Head Kick (The Dojo)

by Patrick Jones

  Text copyright © 2013 by Lerner Publishing Group, Inc.

  All rights reserved. International copyright secured. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise—without the prior written permission of Lerner Publishing Group, Inc., except for the inclusion of brief quotations in an acknowledged review.

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  The images in this book are used with the permission of: © Panorama Media/Getty Images (fighter); © iStockphoto.com/Tim Messick (background); © iStockphoto.com/Erkki Makkonen (metal wires); © iStockphoto.com/TommL (punching fist), © iStockphoto.com/dem10 (barbed wire).

  Main body text set in Janson Text LT Std 12/17.5.

  Typeface provided by Linotype AG.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Jones, Patrick, 1961–

  Head kick / by Patrick Jones.

  pages cm. — (The dojo ; #3)

  ISBN 978–1–4677–0632–2 (lib. bdg. : alk. paper)

  ISBN 978–1–4677–1633–8 (eBook)

  [1. Mixed martial arts—Fiction. 2. Family problems—Fiction.

  3. Hmong Americans—Fiction.] I. Title.

  PZ7.J7242He 2013

  [Fic]—dc23

  2012042249

  Manufactured in the United States of America

  1 – SB – 7/15/13

  eISBN: 978-1-4677-1633-8 (pdf)

  eISBN: 978-1-4677-3300-7 (ePub)

  eISBN: 978-1-4677-3299-4 (mobi)

  If you’re already a fan of mixed martial arts, in particular the Ultimate Fighting Championship (UFC), then you’re probably familiar with moves like triangle choke, spinning heel kick, and Kimura. If not, check out the MMA terms and weight classes in the back of the book. You can also go online for videos of famous fights and training videos. Amateur fights are similar to the pros but require more protection for the fighters. While there are unified rules, each state allows for variation.

  WELCOME TO THE DOJO.

  STEP INSIDE.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, your winner by knockout in twenty seconds, and your new UFC featherweight champion of the world, the Ninja Warrior, Nong Vang!”

  The Las Vegas crowd goes crazy as the referee raises Nong’s powerful right arm. With his left hand Nong blows kisses to his legion of fans, including his girlfriend, May Li. Ring announcer Bruce Buffer hands the microphone to UFC broadcaster Joe Rogan.

  “That was almost a perfect fight,” Rogan says to Nong. “Your best since winning Ultimate Fighter.”

  “Thanks Joe,” Nong replies. “Discipline in the dojo and aggression in the cage—that’s the formula.”

  “That was one of the most devastating head kick knockouts I’ve ever seen. Tell me, which featherweight contender would you like to face at the next UFC pay-per-view?”

  Nong laughs. “Joe, it doesn’t matter who I face. They’re not contenders, they’re pretenders. I’m the Ninja Warrior power company, and my opponents don’t pay their bills. So I put their lights out.”

  “Anyone you’d like to thank?”

  “Of course, my coaches, Mr. Hodge and Mr. Matsuda. Also my training partners, Hector, Jackson, and Meghan. We walked into the Missouri MMA dojo together at age sixteen, and they’ve supported me since. Shout-out to my nephew Bao and all my love to May Li. I’m a champion tonight, baby!”

  “And you will be for a long time. How does that feel?”

  Nong smiles at the camera and points to his title belt. “Joe, it’s like I’m living a dream.”

  “Nong, pay attention!” Hector shouts at me.

  I snap out of my daydream and focus on the action in the dojo. Everyone is paired up for a drill.

  “Strike!” Mr. Hodge yells.

  “Watch this!” I shout. As Hector gets set, I throw a spinning heel kick. It doesn’t seem to faze Hector—he outweighs me by forty pounds, and the sparring helmet helps absorb the blow. In a real fight against another featherweight, the guy would be picking up his teeth with his left hand while the ref would be raising my right hand.

  Hector counters with punches. He’s got a boxing background, while I trained in karate and tae kwon do before we started MMA almost two years ago. He’s powerful, but I’m faster.

  “What’s wrong, Hector? Can’t catch the Ninja Warrior?”

  Hector doesn’t react, just keeps throwing punches. He’s got a longer reach, so I close the distance using front and side kicks to his legs. I fake a head kick and counter with a left. Hector shakes it off. Using his weight and height advantage, he forces my head down with a Muay Thai clinch as he brings his knees up crashing.

  “OK.” I tap his arm, and Hector releases me. I throw an angry side kick at no one.

  “Nong, you got a big mouth, and someday somebody’s gonna shut it,” Hector says.

  “In your dreams, Hector.” He grunts something like a laugh. Lately, getting Hector to laugh would be as impressive as knocking him out. He didn’t always used to be so serious, but all of us are different than we were at sixteen. We tap gloves and spar again.

  After a few minutes, Mr. Hodge stops the drills. “Hector and Eric, into the ring!”

  Eric is newer to the dojo, which means he’s going to take a lot of punishment. It’s how the “new fish” show they’re tough enough. I stand next to the judo and jiu-jitsu coach, Mr. Matsuda, as Eric and Hector spar. Hector’s a cat, while Eric’s a ball of string. And Eric knows it. He’s throwing punches, but he’s not fighting. He’s delaying the inevitable.

  “I don’t think Eric’s going to make it,” I whisper to Mr. Matsuda. He says nothing. As we watch, the silence is broken only by Mr. Hodge yelling instructions to each fighter and then explaining the calls to us.

  Hector lands a vicious roundhouse kick on Eric’s knee. “I taught him that,” I say.

  Again, Mr. Matsuda says nothing. He drums his fingers on his chin. I do the same. While Hector’s kick did damage, he also lost his balance, and Eric takes him down. With his back on the mat, Hector fights off Eric’s moves. “Flat on your back can be a great position, no?”

  Mr. Matsuda nods his head absentmindedly. “Depends on the fighter and the fight.”

  “If this was my fight, here’s what I’d do.” I explain to Mr. Matsuda how Hector should use Eric’s sloppy mount against him. “Hector needs to slip into rubber guard, execute a gogoplata or triangle choke, and then it’s lullaby time for Eric.”

  Mr. Matsuda finally turns his attention to me. “Good plan, but everybody’s got a good plan—”

  “Until they get punched in the face,” I finish one of Mr. Matsuda’s favorite sayings, which he ripped off the boxer Mike Tyson.

  The second round starts, and it’s like Hector had been listening to our conversation. He gets taken down too easy but then slaps on a triangle choke. Eric taps.

  After Hector and Eric climb from the ring, Mr. Matsuda takes them to the corner to drill. Meghan sidles over to me. “What do you think of these new fish?” she asks with a smirk. While Jackson and Hector are really serious, Meghan is funny and seems to have a life outside the dojo. Seems to because none of us knows much about her. Seems to because she practically lives at the dojo.

  “Pretty green around the gills,” I say. She laughs.

  “Not everybody can be like you, Clark.” Meghan calls me Clark Kent because I wear glasses outside of the dojo.

  “I’m better than Superman. I’m the perfect MMA machine, the Ninja Warrior!”

  “You’re something e
lse, Clark,” she says, then taps me hard on my sore right shoulder.

  “I’m soon to be UFC world featherweight champion!”

  “Well, you know, after you turn eighteen, graduate from high school, go to college, and fight amateur for a while, then maybe—”

  “Maybe I’ll go pro right away.”

  Meghan raises an eyebrow. “Then you’d be like Eric.” We watch as Mr. Matsuda instructs Hector on tying up Eric like a pretzel. “You’d be a drill dummy, Nong.”

  I shake my head and walk away. I walk to my locker, take out my phone, and watch a round of one of my favorite UFC fights. I go back into the dojo, head down so I don’t glare at Meghan and everyone else. Alone in the corner, I jump rope, imagining myself in the fight, and let my reality drift away.

  May Li offers me a sushi roll as we stand in the school parking lot. I shake my head. “I need to stay within my weight class,” I answer.

  She readjusts her black-rim glasses, which look like mine. But glasses are about all we have in common: she’s tall for a girl, while I’m short for a guy. She’s brainy, I’m brawny. But the main thing that separates us is this: I dream about her, and I bet she doesn’t even think about me.

  “Nong, I don’t see how you can fight like that. You seem so gentle.”

  I hide my disappointment. I’ve tried to get her to call me “Ninja Warrior,” but she just laughs. Just like I’ve tried to call her to ask her out, but I always choke. She’d probably laugh at that too. “Well, I don’t see how you can study like that,” I say, pointing at the stack of books in her bag.

  “I guess everybody has things they’re good at … like this sushi chef!” She takes another bite. “Sometimes I wish I could forget about college and just train to be a chef.”

  “But you’ve gotta uphold the family tradition, right?” I ask. All of May Li’s older brothers and sisters were star students: honor roll, AP classes, and academic scholarships.

  “Something like that,” she says. “Did your brothers go to college?”

  “No. My oldest brother, Ywj, began our tradition of high school dropouts.” Ywj, his wife Kia, and their son Bao just moved back to St. Louis from St. Paul. I missed Kia and Bao, but Ywj, not at all. I try to see Bao as much as I can; I avoid Ywj as much as humanly possible.

  “I bet your parents were upset. I know mine would be.”

  “Not at all, actually,” I say. “My dad told Ywj to act like a man after Ywj got Kia pregnant. So he dropped out, married Kia, and went to work. He just lost that job.”

  “So I guess you’re starting a new family tradition by graduating.”

  I shrug my shoulders, which makes me wince in pain.

  “You okay, Nong?”

  I’ve tried to trick May Li various times into giving me back rubs, but it never works. “I’m fine. I just had a really good spar at the dojo last night.”

  “Maybe you should fight less and study more. I know you know how to study.” My parents want me to graduate with a good GPA, so last year I asked May Li to tutor me in a few classes as her National Honor Society service project. She was a patient teacher.

  “I study. I study MMA all the time,” I say, and she laughs. “Name a move, and I’ll tell you who used it to finish what fight, who they beat, and even which event.”

  “If only you could use those skills toward school,” she says. I can’t tell if she’s teasing. “Oh, I have to get home to practice violin,” she says as she checks the time and throws the empty sushi container away. “See you tomorrow?”

  “Bye,” I say. As I head to my car, I realize how hungry I am and remember the dessert Mom put in the fridge.

  I’ll be coming home to an empty house. Mom and Dad have both worked two jobs since Dad lost his business. They don’t really like my MMA career, but they do sacrifice to pay for it. In return I’ve promised them good grades, no drugs, no booze, and to avoid the Hmong gangs in our neighborhood.

  My parents aren’t there when I get home, but Ywj and his eight-year-old son, Bao, are sitting in the living room. Bao watches my dad’s big TV while Ywj talks on his cell, his back to me. I don’t make any effort to speak to Ywj, just like he never talks to Dad. But Bao turns around and greets me the way I taught him: “Uncle Ninja Warrior!”

  I pick him up, spin him around, and then powerbomb him gently onto the sofa.

  Bao laughs. “Do it again!” I lift him up and grant him his wish. He laughs loud and long, and I join in. Ywj remains on the phone. It sounds like he’s talking to his wife, Kia.

  “So, Bao, you decide on my birthday present yet?” I ask playfully. “It’s only two months away!”

  Bao just laughs more.

  I head into the kitchen and see the message light flashing. My parents seem to have the only landline and answering machine left in the universe. There’s a message from my cousin Lue. He also left messages on my cell, so it must be important. When I call him back, he’s says he’s on his way to his tae kwon do class so he can’t talk long and wants to get right to the point.

  “I want to start MMA training now that I’m sixteen. Are there spots in your teen program?”

  I pause before I answer. For two years, I’ve succeeded in keeping my life divided: there’s the Nong Vang that my school and family know, and there’s the Ninja Warrior I am at the dojo. If Lue joins the dojo, the distance between my worlds shrinks. “I’m not sure,” I say.

  “We’d make a great team: Lightning Lue and the Ninja Warrior!”

  I pause again, this time distracted by a noise from the other room like something tipped over. That’s followed by a door slam.

  “OK, I’ll call the dojo and ask. I bet I could learn a lot from you,” Lue says before he hangs up.

  I open the fridge and take out leftover tricolor dessert. I fill two bowls and overfill a third one for me, and head back into the living room. Bao is quiet this time, and Ywj is gone.

  “Here, Mighty Bao.” I put the bowl on the table near him. He sniffs like he’s got a cold.

  As he reaches for the tricolor treat, I see his tricolor face. His eyes are white, his pupils are brown, and his busted lip drips red blood, courtesy of his dad, my brother, our shared bully.

  While Jackson and Hector spar in the center mat, I practice drills with Shawn Hart. Shawn has yet to get Muay Thai training because he keeps missing evenings to play school sports.

  “No, Shawn, you need to clasp your hands like this,” I explain, threading my fingers together as I wrap my hands around his skinny white neck. “Understand?”

  “Is that how Anderson Silva does it?” Shawn asks. Silva is the King of the Thai Clinch.

  “Exactly!” I pull him tighter in the clinch. “Do it perfectly, and no one can escape.”

  Shawn tries the grip, but I slip out. I make him do it a few more times until he gets it right. Mr. Matsuda stops by to check on us. Or to give me a hard time.

  “Is this really Silva’s grip?” Shawn asks Mr. Matsuda and then puts me in the clinch.

  “It doesn’t matter,” Mr. Matsuda says and glares at me. “When I started in MMA, I just wanted to be a fighter. I didn’t copy someone else’s moves. And I didn’t give myself a nickname.”

  “Well, those ancient Greeks didn’t have a lot of moves,” I say. Shawn laughs, but Mr. Matsuda frowns at me. “Seriously, why not use cool moves from UFC?” I say.

  “Cool moves don’t win real fights, they just look good,” Mr. Matsuda explains. “They might impress judges, but they don’t impress me. Stick to the basics. Grapple, strike, submit.”

  “That doesn’t sound like much fun,” I say.

  Another glare, this one harder. “Nong, who told you this was supposed to be fun?”

  “This, oh, this is no fun at all, all these drills,” I explain. “But once I get some fights under me, get on the Ultimate Fighter, win the contract, and get in the UFC, all that will be fun.”

  “Maybe you should think about winning the dojo spars more often first,” Mr. Matsuda counters.

/>   I look away. I know the coaches don’t keep dojo win-loss records, or if they do, they hide them. But he’s right. I’m on the losing side, mainly because most of the fighters in the dojo are bigger than me. Once I face someone my own weight and skill level, I’ll show him.

  “This is a sport of upsets,” Shawn says to Mr. Matsuda, helping my case. “Even the most dominant fighter loses sometimes.”

  “Nong, if all you care about is being famous,” Mr. Matsuda says sternly, “you’ll never win a single amateur fight.” As he walks away, I hear him mumble, “I wish TV and magazines never would’ve found this sport.”

  Shawn and I finish the drill, and then we turn toward a punching bag. “You know, I take it back—these drills can be fun,” I say. “Master Hodge, look at this!” I shout as I show off some of my best moves on the punching bag: flying knees, spinning back fists, and standing savate kick.

  “Nong, get serious!” Mr. Hodge shouts at me.

  “I’m seriously ready to get into that cage!”

  Mr. Hodge puts his hands on his hips. “Then stop screwing around.”

  “I’m not, I’m getting ready,” I explain. “I watched Hector, and I knew what he was going to do. You always say the only way to win in this sport is to do the unexpected. Everybody knows you teach the ground-and-pound style, so that’s what they’ll be looking for. Well, I’ll have a little surprise for them for sure.” I throw a perfect roundhouse kick that rocks the top of the bag.

  “You want to surprise us? All right, let’s go, Nong,” Hodge says and motions for me to come over. “Shawn, get in here.”

  We jog over to the center mat. Before I put in my mouth guard I shout, “Shawn, are you ready to take a nap?”

  He doesn’t respond. But before Shawn steps on the mat, Hodge whispers something in his ear. I put on my helmet, straighten my gloves, and bounce on my feet. Inside, it feels like the butterflies in my stomach are bouncing too.

  “OK, let’s do this!” Mr. Hodge yells, then blows a whistle.

  I’m sure Mr. Hodge told Shawn to take me down, because I’m much weaker on the ground than on my feet, but I won’t give him a chance. I don’t bother to circle or throw jabs. I rush in and start with kicks to his legs and side. He blocks the kicks, but not the picture-perfect flying knee that crushes his chest. He staggers, and I rush my next move, but in doing so I lose my balance. Suddenly Shawn is on top in full mount, and he uses his legs to control me. Mr. Hodge blows the whistle.