Head Kick (The Dojo)

by Patrick Jones

  “What are you doing, little man?”

  I bounce on the balls of my feet like I’m in the cage, setting up a strike. “Listen to me. I won’t stand for it. You won’t hit Bao again or call him a runt. Do you understand?”

  “Nong, this is none of your business.”

  I notice he doesn’t deny it. “It is my business. He’s my nephew.”

  “He’s my son.”

  “Then treat him like one.”

  He pulls in a drag from his smoke. “I’m treating him like Dad treated me.”

  “It’s still not right.”

  “What are you going do about it?” He stares me down, and in only a few seconds, I blink, losing the faceoff.

  I hand Ywj his phone and walk away. I hope he didn’t notice my hand shaking when he took the phone. There is a moment of truth coming, but not here, not now, not yet.

  Back inside the restaurant, my other two brothers are still eating crab legs and laughing. Dad beams with pride at his big, strapping sons, like size makes you a man or something. I pick up Lue’s present and sit down next him. We flip through the book together.

  “Check out the moves these guys were famous for,” he says. “It’s crazy.”

  “Yeah. But … you can learn most all of it at Mr. Hodge’s dojo. That is, if you still want to join.”

  “Really?”

  I nod and then we fist-bump. “One day we’ll tap gloves in the ring, and then you’ll tap to the Ninja Warrior!” I say.

  Lue laughs. “We’ll see about that. I outweigh you by, like, twenty pounds.”

  “Won’t make any difference because inside that cage, I’m a different person. Here you know me as Nong Vang, but in the cage, I’m the Ninja Warrior.”

  Back home, I head up to my room. I toss and turn as the two sides of me battle for control. The confident Ninja Warrior shoots on the insecure runt Nong Vang, but Nong always seems to win, especially tonight.

  Since I can’t sleep, I turn on the computer and start watching fights. But I just keep focusing on the look on the loser’s face. I pause the DVD and head for my closet. I pull out a grocery bag from behind a pile of blankets, emptying my stash of candy bars and chips onto the bed. Ripping open the bag of chips feels like ripping open my presents. But then I think about what my dad said about my future, and all the nasty things Ywj and my other brothers have said about me in the past. Nobody believes in me as a fighter, and right now, that includes me.

  Hector and I have our first amateur fights on the same night, so I give him a ride. But this time, we are both silent on the drive to the arena. I’m too nervous even to talk too much. When we arrive, the parking lot is still pretty empty. I park, and we walk toward the building.

  “Where you going?” He’s headed for the front door. I point him toward the back.

  Hector grunts like he’s afraid to waste energy on talking. We find a back door labeled “Fighters’ Entrance” and head inside. We spot Mr. Hodge and Marcus in the locker room.

  “Nong, Hector—listen.” Mr. Hodge begins to explain how the weigh-ins will work. Hector keeps nodding. I don’t move a muscle until we all leave the locker room for the arena area.

  Marcus, as a flyweight, gets called first. Just looking at him compared to his opponent, it’s obvious Marcus is going to win. From the look in his foe’s eyes, he knows that too. It’s like they don’t need to wait the hour before the fight to start—it could be declared over right now.

  When they call featherweight, I take a deep breath and walk toward the scale with purpose. The other featherweight weighs in first. Right on the money at 145. I take off everything except my briefs and prepare to mount the scale, but first I stare down the other fighter like Jackson taught me. He doesn’t look like a winner—there is no way I will lose.

  “148,” the judge says. I look at the scale, and he’s not joking. I’m three pounds over the limit. I keep looking anywhere except at Mr. Hodge. I put my clothes back on, bow my head in humiliation, and start toward the locker room.

  “Where are you going?” Mr. Hodge asks.

  “Back to the locker room,” I answer.

  “The locker room is for fighters, and you’re not fighting tonight,” Mr. Hodge says and points toward the arena. “Sit in the hard chairs with the civilians.”

  I walk out into the empty arena. I close my eyes and try to visualize being in Vegas, with thousands in attendance, or at a stadium show in Brazil. But the images won’t come, like I’ve lost the ability to dream.

  With nothing to do but wait, I call home to tell Mom not to bother to come to the fight. She blames herself for my not making weight, saying she should have supported me more, but I don’t let her beat up on herself. I tell her I own this and I’ll suffer the consequences.

  “What do you think Mr. Hodge will do?” she asks.

  “I don’t know and I don’t care.”

  “Are you quitting?”

  “No, the opposite,” I say. “I’ll work harder. Then, when I do step in the cage for the first time, I’ll know for sure that I’ll win.”

  “Is there anything I can do?”

  I pause. I want to tell her yes, I want you to find a time machine, go back in time, and step in when Dad hit Ywj. Then tell Dad he shouldn’t let Ywj beat up Tha, who beat up Vam, who beat me up with the others.

  I watch as the crew sets up the cage. I close my eyes and see myself in the cage. Not the Ninja Warrior, but just Nong Vang.

  “Nong, are you there?” Mom asks.

  “Not yet.”

  “You’re not coming in with me?” Lue asks through my open Honda window. We’re in an empty lot across from the Missouri MMA dojo, also known as Nong’s House of Shame.

  “I’m not ready to face Mr. Hodge and Mr. Matsuda yet,” I confess.

  “Look, there are worse things in the world than not making weight,” Lue says.

  I nod in agreement. Fighting, losing, and being humiliated would have been worse. I chose the lesser of two evils. “Besides, if I come back, I’ll come back to the adult class.”

  “But I thought we could train together,” Lue says. “Ninja Warrior and Lightning Lue.”

  “No, just being Lue Vang will do,” I say. “Besides, family and fighting shouldn’t mix.”

  “Man, that’s too bad.” Lue says. “I thought at your graduation party in a couple of weeks, we could spar, show off the sport for the whole family. You’d probably win, but it’d be fun.”

  “I don’t think most people think it’s a sport,” I say. “Just ’cause we’re not on an actual team.”

  “You guys don’t consider yourself a team?”

  I think about Hector, Jackson, and Meghan and realize that I’d lied to Lue. Not just about why I didn’t make weight—blaming it on a broken scale at home—but about fighting and family not mixing. “No, my dojo mates aren’t teammates. In some ways, they’re more like a family.”

  “Well, I guess families and fighting do mix sometimes.” He smiles and waves good-bye and heads into the dojo.

  I’m barely settled when my phone rings. It’s Jackson. This makes the fifth time he’s called in the past week, since my shame. That’s two times less than Hector. Meghan has texted a couple of times.

  To kill time before giving Lue a ride back home, I play games and watch fights on my phone. Ywj is at my folks’ house again, so I can’t go there. I’d go see Kia and Bao, but that just makes me mad: first at Ywj, then at myself, and then back at Ywj. And of course at my dad. I brood and think while I wait.

  After a long two hours, Lue calls and I turn the car on. I look across the way, and I don’t see Hector. After winning his first fight, he probably graduated to the adult class. Jackson comes out, talking with Meghan. He walks toward the bus stop, while Meghan stays behind and talks with Mr. Hodge.

  Lue climbs into the car and can’t stop talking about the class, including how Jackson knocked out one of the other new students. “But everybody is asking about you,” he says.

  “Not
talking trash about me?” I mutter.

  “Okay, a little. They say you’re ready for UFC, at least in terms of trash-talking.”

  I laugh. “Well, if I could fight with my mouth, I’d do better.”

  Lue sinks into the passenger seat. “Word going around is someone knows why you didn’t make weight. They said you did it on purpose. They said it was because you were scared.”

  “That’s a lie,” I lie. “Who said that? I’ll teach that punk kid a lesson.”

  He looks out the window as he says, “It was Mr. Hodge.”

  After I drop Lue off, I drive back to the dojo. Mr. Hodge’s car is gone, so I head back home. Then I notice Meghan biking on the side of the road. I get ahead of her and pull off to the shoulder. She slows down at the sight, I hope, of my familiar beat-up green Honda.

  I get out of the car. “Meghan, hey!”

  She stops her bike, takes off her helmet, and lets her long hair fly in the wind. “Clark Kent, what are you doing out here? Are you the Ninja Stalker now?”

  I laugh. “Hey, can we talk?”

  There’s a puzzled look on her face. In the two years I’ve known her, I know I’ve never said those four words to her. Or her to me. “There’s a Starbucks up the road,” she says. “Meet me there.”

  I climb back in the car and drive slowly to the Starbucks. I park, go inside, wait, and prepare my game plan.

  After she locks her bike, she comes in. “You want anything, Clark?” she asks from the counter. I think of all the ways I could answer that question.

  “See if they got any fat-burning teas,” I finally say.

  She laughs, orders a flavored latte for herself, and comes over to the table with it. “This is weird,” she says as she sits down. “Have we ever had coffee before?”

  “Doubt it,” I answer. I don’t tell her one of the reasons is that I had a crush on her at one point—probably like every other guy at the dojo—but fighting was more important to me than flirting. Mr. Hodge has a hard rule about the girls and guys in his dojo not dating.

  “So talk,” she says.

  “I heard Mr. Hodge said that I didn’t make weight because I was afraid. Is that true?”

  She sips the drink like she’s stalling. She takes two more sips and then finally answers quietly. “Yes.”

  “Meghan, can I trust you?” I ask.

  Again, the puzzled look, followed by a sip and then an affirming nod of her head.

  “You don’t talk about yourself much, about your family or anything except the dojo and MMA. And I don’t either, so I guess we have something in common,” I begin.

  “Maybe, Clark, it’s because my life outside of the dojo is so dull.”

  “No, I think because your life outside of the dojo is different than inside, right?

  Another affirming head nod.

  “So, maybe you’ll understand what I’m talking about,” I say, and then I start in. Unlike one of my UFC information dumps, this isn’t blathering to show off. Unlike my trash-talking, this isn’t flapping my gums to cover up nervousness, but the opposite. I tell her about the fear of getting humiliated and where that comes from. I tell her about my brothers, and even about Bao. I even tell her about having a crush on her, and my crush on May Li. The whole time she says hardly anything. Mostly she just nods her head like Mr. Hodge does when we’re drilling, to show that he’s paying attention. I end with, “So what do I do?”

  She focuses on her latte. “Sounds like you’re battling a whole bunch of fighters at once.”

  “Yeah, but what do you do then?”

  She sips her coffee, smiles at me, and says, “Take out the biggest one first.”

  I recall my Bully Beatdown fantasy, and I know she’s right. “Do you think I can come back to the dojo?” I ask and then brace for the blow. “Do you think Mr. Hodge would let me?”

  “He respects honesty more than anything else. Be honest with him, ask for another chance to show the Ninja Warrior is ready, and I’m sure he’d welcome you back. But you should come to the adult class. I’m going, and so are Jackson and that tough new fish, Tyresha.”

  “The Ninja Warrior’s not coming back to the dojo,” I say. “But Nong Vang is.”

  “So that’s it,” I say and then let out a deep breath. Sitting in Mr. Hodge’s office, I’ve just finished talking about what happened before my first fight—or what was supposed to be my first fight. I’ve told him about reaching my limit with Ywj and Bao. He hasn’t reacted much, just looked as if he knew what I would say. “I’d like to come back to the dojo,” I finish, meeting his eyes. My body’s enjoyed the pain-free two weeks, but the fighter in me wants to live again.

  “Will this happen again?” is his matter-of-fact question.

  “No, I promise. If I don’t make weight for my next fight, I’ll quit.”

  He nods. “Everybody makes mistakes. It’s not just a matter of not doing something again. You need to understand why you messed up in the first place. What are you going to do differently?”

  “I’m going to get real,” I say. “Stop trying to be great and talk tough. Stop acting like somebody I’m not. Just take what I’ve learned, let my instincts take over, and fight the best fight I can.”

  “Then let’s get to work.” Mr. Hodge pats me on the back and points to the dojo.

  Mr. Matsuda is not as forgiving. He makes me into a throw toy in takedown practice for all the new fighters, including Lue. Each time I hit the mat, I bounce back up, bow to Mr. Matsuda, and get ready for the next takedown. “You had enough, fatboy?” he hisses.

  Being called fatboy isn’t better than being called a runt, but I let it bounce off. “No, sir.”

  “Sweeping hip throws, let’s go!” Mr. Matsuda demonstrates the move on me with too much zeal and then has everyone use it on me twice. Everybody does it well except for Lue, who has trouble keeping his balance. Matsuda shakes his head and mumbles, “new fish,” as he walks away.

  “Here, Lue, let me show you,” I say. “Tyresha, would you mind?”

  Tyresha, a tough girl with a wrestling background, locks up with me. Rather than just showing them the move, I talk them through it. For Lue, I show him how and where to plant his feet, set his hips, and balance himself as he executes the move.

  “Okay, Lue, you try again.” Lue and I lock up, and I let him take me down. This time he keeps his balance and executes the move perfectly. The other students applaud. “Good job, Lue.”

  Lue adds his applause. “No—good job, Nong.”

  “Welcome back, Clark!” I hear. I turn around to see Meghan applauding as well. “You talk to Mr. Hodge?”

  “I did exactly what you said.”

  “Are you coming to adult class?”

  “Yes, but I also want to stay with the teen classes now that school is almost over.”

  “Now, don’t be a bully to them, Clark.”

  “Trust me, that’s one thing I’ll never be.”

  Mr. Hodge spends most of the class in his office. Mr. Matsuda works with other students and leaves me in charge of Lue and other new students. With about a half hour left in the class, Mr. Hodge emerges from his office. He’s got a rare expression on his face: a smile.

  “Everybody, over here!” Drills stop immediately and students come to the center.

  “I just got off the phone with the fight promoter,” Mr. Hodge says. “He had a scratch for this Friday, and it happens to be in the featherweight division. So, Nong, you’ll get another chance in a few days. You ready?”

  “I am.” I’ll graduate on Thursday, and then fight on Friday. Every exit is also an entrance ramp.

  Mr. Hodge points at Lue. “Let’s get him ready. Two three-minute rounds, full contact.”

  Lue and I put on our equipment and head into the cage. We touch gloves and start the spar. Lue’s strikes aren’t much, but he’s got good footwork. Given that and his size, he’ll be hard to take down. With his tae kwon do background, he’ll be strong on kicks.

  “Close the distan
ce, Nong!” Mr. Hodge shouts. I follow instructions and get in close. Lue tries some judo throws, but that’s his mistake. I’m quicker, and I get position and double-leg him to the mat. I get side control, but he’s too big and strong for me to move. I let him up, circle, and take him down again, this time with a single leg. On the mat it’s more of the same.

  “Lue, you’ve got to defend. Go on the offensive!” Mr. Matsuda shouts.

  Lue throws a few tentative kicks, and I rush in with a flurry of solid strikes. Nothing fancy, just hard right jabs, overhand lefts, and strong front kicks. The round ends with my fingers locked around his neck in the clinch, and him defending against knee strikes.

  Mr. Hodge walks over to my corner. He says nothing, just pats my shoulder again as I stay loose.

  The whistle blows, and Lue goes on offense, mainly with kicks that don’t land. I throw a hard front kick to his knee that connects. When his knee buckles, he drops his head. I fight through a weak jab and get my arm wrapped tight around his neck, increasing the pressure on the standing guillotine choke by locking my legs around his body. He taps immediately.

  Lue and I touch gloves. He takes out his mouthpiece. “I told you. You’re way better.”

  I take out my mouthpiece and hug Lue. “Maybe now, but you’ll improve over time.

  “Helps to have a good teacher.” He bows to me, and I return the gesture.

  I look over the students in the dojo, so eager and excited. “Who is next?” I ask.

  Before anyone volunteers, I point at Jackson, who stands in the back row. At six feet and over 200 pounds, he’s the fighter who most resembles Ywj. He steps forward and scowls; it’s what he does. “You’re sure you don’t want to pick on someone your own size, Ninja Warrior?”

  “I’m Nong, not Ninja, but let’s get it on!” I shout at Jackson, but I think about Ywj. I bang my gloves and motion him into the cage. I know I can win a fair fight, but most fights in life aren’t fair. Still, even if there isn’t always fairness in the world, that doesn’t mean there can’t be justice.