“What you want, mister?” The question was meant for Ben, but the kid never took his eyes off John.
“I’ve got ten dollars in my pocket says not one of you can whip my boy. Any takers?”
The kid who’d approached didn’t hesitate “I’ll take your money, mister.”
“Good. Just a few rules. Only you fight my son. Anyone else jumps in, no money. Any weapons come out, no money. If you do pull out a weapon or jump in, I don’t care if you’re a kid or not, I’m going to kick your ass. And finally, if you lose, no money.”
“I ain’t gonna lose, mister.”
The group formed a circle around John and the boy—whose name turned out to be Levi, as in “Beat his ass, Levi.”
Ben shouted, “Lift up your shirts and turn out your pockets, both of you. Any weapons, no fight.” They did as told. John noticed how much more developed Levi appeared to be. John had the body of a child while Levi was beginning to look like a man. Despite his years of training, John was scared.
Ben put his hands on his son’s shoulders, leaned down, and whispered, “Let him come to you, and don’t forget to breathe.” His father stepped away and simply announced, “Fight!”
Levi danced around on the balls of his feet in a boxer’s stance: “I’m going to jack you up. Your daddy oughta give me that ten dollars now and save you a broken mouth.” Levi followed his words with an overhand right. John had been through the drill so many times he didn’t even think, his body just acted. He slapped the punch to the inside with his left hand and slid in behind Levi’s right shoulder. Behind him, John slipped his right arm under Levi’s chin and grabbed his own left bicep. His left hand went behind Levi’s head and he squeezed. Feeling his opponent go limp, John released Levi and watched him crumple to the ground. The seconds-long fight silenced the circle of spectators. Knowing Levi would soon regain consciousness, John locked his opponent’s shoulder, elbow, and wrist, then waited for the inevitable. Levi woke in a compromising position with little recollection of what had occurred.
“What happened?”
“You lost,” John answered.
“Bullshit, I…” Levi didn’t finish the sentence as John applied pressure to the back of his opponent’s hand, causing excruciating pain in both his wrist and elbow joints. “Okay…Okay…You win.”
Thorpe won the fight in a matter of seconds without having to throw a single punch. His father walked over, put twenty dollars in Levi’s hand, told him he’d earned it, and left with his son.
“Good fight, son. One thing: I don’t think you took a breath until I paid Levi his money. If it’d been a long fight, you wouldn’t have lasted. Your muscles need oxygen. Otherwise, good job. How do you feel?”
“Okay. He didn’t even hit me,” John answered, looking up at his father from the passenger seat.
“I’m not talking about physically.” His father tapped his temple with his index finger. “I mean how do you feel up here?”
“A little bad, I guess. I mean…he didn’t really deserve that. I probably embarrassed him in front of his friends.”
“Good, Johnny. I don’t ever want you to start a fight—just end ‘em. I started that fight not you. You’re a good boy, Johnny, and you’re going to stay that way…understand?” It was a statement not a question.
Whatever Ben did for a living, he didn’t want his son to be involved in any way. The secret fights continued, and John’s opponents got bigger and older until he was fighting grown men. Some fights were easy, and some John lost. More than a few resulted in contusions and lacerations that had to be hidden from his mother.
In addition to fighting, Ben taught his son relaxation techniques, survival and navigational skills and made him proficient with a variety of weapons and firearms. All the martial arts and boxing schools he attended had been miles away from home and been paid for in cash. Ben always enrolled his son under an assumed last name. If John had ever bragged about his training or started fights at school, he would have been sharply disciplined. Ben was a living, breathing manifestation of the book The Art of War. Many of the teachings imparted from father to son were principles of war craft.
“You should never let your potential enemies learn of your capabilities, son. The less they know about you the better.” John often wondered why his father was so intent on him learning these principles, yet pushed for John to become a “nine-to-fiver.” Ben had many responses, most of which were along the lines, “You never know what life is going to throw at you.” Or when his father was in a particularly dark mood: “Son, dynasties, empires, and civilizations have been collapsing since the dawn of time—the mightiest from the inside out. Why should the U.S. of A be any different?”
But there were lighter times as well; family vacations, weekend outings, camping, and lots of horseplay. Ben’s long absences were an emotional stain on his wife, but they rarely fought, and their love for each other was obvious. Still, things hadn’t ended well.
At sixteen, John already outweighed his father by fifteen pounds but was still a heavy underdog in their sparring sessions. By then, John was the one testing the instructors when trying out new schools. He held his own for the simple reason the teacher had immersed himself in a single discipline while John had been cross trained in a variety of arts. John would simply find a weakness in the particular discipline and exploit it. It was during this time father and son had gone out for another “fishing trip.”
On this outing, one of the fish produced a knife and inflicted several slashing wounds across John’s arms and torso. Ben had been moving in to rescue his son, when John secured the wrist of his assailant with one hand and drove the thumb of his other into the man’s eye. As if scooping out the inside of a pumpkin, John thrust his thumb as deep into the socket as he could. Ben grabbed his son and fled. Certain the knife-wielding man was dead or dying, Ben feared taking John to the hospital. So his father drove him home, and the cat clawed its way out of the bag.
Ben and Margaret cleansed his wounds as best they could. Luckily, the blade hadn’t penetrated deep enough to puncture anything vital, and Ben possessed a well-equipped combat medical kit that included local anesthetics as well as antibiotics. Though the injuries were not immediately life-threatening, they were going to leave lifelong scars, especially since Ben himself crudely sewed up his son. Ben was forced to explain why their fishing trips rarely resulted in bringing home any catch. After accepting a bottle of antibiotics and further instructions on how to care for her son, Margaret kicked Ben out of the house.
John’s sister, Marilyn, had been sequestered to her room while his mother fretted over Johnny for three days and nights. The fear her son would be sent to prison prevented Margaret from taking him to the hospital. A week later, when John was recovering with no signs of infection, she allowed Ben back in the house, but relegated him to the basement. Things were never again the same between his father and mother.
Alone with his son, Ben asked, “How do you feel?”
“Dad, the thing I feel worst about is I don’t really feel much at all.”
“It was my fault, son, and mine alone. You did what you had to do to survive. You’re a good boy, Johnny, and you always will be.”
The incident would never be mentioned again. His mother and father were cordial, but Ben’s sleeping quarters remained in the basement, and he was no longer allowed to leave the house alone with his son. Four months later, Ben left for a deployment and never returned. John hadn’t seen or heard from his father since. As the months passed, John began to resent his mother; he secretly blamed her for his father’s leaving.
One night he heard his mother sobbing in her bedroom and went to her side. She’d lost a great deal of weight over the previous month, and her eyes had become dull and sunken. Thorpe put his hand on his mom’s shoulder, which prompted her to speak.