“I’ll take the boys to tae kwon do,” Mr. Lopez said.
“I’ll take them,” Dad said. “I want to keep my eye on that Bollars.”
Yes, Dad, wanted to keep an eye on Mr. Bollars, but he also wanted to keep one on me.
Mom was the only person Dad let me go off with alone, and he was not letting Mr. Lopez, “friend” yet rival, take me anywhere by himself. I couldn’t even ride the school bus. Dad, with Pal and Mountie on the back of his flatbed truck, dropped me off every morning and picked me up each afternoon when school was in session.
“Besides,” Dad continued, “I’ve got that station wagon. It’ll be easier to fit all of us into it.”
The Lopez’s car was a late 1970s model two-door Ford. It wasn’t sporty at all and I didn’t know the name of it because Dad hated Fords and refused to ever look at them when we car shopped.
“Two boys won’t take up much room,” Mr. Lopez said. “I don’t need a station wagon to carry them.”
“But it’ll be a lot more comfortable in my big car.”
Mr. Lopez looked dumbfounded. Dad grinned.
Walking in the dojo with Rubin, I made a grand entrance, and the fact that I could correctly perform my form, if Mr. Bollars called on me, lended an extra bounce to my strut. Once class started, however, my extra bounce was gone.
“Today,” Mr. Bollars said, “we’ll begin sparring.”
A form—fighting an unseen stranger like a dance—was one thing, but sparring—organized fighting—was something totally different. Why couldn’t he simply have asked me to execute the white belt form?
Before sparring, we had to put on protective gear: foam gloves, foam feet protectors, a mouthpiece, and a cup. Mr. Bollars paired us off by belt, and I prayed not to get Donnie; if he beat me, I’d never hear the end of it that summer or in the fall once we were back in school. The rest of those sandwich-kids—that’s what Dad called all the other white belts because they were so skinny—I could take. But Donnie, ever since the punching class, had my goat. Between being bony and having a face with freckles on top of freckles, Donnie looked as homely as a stray dog, and I bet he could spar like a stray dog fighting over the last bone.
Mr. Bollars, of course, put me against Donnie. We were the last pair to spar and a circle formed around us, which I scanned for Rubin’s face. I saw him, but he didn’t give me any look of recognition. The circle blocked my view of Dad, but after seeing Rubin’s noncommittal face, I didn’t think Dad would give me any more support.
The elastic bands under the bottom of the feet protectors pinched my toes and the ones in the gloves cut into my fingers. I was uncomfortable, sweating, nervous, and didn’t want to fight—spar—in front of Dad. Simply winning would not be good enough. I would have to pulverize my opponent, my much lighter and smaller opponent.
Donnie and I bowed to Mr. Bollars, then to each other, and Mr. Bollars stepped between us with his hand open at waist-level. “Begin!”
I danced on the balls of my feet and made my way right, hoping Donnie would throw the first blow. If he hit me, I’d get angry and strike back. Donnie danced too, but didn’t kick or punch. The circle cheered encouragement, not for either one of us in particular, just in general. I exhaled through my nose and moved toward Donnie. He pulled up his guard, protecting his face, as if it was handsome enough to protect, and I lunged with a front kick, which Donnie countered by raising his leg, and our shins cracked.
I snapped my leg back and placed mild pressure on it. Donnie saw I was hurt and came at me with a whirlwind of punches. I blocked the first few, but he kept throwing punches at my face, so I doubled over and gave him my back.
“Stop!” Mr. Bollars shouted. “Wesley, don’t just ball up. Punch, kick, fight back.”
I was relieved I couldn’t see Dad, and was even more thankful that Dad had stopped taping practice. Seeing me balled up while Donnie unloaded punches would not be good, and Dad, I was certain, would show that to me over and over in slow motion. I wanted to see Rubin’s response, but before I could find his face in the circle, Mr. Bollars had Donnie and me ready to square off again.
When Mr. Bollars said “Begin,” I punched at Donnie’s face. He brought up his hands, blocked me, and countered with a roundhouse punch, catching me over my ear.
The ear-shot didn’t count as a point, but now I was pissed. I sucked in a deep breath over my mouthpiece, and delivered a roundhouse kick that caught Donnie in the butt. A kick to the butt didn’t count for points either, but at least I made contact with him. But before I could make any more contact with him, Donnie landed a punch on my chest.
“Point!” Mr.Bollars said.
He stepped between us and directed us to our starting places at the two strips of black tape on the floor. Donnie and I faced each other, ready for another round, but Mr. Bollars motioned for us to bow to him and called formation.
Was I that bad? Did Mr. Bollars think I couldn’t take any more? He should have simply asked me to do my form.
I took an extra-long time removing the sparring equipment. Dad didn’t like to be kept waiting, but at that moment I didn’t see the harm.
Dad didn’t say anything until he, Rubin, and I were in the station wagon. “You let that sandwich boy beat you.”
I was in the backseat on the passenger side, behind Rubin, and I wanted Rubin to say something in my defense. Donnie, although he was a white belt too, was there when I started classes. Maybe I could use that as an excuse: Donnie was an experienced beginner.
But no excuse would ever be good enough for Dad. We dropped off Rubin, who only said “Thanks” before getting out of the car. I hoped he would say a supportive word, wish me better luck next time, or even give me some pointers on what I was doing wrong. But he barely even looked me in the eye before walking into his house.
I got in the front seat, which was still warm from Rubin’s sweaty body, and stayed as near to the door as possible. I wanted to be on the outer edge of Dad’s striking range in case of a stray
backhand, but there was nowhere to hide in the car from his mouth, and once we were alone in the car he let me have it.
“A boy half your size whipped you. Just flat out whipped you.” Dad squeezed the steering wheel and set his jaw. “Why didn’t you get mad and hit him back?”
“I tried. He blocked me.”
“Why didn’t you block him?
“He’s too fast.”
“No he isn’t. You’re just too damn slow. You’re not strong, you’re not fast; all you are is big. But I’ll make you small. Starting tomorrow.”
CHAPTER 6
The next day we were at the pool. It was late afternoon, close to the time when we headed for the Lopez house, but we were not going today. Nor, Dad informed me, were we going to tae kwon do class. I feared that Dad was about to enact one of his classic make-Wesley-small-plans.
“I want you to swim laps until I tell you to stop,” Dad said.
I studied his face, looking for any change in his expression, and hoped he would restate what he said. When his face didn’t change, I knew that he was going to swim me to death or make me smaller and quicker.
“Go ahead. Dive in.”
I belly-flopped and made a large splash.
“Your ass is so big you can’t get it up in the air to dive.”
I heard his voice as I swam toward the deep end. I heard that comment every time I attempted a dive, but no matter how much I bent my knees and ducked my head, I was never able to split the water like a thin piece of cane; I always kerplunked in like a boulder. Dad’s deriding my diving didn’t bother me that much, because once in the water, I knew how to motor.