Heart of the Trainer: Champion
Homecoming: 1
Cork City Dojo: A place of concentration, control, and the obliteration of one's dignity.
The linoone hit the matt first. His trainer followed. Both were similar in nature: long, lean, and currently at the sore end of another invaluable life lesson.
"Get up," the teacher commanded. "The match isn't over yet. That is, unless you've already lost your fighting spirit?"
The linoone lifted from the ground with a grunt. He wobbled once, maybe twice, before his movements smoothed out. The same couldn't be said for his disheveled fur. With half of a squint, he looked over at his trainer next to him on the floor. The young man met the glance with a shift of his head just as labored as the pokemon's. Sweat glistened across his brow. It sparkled like the corner of his smile.
"What'd say, Charles?" he asked. "Are we giving up?"
Charles, the linoone, slunk back into fighting position in front of him. The young man chuckled. "Good because that's what I was thinking."
Pokemon trainer, John Hawkins, stood with a wince against the hard ache growing in his ribs. The latest counter that threw him headlong across the dojo didn't land as nicely as the one before it. He brushed off his gi with a chuckle.
"Don't wait for me if you're tired, Sensei," John explained. "You'll be an old man by the time this spirit of mine runs out."
On the other side of the mat, Marcus Hailbringer, Cork City Gym Leader and Dojo Master, picked up the young man's laughter. Each bellow as hearty and rough as his training regime. "Now that sounds like a student a'mine!" he shouted. His silver hair and matching goatee disagreed with the well sculpted body beneath. Both of which, John learned never to underestimate. "Another round then!" Marcus looked to the side. "Porthos!" he called.
A Hariyama walked into the center of the mat between Marcus and John. He turned to the long lean pair with a clap of his hands that pulled apart into the next stance, one capable of KO'ing an entire party in seconds, or less, in John's case. Marcus mirrored his pokemon from behind. Charles took up the invitation. He steadied his head, adjusted a paw, and fell into position.
"Good! Good technique, Charles," Marcus called. "Still as a statue without stiffness. Now, if only ur' trainer could do the same."
"Just staying on my toes, Sensei," John replied as he swayed into position beside the linoone. It took longer for his lanky limbs to come together.
"Float like a butterfree, sting like a beedrill," Marcus quoted. "It'd suit you if you spent more time meditating on that technique and less time yakkin' ur jaw. Maybe then, you'd learn a thing or two."
"Twenty minutes of meditation for every mistake in this round, you got it," John answered.
Marcus laughed again and pulled the stoop out of his shoulders. "That's more like it! Come, show Sensei what you've learned!"
Porthos slapped a force palm into his hand. A blue glow lined his glove. John raised his arms and his gi slipped away from his wrists. The sound quieted the dojo. It broke against the heavy step of the arm thrust pokemon, subsequent rustle, and 6'2 210 lbs. thud followed by the squeak of a much lighter bounce as Charles and his trainer hit the mat again . . . and again, and again. Was this what it was like to live the life of a 1000 piece puzzle? John lay sprawled on his back, listening to the sound of the broken accordion that had replaced his lungs. He kept his eyes closed to keep the sweat from his eyes. Although, he wouldn't have been able to open them anyway.
Cork City Dojo taught its students many life lessons, but there was one that need not be spoken and every student understood the moment they stepped onto the mat:
Marcus Hailbringer could not be beaten by mortal men.
The gym leader patted his hariyama on the shoulder with a thick grin and walked across the matt towards John. There was a lean to his gait from the first of several matches that started the end of his professional MMA career but Marcus refused to let it mature into a limp. The day he resorted to a Cane would be the day he took the reaper's scythe for himself. John recognized the approaching step. A desperate man would've tried to capitalize on the old injury. John didn't have the strength nor naivety for one last grasp at victory. Marcus looked down at his student.
"Two years," he said. "Two years of training at my dojo and what do you have to show for it? Bad form, bruises, and a few broken bones?" The gym leader shook his head. "Never in my entire life did I think it was possible for a man to have weaker muscles than a hoppip but you have proven me wrong."
John winked open an eye and glanced over at Charles. The linoone lay nearby. His eyes were closed and he panted heavily, but there wasn't a single trace of regret along his snout. Marcus looked up with a wave of his hand at the ghosts of their previous matches.
"Your presentation is terrible," he continued. "You always want to play patty cake with your opponent when you need to lay them flat on their ass. You're pokemon wouldn't be so bad if they had a decent trainer leading the way. You have absolutely no talent as a pokemon trainer. None what so ever."
John let a smile run across his lips and rolled over to stand up.
"I try to live a humble life, Sensei," he grimaced.
Marcus sighed, looked down, and extended a hand. John looked at the sandpaper palm, taped fingers that never pointed straight, and calloused tips.
One day, he hoped his hands would look the same.
John accepted the offer. He hoisted himself up using the gym leader as a counter weight. Now, it was Marcus' turn to grimace. The young man stood several inches above him at full height. Despite having the appearance of a bird, his bones were lead from all of the injuries he received. Break after break strengthened the marrow to sandbag durability. Luckily for Marcus, John kept moving with the momentum. With the trainer's back turned, Marcus put a hand to his lower back with a scrunch of his nose. He watched in envy as John scooped up Charles in his arms. The pokeball and belt that went with the pokemon lay along the lattice wall where the other students were finishing cleaning up their mats. The only belts allowed in the Main House of the dojo were white, yellow, blue, purple, and black. Marcus rubbed his back again.
John's gi was white from head to toe.
Or at least, it was supposed to be.
Enough dust and dirt filled the rivets of material to turn John's gi an off white. More than one broken nose left feint blood drops along his collar, too persistent for even the rough hands of a hariyama to wash out. Scars of torn fabric thickened many seams and frayed edges rubbed many a spot smooth.
White indeed.
Porthos walked up behind Marcus. He set a squared orange glove at the eve of his back. One gentle but determined touch set it back in place. Marcus grunted and rubbed his back one more time before he tossed a glance at the pokemon graying as much as he. Porthos stood side by side with him but did his trainer the curtesy of keeping his gaze forward. A smile pinched into the corner of his eyes, softening the line of the blue circlet around the crown of his head. He clasped his hands contently in front of his belly. John still had most of his back turned to them. He continued to stroke Charles until the pokemon's eyes fluttered open again. Even with more than half of his body draped over John's arm, not a paw twitched in discomfort. Marcus glanced at Porthos again. This time, their gazes met with a nod.
"That's enough for today," Marcus announced. "I don't want you falling over at Commencement tomorrow. It's hard to bestow a badge on a pupil when they're passed out on the floor."
"Well, it is a very comfortable floor," John began but the words quickly faded the wider his eyes became. "Wait, what did you-? I- tomorrow, me?"
"We must've hit you harder than I thought," Marcus laughed. "Normally, you're quicker on the take than that."
"But-b-,"
"Spit it out, boy! You know what I think about mumbling."
The chuckle sharply turned into a growl of warning. When Sensei "thought" about anything, it often manifest itself into a grueling extension of the day's training. John's legs trembled at the thought of another ten laps around the compound. If that was the case, then Marcus sure did a whole lot of thinking. God forbid the gym leader should actually form an opinion on something. John glanced to the side at the wooden dummy discarded in the corner. Three pegs had snapped off and a split down the center cut the body in two. He had a pretty good idea.
Dojo life lesson #52: Speak without hesitation but always with respect. Right now, it wasn't a teaching but a safety mechanism.
"Sensei," John began. He stood tall despite the living plush in his arms. Marcus turned a lazy eye at him with the same formality.
"Speak," he answered.
"Do you mean to honor me with a badge?"
"I do."
"The Cork City Gym Badge?"
"Yes."
"Is that a joke?"
Marcus slowly crossed his hands over his chest. He didn't realize it but a vein rose to the surface through the wrinkles of his forehead.
"And what makes you think that any part of the Mountainside Badge is a joke?" he rumbled.
John didn't dare lower his chin, not when a sharp uppercut was waiting to push it back up again.
"It's not the badge, Sensei," John continued.
"But the student?" Marcus replied as he lowered his arms. "Not only is my dojo now a joke, but so is the judgment of my students?"
John made sure not to blink. "Only when it comes to one," he said.
Marcus snorted and stomped a leg into a crouch. He slapped his chest and shouted something in a foreign language, something he must have picked up from the oceanic islands where he won a title trophy along with the respect of the entire tribal people.
"You believe me to have made a mistake?" Marcus yelled.
A bead of sweat ran down John's temple.
"Lesson #47: Mistakes mark even the best of us," John quoted.
Marcus smiled. He then slapped both forearms with the weight of a blacksmith's hammer, leaving the muscles red and tight. One slight of footwork and he lowered into position.
"Come then," he shouted. "And show me mine!"
The challenge stopped several other students mid clean up. They glanced between the two contenders on the center mat. There was no mystery as to the outcome, just the reason for its birth. John knew exactly why. He had insulted his dojo and his Sensei in a single act of ill confidence. Marcus was older, an old man to most, and yet he still out weighted him by almost a full class. For anyone who knew anything about martial arts, this was the most dangerous phase; where experience triumphed youth every time.
Going head to head with Sensei wasn't wise but John never thought himself a smart person. He carefully placed Charles on the edge of the mat. This battle didn't require pokemon. It was a challenge for him and him alone. John calmly returned to the center of the mat, passing Porthos, the hariyama, knowing full well that the master beyond it was far more intimidating. He never meant any insult. In fact, he loved this dojo and respected the Cork City gym badge for what it was: an emblem of simple strength, fortitude, and perseverance. He spent two years of his life training under its leader, watching his sensei demolish challenge after challenge. He could count the number of trainers with a Cork City gym badge on his hands.
It was because of that very fact that he couldn't let Sensei taint that reputation. John refused to let their history together lower the bar when it came to the Mountainside Badge just so he could get one. This duel would show Sensei that he was not worthy of such an honor. He would hold nothing back, pour everything he had into it, and prove that even the great Cork City Gym Leader didn't play favorites.
John bent in the same style as his sensei. He was ready.
Porthos centered himself between them on the outside of the mat. Charles slunk over beside him. This fight was not his but he would witness what was to come. It was the least he could do for his trainer. The hariyama raised his arms. His hands held back the two forces building on either side, and with a single clap, the match began. To the dojo's surprise, neither party moved. One fleck of dust could have fallen and tipped the scales. John kept his balance on its edge. Sensei was never one to play defense, especially when insulted. His moves often struck so quickly that Porthos' clap was often the thunderclap that followed the lightning fist that had already struck. But this wasn't Sensei's fight to initiate. It was John's.
And he knew it.
Did he run? Admit defeat? He insulted himself just thinking about it. John slid forward and advanced. One sharp thrust and a twist later, and Marcus had the trainer's arms locked in his own. They stood face to face. A firm frown sliced off half of Sensei's gaze. John bore into it with a furrow of his own brow.
"You can't give me a badge, Sensei. I'm a terrible student," John explained. The deep droves of physical combat were a Cork City students' only confessional. "I've never won a single round against you, not even against your pokemon."
Marcus unhooked their arms in a wide sweep that came full circle into a double palm chest shove. Sensei was being merciful. John danced backward. His toes firmly planted in the matt. Without dropping his heels, the trainer rocketed forward again. Sheer off to the left of Marcus' fist to avoid the impact. Roll under his counter and into the soft skin of the arm to strike. John advanced. Marcus' iron claw grip wrenched the attack down and under. John fell to his knees with his arm bent behind his back.
"I can never keep up in physical training," John panted with a turn of his cheek to the side. "I've spent more nights in the recovery ward than on the matt."
Marcus yanked John's arm but the young trainer spun with the twist and popped up to his feet. They flew out from underneath him. John's back hit the mat and he flipped into an over the shoulder roll with a jab ready in his palm. Marcus took the handshake and threw it over his shoulder. John hit the mat again. A hand dove for his loose collar. He spun up and around into Marcus' legs, bringing him down to the floor with him. They grappled into a chokehold, student gaining the advantage with arm length.
"I can't meditate for more than twenty minutes at a time without breaking concentration," John persisted. Marcus broke the hold faster than a plastic straw tower. John didn't get more than a gasp before he found himself at the bottom of the exact same technique broken just seconds before. This time, Marcus displayed proper technique.
"You said so yourself," John squeaked. "I have no talent whatsoever."
Marcus squeezed. Usually a good sign to button up. Besides, breaking the technique wouldn't work at half attention. If John went one way, his neck would snap in a single clean break. The other, his arm and shoulder would never reconnect ever again. John pulled at the sailor's arm and stretched out his legs. No room. The edges of the trainer's vision grew dark. His lips began to tingle and before he lost all sense of reason, he tapped Marcus' arm. The tendons relaxed. John sprawled out along the mat again, this time with a wincing gasp. Marcus stood up above him slowly. Masterful contemplation masked his sore back. He made sure not to touch it now that all eyes were pointed at the conclusion of this very valuable life lesson.
"Sensei," John tried to exclaim. Marcus didn't know if he wanted to smile or roll his eyes, after all, the lad should have been unconscious. "I'm not-,"
"Worthy?" Marcus finished. Yes, that's what he should have said but something kept him quiet. John calmed his heaving chest and opened his eyes. He stared off into the ceiling until Marcus leaned into his vision.
"That's exactly why I'm giving you this badge."
The gym leader moved aside and his pokemon replaced him. Porthos picked John up with two hands and set him on his feet again with the ease of a doll. The hariyama lingered a moment to make sure everything was steady. Marcus grunted to clear the mat again. Porthos returned to the sideline. The dojo master then nodded the nick in his chin to the world beyond the mat.
"Take a look around," Marcus instructed.
John obeyed, too tired to disobey and go yet another round with the Elite candidate. Several of the students were clustered into pairs around the far edges of the dojo. At his gaze, they sharpened their smiles into sneers, glanced away, and finished cleaning.
"Do you know what I see?" Marcus asked. "I see seven students; seven out of twenty that managed to successfully complete their last six months of study: Six of which are twiddling their thumbs and only one still on the mat." Marcus turned his eye at John. "One who against all odds, managed to survive a six month training camp that sent Aces crawling away on their hands and knees within the first week." He turned to face his one student. "I can't remember how many trainers we lost when they realized there're no toilets or Wi-Fi between these frosted peaks." Marcus shrugged. "Sure, you always come in last, hours late, and can't afford to hold a candle much less a pull up bar against the others but you always finish. No cut corners. No complaints."
Marcus stepped forward, placed his hand on John's shoulder, and squeezed it with a light shake.
"The sheer fact that you are still standing after sparring with me for the past two hours makes you worthy of my badge." Marcus removed his hand, and with it, pulled out a smile from John's exhaustion. "Don't belittle yourself, John. Meditation takes decades to perfect, especially for a spirit as rambunctious as yours. I think it's more interested in games than universal insight, I can't blame you for the limitations of your body when it comes to training, and as for winning a round against me, not many people or pokemon can. I've told you this before: I'm a simple but honest man. Don't expect so much of yourself. You have no talent as a pokemon trainer, or as a martial artist, and it's impossible for you to excel in either without a god given gift."
John bowed his head slightly with the last flicker of a dream that should have winked out with his youngster days. It was official. He would never become an Ace Trainer.
"But, I'll tell you this," Marcus quickly added. "Your fundamentals are the best I've ever seen. If half of your fellow students started on a foundation as solid as yours, the League would have a new set of Elite Four every year."
John dipped his head a little farther with the weight of a blush. His thoughts drifted off to the mason that fashioned those bricks long before he met Marcus Hailbringer.
"Learning how to raise pokemon from a Pokemon Ranger and climbing a mountain every day of my life might have had something to do with it," John shrugged.
Marcus laughed so hard John thought the gym leader would slap a knee, or worse, slap him on the back again.
"Good ol'Aria Wicket. What I wouldn't give to have her in the dojo again," he said, his own thoughts now drifting to that very same mason who built a part of his own history. Marcus looked off to the other side of the dojo where several pictures hung along the wall. One in particular caught his eye. John knew the exact one because it was the very same photo he glanced at whenever he was homesick. In the center of the second row, just below eye level, at the perfect spot to catch the wandering eye, was a single photo in a homemade wooden frame.
There was a woman in the middle of the photo. She had slung herself around Marcus' shoulder back when he was still without silver accents. Her own pine bark locks fell over her shoulder. They cascaded from the silent laughter frozen in the smile across her face. Several pokemon flanked them: a hariyama, arcanine, houndoom, ursaring, primeape, and the back of an aggron that didn't seem pleased to be present let alone photographed. John smiled. Both of his mentors, captured in a moment where they couldn't have been more exhausted, battle worn, and happy.
John wished he could be caught in such a moment.
"Next time you see her, tell her I'm looking for a rematch," Marcus announced.
"Best three outta' five?" John said.
Marcus laughed again. It was loud and hearty like a wind worn sailor just home from a voyage at sea in his favorite bar. He patted John on the shoulder, jostling him like a puppet.
"Damn right," he said. "And don't forget: I'm the gym leader and I'll do whatever the hell I want. I fight who I want, when I want, and give badges to who I want. It's my God given right. Now, leave me alone before that spirit of yours outlasts my good humor."
Marcus turned away with a wave of his hand. Porthos left the mat with a bow. John returned the curtesy. The dojo quieted with the departure of the other students now that the Master had left. No one cared to look at John now that the excitement was over. He was mere equipment as important as the wooden dummy in the corner. But their approval wasn't what he needed. John watched Marcus put a hand to his back when he cleared the door and thought that the other students weren't looking. A smile crept across his lips.
The only approval he needed, he already had.