The next thing I remember I woke up in a Houston hospital, my legs up in traction with twenty pound weights on them. I’d overlapped three vertebrates and stayed in traction for two weeks waiting on the damn things to slip back in. They did at around three o’clock in the morning and I let the whole hospital know about it. I couldn’t move, but I could holler and cuss, and I did both until the doctor gave me something for the pain. Once I finally got out of the hospital the coach wanted me to return to the team, but I was smart enough to know my football days were over.”
This was a new story. I’d known Dad had played football, but not fullback, the position I wanted to play. At school, I’d checked out all the books on football and individual players, and
the one I checked out most frequently was entitled Bruising Backs; it had the biographies of “Slam Bam” Cunningham, Larry Czonka, and my favorite: Earl Campbell. All of them were powerful, strong running backs that were also heavy. Like me. All of them weighed well over two-hundred pounds, most were closer to two-hundred and fifty pounds, which was the weight I
thought would be good for me to settle at. I weighed ninety-five pounds at that time. If I kept my weight under two-fifty, I could be a fullback.
“I want to play fullback,” I said, hoping that would soften Dad: his son wanting to play his old position.
“You won’t with the way you’re gaining weight. They’ll have your big ass on the line fighting with some hard-headed nigger twice as strong as you.”
“I could swim more in the summer and start lifting weights now to keep my weight down. I’m pretty fast for my size, no matter what you say.”
Dad’s crooked grin appeared again. A few tobacco-stained teeth showed, and then the grin grew into a smile. He frightened me, quiet and smiling. I waited for a macabre chuckle to emanate from deep inside him. “Tae kwon do, you know, would make you even faster. Help your footwork. With your size, if you developed some speed, you’d be the bull of the woods. I know you’ve got pretty good hands. I’ve seen you kicking that ball to yourself and catching it.”
Sugar wouldn’t melt in Dad’s mouth, he talked so sweet. Which I knew meant he was trying to manipulate me into taking tae kwon do lessons again. Dad, as he said, did want me to be the best at whatever I pursued, and if I again pursued tae kwon do, being the best would mean being a black belt. Nothing short of it would suffice, if I were to please Dad and get him off my back. Dad wanted to be able to brag about me to his mother and to the customers who came for birds and plants. That wouldn’t bother me. I enjoyed the rare occasions when Dad lauded me; it made up, somewhat, for all his disparages of me.
My son’s a black belt and ain’t even old enough to drive yet , that’s what Dad wanted to be able to say. That would please him and make me winner of the game Please Dad. I’d take tae kwon do, but not because he’d manipulated me like he had Mr. Bollars and Mr. Lopez and all the others Dad had screwed his entire life in business and personal relations. I would, however, allow Dad to think that his line of bullshit had worked on me. Let him think he beat me to the fuck. I knew Dad, as long as he believed he had the upper hand, he was much easier to get along with.
Over our steaks that night, Dad told me about a Mr. Notly who had a dojo in the old part of town, across the street from an AA meeting place and an after hour’s lounge. Next door to the dojo was a thrift store, the first one I’d ever seen, full of musty clothes and used, cheap furniture.
The location of Mr. Notly’s dojo was not impressive and neither was its size; you could have put it in the changing rooms of Mr.Bollars’s dojo. But Mr. Notly’s waiting area more than made up for the low rent location and lack of space. Trophies crowded the waiting area, leaving only a narrow path for Dad and me to follow. Mr. Notly easily had ten times the number of trophies Mr. Bollars had. The centerpiece of the menagerie was a platinum trophy that towered above me and was only inches away from poking the ceiling.
“Won that one for the Battle of Atlanta. You must be the Royals, I’m Dak Notly,” he said, and shook our hands. Mr. Notly was only a hair taller than me, and he didn’t have much hair to begin with. What hair he did have was dark black and round the side and back of his head with a thin tuft on top. I was a little disappointed he wasn’t Asian. He assured us, first thing, that he had studied in South Korea for ten years, and had been a mainstay on the full contact circuit once he was back in the States. His awards and black and white photos of bloody combatants, boardbreaking feats, and high-flying kicks, testified to Mr. Notly’s truthfulness.
“Now my boy’s already a yellow belt. He ain’t gonna have to start over is he?” Dad asked.
“Mr. Royal, I like to teach my students from their first punch to their final kick.”
“But why does he have to take a belt he’s already passed?”
“He’ll begin at white belt,” Mr. Notly said, “and if he demonstrates satisfactory technique, I’ll advance him sooner to yellow without a test.”
Mr. Notly’s trophies were impressive, but I didn’t like the idea of having to begin all over. What if I didn’t show “satisfactory technique?” I’d be a white belt for the longest duration in martial arts’ history. And that was no way to quickly earn a black belt.
“How soon? And does no test mean free of charge?” Dad said.
“How soon will be hard to tell,” Mr. Notly said, “until I see your son’s technique...”
“What if I give a demonstration for you, Mr. Notly?” I asked. “If you like what you see, I begin as a yellow belt.”
Dad grinned at me, placed his hand on my shoulder, squeezed gently, and looked at Mr. Notly for an answer.
“You mean now?”
“Just give me a few minutes to stretch and I’ll be ready,” I said.
The workout area was small, rectangular, and walled with pine paneling. An American flag and a South Korean flag were tacked to the walls in the far left corner, and in front of them hung a heavily duct taped punching bag that was being attacked by a black woman with incredible muscles. She had a short Afro, and with every blow sweat flew off her glistening face. The floor was smooth, black concrete, onyx as the black woman’s skin. In the center of the workout area was an off-white canvas mat. I took off my shoes and socks and stepped onto the mat, which was thinly padded plywood raised a step off the floor.
I hadn’t intended on giving a demonstration, but since it was a brisk Saturday morning, I had worn my New Orleans Saints sweatpants and jersey, which were loose fitting like my gi.
Perfect for the form. That is, if I could remember the form straight through. It was only a few punches and kicks, but I wasn’t sure where my feet would end up. Stretching was something Mr. Bollars insisted that we do for fifteen minutes before we worked out. I wasn’t going to take that long, but I figured my taking time to stretch would show Mr. Notly I was no inexperienced neophyte. Plus, I needed the time to work the form through my head.