supervise, but the class was really his. As the sounds of the workout drifted in through the open door, my mind wandered. Last night. Josh being held by the big man with the .45. Telling the Mandels’ daughters to close their eyes. Shooting the intruder in the head. The ambulance later that night, rear doors open, and the scrub suit clad EMT huddled, dead on the floor in back. Mazhar’s body on the stretcher. I stared at the darkened computer monitor, not seeing it. I saw an apartment in Sidon, Lebanon and me firing at the bomb maker as he was holding a soldier captive. I fired just as he moved his weapon away. His gun went off. I turned to see my friend Asaf on the floor, blood flowing from a neck wound.
A single yell from twenty students burst in from the next room. The instructor was having them scream as they lunged forward in an attack. I looked down to the bottom right drawer of my desk and pulled it open. Nestled in the deep compartment was a lock box. Inside was a .40 Glock, a present from Nate. Next to the mini vault was my carry permit…and an ID from the IDF. I closed the drawer without removing anything.
“Sifu?” I looked up to see the curly-haired instructor poking his head through the open office door.
“Yes, Jon.”
“They’re ready for katas. Would you watch them?”
“Of course.”
“Thanks. And there’s one kid in particular I’d like you to watch. Charlie.” He was a fourteen year old yellow belt, almost ready to be tested for green.
“Sure.”
When I stepped into the main hall, I could see that Jon had set up the class in three rows with plenty of spacing between the rows and between each student. I moved to the front left corner of the room, with the students facing forward. Charlie, the student I wanted to watch, was in the middle row toward the left side. He was a slender, serious young man, whose long, straight brown hair always covered his forehead. The boy, like the entire class, was already drenched in sweat from its previous workout.
Jon started them off: “Kata Number One. Ready. Bow…” the class bowed first to me and then to Jon. “Begin. One…”
With that, Jon counted them through the katas, a series of choreographed fighting movements. Everyone performed the movements step-by-step in unison. I moved about the students, watching everyone, but always kept a clear view of Charlie. He moved proficiently; his kicks, punches, and blocks were all sharp and age-appropriately strong. But he was in pain. He wore it on his face, particularly when he punched or moved into an upper block. Based on the grimaces when he extended his arms, he had hurt his ribs.
By the time the entire class had finished their routines – the lower-ranked students dropped out as the katas shifted to more complicated advanced forms – a number of parents had settled in back to wait for their kids. They were a mixed bunch of moms and dads, mostly all dressed casually for this Saturday afternoon. I did see one man about forty, with neatly trimmed dark hair and dressed in a starched white dress shirt with blue pin stripes and gray pants. I knew him to be Charlie’s father, an attorney.
When the katas were finished, Jon had all the students line up again in their rows. They were even more sopping wet than before, with hair frizzed, sweat saturating their T-shirts, and moisture running down their cheeks. The purple belts who had just finished their forms, including the red head I saw earlier, were trying to regain their breath.
I addressed the group. “Looks great, ladies and gentlemen. Keep up the good work. But, just so you keep things in perspective, I want to show you something.” I paused. “Actually, I want Jon to show you something.”
Jon quickly hustled over to me. “Yes, Sifu?”
“Jon, I want you to do Kata Number One.” This was the first form students learned. It contained all the basics, and was a requirement for yellow belt. “I’ll just say go, okay?”
He nodded and moved to the center of the room. The students made space for him.
“Ready…” Jon bowed in response… “and GO.”
With that, he launched into a series of blocks and kicks; he punched as he walked forward…then there were more blocks, kicks, turns, elbow strikes, and knife-hand strikes. Each movement was sharp, clear, and powerful. As Jon finished, he bowed once again and then stood still.
“Nicely done,” I said to him. Then to the class, “That is a yellow belt form done by a black belt. Doesn’t look like the way you guys do it.” They laughed and I scanned the students from purple belt to white. “But there’s a reason for that. He’s got more than a few years’ practice on you…and thousands of more repetitions…and a bit of talent.” I saw Charlie watching me intently. “But you can all get there. Every one of you. Just keep up the good work. See you next time. Thank you.” I bowed to them, they bowed to me, and we dismissed.
As the class headed to their gym bags lining a side wall, parents went over to their children while older students meandered out the door. Charlie walked to his father and I could see the latter asking questions. In response, the boy began demonstrating an outside middle block.
Jon stepped over to me and we both moved further to the side. “So, Charlie hurt his ribs?” I asked, looking across to the young yellow belt and his parent.
“Yeah. That’s my guess. But not working out here.”
We watched as Charlie’s father descended into his own front stance while his son stood ready. They were about to do some one-step sparring. The dad must have had some training; he moved forward, throwing a punch as he walked. Charlie put up his block, but his father overpowered him and penetrated, hitting him in the ribs. The young student grimaced.
“I’ve only seen the two of them do this sort of thing once or twice,” Jon said, “but my guess is they do it at home, too.”
“I’m sure they do.”
“And Charlie’s father doesn’t want him using arm pads.”
“Oh?” That meant the boy was taking severe hits to his forearms.
“I saw some bruises today.”
That’s all I needed to hear. “Charlie,” I called across the room, waving him over.
The boy looked at his father who nodded, and then ran across to us.
“Yes, Sifu?”
“Spot check. Jon is going to move forward to hit you straight on. Let me see your blocks.”
The two students stood in front of me, one a black belt and one a yellow. Charlie, I knew, had to be nervous, but I didn’t care about that. His dad looked on from forty feet away.
“I’ll count.” I paused as Jon moved into a front stance with his right hand pulled back on his hip, ready to walk forward and punch. Charlie stood with his hands clenched in fists in front of him and his knees slightly bent. “Okay, Jon, take it easy. Not full speed or power. I just want to see how Charlie moves.”
Jon nodded.
“And…one.”
Jon moved forward. As Jon drove straight ahead, the younger student put up a middle block. I saw him wince as the edge of his forearm contacted Jon’s arm. Despite obvious pain, he made the block.
“Other
