Andrew Klavan - The long way home

Sensei Mike told us to begin and Peter and I started to circle around each other, looking for an opening, ready to fight. Now, Peter went to a different high school than I did and I didn't know him very well, but he always seemed like a good enough guy. He was smaller than I was, but wiry, muscular, and very fast. He had good high kicks that could catch you on the shoulder or even the head if you weren't careful. And he was hard to hit because he knew how to dance around and dodge.

I knew Peter liked to stay away from you and then suddenly dart in for a strike. That way he could use his speed to his advantage. My strategy against him was to stay on defense: stay back, stay focused, keep a good eye on him, and try to figure out when he was about to make his rush. That way, I could usually stop his attack and come back at him with a counterattack of my own.

The first time Peter rushed me, this strategy worked really well. Peter dashed at me across the carpeted dojo floor and launched a front ball kick at my stomach. I managed to dodge out of the way, but he followed up quickly with a slap at my head. I blocked the slap with my arm and then sent a sort of backhanded slap of my own into his belly. Again, we were unprotected, so we only used our open hands and were careful not to hit too hard.

Peter retreated, circling and dancing too far away for me to reach, looking for another opening into which he could rush again. I waited him out. I was paying close attention. I was ready for his rush. But none of that mattered. He was just too quick this time, too good. He rushed in with a fake, pretending to strike low. Then he came up fast at my head. I fell for it. I blocked him low and he came in over the top of the block and landed a good solid slap to the side of my forehead.

Peter kept full control of his strike. He didn't hurt me or anything, so there was nothing wrong with it. If you spar, sometimes you get hit, that's just the way it is. As Sensei Mike always told us, "You gotta lose to learn."

But there was something wrong with what happened next. There was something very wrong about it.

I felt a flash of anger go through me. Even though he hadn't injured me, I didn't like getting fooled and I didn't like getting hit. It hurt my pride. And I guess the thing is, too, I was already angry when I came to the dojo. I was angry because of what happened in Sherman's class. Having Peter outfight me like that just set the anger off.

Before I even had a chance to think, I snapped back at him. I ducked under his guard and shot my forearm into his midsection. It landed with more force than I meant-a lot more. I heard him say, "Oof," as the air rushed out of him. I should have pulled back then, but it was too late to stop. I was already moving, already bringing the back of my hand up toward his face. It was an openhanded strike and all that, but my knuckles cracked against Peter's chin. His head flew back and he stumbled away from me, dazed.

I didn't stop then either. I was still angry. I charged right after him, ready to deliver another series of strikes to his gut and to his face. I took-I don't know-maybe half a step.

And then, Sensei Mike came between us.

He moved so quickly I had no time to react. In one simultaneous combination, he grabbed my arm, hit me in the chest with his palm, and used his foot to sweep my leg out from under me. I went down hard, my back landing on the carpet with a bone-shaking thud. Mike's move took me by such surprise that I just barely managed to slap the floor, breaking my fall. Even so, the air was knocked out of me. I lay there for a moment, winded.

Mike turned his back on me and went to Peter.

"You okay, buddy?" he asked him.

Peter rubbed his chin and gave the sensei a lopsided smile. "Oh yeah. I'm fine. It's nothing."

"Good man."

I climbed slowly to my feet. Mike didn't say anything to me. He didn't have to. I already felt terrible. What a stupid thing to do.

"Hey, Peter, I am really sorry, man," I said. "I totally lost control. Way, way out of line. No excuse. I'm just sorry."

Peter shrugged. He smiled. "No problem, bro. Heat of battle. It happens."

I guess that was true enough. It was the heat of battle, and these things do happen. But that still didn't make it all right. When you train with someone, you're on the same team, even when you're fighting. The idea isn't to hurt him, it's to help him learn by forcing him to compete and get better. I felt really bad about what I'd done. But I felt even worse-a lot worse-about what I would have done-what I meant to do-if Mike hadn't stopped me.

We continued our lesson, even doing a little more kumite before we moved on to practicing katas. Sensei Mike didn't say anything more about my slipup. He didn't yell at me or lecture me or anything like that. I guess he could see how bad I felt about it already.

After the lesson, though, after Peter had left and I had changed back into my street clothes, I came out of the changing room. I was carrying my karate bag and kind of dragging my feet, keeping my head down, still feeling bad.

I came out of the dojo and into the little foyer. I stopped by the open door of Mike's office. He was sitting in the swivel chair behind his gunmetal-gray desk. He was looking over something on his computer.

"Hey, Mike, I really am sorry about the kumite," I told him.

He glanced up. "Yeah, I heard you the first time. You apologized like a man and Pete forgave you. You don't have to torture yourself about it. Like he said, it was the heat of battle. It's not like you really hurt him or anything."

"I know," I said. And then I said, "But I would've. I'd have kept going after him, if you hadn't stopped me."

Mike shrugged. "That's what I'm here for, chucklehead." "Yeah, but you won't always be there."

He tilted back in his chair, put his feet up on the desk and his hands behind his head. He laughed and his eyes kind of laughed with him. "Sure I will. I'm your teacher. I'm in your head, double-ugly. You'll never get rid of me. That's why you have to be careful who you learn from."

I couldn't tell whether he was kidding around or not. It was like that a lot with Mike. He would say something that sounded serious, but there'd still be that laughter hiding under the 'stache.

"Why don't you tell me what's biting your butt, anyway?" he said now. "What got you all angry today? It wasn't Peter, that's for sure. I saw there was something stuck in your craw the minute you started working out."

I don't know why I should've been surprised by this. It was a weird thing about Mike. He could watch you practice karate and know almost exactly what you were thinking. I'd seen him do it a dozen times.

I sighed. I figured I might as well tell him. "I have this teacher at school…" I said. And then I laid it all out, explaining about Mr. Sherman and what he'd said in class and how I couldn't figure out how to answer him.

When I was finished, Mike did this thing he did a lot, where he would sort of smooth his mustache down with his thumb and forefinger for a long time. That way, you couldn't see him smiling at all, though you always suspected he was.

"So let me ask you something," he said. "Do you love your mom?"

"What?"

"Your female parental unit. Your mom. You love her?"

"Yeah. Sure, I love my mom. I mean, she worries too much, but basically she's a really good mom. In fact, I love her a lot."

"Prove it."

I laughed. "I… I mean… I can't… I…"

Mike opened his mouth and went, "Uh, uh, uh," pretending to make fun of me the way Mr. Sherman had.

"All right," I said finally, "I can't prove it, but there's, like, stuff I do, you know. I mean, she knows I love her."

"Sure she does. 'Cause you treat her with respect. You try to make her proud of you. You give her a little affection when no one's looking. Maybe clean your room every fifty, hundred years or so."