Chapter 9

The leaves were changing. George watched as they passed by in blurs of orange and yellow and brown mixing with the still-green leaves that seemed to be clinging to the summer that had already passed. Many of the trees were completely changed to another color except for the splashes of green that Summer had told him were actually mistletoe, a parasitic plant that stayed green through the winter. Funny, George thought, that these are the plants everyone associated with romance during the Christmas season.

            “This is the place,” announced Hector. He pulled the car into the parking lot of a grocery store. In the row of shops that flanked it on either side, George saw their target. A sign read “Mind & Body Black Belt Academy”. He wondered why all martial art places he’d ever seen were in strip malls.

            “So they know we’ll be here today?” asked George. Now that they’d come to it, he had no idea how all this was supposed to work. He’d watched the videos on YouTube of the challenge fights themselves, but he’d never actually seen how they were organized or agreed upon.

            “Don’t worry about it,” said Hector when George asked. “I think I have it all sorted out. Just be ready to fight when I tell you.”

            “I’m fighting?” George asked. “You sure? You’re the champion.”

            “Exactly. Because I’ve fought enough to get there. Now we need to get you there too.”

            George nodded. He supposed that was what he wanted all along. A chance to prove himself. Now it was here, he didn’t quite know what to think.

            Then he wondered what his opponent must think, whoever he was.

 

            Master Gerris watched the two boys enter the doors of his training center, and he immediately knew why they were here. Whereas all of his students bowed upon entering the doors, these two did not. They could’ve been visitors, interested in one or more of the self-defense or fitness programs that Gerris had invented himself, except they had a look about them that said they had absolutely no interest in what was going on around them. Their eyes were scanning the room, looking for someone. For him, no doubt. To challenge him.

            The young man who’d called him on the phone several weeks ago never gave a name. But Gerris was sure one of the two was him. They finally saw him, spoke a few words to each other Gerris couldn’t hear, and swaggered towards his office, where Gerris sat with the door open. Both young men had a similar dark complexion, their eyes and hair the same in color, but they were probably unrelated. One of them had sloping shoulders but short, powerful limbs. The other looked softer, but his shoulders were broader, and his face more boyish. They were the same height. They were both wearing thick gis of good quality, one of them black, the other white. They looked new.  As they came closer Gerris could see a patch on the shoulder of both uniforms. A Japanese demon mask, he thought, above words he didn’t make out until later.

            Master Gerris, fifth degree black belt and head instructor of Mind & Body Black Belt Academy, stood and walked to meet his challengers.

            “You must be Mark Gerris,” said the one in black. “We’re here for the challenge.”

            Master Gerris scowled in a way that he was sure was imperceptible.  It irked him this young man would call him by anything other than his rank. All of his students and their parents knew to call him “Master Gerris”. It was right and proper to address one so accomplished in the martial arts. To neglect that propriety was evidence of these boys’ rudeness and ignorance.

            Gerris smiled and shook their hands. “Of course. We’ll begin as soon as this class finishes.” Beside them, on a firm, padded training floor, one of Gerris’s assistant instructors led an adult’s advanced class. “It should end in fifteen minutes. My advanced students will probably want to see this.”

            Master Gerris directed the young men to a place where they could put their things and remove their shoes. Then he retired to his office and closed the door. He removed his official uniform, an ornate, white gi with gleaming patches and insignias that bore the name of his school and the Taekwondo organization he’d come up in. He dug out of his closet a simpler gi, one with fewer patches, and a simple black belt. He’d hate it if his formal belt was ruined somehow. Once he’d won he’d wear his formal gi again so his students could take photos.

            Master Gerris prided himself on his keen eye for martial arts. He loved the fact that he could watch any student perform a drill or form or sparring match and instantly know what they were doing wrong. He could even watch someone not from his school and tell what style they practiced and how they could improve. With these boys, he could tell without even watching them fight. He could tell by the make of their gis and their impropriety that these two boys most likely studied MMA or Brazilian Jiu-jitsu. They lacked the manners or the formality to be from any other style. And that suited Gerris just fine.

            Gerris had already fought an MMA practitioner before. He’d been unimpressed. All he’d had to do was keep his distance until he got his opening. And he was sure he’d get his opening. Weren’t all MMA fighters sloppy and unrefined? The moment they dropped their hands, perhaps to telegraph a messy haymaker or shoot for his legs, he’d meet them with a kick that would knock them senseless. Fool-proof.

            Gerris emerged from his office into the main training room of his academy. The walls were decorated with assorted murals and flags as proscribed by his organization, as well as other artifacts and memorabilia: photographs, colored belts, championship trophies, and samurai swords. All of it he’d strategically placed to educate and inspire his students. It was exactly what Gerris thought a dojo should look like.

            The young man in black was setting up a digital video camera on a tripod. Gerris smirked. He was sure they would soon delete the video to eliminate all evidence of their defeat. If they were real martial artists, which he seriously doubted, they would keep and study the video and hopefully learn something.

            “We’re ready when you are,” said the one in black. He’d put on his belt while Gerris was getting ready. It was brown. Master Gerris smirked.

            The class of forty-two adults, which had then been bustling as they untied their belts and put on their shoes and wondered aloud what the young men were there for, immediately silenced as Master Gerris raised his open hands. He had their attention.

            “Class, I hope you’ll have a moment to stay late with me. These two gentlemen here came to participate in a friendly challenge.” There was no need to mention the fact that there was money on the line. “If you’ll give them your attention, they’ll introduce themselves and explain how this works.” Then he graciously stepped aside and directed the class’s attention to the visitors with a wave of his hand.

            The one in black stepped onto the mat and faced the sitting and kneeling members of the class. Already they were brimming with excitement.

            “My name is Hector. And this is George.” George, the boy-faced one, waved from where he stood in the corner. Gerris noticed his belt was blue. “We’re from Demonic Martial Arts, and we’re here to test what we do against the best martial artists we can find. Mr. Gerris accepted and we agreed on a few rules. No biting or eye gouging. We won’t use gloves. There’s no time limit. There are no breaks. The first person to signal defeat loses.” The one named Hector demonstrated by tapping on his thigh with his hand. “Also, if you get knocked out, you lose.” This made the students laugh a little.

            Gerris didn’t laugh. He bounced on his toes and shook his arms to loosen them up. He stretched his legs and his feet. He considered Hector a little. He knew he was confident, and that he was probably a Jiu-jitsu practitioner, or at least as far as one practiced Jiu-jitsu in MMA training. He didn’t look especially fast or graceful. And his reach was short. Gerris was sure this would be a short fight.

            But when he took his place on the mat, ready once again to defend the honor and reputation of his academy, it wasn’t Hector that stepped up to fight him. It was the other one. George. The blue belt. Gerris frowned. He wasn’t sure whether he should be offended or concerned.

            Gerris had thought twice about canceling his match when he saw that Hector was a brown belt. At Mind & Body Black Belt Academy, it took only two years to achieve brown belt. However, Gerris thought a senior belt-ranked student ought to know well enough to know when he was outmatched, and so he thought he’d humor Hector’s challenge. But the idea of fighting a blue belt? Someone who, in his own class, might only have eleven to thirteen months experience? The idea was laughable. Not only was Master Gerris a black belt, but he was a champion among black belts. Surely his skills and experienced were far too much for this boy-faced George to handle safely. Not only was this match dishonorable, it was dangerous.

            But when Master Gerris approached Hector and whispered his concerns in his ear, Hector only smiled an arrogant smile. “Are you saying you’re afraid to fight him?” Hector hissed.

            Gerris took his place on the mat again. This had become a matter of honor.

            Some students cheered. Others held their breath. The assistant instructor, standing between the two fighters and staying nearby for safety, yelled, “Fight!”

            Master Gerris checked his stance. He was tall, and he stood in what he knew was a perfect modified sparring stance. One fist guarded his chest. The other arm hung loose, suspended in a gentle arc that ended at his waist level. He bounced slightly on his toes, ready at any moment to spring into any number of long, powerful kicks. And he was as sure as he was that the sun would set in the west that he could end this fight with one well-placed kick. And he intended to.

            George, the blue belt, was obviously nervous. His hands trembled, though they hovered in their defensive positions in front of his face. His stance was low, and he moved slowly. Deliberately.

            But you won’t be fast enough, thought Gerris.

            He darted forward, his leading leg snapping out like a wet towel, testing George’s reflexes and defenses. The boy leaned back, eyes wide, hoping to avoid Gerris’s feet, but Gerris’s leg reach was long. Still, the double-kick connected harmlessly with George’s forearm, and soon they were back to their original postures, circling one another like slow sharks around an invisible prey.

            Someone shouted “Go Master Gerris!” and others cheered in agreement.

            Gerris remained focused. He saw that the boy wasn’t over-eager, as he’d thought he would be. So he thought to take advantage of the boy’s Jiu-jitsu weaknesses. He would tempt him to come closer, and he would strike him when he did.

            Gerris stepped closer, but not too close, and threw a high, heavy round house kick. As Gerris thought he would, the boy ducked the kick and lunged forward as Gerris followed the direction of his kick and spun like a top. But before the black belt completed his full turn, he switched feet and delivered a hard back kick that narrowly missed the young man’s face and blasted his shoulder.

            George tumbled forward and landed on three points, one arm cradled near his chest as though it were in a sling. Gerris smiled. He doubted, with their adrenaline levels as high as they were, that the boy was in any real pain. Yet. But he could imagine that it was numb or tingling, a frightening thing for most fighters. Gerris could anticipate, then, that the boy was afraid of him now. Afraid of his kicks. And he would react rashly and wildly to avoid them. Master Gerris would have an instant advantage during his every advance for the rest of the fight.

            But he was wrong.

            Gerris assumed the boy would back away into his stance, where they’d begin to circle each other yet again. But he didn’t. He lunged forward. Gerris saw it and wind-milled his arms as he stumbled backwards, cursing silently as he tried to avoid George’s grasping hands. He felt strong, tight fingers find purchase on the Achilles tendon of one leg, and he stepped wild and high to escape the grip. As the ankle slipped free, Master Gerris lost his balance and spun and stumbled backward until he scrambled to his sparring stance once again.

            They were separated again. Gerris stood, watching the boy take his time getting to his feet. There was something different about him now. No trembling. No fear. As though when he touched Gerris’s ankle with his hand he’d stolen some of his confidence and become braver. More daring.

            Gerris did feel as though something had been taken from him. He was breathing heavily. He was wary. He wasn’t thinking anymore about his advantages, but of what might have happened had he not pulled his leg free. He narrowed his eyes, gritted his teeth, and willed himself back into focus. He was still unhurt. He was still winning. He still had the advantage. Didn’t he?

            They circled each other, slow sharks again. Gerris began formulating another plan. He was looking for another weakness to exploit. Another opening to force. But he never got the chance. George lunged forward again.

            This time, it was George’s turn to kick. But, as Gerris saw, the front kick was sloppy and slow. It had none of the necessary snap he trained each of his students to have. The kick would be harmless. Gerris double-stepped forward, ignoring the strike completely, and closed the distance to take advantage of the boy’s precarious balance.

            Then the kick connected. The ball of George’s foot collided with Master Gerris’s leading leg just above the knee. And pushed. The effect was immediate. Gerris’s knee locked out suddenly and uncomfortably, and Gerris found himself stumbling backwards in surprise. He was off balance and getting his feet back under him when he saw the boy coming.

            George hadn’t wasted the moment, and attacked as soon as the black belt master stumbled back. He dived his head forward and stooped low, bending his legs to bring his head even with the taller man’s thighs.  Gerris sprawled sloppily and far too late to escape the arms coiling around his legs at the knee, tipping him backwards onto his back into a position he’d promised he’d never let himself get into while fighting.

            Suddenly, Gerris was without composure, a plan, or a clue. He couldn’t see exactly what the young man was doing, and he had no idea whether he felt arm or leg or head pushing and pulling him and pressuring him into positions he’d never fought from. He struggled to roll to his stomach, but he was unable to get off of his back because of the weight and his legs flailed uselessly in the air like those of a dying crab.

            Suddenly he felt a shin pass across his hips, and the boys full bodyweight came to bear as he sat upon Master Gerris’s chest. It was claustrophobic and suffocating. George leaned forward, pressing his belly into Gerris’s face, smothering him with his gi. Gerris struck and pushed and pulled with no effect except his own fatigue. His legs reached up to wrap around the boy, to somehow drag him off, but found nothing. The boy was too far forward for that.

            Then came the other young man’s voice above the shouting of the students. The boy in black. Hector. “Don’t finish him, yet! I need more footage.”

            Anger welled up inside Master Gerris. He was done with this nonsense. With all this chaotic rolling around and wrestling. He was a fifth degree black belt. He was the owner of a top-rated Taekwondo academy, home of over three hundred students. He himself had trained with world-famous kick boxers and martial arts masters and combat veterans. He’d won national brick-breaking competitions. He beaten competitors from a dozen different martial arts backgrounds. He was above this insult and injury.

            He reached a hand between himself and the boy, determined to grab him by the balls. That would get him off.

            Then there was an earth-shaking explosion and a blinding white flash of light in his left temple. Somehow, though he hadn’t seen it coming, he knew it had been an elbow. Gerris forgot about the balls and raised his hands to protect his face. Blows were raining down on him. Numb, jarring, heavy strikes from the boy’s palms. He hunched his shoulders and covered as much of his face as his arms possibly could, but nothing stopped the awful shaking of the world around him. He knew he’d just been hit in the face many times, and he feared what damage might have been done.

            And he knew the boy, George the blue belt, could end it any time he wanted. He knew the danger of fighting a Jiu-jitsu practitioner was they could take anything you gave them, be it arm, leg, hands, feet, or neck, and they could break it. Submission. And yet, this boy wasn’t doing it. He was taking his time. For more footage, as the Hector boy had ordered him.

            Gerris knew he had to get back to his feet. But how? He tried again to wrap his legs around the boy, but George effortlessly pushed the legs away and resumed his bombardment. All he could think of now was getting away, away from the blows and the heat and the suffocation. Gerris tried again to roll to his stomach, and this time he was successful.

            Before he’d done this, when Master Gerris was on his back being pummeled from on high, he might have described his experience by comparing it to being mauled by a bear. But as he tried to crawl away, exposing his back to George, he felt as though he were suddenly being constricted by a snake. He felt the young man’s limbs envelope him like cables. He tried crawling forward, but cunning feet and hands prevented his every movement. Soon, the weight on his back shifted forward, and it became too much to bear. Gerris fell forward until he was flat on his stomach. He was pinned to the floor.

            “Not yet! Just another minute!” he heard Hector yell. Gerris’s heart sank as he heard this. How long would these boys draw out this humiliation? This claustrophobia?

            He felt an arm snake around his neck, and pressure forcing his head forward. Gerris welcomed it. Anything to end this torture. The choke was an act of mercy. As the choke tightened and faded his vision, Master Gerris slapped his hand on the mat three times.

            Immediately the choke loosened. The weight lifted from his back. Gerris crawled to his feet and gazed about the room, suddenly aware that there were dozens of his own students watching him. They were applauding lightly, politely. As he’d taught them to do. But he could see the surprise in their faces. The disappointment.

            The whole affair had only taken a few minutes, and it ended quickly and professionally. Hector thanked Master Gerris and his students for their time and the opportunity to prove their martial skills against one so talented. It was respectful and gracious. It was as though Hector’s instructions to draw out the fight had never happened. As though he’d never intentionally tried to humiliate anyone. Just a friendly sparring match.

            As people began to disperse, George began to pack up their things, and Hector followed Master Gerris into his office. Gerris closed the door behind them. Neither said a word as Gerris retrieved a wallet from his desk drawer and dug a wad of large bills from it. Hector took the money without ceremony, and he turned to leave.

            “Never set foot in my dojo again,” said Gerris. His face was stony and unreadable. “Don’t every talk to me again. Got it?”

            Hector smirked and said nothing. He nodded his head and waved the cash in his hand as if to say “thank you” and left.

            Gerris, now alone, sat in his chair and pondered his predicament. He then took out a pen and paper and began jotting ideas for activities, games, special events, and students he could promote a little early. His business had been hurt. Now he had damage control to do.

 

            “Here’s your share of the winnings.”

            Hector tossed a small wad of cash onto the table. George took it and counted. It was five hundred dollars.

            They were sitting in a restaurant across the main road from Mind & Body Black Belt Academy. Hector had offered to buy, and George was starving.

            “Where’d this money come from?” asked George.

            “Like I said,” answered Hector with a grin, “it’s your winnings. Good winnings, too. I’ve never been paid five hundred bucks to fight. Of course, that’ll change once I go pro.”

            “You didn’t tell me there was money on the line,” George said, forgetting the open menu in front of him.

            Hector was reading his. His eyes were scanning the burgers, wondering if he’d finally earned a small indulgence after so much hard work. “I didn’t tell you because I didn’t want you to feel any pressure. I didn’t want you intimidated by the money. I wanted you to focus on the fight. And you did. And you won.”

            George suddenly felt guilty. “We took his money?” he said more than asked.

            Hector closed his menu and looked at George’s face. He saw shock and shame and regret. It disgusted him, and he had to fight back the anger he felt at his friend for ruining the moment.

            “Relax,” he told him, “If he’d have won he would have had our money.”

            George shook his head, not following. “Wait, what money? I don’t have any money.”

It was true. George had only two hundred in his bank account and even less in cash. He’d earned much more as a janitor, but he had a tendency to spend it, mostly on his girlfriend. Saving for a car, he was learning, was a lot harder than he thought.

            “I put up the cash for the both of us,” Hector answered. “Like I said, I didn’t want you intimidated by the money at your first fight. I wanted you to think there was nothing to lose so you’d be more aggressive and take more risks. And you did. And you won.”

            George was quiet for a minute. Hector took the chance to look at the menu again and finally decided on a burger, but no fries. He’d indulge, but he wouldn’t pig out. He’d stay in control and be that much more ready for his next fight.

            “We humiliated that guy, didn’t we? We beat him right in front of his students, too. We embarrassed him. Did we do something wrong, here?”

            Hector looked at George’s face again. The shock was gone, replaced by a calm fear. He could tell George wasn’t a self-righteous do-gooder. They’d already had too much mischief together for him to think otherwise, but he knew George had a sensitive streak in him. And he’d just won his first fight, and he’d destroyed his opponent. Hector supposed he could understand why his friend was morose.

            “Nothing wrong,” he said to George. “We didn’t do anything dishonest. We didn’t bully anyone. We didn’t cheat. We didn’t even really hurt anyone.” He pointed a finger at his own chest. “I challenged another martial artist who openly bragged that he could beat anyone. I set up the time, the place, and the money, and he agreed to all of it.” He pointed his finger at George. “You beat him in a fair fight. You proved that you’re a good fighter. Really good. And remember, he was out to humiliate you too.”

            George nodded. Hector could see that he was starting to lighten up, probably because he’d just called him a good fighter. Why wouldn’t that cheer him up? Guys like them, that’s what they lived for. Recognition. Acknowledgment. Respect. Hector told him what he’d want to hear, and he meant it.

            “So,” George said with a deep breath, “When do we do this again?”

            Hector smiled. He had a list of appointments.