Tom Schreck - TKO

“Sir, this is a closed class. There are no visitors,” Mitchell said. He glared at me like he thought I would melt in front of him.

“Good for you, but why don’t you leave the kid alone,” I said. I felt the vein twitch in my neck again.

“No one speaks to the sensei in this class like this. You are putting yourself in danger,” he said. His partner took an exaggerated stance with his hands on his hips. He stood up straight in a posture that was impossibly rigid.

“Yeah, well, excuse me if I don’t tremble,” I said.

I walked across the gym floor, grabbed the kid by the back of the uniform, and lifted him to his feet.

“C’mon, pal. You’re getting outta here.”

The kid tried to pull away and he tried to say something to his instructors, but nothing came out. They stood with their hands on their hips.

“You’re doing us a favor. He’s kept the rest of the class down,” Harter said.

I stopped. I put the kid down and I turned around.

The vein in my neck was doing the Twist and I had had it.

“Tell you what, tough guy, how about you come over here and make me do a pushup. Or does the fact that I’m over 140 pounds disqualify me?” I said.

“A time and a place for you, there will be,” Mitchell said.

“Hey Confucius, you want to try me? C’mon!” The neck was getting intense. “You weren’t all philosophical two minutes ago when you were abusing this kid,” I said.

“Go now, while you still can,” Harter said.

I didn’t move or say anything for a while, but I looked Mitchell right in the eye.

“C’mon, kid,” I said. The kid didn’t want to go, and I had to pull him away. I dragged him out to the stairwell. He struggled to stand up straight, he wiped his eyes, trying to make it look like he wasn’t crying, and he wouldn’t look at me.

“Why did you do that?” he said. “I am a karateka. I will be a black belt one day.”

“Hey kid-”

“Who are you? Why don’t you mind your own business?”

He looked up at me and his face was covered with zits. The very tip of his nose had a huge whitehead on it, and it was about the size of a nickel. He had a traumatized look on his face as he held back the tears.

“Kid-you don’t need to be treated like that. That’s not what being a black belt is all about,” I said.

“How would you know?”

“I am a black belt, have been for years.” Which was true. I was a black belt as a teenager before I got into boxing.

The kid froze and looked frightened like he just farted in the Pope’s presence. He came to attention and bowed.

“I am sorry, sir. I meant no disrespect.”

“Kid, it-”

He interrupted me again. Something came over his face.

“You will be my new sensei. You have been sent to lead me to my black belt.”

“Uh… kid… uh…” I couldn’t find the words.

“Yes, it is destiny. I will put my trust in you,” he said, and a calm came over him.

Oh boy. I couldn’t think of what to say, but I was fully aware that I did stick my nose in this kid’s life without him asking me to.

The kid gave me a big exaggerated bow.

I bowed back, which… uh… I guess is what you do to a karateka under your tutelage.

Oh geez.

It had been a long day for about eleven different reasons, so I headed to my bastion of stress management. I needed a little insanity to balance out what the rest of the day had been, and I was still cooling down from the workout when I walked into AJ’s.

“So you’re saying they’re what you call Native American Canadians,” Rocco said.

“Yeah, have to be,” TC said.

“Why not just Native Canadians?” Jerry Number Two asked.

“Isn’t that what they call the Canucks from Quebec?” said Rocco.

“I don’t think they care for the term ‘Canuck,’” Jerry Number Two said.

“Isn’t there a pro hockey team called the Canucks?” Jerry Number One asked.

“So,” said TC.

“They play in Vancouver,” Jerry Number Two said.

“What does that have to do with anything?” Rocco said.

“That’s why they call themselves the Canucks-to piss off the Native Quebecians,” Jerry Number Two said.

“So how bad could the term be if they named a hockey team after it?” Jerry Number One said. “We don’t have a team in the NBA called the Alabama Spooks.”

“There’s the Globetrotters,” TC said.

“They’re not Canadian,” Jerry Number Two said.

“They’re Native Harlemenians,” TC said.

AJ slid a bottle of Schlitz in front of me and I sat next to Kelley, who was watching the old fights on ESPN Classic. It was Basilio and Robinson again.

“What do you hear from your hackin’ friend?” Kelley asked.

“Nothing,” I said. “I spent some time reading his prison file today though.”

“And…”

“Not much there. In his first five years he was assaulted a couple of times,” I said.

“That’s pretty routine.”

“Then the guy in the cell next to him was beaten to death over some drug stuff. Apparently there was some bad drugs floating around Green Haven and some inmates died.”

“I think I remember that,” Kelley said. “Turned out the stuff they were taking was some homemade poisonous shit.”

“Bad shit,” I said.

“Yeah-but also pretty routine inside. Those guys are always trying to get high.”

“Are you involved in the search for Howard?”

“Not really. I mean we get bulletins and shit like that, but nothing official. There’s a big-deal task force,” Kelley said.

“Gotcha.”

“Hey-you’re fighting in the Garden, huh?”

“Yeah, some hot-shit contender.”

“Good luck.”

“I’ll need it,” I said.

“Ahooooooo, ahooooooo, mmmmmm, woof, woof, ahoooooo.” It was my alarm clock.

My alarm clock has no snooze control-in fact, it has very little control. It does have long ears, short legs, and a tendency toward flatulence. This morning Al was particularly intense around the front door to the Moody Blue. Intense enough that I decided to forgo my first stop to take a leak and my second stop to get the coffee going.

“Grrrrrrr, woof, woof, woof,” Al said. Three consecutive WOOFs usually meant something unusual was going on. Al tended to stick to the two WOOFs, a single AHOOOO, followed by two more WOOFs.

I peeked through the front-door curtains and rubbed the gook out of me eyes. It was the goofy karate kid from last night, just standing there waiting for something. I’m not a rise-and-shine kind of guy, and this was going to be a real challenge to my cognition first thing in the morning. I wasn’t sure exactly what to do, but it was early and I was curious about what might’ve brought him to my trailer. I opened the door to see just what I had here at such a God-awful hour.

“Sir,” the kid said. “Good morning.” Then he bowed. He was wearing a black karate-style outfit.

“Kid, what the hell time is it?” came out of my mouth.

“Five fifteen a.m., sir.”

“What are you doing here?” My pupils had constricted enough that I could clearly see him. This morning he had a new zit right in the middle of his forehead. In my morning fog, the kid looked Hindu.

“Here for training, sir.”

“Training for what?” I said. “And what’s with the getup?”

“Sir, this is the Karateka-Brand Nu-Breath Fabric Modern Ninja suit, sir.”

I was starting to wonder what planet I was on.

“Kid, what’s your name?”

“William Cramer, sir, known as Billy.”

“Did I say we were going to train this morning?”

“No, sir, I am just eager to learn,” he said. I couldn’t stop staring at the whitehead in the middle of his forehead. It was like some sort of evil cyclops had been sent to mess up my morning equilibrium.