was one of conquest. I glared at him, trying to imitate those evil eyes Dad made when he was angry. Donnie dropped his smile.
My body still ached from all of the swimming Dad had me doing. That initial day of marathon swimming was followed by a thirty-minute session of non-stop swimming each following day. Dad wanted me to swim two thirty-minute sessions, one in the morning and one in the evening, but Mom told him that one was enough. “He’s only a boy,” she said. “You can’t work him like a mule.”
“He’s big as a mule.”
“Big don’t mean nothing. He’s still just a boy, no matter how big he is.”
Dad, to monitor my swimming, sat at the wrought-iron table in the shade of an umbrella, drinking a Michelob and timing me to make sure I didn’t slack off. When I slowed, Dad yelled, “Don-nie. Don-nie,” dragging the name out into two long syllables. The sound made me stroke and kick, thinking about when I’d get another chance at him.
I soon found out. Mr. Bollars announced that our belt tests would be next week.
“You will have to demonstrate proficiency at your belt’s form and achieve a satisfactory score in three rounds of sparring,” Mr. Bollars said. “And tonight, in preparation for the test, we will have a forms competition and sparring tournament.”
Mr. Bollars and Rubin split the class in half for the forms, and I wasn’t sure which one of them would be best to grade my form. Remembering my early troubles with the form, Mr. Bollars might not expect me to execute it well. Rubin had taught me how to properly perform it, but because of that he might judge me more harshly. Mr. Bollars and Rubin spoke at the front of the dojo and I held my breath. Mr. Bollars called all the white belts to him. I exhaled.
We went in alphabetical order, so I was last. Donnie went close to the middle, and he did his form well, not stellar, but it would be probably good enough to pass the test next week.
A thin speckling of sweat covered my hands and the soles of my bare feet as I stood in front of Mr. Bollars and the rest of my group sat on the floor behind me. They had seen me screw up this form, Mr. Bollars had seen me screw up this form, but now it was time they saw me do it perfectly. Counting one-two-three in my head I threw straight punches, snapped my front kicks, and ended with my feet shoulder-width apart back where I began.
“You’ve been practicing, Wesley,” Mr. Bollars said.
“Yes, sir.”
“That’s good. Real good improvement.”
I looked at Dad to see if he heard. He gave me thumbs up.
To duplicate the setting of our test, Mr. Bollars had us spar three rounds with three different opponents. He conducted the sparring while Rubin helped him judge, calling for a point when we connected our punches or kicks. My first two opponents were half my size. The first one, a long-haired boy whose bangs hung in his eyes, had gusto, but I had to beat him because Dad would never let me hear the end of it if I lost to a hippie, which was Dad’s term for any boy whose hair touched his collar.
The long-haired boy’s name was Jack and he had been present at my last sparring match with Donnie. Evidently, having seen how Donnie handled me gave Jack cause to believe that he could do the same. He attacked as soon as Mr. Bollars signaled for us to start. He stepped toward me ready to punch, but I punched him in the face. I needed three points to win my match, and each jab I connected to Jack’s face was worth a point. He walked into my fist two more times, ending our match in under a minute. Jabbing wasn’t fancy, but it got me points and earned me a little bit of respect. Thanks, Dad.
Jabbing worked against Jack, so I did it again on my second opponent, Cody, a blond boy with braces. I jabbed him for my first point, then used abdomen-high front kicks for my final two points. My legs, sore when I started, loosened up just as they had on my second day of swimming. And Dad’s plan to make me quicker worked because my jabs landed on these small,
darting opponents.
I sat on the floor, waiting for my third opponent, and watched all the other white belts spar for a third time, except for Donnie. Mr. Bollars, just like a shrewd fight promoter, waited to
have us fight at the end. Although we were white belts and lacked the grace and elegant moves of the higher belts, we had history.
I took my mark across from Donnie, and repeated in my head: Be aggressive, be aggressive. I was going to beat Donnie to the fuck.
Mr. Bollars gave us the signal to begin, and I moved straight at Donnie with my left arm leading the way. Donnie danced to the side and I followed him, all the time closing the distance between us. I jabbed, Donnie blocked it, but didn’t counter. I jabbed again and he blocked it again. But he still didn’t follow it up with a punch or a kick. My sleeve snapped a tad with a third jab. It didn’t land, but the force reeled Donnie back a step, and I followed him. He blocked another jab but missed my front kick, which landed solidly above his belt and doubled him over.
“Point!” Rubin yelled.
We got back on our marks, but before we bowed to each other to begin the second round, Donnie held up his hand, and said he needed a minute.
“Can you continue?” Mr. Bollars asked. Not waiting for a reply, Mr. Bollars gave Donnie a quick once-over, poking and prodding his stomach and face.
“I’m ready,” Donnie said.
Again, I lunged at Donnie, but he expected me to be on the offensive and easily stepped back. His face didn’t show the worry I thought it should. His face was red and shone with sweat, but I couldn’t tell he was a point down to the boy he had humiliated days earlier. And he wasn’t a point down much longer. When I lunged, I rocked forward off balance—if he hadn’t moved back, I would have been on balance because I’d have hit him and he’d have held me up. Instead, Donnie caught my ribs with a kick.
Breath rushed over my mouthpiece and out my mouth. If this felt anything like the kick I had given him, I understood why he had taken a minute. I, however, did not double over, though I did wince. Donnie and I were even on points, but not so with confidence. What if he connected with two more quick strikes? My jab wasn’t working on him. Did Donnie know the secret to beating Dad’s jab?
This time I didn’t lunge for Donnie and he didn’t come at me until he realized I wasn’t attacking him, and then came his whirlwind of punches, his bony arms and elbows flying around my head. My guard was down protecting my ribs, so he connected with his first punch, and Rubin called the point. I was a punch or kick away from losing to Donnie again. And if I did, I couldn’t face Dad or the rest of the dojo. I’d give up tae kwon do and Dad would have to give up his dream of a black belt son.
I didn’t take a minute, but I didn’t step up to my mark right away. I used the time for a few shallow breaths and looked Donnie in the face. I always had trouble looking people in the face, invading their space, getting into their heads, but I wanted into Donnie’s ugly head. Get into his head, get to him; get to him, beat him. Donnie’s eyes were small and sad like the quails’.
I squinted, and his face wasn’t much bigger than a quail’s head. Donnie was an overgrown quail. I bash quail heads, I told myself. I took my mark and didn’t take my eyes off Donnie’s face. The longer I stared at him, his eyes began to waver. I aimed for his eyes with a fake jab; he blocked it but lowered his guard to do so. I followed with a right cross aimed for his temple, figuring if I missed low there was still the whole side of his face to hit. I found his cheek and made sure to twist my fist when it hit flesh; Rubin yelled “Point,” and Donnie dropped to the floor. I looked down at him and a thin crimson line trickled down his cheek. Dad would be proud.