Rubin came to mind first. That bastard had taught me the form, taught it to me perfectly. But I was about to use his perfect teaching to blow Mr. Notly away and give him no choice but to begin me as a yellow belt. One, two, three, pivot; one, two, three, pivot; one, two...
Dad had his hands jammed into his back pockets and his eyes squinted as if he were looking into the sun. He was worried and didn’t think I could do it. “Take a deep breath and take your time, son.”
He said son, not boy. Maybe he had more confidence in me than I thought. I stood, the soles of my feet had a wet sheen of sweat, the same for my fists. The black woman, strong snorts coming through her nose, stopped hitting the bag and watched me; Mr. Notly, his arms crossed, and Dad stood in front of the punching bag.
I took a last deep breath and assumed the at-ready stance Mr. Bollars taught me. This meant no turning back; every move I made had to be perfect from here on out. And then it hit me: what if Mr. Notly doesn’t teach the same white-belt form? My down-blocks and punches and front-kicks would be wasted. He might even think me stupid. Not advanced enough to do anything more sophisticated. After all, with Mr. Notly’s collection of hard fought memorabilia, maybe he expected more of his students.
Unable to wait any longer, I counted one, two, three in my head, down-blocked, punched, and front-kicked, and when I finished my feet were behind the sweat imprint I had made from
standing and waiting so long. I looked to Dad. The grin was a full blown smile. Mr. Notly patted his tuft and stepped forward.
“That’s good forms technique,” Mr. Notly said. “But forms don’t fight back and tae kwon do is self-defense. If you spar against Jackie,” he pointed to the black woman, “and do well, you’ll start as a yellow belt. That sound fair?”
I looked to Dad, knowing for certain he’d not agree. I could hear him saying: My boy ain’t fighting no nigger bitch. Instead, he said: “You got some gear for my boy to wear?”
Mr. Notly walked to the back of the workout area where foam padded gloves and footprotectors hanged on the wall.
“Jackie Hathorn, glad to meet you.”
She removed her glove and shook my hand. Dad didn’t faint or curse. Her grip was strong, like a man’s, and a raised vein snaked down her bicep. This was no girl, no woman, no lady. Jackie joined Mr. Notly at the equipment, and Dad pulled me close and spoke into my ear: “That black bitch is as queer as a two dollar bill. I want you to fight her like a man. Jab her in the
face and keep your fist in her damn face. Make her fat lips fatter.”
While I strapped on my gear, Mr. Notly told us about Jackie: “She’s my number one redbelt.”
“But I’m your number one fighter,” she said, and flashed a smile, revealing a gold front tooth.
“That’s the truth,” Mr. Notly said. “Jackie can defeat any of my male students, and handily.”
“I was a cop in Detroit before I moved south—my bones couldn’t take the winters—and I used to deal with tougher characters on the street than what I face in here. Pimps with pistols, young brothers with knives. I’ve seen it all.”
“But now she only fights in the ring and for money,” Mr. Notly said.
“I’m gonna be the next Female Heavyweight World Champion Kick Boxer.”
I wasn’t sure if this were true, or if they simply wanted to psyche me out; make me begin again as a white belt and take an even longer time to earn my black belt—an even longer time to please Dad. No matter their motive, their tactics weren’t going to work. I might not defeat Jackie, but she was going to know she’d been in a fight. And so was Dad.
“Since neither of you is wearing a cup,” Mr. Notly said, “let’s stay away from kicks to the body. And, Jackie, remember Wesley doesn’t have a mouthpiece, so no knockout punches.” We
bowed to Mr. Notly, to each other, and then Mr. Notly said: “Begin.”
My legs, while strong from jumping on the trampoline, had lost their endurance for bouncing lightly during sparring. I began dancing around but soon found my feet flat and my face a sitting target for Jackie’s punches. Like lightening, three of them struck me, and I heard Dad yelclass="underline" “Move and jab. Or at least move dammit.”
I did the latter, but Jackie followed, and so did her fists. She hit harder than Donnie and Rubin combined. I felt lucky to still be on my feet. My legs, I knew, were not in any condition to
help me move and stay away from Jackie. I’d have to stop and fight. The first break in her flurry of punches I stuck my left arm straight out, aiming for her face, but she deflected it. Instead of
bringing my arm back to my chest, I merely swung it back at her head, catching her on the ear.
The blow didn’t hurt her, but did annoy her. “Stop that shit and fight right,” she said through her mouthpiece.
Fight right? Right fighting was winning. So I kept my left arm extended at her face and moved toward her, crowded her, and to my surprise she retreated. Not hastily, but backward steps
were made. I increased the speed of my attack, waved my left arm as if to punch her; she dropped her guard, and I punched her with my right hand, landing squarely on her right eye. I even twisted my fist like Dad had shown me. Immediately she blocked my right arm down and I stole a quick jab to her nose with my left hand. Another aggravating blow. But my first one had done the most damage: it drew blood.
Jackie, with a deft lift of her lead leg, kicked me in the solar plexus. It landed above the family jewels, but it was a grazing blow that didn’t take full effect for a few moments. When it did, I doubled over, ducking a haymaker of a right hook; Jackie’s momentum threw her off balance and I performed a leg sweep, just like Rubin had done to me in the bathroom, and dropped her to her back. I pounced over her, ready to lay a few punches to her face for the kick to the nads, but Mr. Notly yelled: “Time.”
I stepped away from Jackie, who stood, wiped her blood and then looked at it with a dumbfounded expression. Mr. Notly directed us back to our spots and made us bow to each other and to him.
“What’d you think?” Dad asked.
“Your son is the first person at the dojo to make me bleed,” Jackie said. “And that goes for Mr. Notly, too. Wesley, you all right.” She raised her hand to me and I stared, as dumbfounded as she’d been moments earlier, before I understood she wanted to give me “five.” I held my hand out palm up and Jackie, gold tooth glaring, slapped hit hard, made it sting, then went off to the dressing room to bandage her cut.
“Any boy who can hit Jackie, much less draw blood, put on her back and then have the gall to jump on her, ready to finish the job, deserves to begin at a yellow belt.”
“You’re goddamn right,” Dad said, and clapped his hands once and winked at me. That canvas mat may have only been a step up, but when Dad showed me his approval, I felt as if I were on a ten-foot pedestal.
We didn’t go directly home. This was a victorious moment and we had to celebrate it the best way Dad knew how: steaks. On our drive to IGA, Dad said: “I’m proud of you, son. You handled yourself well back there, and I don’t just mean the fighting. You showed backbone and confidence speaking up for yourself to Notly. That’s what I’ve been preaching to you: take care of number one. Because if you don’t look out for yourself, no one else damn sure is.”
Dad looked at me, his face aglow with warmth—a rare picture. While it continued to glow, his face grew somber. “You know I don’t blame you for what happened. It’s that sonofabitching Rubin. He took advantage of you, of his position, his authority. You understand that, son?”