The smile left Mr. Bollars face, but before full anger could set in, Dad landed a right jab under his eye. And then another, and another. Dad snapped Mr. Bollars’s head back and had him weak in the legs, when suddenly Rubin kicked Dad in the stomach. Rubin raised his leg for another side-kick, but I swept his base leg from under him. Rubin fell on his butt, but it was the shocked look on his face that stuck with me. He—and I—couldn’t believe I’d floored him. It was a cheap shot and Rubin never saw it coming, but all the same: I’d beat him to the fuck.
A punch from the back knocked me to the floor. Mr. Lopez had gotten me for taking out his Rubin. I scrambled to my feet while Rubin was still on the floor and Mr. Bollars slowly regained his balance. Dad, still rubbing his stomach, faced Mr. Lopez. Both men were panting and swaying as if they’d fought fifteen rounds. Mr. Lopez moved in on Dad, trying to seize the advantage, but Dad met him with the back of his hand. Blood squirted from Mr. Lopez’s mouth as he fell to his knees. Mrs. Lopez squealed in Spanish, but kept her seat.
Rubin regained his feet and came after me, looking for retribution. “You cheap shotted me, but let’s see how tough you are head-up.”
“Stop this!” Mr. Bollars yelled.
“Let the boys settle this,” Dad said.
Mr. Bollars extended one arm, pointing to the door. Instead of following Bollars’s command and leaving, Dad twisted the arm into a hammer-lock. “Go ahead, son, won’t no one interfere.”
Rubin backed into the workout area, motioning for me to him. I followed without any thought or plan. One lucky blind-side leg sweep proved nothing. I assumed the fighting stance and bounced on the balls of my feet as Mr. Bollars had shown me. Donnie led the jeering against me and the cheering for Rubin while the other kids made a semi-circle around us. I knew they were waiting to see Rubin demolish the up-start yellow belt with the loud, foul-mouthed father.
“Come on, Wesley, try and hit me,” Rubin said.
I punched but he danced to the side; and Donnie led the laughs. I punched again, and Rubin danced away again. Donnie’s cackle roared along with the other kids’ laughter. But Rubin wasn’t countering, wasn’t taking advantage of my mistakes. He was setting me up for a bad maneuver, I was certain. Rubin expected me to fight a straightforward tae kwon do battle, but that was his strength, not mine. My strength was revenge.
I moved in close to Rubin, making sure to keep my guard up, and kept my left arm slightly extended, looking for an opening to jab. I cast a feeble jab at Rubin’s face and he brought up his guard to block it, but I recoiled my arm before he could touch it. Then I jabbed again, and again, and again. Rubin knew this was my best weapon and he was ready for it. He met every jab with a cocky smile and a block. The block, however, came at a cost: he opened up his midsection. I figured one more fake jab should do it, so I snapped my fist at his face and on cue Rubin lifted his guard, and I front-kicked him in the privates, the same privates he had wanted me to suck. The smile left his face and a howl reverberated through the dojo. He lay on the floor writhing and the semi-circle closed in to take a look at the fallen star pupil.
Dad took me by the arm and led me out. When we got to the door, I looked back at the dojo with the knowledge that I’d never return. But that was fine, because my last picture of the place was Mr. Bollars, who was still staggering from Dad’s jabs, Mr. Lopez spitting blood on the carpet, Rubin cradling his groin, and Donnie’s freckled face flabbergasted at it all.
CHAPTER 14
Dad’s public outbursts usually embarrassed me, but I was proud of what he had done in the dojo. I got to see young Dad, the healthy, strong, cocky Dad, take matters into his hands. His
actions had let me know his stories were true and not just the imaginings of an old man.
I never saw Rubin again. Maybe the police station and the threat of being caught scared him into not messing with any other boys. That’s what I like to think.
Dad, for all his fierce jibes, never threw Rubin in my face. It would have been like him to mention it just to be vindictive on one of his hotter-tempered days, but he never did, not even a reference or a hint. It was as if Rubin had never existed, and that was fine by me. I was proud of Dad. He’d defended me and believed me, although I hadn’t told him the whole truth.
The rest of that summer in 1981 I spent swimming and jumping alone on the trampoline. A few days after Dad tore up the dojo, I tore up the swastika. Roger and James still visited their grandparents and I saw them playing catch or riding bikes up and down in front of our house, but I never played with them again. I wished I hadn’t used Rubin to jump on them and drive them away. I missed them and often wanted to run outside and tell them to come on over and jump on the trampoline or swim with me, but Dad forbade, after the fight, for me to even speak to Roger and James. He said it was for the best, and I didn’t question him.
With September came school, football season, and cooler evenings, signaling the end of summer and cook-outs. Cook-outs, that is, for other folk, not Dad. The last three steaks we’d bought from Sid were on the grill.
“Heat from the grill keeps you warm,” Dad said, a Michelob in one hand and a Camel in the other while orange embers dazzled and danced on his face. “You passed that yellow-belt test, no problem, son. No doubt in my mind you’d have made a black belt.” Dad smiled and poured his crooked grin on me. “And I’d hate to see such a good start go to waste.”
This was the first mention of tae kwon do since the showdown at the dojo. My mind hadn’t been on tae kwon do, but football. In Dad’s own way, he was asking me to continue tae
kwon do, and that was a positive change. But how could I be certain of his motive? His sincerity? Did he simply want to have the youngest black belt in the state? Or did he want me to learn useful qualities: increase my strength, my flexibility, and—most importantly— toughen me.
Toughening me up was the reason all this started, and I was tougher, tougher than to let someone pull the wool over my eyes, which was what I thought Dad was doing. He was talking nice, way out of his character—unless he wanted something.
“What do you want from me?” I asked. My question blind-sided him, took his wind. “Do you want me to become the youngest black belt in the state, or just a fighting machine who can whip a half dozen men at a time?”
Dad flung his cigarette into the darkness and placed his Michelob on top of the grill; it hissed. “I want you to be the best. At whatever you do. Tae kwon do, school, work, anything. But don’t start anything unless you intend to be number one. The damn world’s full of followers. Be a leader. Don’t listen to another sonofabitch. And don’t depend on anyone either. Have others relying on you and take care of them.” Dad finished his Michelob in one swig and took a deep breath. “I want you to be more than I am.”
I’d never thought of being more than Dad. Different, yes, I’d promised myself I’d be that.
But more than? I’d never considered. Was it even possible? And if so, was it a good thing? Dad was enough in himself and by himself—the world didn’t need another Wesley Royal, Sr. “I want to be the best player in the NFL,” I said.
“Why? So you can ruin your body butting heads with some mule-strong nigger? Son, a football player to a coach is like a cow to a rancher: a piece of meat. The rancher wants to make money on the cow and the coach wants wins. When you no longer produce wins, they’ll get rid of you like they never knew you, and won’t give a damn if you’re crippled.”
“Not all of them end up crippled,” I said.
“You’ve never seen any old football players with their bad backs and knees limping around with a cane before their fifty. Hell, I’m an old man and I get around better than them. Son, you don’t how damn hard football is. I played until my tenth grade year. We were playing Port Arthur High, which had twelve grades when the rest of Texas only had eleven. Their boys were a year older and bigger than everyone else’s. They had a middle linebacker who everyone was scared of. We had the ball with only a few seconds to go before halftime. I was the fullback and they gave the ball to me to run up the middle and end the half. I took the hand-off and the line opened in front of me. I built up a head of steam and ran straight for that big ass linebacker. He was taller than me, so I lowered my head and popped him under the chin with the crown of my helmet. Now this was before face-masks, so I caught him good and had his mouth bleeding as we went into halftime. I’m in the locker room and bend over to tie my shoes and passed out.