Chapter 8

Hector sat in the food court at a table big enough for two. He was alone. He was wearing clothes he’d recently bought at a thrift store. They were baggy, non-descript, and they hid the shape of his body well. After all, he had no intention of frightening anyone off, did he? He was eating a sandwich he’d bought at the Subway there, and he was also watching someone. The man was dressed in a gi, though not like the ones Hector or George wore in class. This one was starched and pressed, with the patches of different organizations on the arm sleeves. It wasn’t made to be gripped or pulled on, and it tied shut with small strings sewn into the inside of the lapel. It was meant to look clean, neat, and presentable.

The mall had been throwing the Health Fair every year for a decade now. Besides the normal mass of customers, there was also a new crowd attracted to the dozens of kiosks that would be there for only a day. Many of them were for gyms, spas, or health food stores. Any business in Fairfield that claimed to be concerned for their customer’s health had a presence there. Hector knew, from having been to the mall on these bustling days before, that there would be martial artists as well.

Hector finished his sandwich and started for the man in the pressed gi. He was tall, taller than Hector by at least a head, a fact Hector decided was worth remembering. He was lean, but not large by any means. He had his arms crossed in front of his chest, and he held himself with an air Hector had seen before in some doctors or college professors. He stood under a bright banner featuring pictures of children and adults kicking and jumping and blocking and breaking boards. Beneath the pictures were the words “Teaching Martial Arts for over Twenty Years!” Hector took note of that as well.

“You interested in learning how to defend yourself?” asked the man in the gi. He unfolded his arms and placed them on his hips. Hector thought he saw the man puff out his chest a little.

“Yeah, maybe. What do you teach?” Hector said. He’d kept his voice softer and lower than he normally did. The man had to lean in to hear him over the buzzing crowd.

Hector listened as the man explained his school’s particular variety of super-effective Taekwondo and reality-based self-defense program. He’d heard these descriptions many times before, especially over the past month, and each sensei or instructor said very much the same things as all the others. Yet, they acted as though what they were describing was totally unique. Hector had heard “only street proven techniques” and “the same training techniques as the Navy Seals” more times over the past four weeks than he cared to count. But he was listening for something very specific, something that truly would make this man’s dojo different from so many others Hector had investigated.

“Have you ever fought people who use different styles?” Hector asked. He tried to hide his excitement to hear the answer to this particular question.

“Oh, yeah,” guffawed the man in the pressed gi. “I’ve fought practitioners of about every martial art out there. You name it: Karate, Kung fu, Judo, those MMA bone heads. I’ve beaten them all.” The man waved his hand dismissively. “A lot of people have tried to come challenge me. I don’t even mind. My doors are always open to any challenge, you know? Even to those guys that try to take you down to the ground and stuff.”

“Wow,” Hector said. He hoped his facial expression made him look impressed. “What do you do when they do that?”

“I just don’t let the fight go to the ground. For most people, that’s a terrible idea anyway. But if they ever did, I’d just knock them out before they tried their submissions or whatever. I’m a champion board and brick breaker, so when I hit, you’re guaranteed to feel it.”

You’ll do perfectly, Hector thought. Hector feigned interest and took a business card that offered two weeks of free lessons if he brought that card with him to class. He left the pressing, surging crowds and went to his car outside. From his glove box he withdrew a yellow pad of lined paper. It was blank until he wrote “Mind & Body Black Belt Academy” in black ink.

It was the first item on what Hector hoped would eventually become a long list.

 

“Alright, guys. Let’s get lined up,” Ricardo said to the class.

George, drenched in sweat and stifling in his gi, hauled himself to his feet off the blue mat and dragged his feet to his spot in a line that faced Ricardo, who was standing at the front of the room. The line was fifty people long, and every one of them were just as sweaty and haggard as George was. The line was arranged by rank, with the most junior white belts standing near the door and Scott Brown standing at the end nearest the office. Hector was one of only two brown belts who stood beside Scott.

It was the end of class, and it had been a hard one. George had faced one classmate from each belt level that night, and the sessions had been unusually long. He wasn’t sure, but he had the suspicion that Ricardo had arranged the match-ups that way on purpose, and that he’d been watching him a lot that evening. George wondered if Ricardo was trying to work him harder than anyone else that night. Did it have to do with George’s outburst at dinner a few weeks earlier? George didn’t think so, but he wasn’t sure. His relationship with Ricardo had been different since that night. They didn’t talk as much. George had only come to dinner a few times since then, and he dodged Mrs. Gracia’s warm-hearted invitations as often as he could without seeming evasive. After all, he’d been putting a lot of hours in at work.

“All of us should have goals for our training,” said Ricardo to his line of panting, sweating students.

This was how he typically ended a class. It was part of the training routine. While students tried to recover from the rigors of their training, Ricardo would often lecture them on this or that virtue, or this or that aspect of his family’s Jiu-jitsu history. Then they would “pay respects”, as Ricardo liked to say it, to the wall of flags and photos and then to each other by doing a simple bow. That would dismiss the class.

“That’s what drives us to improve. To be better. To be happier. To be healthier. We all need to have goals,” Ricardo continued.

George wasn’t completely listening. He looked up every once in a while just long enough to catch pieces of what Ricardo was saying, but he couldn’t focus for long. His mind was caught up in no particular thing, either. Just many things. His job. His girlfriend, Summer. Hector and their plans to carry on the challenge matches together. He only really paid attention when Ricardo said his name.

“George, come up here.”

George hesitated, he hadn’t heard what Ricardo had said before he’d been called on. Were they demonstrating a technique? Or did Ricardo know he wasn’t paying attention and call him up to make an example out of him? George noticed that all of the eyes of the class were on him. Many of them were smiling. He looked at Hector. Hector was smiling, too. Then George was sure he was being made an example.

He adjusted his gi and tightened the mangled, stained, four-striped white belt around his waist and trotted up to the front of the class. Ricardo grabbed him by the shoulders and turned him so they were facing one another. Then, with both hands, Ricardo began untying and removing George’s belt.

“When you first came to this class, George, I had certain expectations of you. Even though I didn’t expect you to know any Jiu-jitsu, I expected you to learn quickly. I knew you would be at a disadvantage when rolling with the other students, that you would find yourself tired and on the bottom a lot while rolling with them, but I expected you to learn how to survive. I expected you to study submissions and sweeps and passes, not only so you could do them yourself, but so you could know what your opponent needed in order to achieve them. I expected you to deny your opponents those things they needed in order to hurt you. That is the goal of every Jiu-jitsu fighter: to survive. White belts or black belts, survival is always our first priority.”

Ricardo had removed George’s belt, and George’s gi now hung open like a bath robe. Ricardo carefully folded the belt so the stripes were on the top and handed it to George. When George took it from him, he saw Scott trot over from his place in line and hand something to Ricardo. It was a blue belt.

“You’ve grown, George. You eventually met my expectations and then began to exceed them. You learned how to survive. But now I have new expectations of you.”

George raised his heavy, tired arms in the air as Ricardo began to tie the belt around his waist. He realized he was smiling.

“I now expect you to do more than just survive. I expect you to use your knowledge of sweeps and escapes to turn the tables on your opponents. I expect you to take their advantages and their leverage away from them, and to put yourself in positions where you can control them.”

Ricardo pulled the knot tight, and George looked down at the strip of blue that now encircled his waist. He’d never actually put any thought into when he would advance in rank, or what it would feel like when he did. His job, girlfriend, and plans were far from his mind. All he could think of now was that belt, and perhaps how he wished his father could be there to see him get it.

“George,” Ricardo continued, “have no illusions about what this belt means. It doesn’t mean you’re a better fighter. It means I expect you to become one.”

Ricardo reached one hand into George’s lapel, and then the other. George had no idea what he was doing until he felt his lapel tighten and his vision begin to go dark. It was a cross-collar choke. George had no idea why Ricardo was trying to choke him, so he did the first thing that came to his mind. He tapped out.

At once the choke loosened, and George felt Ricardo pull him close and hug him. The class erupted in applause and laughter. George realized the choke was probably a tradition for those receiving new belts. He was relieved he hadn’t tried to fight back or panic.

Soon he was grinning and laughing, too. First Scott came to congratulate him, and then the rest of the class. Some shook his hand, and others slapped him on the back. More than a few outright hugged him. George couldn’t blame them. Something in him told him that the two-inch-wide piece of blue fabric around his waist was something to be proud of, though he couldn’t exactly say why. It just felt good.

When Hector came to congratulate him, he hugged him as well.

“I’ve got something for you,” he heard Hector whisper. “I’ll give it to you later. Congrats.”

 

As usual, Hector left with the others at the end of class, only to return an hour later when George was alone in the academy. This was normally the time when they trained together, even after Hector won his title defense fight, and they drilled the things Hector told him were important skills in MMA that were seldom or never covered in Jiu-jitsu classes with Ricardo. This time, however, Hector wasn’t dressed to train. He came in his street clothes carrying a cardboard box.

“Congrats again on your belt,” said Hector, setting the box on the floor. “I was more excited about getting my blue belt than I was about getting my brown belt.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. I guess the magic wears off after you’ve been in a few more years. The experience just changes the way you see fighting. Anyway, enjoy it.”

George pointed to the box. “What’s in it?” he asked.

Hector used his keys to rip open the tape that held it shut for shipping. He pulled something made of white fabric from it and tossed it to George. It was a gi.

“Wow. Thanks a lot,” George said. And he meant it. He’d been using the same gi that he’d received from Ricardo his first day in California. It was good enough, but the top was a little too long and the fabric was beginning to wear in some places from being gripped and pulled and twisted. This new gi was nice, made of tough, soft fabric and reinforced stitching along the seams. George was excited.

“Look at the shoulders,” Hector said, pointing. “Recognize anything?”

He did. An orange and blue face was emblazoned there with fangs that were nearly tusks and horns and eyes that burned like embers. It was an oni, and it was George’s design. He’d got the idea when he saw an internet image of a Japanese mask. He supposed it was their version of the boogey man or the devil or something. He’d drawn it and handed it to Hector weeks ago, thinking it would make a nice t-shirt. He decided it was even cooler on a gi, now that he was seeing it.

Below the oni face was “DEMONIC MARTIAL ARTS” in blue, with the letters “ONI” of the first word in orange. With the oni face above it, the image was striking against the white fabric of the gi.

“Mine’s in black,” said Hector. “It still has your design, though. It’s in red and white.”

George was in love. He couldn’t wait to wear his. “Is this what we’re wearing to, you know?”

“The challenge matches? Yeah. We’ll make a strong impression and we won’t tip anyone off that we’re from this place.”

George folded the gi neater than he’d ever folded any of his clothing before and put it back in the cardboard box.

“So, did you find anybody for us to fight?” he asked.

“As a matter of fact I did. It took a while to find the right one to start with, but I did. And you’ll be fighting him.”

George hadn’t expected this. “Me?” he  asked, pointing to himself. “You’re the champion. You should do the fighting.”

Hector didn’t say anything for a moment. He simply looked at George. To George, it almost looked as if Hector were glaring at him.

“George, why are we doing these challenge matches?”

George shrugged. They did seem like a great idea. They were exciting. They were interesting. And, since George was a Jiu-jitsu fighter, they gave him something to cheer for. He tried to explain this, but it came out jumbled and confused. To himself, it sounded like he had no idea what he was talking about.

Hector just shook his head. “You don’t get it yet. George, this isn’t about seeing which style is better. Jiu-jitsu or Kung fu. Jiu-jitsu or Karate. Whatever. This is about you. We’re trying to make you into a better fighter. We can’t do that if you’re not competing.”

George nodded his head, but he didn’t say anything. He hated it when Hector talked this way. He hated it that everything he was taught in class with Ricardo seemed to go out the window when he trained with Hector. It bothered him, because they both sounded right, and it somehow felt wrong to agree with both of them.

“So the plan is we’ll go as soon as you train up a little. I think you’re ready, but it couldn’t hurt to spend a few more days drilling. Especially your striking defense.”

“Why?” George asked. “What kind of fighter is he?”

Hector smiled. “He’s a pure striker. This is going to be a classic match-up.”

 

They did train George’s striking defense. The first thing George had to get used to was being hit, especially while on the ground. Hector would pound on George from on top of George’s own defensive position, the guard. George would try to stop the blows by sweeping him, and if he couldn’t, by blocking the punches and elbows with any body part he had available: hands, feet, shins, or shoulder. George thought it was jarring and confusing at first, but before long he was using his own legs like shields to stop and trap Hector’s falling fists before they could collide with his face.

They drilled standing techniques, too. Blocking with the arms and legs, protecting vulnerable areas like the head, liver, kidneys, and ribs. Blocking and shooting at the same time to catch the opponent off balance. Everything imaginable. George was getting good at it. He was also getting tender and bruised.

“George, what happened to you?” Ricardo asked. He lifted George’s chin to inspect the light bruise on his left cheekbone.

George had been worried that this would happen. Whenever Hector got hurt at one of his fights, he had the good sense not to show up to class until it was gone. And he could make up any story he wanted. He was sick. He was busy with work. Or he just didn’t feel like going. But George lived above the academy. He couldn’t miss a class without notice.

“Did someone punch you in the face?” Ricardo asked.

“It was Fletcher,” George lied impulsively. “He didn’t punch me, he just accidently head-butted me while we were rolling last class. It’s no big deal, though.” He immediately felt bad.

Fletcher, one of the first people George had ever rolled with, stood up and walked over with a concerned look on his face. “Gee, George, I didn’t even know I’d done it,” he apologized. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t worry about it,” George said. “It doesn’t even hurt.”

“Just be careful next time you roll,” said Ricardo. “This is why we only train fifty to sixty percent. To prevent these kinds of accidents. Just be mindful of that while we roll.”

“Sure thing, boss,” answered Fletcher. He patted George on the back and went back to his place on the mat, where he’d been drilling sweeps with a purple belt.

George felt awful. He decided to never lie in a way that would get anyone else in trouble again. But somehow he knew he still wouldn’t feel right if he did lie.

 

“So you lied to him?” blurted Summer. They were sitting across from each other at a table outside the sandwich deli where Ricardo had treated him to breakfast his first day in Vacaville. They were eating lunch together while she was on break, like they usually did.

“I didn’t mean to get anyone in trouble. And besides, he’s not really in trouble, is he? Fletcher just got a mild talking-to. I still feel bad, though.” It was hard to defend his position to Summer. She was a moral purist, one of the reasons he liked her so much. But it meant that it was hard to explain things like this to her. It felt good to confide in someone, though. Even if she didn’t agree with him.

“Well, that’s not the point, is it? You told a lie at someone else’s expense.” She took another bite of her sandwich. “That’s a really slippery slope, once you get on it. I wouldn’t do it anymore if I were you.”

He knew she was right, even if he didn’t know why. It felt right. He had no idea where she got her preconceptions of right and wrong, but he’d learned over the past few weeks to trust them. He thought he might ask her someday. It never occurred to him that she might not be there forever.

“You’re right,” he admitted.

“Of course I’m right,” she said. “Now, this thing. The thing with you and your friend, Hector.” She’d met him a couple of times. “Are you going to go through with it?”

“Yeah. Why wouldn’t I? It’s not wrong. We’re only going to be fighting people that accept our challenges. And it’s just so I can get better. And I think it’ll help me have a little more trust in my Jiu-jitsu.”

She balled up the paper wrapper her sandwich had come in. she threw it at the nearby trash can and missed. “Why is that so important to you?” she asked, turning to him again.

He shrugged. “I don’t know. Maybe I have a future in fighting or something. Maybe I want to start doing MMA stuff and competing for a living.” He’d finally said it to someone. He hadn’t dared to say it out loud before. That he thought of nothing but martial arts and Jiu-jitsu while he was awake, and that he dreamed about it while he was asleep. Maybe it was because he lived at the academy, and had been training nearly every day since he’d arrived at the beginning of the summer. And he was good at it. Hector was a local champion, and he could challenge him in a fight. Couldn’t he go places? Couldn’t he also have a future in fighting, like he was sure Hector would have? Like Ricardo already had before?

“I think that’s not a good idea.”

George looked at Summer, wide eyed. “Why not? It’s something I like, and I’m good at it.”

She stood from the table and grabbed his hand. As she pulled, he stood too and began walking next to her. They weren’t going anywhere in particular.

“I know you’re good at it. But, how many people actually make a living just with fighting alone? With no day job?”

He shrugged.

“Isn’t there anything else you want to do? Besides fighting?”

He shrugged again.

She sighed. She wanted to pursue this. To make him understand that she wasn’t going to be around in a year. That she had plans. But she decided to let that wait for another time. When he would be more ready to talk about it. For now, George obviously had other things on his mind and he wanted to keep them there.

            “So. Hector or Ricardo. You promised one you wouldn’t compete, and you promised the other you would.” She looked at his face.

            “I didn’t promise, really, but yeah,” he said. He kicked a small, broken piece of broken concrete with his shoe. He must’ve kicked it harder than he’d meant to, because it clattered and bounced a long way, eventually bouncing back and forth between a concrete bench and the outer of wall of a linen store. Both he and Summer watched it rattle between the two hard places, unsure of where to go. Then it suddenly stopped.

            “I don’t know, George. It’s not a simple thing. You told two people different things and you can’t really take it back. And they both trust you. But, Ricardo is family. He gave you a place to stay.”

            “And Hector’s my friend. My best friend.”

            She nodded. “True. I don’t know.”

            But George knew. He knew exactly what he was going to do. He would fight the Taekwondo man in the challenge match. And he would pray Ricardo wouldn’t find out.