Mr. Bollars walked out of his office and into the workout area and the black belt quit hitting the bag. “Formation!” he yelled. Everyone immediately stopped what they were doing and ran to the center of the floor, placing their right arms out to measure the distance between them and the next person. I noticed that all the colored belts ran to the front and the white belts to the back, so I made my way to the back and stuck out my right arm. Although the person next to me was obviously far enough away, I wanted to make sure and do as the others.
Mr. Bollars walked to the front of the class and the black belt bowed to him and stepped to the side, but did not join the rest of us in formation. Mr. Bollars clapped his arms to his sides
and bowed to us. We did the same. Bowing made me feel like I was on my way to fighting like Bruce Lee. But first we had to stretch: we stretched standing, we stretched sitting, and we stretched lying. After stretching, we divided into four teams of a half-dozen people based on our belt colors. There were two red belts, the black belt, Mr. Bollars, and they each took a team and
showed us how to punch. My team had Mr. Bollars and that was good, because if Dad saw one of those red belts teaching me I could hear him yelling out in the middle of the class: “Bollars, what the hell am I paying you for if you’re going to have a red belt kid teach my son?”
Mr. Bollars had us get in a straight line with our feet shoulder-width apart, our fists at the ready just under our chests, and told us to breathe through our noses instead of our mouths.
Several high-pitched nasal whines sounded off around the dojo.
Mr. Bollars inspected our stances, kicking our feet wider apart or closer together, depending on which was needed. I was next to last in the line and everyone before me had their stance corrected. I moved my feet further apart after Mr. Bollars kicked another’s apart. The next person, he moved his feet closer together, and I did likewise. I wanted to be the one who did not
have his feet moved by Mr. Bollars because that would impress Dad, and I hoped that on the drive home he might say: I’m proud of you, son.
But moving my feet every time Mr. Bollars corrected someone’s stance worked against me. By the time he got to me, I had no idea how wide my shoulders were. My left foot felt like it
was too far in, and my right foot felt too far out. Mr. Bollars was about to inspect my stance, and I thought about rearranging my feet for the hundredth time, but decided against it. If I did have
the proper stance, I didn’t want to mess it up.
Mr. Bollars looked me up and down stroking his mustache, and I wasn’t sure if that was a good sign or not. He had stroked his mustache when I told my lie about Roger and James bullying me, so I was pretty sure this act indicated thought. But what was he thinking? Was I in so pitiful of a stance that he was considering telling me to leave? Or was I the first white belt he
had had who nailed the shoulder-width stance?
A swift kick moved my right foot in and answered my question. The ride home would not go as I had hoped. The last boy in line was freckle-faced and bony Donnie. Since we were in
the same group, he had noticed me and had just seen Mr. Bollars correct my stance. He had reddish hair that was cut in a circle around his head and got thicker the higher it went on his head. His gi was too small for him, his pants stopped just below his knees and his shirt barely covered his elbows. But appearances can be misleading.
“Good job, Donnie.”
Donnie smiled and revealed overlapping, jagged teeth. I now had another reason to hate him.
Mr. Bollars faced us, assumed the same stance, breathed deeply through his nose, punched, and the sleeve of his gi snapped.
He had us punch as a group for the next few minutes. We punched a few times and then Mr. Bollars lowered our extended arms if we punched too high and the opposite if we punched too low. My punches were neither too high nor too low. They were crooked.
“Damn boy can’t punch straight!” Dad’s voice silenced the dojo. Mr. Bollars walked toward Dad and stopped at the metal tube.
“Mr. Royal, I can’t have you yelling out and using that type of language in front of my students.”
“But he can’t even punch straight. I knew I shouldn’t have wasted money on lessons.”
I wished Dad’s tongue would fall out. It was one thing for him to run me down at home; I could take my lumps without an audience. But now there was one, and they—especially Donnie
who pointed and laughed—took turns casting their eyes on me. I wondered if Mr. Bollars was going to make us leave. He stroked his mustache again, so I knew he was thinking. I hoped he’d come to a decision before Dad reached full rampage.
“Señor, it is your son’s first night of tae kwon do.” It was the Hispanic man. He scooted to the chair next to Dad. “You can’t expect him to be perfect.”
“I can expect a twelve-year old boy big enough to go bear hunting with a switch to punch straight.”
“He will,” Mr. Bollars said. “All he needs is practice.”
“That is all,” the Hispanic man said. “Then he will be a black belt like my Rubin.”
“Not if he can’t punch straight,” Dad answered
“Stop disturbing the class,” Mr. Bollars said, “and I’ll teach him to punch properly.”
Dad gripped the metal tube. If he stood, I could kiss tae kwon do lessons good bye, because Dad would jump on Mr. Bollars, who, I thought, sensed this and took a step back. Dad’s knuckles turned white on the black tube, but he didn’t stand.
Mr. Bollars came back to us and stood in front of me, and while my back was to Dad, thanks to the mirrors lining the back wall, Dad was still in my line of sight. The Hispanic man spoke to Dad, who often grinned for short bursts, and then his face would turn serious for a moment before another grin broke it up. Dad, after a few more words and grins, let go of the metal tube.
Mr. Bollars paired off the other students and had them work on their punching while he started back at the beginning with me. Feet shoulder-width apart, knees bent, and hands balled
into fists resting chest high. Mr. Bollars stood closely, and his body blocked the mirrors, so although I knew Dad could see me, I was relieved that I couldn’t see him.
“I want you to punch slowly, Wesley. With your right hand, punch me over the heart.”
Easy enough, but I hit Mr. Bollars’s shoulder.
“Try again, Wesley. Just take a deep breath and punch for my heart.”
A deep breath? Bruce Lee, when he whipped butt in the movie, didn’t take any deep breaths. He did some yells though, and those yells always came before he laid out some poor sap.
“Hiiiii-yaaaah!” Softly, my fist landed over Mr. Bollars’s heart.
Just as Dad’s voice brought the dojo to a standstill, so, too, did my yell. Mr. Bollars’s eyes grew wide and a thin smile emerged from under his mustache. “When you yell, you punch