The Carbon Copy
by Christopher R. Martin
Chapter 11 – The Kumite
The Yoshida-Ryu Karate Kumite is held on the first Saturday of every second month. Karateka of all ages, genders and ranks gather here to demonstrate their prowess, train with one another and grow. I've been to too many to count, training with and challenging people of different backgrounds, winning some but losing some, too. Being able to go to one of these after so long sends memories flooding back, both wonderful and unpleasant. I don't even bother discarding the unpleasant ones because I know they can't be helped. Once I make my entry, wherever I go, wherever I look, those recollections will be triggered.
Each kumite is never held in the same place, but from what I've gathered, there is a certain number of venues that the people organizing the kumite cycle through. This time around, the venue is the Elmore Hall of Troopers.
The drive from the house to there takes me all of ten minutes. Gumball and I, dressed in our gis, exit the car, my son aiding his grandmother out the door. The three of us set foot into the building. A wide-open, low-ceiling space decorated with the insignia of the town's Boy and Girl Scout troops, its walls adorned with plaques, pictures, scrolls and ribbons capturing the glory of this upstanding group. For today, a banner hangs high on the wall, 吉田りゅ空手 inscribed on it in blank ink with a calligraphy-like style.
We have arrived right on time, and several karateka have made it before us and are milled around at the center. Mother gets a seat for herself, letting us know beforehand. Approaching us with welcoming cheer is young Masami, who has decided for today to use her legs rather than float around like she normally does. She extends her arm for a handshake.
"Gumball, so nice of you to make it," hails the cloud girl. "And you as well, Mrs. Watterson. It's an absolute honor to have you here."
"It was no problem, Masami," I say, shaking her hand. "You have your mother to thank for that. By the way, where is she?"
"She's currently getting dressed at the back room. She won't be long now."
"Whoa. I expected a lot of people to come today, but a turnout like this?" Gumball mentions, baffled by the amount of attendances.
"I know, right? You nervous?" Masami teases.
"Pssh. Why would I be nervous? I got this," claims my son confidently.
"That's the attitude we like to see from Yoshida-Ryu karateka. And you, Mrs. Watterson? Are you excited?"
"I'd be lying if I said I wasn't, but I suppose we'll just have to see what happens."
The reservations I'm entertaining in my mind seem to be greater than my excitement. I don't let either of the kids know this. My last kumite, I entered a strong-willed, focused black belt, a godan, and left with a large, cavernous void in my spirit. Facing your best friend in heated competition, emerging the winner and watching your best friend leaving your life will do that to you. It's one of my greatest regrets in life, one that I will have to live with until my time on this world is over.
"Guess you have your own personal cheerleading squad for today, Gumball," teases Masami as she looks over Gumball's shoulder.
Gumball looks behind, and walking through the door is Penny, saying hello to every person that notices her. She meets eyes with and waves at us, my son's cheeks reddening lightly. She approaches us.
"Hey, guys," she bids. "So this is what an actual martial arts event is like. I wouldn't know, since this is my first one."
"Join the club," jokes Gumball.
"This is a lot of people for one event."
"I know."
I put my paw on Gumball's shoulder and give him a rub to keep him from being discouraged. "Are you sure you're not nervous, sweetie? Not even a tiny bit? It's okay if you are."
"Alright, fine, maybe I am," replies my son in annoyance, blushing harder. "No need to announce it, Mom."
Penny and Masami giggle from listening to us. "What about you, Masami? Will you be joining them?"
"Ah, no. Consider me an officiator of sorts. I'm just here to make sure that everything goes well." A beeping sound goes off at the end of Masami's sentence. She spares a glance at her watch. "Speaking of which, it's just about time to get started. Gumball, go line up with the others. Mrs. Watterson, if you would please come with me."
"Sure," I respond promptly.
Masami leads me across the hall and to the wall on the far end, alongside a group of other black belt karateka. "Alright, everyone. Cut the chit-chat and gather around! We're about to get started!" she hollers to everyone in here. She takes me to the backmost wall then clearly gives me a set of instructions to follow. "Just stay put right here, Mrs. Watterson. You'll each be introduced to everyone here. When you hear your name being mentioned, that's your cue. Got it?"
"Got it," I affirm, nodding my head at her.
As she runs off to fetch her mother from the door to my right, I take this time now to familiarize myself with my would-be colleagues. Not including me and Yuki, there are six other black belts here. Only one among them is a woman. They each gaze at me with scrutiny, their looks as dirty as the soles of their feet. They don't believe for one second that I am indeed one of them. That I am a godan, that I earned this black belt just like they have. One of them, the woman, even has the gall to snicker to herself and passes it along to the others next to her.
I don't say a single word to them and focus only on what is in front of me. They can gawk and judge for all I care. None of them realize that soon enough, they'll be chewing on their own words. If this kumite is going to feature a competition of sorts, I pity anyone who has to come to blows with me.
A minute later, and Yuki emerges from the door, dressed in her clean white gi and her black belt. She sides next to me and greets me with a smile. The straps of her belt bear the same letters that mine does. A godan, like I am. Yoshida-sensei, Yuki's father, told us when we wear under his tutelage that our belts are our spirit and skill made physical. Desecrating it would be no better than having no respect for ourselves.
Taking that to mind, to heart, I wonder what kind of spirit and skill these other black belts next to me have.
Masami presents herself to the group of karateka and gets the initial proceedings out of the way, welcoming them warmly and going on a blurb about Yoshida-Ryu. What it embodies, what being a practitioner of the art means. To put an end to conflict rather than to initiate it. To apply oneself wholly and undividedly to everything they do. To show the best of who we are, what we can be, for everyone around us to see.
These are the precise words that Yoshida-sensei told us in my own journey towards my black belt. They are no different now from when I last heard them. Generations apart Masami and her grandfather may be, but the worldly wisdom of these teachings, these principles, live on.
Finally, Masami gets on with the introduction of the black belts. The sensei and the shihan, those of a higher esteem than the sensei. She begins with her mother, who takes front and center and herself introduces the other black belts. Their names elude me, as I'm too busy watching my mother and then Gumball, who is standing at the front row of the pack. What I do know is that I am the last to be introduced, and for good reason…
"Now today, we have a surprise appearance from another black belt that you may not have heard of," says Yuki. "But I can assure you all that her ability and devotion to our art are undeniable. As someone who knows her personally and has trained alongside her, I can vouch for her. As early as kyūkyū, she has shown tremendous promise in her basic techniques, her katas and her application. She set an example for her peers back in the day, including me. Yoshida-sensei once deemed her his favorite pupil, and as you can imagine, I was jealous of her for some time. I'm not afraid to admit it." This statement has me giggling to myself. "Regardless of what has happened in the past, I am glad to introduce her to you today. Shihan Nicole Watterson, please step forward."
I walk to the center of the hall to an astonishingly loud and contagious ovation. Every student standing in front of me is clapping their hands, and the response is overwhelming. Their applause is empowering me, driving me even further to show them what I am capable of. To inspire them to make the most of this art, to reach the heights that they'd never in their wildest imaginations dream of reaching.
They cease their applauding, and we bow to each other. It would have been a good idea if I had prepared a speech before coming here. But I should be fine with just my way with words.
"Thank you very much for that wonderfully detailed blurb, Yuki," I say, stilling my heart, preventing it from racing too fast. "Everything that, um…it's shihan, right?"
"Hai," answers Yuki.
"Right. Everything that Shihan Yuki said about me considered, make no mistake, I am no different from every single person here in this hall. At the end of the day, I am a person just like each and every one of you. I have my ambitions, my hopes and dreams, my ups and downs, and my strengths and weakness. One teaching that Yoshida-sensei taught me and Yuki is that every person that walks this earth, every man and woman, has a strength in them that they are not even aware of. He taught us that regardless of our circumstances in life, we must never disregard that inner strength, because once we tap into it, it is a stronger force than anything we can comprehend. Karate, especially the Yoshida-Ryu art, has a way of revealing what lies in our souls, our spirits, our hearts." I pass a brief glance at Yuki, and we exchange a nod. "As for what I discovered in me… Well, that would take too long for me to describe."
"Show them what you're made of, Nicole!" shouts my mother from way back on one of the benches. This vast, crowded space has become awkward in the snap of a finger because of her. Because of her lack of tact and timing. One of the black belts at my side starts snickering to himself, unaware that these lesser ranked karateka are watching him. I feel a flash of anger brewing in me, cheeks turning red, fists trembling and teeth gritting.
But I muster the willpower to rise above my anger and expel it in one breezy breath. "As I was trying to say, up until I was interrupted"—I shoot her a quick scowl, and she withdraws upon receiving the message—"Let us make the most of this kumite by doing just that. Through every punch, every kick, every block and every kiai, let us discover ourselves, more of ourselves. Let us see if we can reach into that hidden strength. Everyone, I wish you the best of luck."
One more bow between us these aspiring karateka, and the kumite begins proper. Yuki advises everyone to find a partner, even us black belts, and line up in two parallel rows. She partners up with the only other female black belt, while I'm stuck with the schmuck who had the good sense to laugh at my misfortune. The two of us are at one end of the row, next to a wall. Far enough from most of the group that they can't hear us as well. I pay him no mind, go through my stretching exercises and try to find my son in this mass of karatekas. A tiny tuft of blue pokes through these uniform rows of white. He's paired up with a boy his age who incidentally looks identical to my partner.
I believe they're called humans. Besides their common features—their furless, fleshy skin, their five-fingered hands and five-fingered toes and their comically lush and flowing hair—what are they supposed to be? Why do 'humans' appear so differently from the ones I often see on television?
"Nicole, was it?" the human begins.
"Shihan Nicole," I correct him. "A pleasure to meet you, um…"
"Scott. Sensei Scott."
"Sensei Scott it is, then. Pleasure to make your acquaintance." As per the etiquette of a Yoshida-Ryu karateka, I bow to him out of respect. He, on the other hand, stays standing, blatantly refusing to display that etiquette.
"Hmph. I'm not going to bow to someone who shows up out of the blue and claims to be on the same playing field as Shihan Yuki," he claims firmly, folding his arms and swaying his head to his side. "Unless I see it with my own two eyes, the way I see it now, I'm the one who's closest to Shihan Yuki. So back of the line, honey. You're cutting in."
What a ray of sunshine this man is making himself out to be. Stubborn, disrespectful, and just plain full of himself. He's the complete package. I'd complain about winding up with this man, but I think better of it and cooperate with gritted teeth.
Very well. If that's the way it's going to be, then he can have his way. Appalled, I say nothing more to him and instead lean over to one of the other black belts.
"Geez, what's his problem?" I ask the man to my right, another human, but somewhat more approachable than Scott. A sandan, or third dan, a third-degree black belt.
"He's always like this," he replies and rolls his eyes, having seemingly dealt with this behavior himself. "Nothing worth batting an eye at. Earns the praise of the head shihan, and he lets it get to his head. If I were allowed to, I'd sock it to him so he can land back to reality."
"Yuki favors him?" I ask whilst stretching my left leg and then my right.
"Eh, 'favor' is a bit overkill, but she definitely has taken a liking to him."
"How come?"
"She sees something in him. I can't put my finger as to what that something is, though. I'll admit that Scott's a talented guy. Why else would he be 2nd dan? But man, he could really use a filter."
Yuki sees 'something' in him, he says. I'm hard-pressed to believe that. If that something is stubbornness or arrogance, then there honestly isn't that much of a resemblance to speak of. The Yuki I know may have been stubborn or arrogant—and for all I know, she could still be—but she has her limitations. She never oversteps her bounds, and the one instance where she did, she acknowledged where she went wrong.
Unless this Scott guy can step off of his pedestal, his future as a black belt, as a karateka, isn't looking very bright.
"Nice to meet you, by the way. Nicole, right?" the other human says, stretching his arm out to me.
"That's right. Nice to meet you too, uh…"
"Archibald. But please, Archie will do."
"Then, pleasure to make your acquaintance, Archie." I shake Archie's hand and we bow. His sparring partner bows at me, too.
Yuki then announces that we mill around at the center, which we do without objection. There, we begin proper by going back to basics. We go through every maneuver—every punch, block, kick and datchi—in the typical fashion: three sets of seven to ten reps, each set increasing in pace. Slow, then medium-paced, then fast.
Straight punch, head-level punch, extended backfist, short gut punch, sideward backfist.
Head-level block, inward forearm block, stomach-level block, inward waist-level block.
Front kick, side kick, spin kick, back kick, knee-level kick, roundhouse kick.
Long fighting stance, short fighting stance, horse-riding stance, sumo stance. Each stance, held for as short as one minute or as long as three.
The way in which we perform these techniques, our uniformity, our equal pace, our harmonious kiais, it is out of this world. To the untrained eye, one would be under the assumption that this is a choreographed routine, intricately mapped out from beginning to end. That we have this supposed routine memorized from endless studies.
Through these punches, blocks, kicks and stances, the hearts of every karateka here in this great hall beat in sync with one another in a chorus of passion and conviction. I don't need to look at each and every one of them to know that they are putting their everything into their karate. It is in their heartbeat, their breath, their motion. Even Gumball, standing far away from where I am, pours his heart, mind, body and soul into being an exemplary martial artist. An exceptional person.
Not a single intent in this hall is ever discordant. Everyone is in perfect harmony, in perfect sync.
Almost everyone.
As my partner, Scott is doing his damndest to outdo me, to outperform me, when there is no competition here whatsoever. Any semblance of a competition is purely fictitious. It's in his head and nowhere else. I'm pretty sure he's even tried to punch or kick me every now and then. At least two or three of his punches and kicks narrowly miss me in the hopes that I will somehow flinch and lose my balance. He is denied the satisfaction, and I soldier on and make it through the drills.
Scott is a mischievous punk poking and prodding a predator in the middle of its slumber. If he continues this, that predator will awaken and decimate him before he can get a word in edgewise. The one warning I give him to stop his nonsense is a calm yet sharp glower, which he answers with a sneer that expects for me to lose my cool.
At the end of the last datchi drill—the sumo stance—Yuki calls for us to bow and stand neutrally. As expected, Scott does not affect a bow nor does he stand neutrally.
Next is kata practice. This part of the kumite is typically an evaluation of everyone's knowledge of their katas. Yellow belts to green belts are judged on the two basic katas, red to brown on the more intermediate ones, and all degrees of black belts on the advanced ones.
The kumite must have changed from when I still took up Yoshida-Ryu. Rather than multiple karatekas of a single grade standing before everyone and performing their katas, they are asked to perform individually and judged as so. The order Yuki goes with is descending in rank. From brown all the way down to yellow.
Everyone steps up to the plate and gives us their best kata yet. The swelling anticipation and subsequent joy or disappointment that is typical in watching a child's recital is also experienced in this atmosphere, if not more so because of how physically, mentally and spiritually strenuous this can be. Not only for the karateka demonstrating their prowess, but also their loved ones quietly cheering them on with bated breath.
Gumball's turn comes up soon, and Penny instantly cheers him on. He passes me and her a quick glance and breathes to bring himself the calm he needs. He begins, choosing to go with the first kata. I dictate every last move in my mind and watch him enact them. His straight punches, his stomach-level block, the pivoting on his heel, all spot-on, his fur moistened from his sweat. When he shouts, we all feel it vibrating our souls. His eyes do not sway from his path. He does not stop to give me a look and completes the rest of the kata.
He ends the kata by returning to a neutral stance. He bows to his peers, who applaud him, then to us shihan and sensei, and then to me. He tries to refrain from cracking even the smallest hint of a smile, only to fail after I smile at him in delight. At least he doesn't charge at me for a hug.
With the colored belts all having stepped up to exhibit their skill, it is our turn now to do exactly that. As the head shihan and successor to the Yoshida name, Yuki takes to the mat first. Her kata is performed with utmost finesse, with utmost purity. Her balance, her strength, her fluidity and her coordination in her strikes, her blocks and her kiais have seen much development from the training that she had put herself through.
She is a masterfully crafted sword, its steel tempered in sweltering flame and refined on an anvil and with the pounding of the mallet. Impregnable and lethal, yet stunning. Watching her is almost like watching her own father demonstrating his prowess. His peerless prowess. Her fists and her heart burn as vigorously as his did for all his life.
She holds the last move, the air passing in and out of her. Her chest expanding and retracting. The whole group then promptly claps for her, which she accepts with a bow.
The rest of us black belts follow, and for my first time observing these new faces, I am impressed with what they're showing me. I loathe to admit it, but Scott has nailed his chosen kata down to perfection.
I am the last to take my turn, and when the time comes for me to step forward on the mat, my mother can't help her excitement any longer and hollers out for me. She screams out things along the lines of 'Knock 'em dead, Nicole', or 'Show them what you're made of, dear'. This is the first time in a long time that I've heard her enthusiastically encourage me in whatever event I'm taking part in. That she is acting more like the mother she is, the mother she should have been, rather than a competition-obsessed, overbearing stick in the mud. And her poor sense of timing cannot be any more obvious.
So many years since she's had my back. So many years too late. I can't get them back. Not anymore. I could never get them back no matter what I tried.
Discarding the musing and the image of my mother's 'support', I start my kata. Like learning how to ride a bicycle, I progress through the kata with a bout of hesitation. As the haze peters out from my memory, so too does that hesitation. While I do take my time remembering how the kata goes, remembering my former glory, never do I stumble in my actions.
With my memory becoming lucid, a surge of strength courses through my veins and into my limbs. My paws for when I am about to punch, and my feet for when I am getting ready to kick. That flow of strength redirects itself to fortify my lungs when I have to shout. Judging from the reactions that I draw from everyone, colored and black belts alike, it's as though the world has come to a standstill. As though it can see through these four walls, this ceiling, and freeze in fear at the sight of me exhibiting my karate.
Long fighting stance, short fighting stance, straight punch, head-level punch, knee kick, roundhouse kick, it's a nigh-neverending rotation of attacks. The audience may not actually be getting hit, but they feel the impact so well that they might have been struck.
Through a voice in my head, I chant to myself.
I am power.
I am strength.
I am dedication.
I am commitment.
I am loyalty.
I am solidarity.
I am a blue-collar, honest, well-earning woman. A loyal friend. A wife. A mother.
I am Nicole Watterson.
My strength is born from who I am. The person that I have molded myself into, the person that I will continue to be. And so, it is pure. It is right. It is proper. The good, the bad and all else in between, I take them, accept them and use them to stoke this raging flame in me.
One final punch, and one final kiai, and the crowd lets loose another thunderous ovation. There is not a single person here who isn't clapping. Again, except for Scott. He is dumbfounded. Speechless. Breathless. I have just proven everything he thought about me wrong. Even now, he is still processing what is the proper response to show.
Among the crowd of karatekas, Gumball beams at me widely, eyes asparkle with stars. The impulse to break out into a blush in front of these young and old hopefuls stabs and jabs in me, at odds with the years of training I have endured. The training where I learned to put a bridle over my feelings.
Over at the benches, I find my mother excitedly telling the guy next to her about me, shaking him rigorously like a maraca. "That's my daughter over there." "That's my little girl in the black belt." She'd exclaim again and again, driving the other parents around her crazy.
Thank goodness that everyone else is clapping too loudly for them to hear her.
Yuki walks up to me, and we bow. "An excellent performance, Nicole-san," she commends. "Just as I would expect from you."
"Thank you, Yuki."
I sit back down on my original spot. We now advance to the part of the kumite that I'm certain everyone is looking forward to the most: the sparring. For this portion of the kumite, we remain with our designated partners. Each pair is called forward by Yuki, who then gives them protective equipment to wear. Gloves, aprons, kneepads and shinguards.
The two karatekas then take to the mat to test their skill, their knowledge, against the other. Masami oversees the affair as a mediator. A referee, of sorts. Since neither karateka know each other that well, they are forced to play to their strengths, which also makes sparring a test of application. Composure is the key, the deciding factor in who wins and who loses. No, allow me to rephrase that. The deciding factor in who is the better fighter, whose grasp on the concept of Yoshida-Ryu is firmer.
Several bouts later, and Gumball is next under the spotlight along with his partner, the human boy resembling Scott to a tee, also a yellow belt. If I had known any better, I'd say that he's a perfect duplicate. Their bout is an entertaining spectacle, both parties landing their strikes definitively, parrying and blocking sometimes with grace and finesse, sometimes with a little less, and affecting a strong presence of mind.
For the most part, the odds are even. Neither of them really shift the favor heavily towards them. Not because they're too afraid of getting hit, but because their equal skill prevents the favor from shifting. It makes it hard for anyone to choose who to root for. By my side, Scott is mumbling to himself, cheering his boy on angrily.
At one time, the human does gain the upper hand, unloading attack after attack successively, never allowing Gumball to catch his breath. My son staggers from taking a kick to his side, the apron at least cushioning the blow somewhat. Spirited competitors they may be, I still hold out for him. If he is to come back from this setback, then he needs to respond with a similar aggression. Find that opening or create one and exploit it, while recognizing his weaknesses and concealing them.
Gumball creates that opening he needs, catching the other boy's fist in his paw. He pulls in and throws a punch aimed at the apron, twisting his wrists as he does so before he makes contact. Sending the boy sliding across the mat, disorienting him.
Another opening presents itself to Gumball, and he seizes it by advancing towards the human boy, angling himself, and throwing the hardest front kick he's ever thrown. The explosive impact brings the boy flat on his back.
"Yame!" shouts Yuki.
Gumball promptly tends to the human and picks him up back to his feet. The human dusts himself off, as taken aback as we all are. There is no animosity between them, and they pay each other due respect.
The remaining pairs put on a fine show in their own right, but nothing as nip and tuck as the one that my son and his partner had put on. Yuki and her partner, though, give us a good show. Her partner manages to hold her own, but it doesn't require much effort to guess who the clear winner is going to be. As uneven a matchup as a snake and a mongoose.
I was hoping that I could get to spar with Yuki. To relive our glory days and share them with everyone here today. No better way to communicate than by doing what we equally love. Through our fists and our feet.
Whether it's a coincidence or it was one hundred percent intentional, Scott and I are the last ones up on the mat. One more time I bow to him. One more time, he refuses to respond the same way. His eyes taper and he raises his dukes in a stance, preferring to cut to the chase.
To Masami's bewilderment, as well as mine, Scott elects not to use any protective equipment, tossing them to the side when she offers them to him. Masami hands me the gear, which I decline politely.
Without any objection, I let him have his way and prepare myself. A ten-second silence sweeps across the hall, our beating hearts audible. I meet his grin with a countenance of steel.
"Hajime!" exclaims Masami.
Scott goes for a preemptive strike, rushing fast enough that you miss him if you blink an eye, preceding a flurry of punches and kicks aimed at the most vulnerable parts of the body. He aims for my head, my knee, my abdomen and my jaw. Not one of his strikes connect. He comes nowhere near landing a hit, as I deflect his strikes without much difficulty, reversing the momentum back unto him.
Despite his strategy not panning out, he opts for it again, yielding the same result. He sticks to this one strategy and nothing more, the ferocity fueling his offense wilder with each successive attempt. I don't even have to do much. This battle is winning itself for me.
Throughout this kumite, I'm asking myself what Yuki saw in him that led to her taking a liking to him. Perhaps it's his determination. His drive. His unyielding resolve. He's a pain in the ass, but he's such a pain in the backside that doesn't know when to quit. He doesn't know the meaning of defeat. Of humility.
Perhaps that's the problem, and I have just the solution to fix this.
Breath after ragged breath, Scott does not allow for his footing to slip. He lunges at me for the umpteenth time, his right leg behind him straightened. I catch this with both my eyes and assume the correct position.
As I anticipate, his leg flies to my head in a roundhouse kick. My eyes narrow as his widen. Checkmate. The leg is caught in my arm, locked in place without the possibility of breaking free. He cannot punch me, he cannot kick me. A second-degree black belt, and he is making such a rookie mistake.
Now that I'm in this favorable position, I am free to do whatever I please with him. Chop his neck, sweep him off of his feet, strike his head or, if I really want to, debilitate his knee with a single, hard and sharp kick.
In the crowd, I see the human boy, Scott's child, and Gumball together, awaiting my action with the same kind of anticipation. They are both anxious, the human especially. I glimpse at my mother, and in her eyes, I find myself at twelve years old.
A karate tournament held at the Elmore Junior High gym that I was a part of. Mom and Dad were amongst many attendees on the stands. My preliminary match saw an outcome identical to this. My opponent's leg, locked in my arms. Vulnerable. Helpless. His pleading stare plucked a chord in me. Mom called for me to end it, while Dad glued his eyes to his watch. He continued to plead, the choice becoming harder and harder until I no longer wanted to hurt him. Yet I still wanted to win… She wanted me to win. I had to win.
The sound of his bone crunching and his scream of agony resounded in the gym. The audience felt it along with the poor boy's pain. The pain in his shattered knee.
Scott isn't looking at me begging for me to spare him. He's begging for me to get it over with. It is befitting of a loser…
…which he is not.
Rather than shattering his knee and his son's heart, and causing him more than just disgrace, I sweep his foot with my leg and pin him to the floor. I snatch his arm and pacify him.
There will be no broken bones and broken lives today.
I let go of the hold to yet another round of applause from the colored belts. To my delight, Scott accepts my paw when I try to lift him up. His damaged pride is plainly obvious in his face, in how he avoids eye contact with me.
"It was an honor, sensei Scott," I hold my paw out, still.
A five-second pause, and he and I shake hands. His pride is still wounded, but his features do soften as he concedes with grace.
"Likewise…shihan Nicole," he bows, and so do I.
"Woo-hoo! You go, Nicole! You're number one in my book!" cries my mother, drawing attention to herself. I can't help but palm my face. I guess that is never changing.
"She with you?" Scott whispers, arms folded.
"Unfortunately, yes."
"Be patient with her."
Her loud cheering knows no end. But my patience does. It probably won't be long until it is exhausted altogether.
Author's Note:
I'm going to be away for two weeks starting on October 18. My family and I will be on a vacation to Japan, and thus there won't be much work done on my part, both here and on YouTube. Thank you for your understanding, and as usual, don't forget to leave your reviews if you have one.
Happy reading and writing.
- The One and Only C. R. Martin
