“And time.  Daniel, Cameron.  Face each other,” the judge calls.  Daniel’s eyes form slits, his upper lip curls up, and his brow turns down in the middle.  He looks down his nose to me.  “Bow.”  Daniel is already removing his head piece, shaking beads of sweat from his hair like a wet and agitated dog.  He jerks forward slightly.  I bow.  “Face me.  And bow.”  We bow to the judge.  And before our instructor releases us, Daniel storms away, his back to his teacher in complete violation of the unspoken code of respect.  The room is silent except for the heavy footsteps of an angry boy slapping against the hardwood floors.