For Reals This Time

The next day, I took Lucas to his first sparring class. This was a big step. He hadn't embraced the martial arts like we thought he would: rather than the steely-eyed focus of a Crouching Tigercub, there was fidgeting, and playing with his belt, and talking to the kid next to him. "It might not be his thing," Beth said on more than one occasion, and I was starting to believe her. Team sports, he loved. He'd recently become fond of lacrosse - I bought us a pair of mini-lacrosse sticks, and we played one-on-one in the yard. He's fierce, smacking me on the hands with the stick, dropping his shoulder and putting it into my hip, whipping the ball into the net with the force and accuracy of a much older kid. This was a tangible thing: you shoot, you score. Tang Soo Do, for the most part, consisted of punching, kicking, and blocking...air. It was all theory, moves performed against imaginary opponents, punctuated with talk of "self-discipline" and ten-counts in Korean. He was bored. The owner of the studio understood - Lucas, he said, loves sparring, and is fearless; some of the other kids don't like the idea of actually facing an opponent. Not Lucas. They do non-contact sparring in the regular classes, and Lucas digs it. (Also, it turns out that he's quite handy with the nunchuks.) Maybe we could try the advanced sparring class - he might do well, he's very competitive, and this might be the thing that turns on the switch.

There were maybe fifteen other students, with belts of various colors. Lucas was the youngest. "Do I get my own pads?", he asked. "Let's see how you do, how you like it", I replied. The pads - headgear, gloves for the hands and feet - weren't cheap, and I wanted to make sure I got a return on the investment. One of his instructors, a girl of maybe 18 who held a Black Belt and rode to class on a Kawasaki Ninja (the Bridesmaid?), helped him put on his gear. He gave me a big grin. "I get to fight for reals this time!"

The students lined up, and the instructors began talking. They spoke of the importance of movement, of anticipating your opponent's next attack, and I could sense his impatience. Even as the instructors demonstrated some block/kick/punch combos, Lucas fidgeted - with his do-bak, his belt, his pads. Of course my hope was that as soon as he donned his fight gear, he'd be transformed into a Martial Artist, a coiled spring waiting to be unleashed. That wasn't happening - he remained a five year old boy, watching from the sidelines while the grownups did cool stuff.

"Ok, everybody - two lines, face your partner, bow, and spar. Light contact! On my signal!" He awkwardly got to his feet - the headgear was falling over his eyes - turned to his partner, a Green Belt who had a couple of years and several inches on him, and bowed. "Begin!" 

He was outmatched, being new to sparring and a lowly Orange Belt to boot. He threw more swats than punches, and at one point landed on his butt when he attempted a jump kick. But there was something. He made a couple of blocks, and he managed to land a kick or two. More than that...he never looked down at the floor in frustration, or over at me in fear. His eyes remained locked on his opponent's. His jaw was set. He was fearless. 

The day before, I attended Rich's funeral. One minute he was shooting hoops, the next his heartbroken young wife was standing next to his casket, speaking to a stunned gathering of family and friends. There is sadness, there is tragedy, and then there is obscenity. Rich was 32. He had two kids, both younger than mine. His departure was unfair, wrong, obscene. As we walked back to the car, I looked across the funeral grounds. There was a woman there, and her young child, maybe four. She planted a small flag in the ground. The kid placed a pinwheel next to it. The pinwheel spun and spun. 

He "lost", of course - points are tallied based on hits and blocks, and he didn't get much of either. But when he faced his next partner, a Red Belt this time, Lucas went at him with the same determination. His punches were a little sharper, his kicks a little higher. His kee-yaps - the focused yells, the familiar "HIIII-YAH!!!!!" - echoed through the studio. I watched my boy square off against a superior opponent, watched him give it his all, watched his sweaty face light up when the instructors told him what a great job he did, and thought about yesterday and how Life is a fickle bitch but Death...Death's a right fucking bastard. Lucas lost again. But he wasn't beaten.