Tommy Wieringa - Joe Speedboat

‘ Mesdames et messieurs! ’ the announcer reverberated, ‘ François le Bras! ’

François le Bras, was that me? Apparently it was, because he went on to announce the other man as Gaston Bravo. I looked at Joe, he was laughing. What a scream. The only problem was, my opponent didn’t come to the table. I could see him in the front row. I knew it was him because the other men were pushing him forward.

‘ Allez, Gaston! ’

I made a quick estimate: an immigrants’ son, too young to have worked in the mines and therefore now holding down some menial job (later I heard that he worked on the line at a munitions factory in Liège). He was what they called ‘good looking’ (black hair slicked back and big, sentimental eyes).

One of the judges went to see what was keeping him. Bravo pointed at me and gesticulated wildly. I understood, he didn’t want to go against me. Not against a wheelchair case, the same way footballers wouldn’t want to play against a girls’ team. I tried to make eye contact with Joe, who signalled to me to stay calm; confusion worked to our advantage. After some coercion, Bravo came to the table. He didn’t meet my gaze, just sat down and planted his elbow in the box. I did the same and seized his hand. It was a frightened hand, and a wave of disappointment rolled over me. Because of his opponent, the man sitting across from me was no longer taking the game seriously. It was painful and insulting. I had counted on plenty of setbacks, but not this one. I kept myself from looking to Joe for support, I had to do this on my own.

‘Ready. . Go!’

I struck hard, to avenge the insult. He was already halfway to defeat by the time he seemed to wake with a start and tried to resist, but it was too late: 1–0. The howling of the crowd was terrible to hear, they had all put their money on Bravo, they egged him on with the fury of floor traders at the stock exchange. For the second round, Gaston Bravo seemed prepared to do things differently.

‘Ready. . Go!’

And there he was, his hand on top. He certainly had impressive biceps, my, and oh, such a finely sculpted torso to put behind them; I had to surrender almost ten degrees, but that was it. Without anger I forced him slowly and without a smidgen of doubt onto the table. Then I held his hand beneath mine for a couple of tormenting seconds before letting go. François le Bras 2–Pretty Boy 0. My first official victory, and I felt no joy. He hadn’t looked me in the eye once, he hadn’t evaluated me as a person but as a defect, and I had defeated him with the power of hatred. I think he didn’t even care; my entire person was hors concours to him.

‘François le Bras!’ Joe crowed, ‘the man of the hour! He didn’t have a goddamn chance, not a chance. . What’s wrong?’

I averted my gaze, which was full of rage and frustration. Joe gasped.

‘You don’t get it, do you? He wins his first fight and he’s disillusioned about the way it went. . Frankie, listen to me, the only reason we’re here is because you’re in a wheelchair, do you understand? Without that thing you would never have had a miracle arm, it’s a direct result of , so if some prick draws that to your attention in his own pricky fashion, that’s nothing new to you, is it? Think about the Strategy! Jesus, by the time they get used to a guy in a wheelchair it’s already one — nil! You just fought against some dickhead from the barbell club and you kicked his ass! Would you please try to understand that?’

I tried to smile. Maybe I shouldn’t resent being seen as a freak in these surroundings. Maybe I needed to make that my forte. A bitter pill, but there you had it. ‘Today is victory over yesterday’s self, and tomorrow is victory over what you are today’ — Go Rin No Sho . When would I really start understanding things like that, instead of just toying with the words because I found them so impressive?

‘You want a beer?’ Joe asked. He could see that the arm had started shivering again.

Yes, I wanted a beer, and again I felt that fathomless friendship.

The next match was against the farmhand I’d seen doing his stuff earlier. His kind of strength was different from that of Hennie Oosterloo or Gaston Bravo: more sinewy, as though he could keep it up for hours without getting tired, like a pack animal. The only thing was — and I noted this with a mixture of triumph and regret (because he seemed like such a nice guy) — it wasn’t enough. I crushed him in less than one minute. He sort of smiled, slid around on his stool until he was comfortable, then put his arm back in the box for the second go. Once again, I got on top right away.

‘You must learn the spirit of crushing as though with a hand-grip.’

Again I pushed through his resistance.

‘It is essential to crush him all at once.’

He was three-quarters of the way to defeat.

‘The primary thing is not to let him recover his position even a little.’

This is How to Crush, as Musashi prescribes it: ‘If we crush lightly, he may recover.’

I had crushed the farmhand, but he showed no sign of disappointment. He got up off his stool, walked around the table and grabbed my hand to congratulate me. He wore his defeat like a saint, and by shaking my hand seemed to forgive me for having crushed him. I would have liked to say sorry or something, or do the whole match over again and let him win, just to stop feeling so shitty about it.

‘Man oh man,’ Joe said, ‘the semi-finals. You understand now?’

Fifteen minutes later or so, what I understood best was this: my next opponent was going to be a Walloon who I’d seen win before, a man who wore at least one gold ring on each of his oily fingers, as well as on both thumbs. Right before the match he would take them off one by one, then slide them back on again when he was finished. One of his front teeth was framed in gold as well. He gave the impression of being built entirely of soot and motor oil. His strength was hard to judge.

We fell into the referee’s ‘Go’ at exactly the same moment. After thirty seconds I was almost certain we were applying the same strategy. I let him come, there was no hurry. Haste comes when you’re afraid of losing. All this time the soot-and-oil man was staring at me with eyes slightly narrowed. He was doing an awfully good imitation of the Stance in Strategy, but in a natural sort of way; he didn’t seem like the kind of person who would study Japanese techniques. He maintained constant pressure on his half of the triangle, and that gave me the feeling he was holding back. He was saving something to use against me at a certain point, and with his hand on top he already had the advantage. The first thing I had to do was correct that situation.

I closed my eyes and bowed my head, and right away I felt the soothing influence of the Glow, that invisible instrument for explosively multiplying power, and brought the triangle back upright. I should have noticed that he was giving in too easily, though, because the moment we reached starting position he struck. He had been waiting for me to take the initiative, and had applied the principle of Tai Tai No Sen , ‘to accompany him and forestall him’, in masterly fashion. When I opened my eyes his golden grin was beaming right at me, and I was leaning over sideways and powerless.

Stay calm, I told myself. Nothing’s been lost yet. I sucked in air; breathe in, breathe out. This was an opponent I had to fight like stone. Going into our second round, I withstood his initial attack. He was feeling sure of himself now, and exerted much more force than he had before. With that, in a certain sense, he had become me during the first round, and I was able to anticipate what he was going to do. When I looked up I saw his eyes closed in great effort. Yes, this was a glorious reversal of the first round!