hoop players with their baggy shorts and headbands and hip-hop attitude. And then there were the guys who came to the Y, took a shower, and then walked around a lot in the nude.
Every time you’d go around a row of lockers, there’d be one of these guys, not talking to anyone, just walking to or from the shower. Every once in a while, one of these guys would come into the showers and you would know they just took a damn shower, but here they were again. It was funky stuff, but every Y I’d ever been in had its collection of guys who liked walking around nude a little too much.
When I got down to the gym, Smitty was talking to Billy, my new karate kid.
“Duff, this kid said something about you being his new señor?” Smitty said.
“That’s sensei,” Billy corrected.
“Yeah, that’s right,” I said.
Smitty rolled his eyes at me, which he did about three times a day since the day I met him.
“Well, sensei,” Smitty said. “You think you’ll have time for a boring old boxing workout?”
“Yeah—I think so.”
I instructed my karate student to sit, watch, and quietly observe everything he saw. He went and sat in the lotus position against the wall. Smitty took me through the recoil drill, spent a half an hour on how I should move to my left to stay away from Marquason’s power, and had me spin out of the corner while he threw punches at me. Then he had me shake it out with some light bag work.
I took the time to drill my drag punch, hoping Smitty wouldn’t be paying close attention. That, of course, was a mistake; Smitty was always paying attention.
“What the hell is that?” Smitty said.
“Nothin’ really. I saw some of the Puerto Ricans doing it at Gleason’s once,” I said.
“You plannin’ something I should know about, son?”
“Nah.”
Smitty gave me eye roll number two for the day and went to his office just behind the old speed-bag platform. I did some stretching and saw Billy out of the corner of my eye, rocking with enthusiasm. I had promised and figured it was time.
“All right, kid. In the ring.”
Billy bounded through the ropes charged up in front of me and bowed.
“WASABIIIIIIIIIII!” he yelled, then snapped his fists down around his belt.
“Wasabi? What’s that all about?” I said.
“It is my unique kiai .”
“Kiai is the yell, right?” I noticed Billy had a brand-new purple zit on his left cheek that looked like a gumdrop.
“Sir, yes sir.”
“Why are you yelling about Japanese horseradish?”
“Sir?”
“Wasabi is that green stuff you get with sushi, isn’t it?”
“Sir?”
“Never mind.”
“Yes, sir.”
“All right, kid, get in your fighting stance,” I said, trying to muster some vigor.
He stepped back with his left leg and with exaggerated motion hurled his arms into a formal fighting stance.
“WASABIIIIIIIII!”
That was going to take some getting used to. I noticed Smitty was out of his office, leaning in the doorway, watching the karate lesson as if he were watching the first inhabitants of Uranus to land in Crawford.
“Stepping forward, high punch,” I yelled. It was a struggle to remember how karate commands went.
“Sir, I am accustomed to hearing the commands in Japanese.”
“Well, you’re going to have to change that.”
“Yes, sir!”
And so it went. I considered having him wax my ’76 Eldorado with the whole “wax on, wax off” deal, but that would mean the kid would probably be in my hair for another six hours. That, and I wasn’t confident the burnt orange finish could handle a waxing. The whole car could disintegrate from shock or something.
I gave the kid a half an hour of training, such as it was. He wasn’t very good, but what he lacked in power and grace he certainly made up for with excitement. When the half hour was through, I bowed him out and congratulated him on good workout.
“Sir, when will I train again?”
“I have to go away for the weekend, kid. I’ve got a fight.”
“A fight?
Every time you’d go around a row of lockers, there’d be one of these guys, not talking to anyone, just walking to or from the shower. Every once in a while, one of these guys would come into the showers and you would know they just took a damn shower, but here they were again. It was funky stuff, but every Y I’d ever been in had its collection of guys who liked walking around nude a little too much.
When I got down to the gym, Smitty was talking to Billy, my new karate kid.
“Duff, this kid said something about you being his new señor?” Smitty said.
“That’s sensei,” Billy corrected.
“Yeah, that’s right,” I said.
Smitty rolled his eyes at me, which he did about three times a day since the day I met him.
“Well, sensei,” Smitty said. “You think you’ll have time for a boring old boxing workout?”
“Yeah—I think so.”
I instructed my karate student to sit, watch, and quietly observe everything he saw. He went and sat in the lotus position against the wall. Smitty took me through the recoil drill, spent a half an hour on how I should move to my left to stay away from Marquason’s power, and had me spin out of the corner while he threw punches at me. Then he had me shake it out with some light bag work.
I took the time to drill my drag punch, hoping Smitty wouldn’t be paying close attention. That, of course, was a mistake; Smitty was always paying attention.
“What the hell is that?” Smitty said.
“Nothin’ really. I saw some of the Puerto Ricans doing it at Gleason’s once,” I said.
“You plannin’ something I should know about, son?”
“Nah.”
Smitty gave me eye roll number two for the day and went to his office just behind the old speed-bag platform. I did some stretching and saw Billy out of the corner of my eye, rocking with enthusiasm. I had promised and figured it was time.
“All right, kid. In the ring.”
Billy bounded through the ropes charged up in front of me and bowed.
“WASABIIIIIIIIIII!” he yelled, then snapped his fists down around his belt.
“Wasabi? What’s that all about?” I said.
“It is my unique kiai .”
“Kiai is the yell, right?” I noticed Billy had a brand-new purple zit on his left cheek that looked like a gumdrop.
“Sir, yes sir.”
“Why are you yelling about Japanese horseradish?”
“Sir?”
“Wasabi is that green stuff you get with sushi, isn’t it?”
“Sir?”
“Never mind.”
“Yes, sir.”
“All right, kid, get in your fighting stance,” I said, trying to muster some vigor.
He stepped back with his left leg and with exaggerated motion hurled his arms into a formal fighting stance.
“WASABIIIIIIIII!”
That was going to take some getting used to. I noticed Smitty was out of his office, leaning in the doorway, watching the karate lesson as if he were watching the first inhabitants of Uranus to land in Crawford.
“Stepping forward, high punch,” I yelled. It was a struggle to remember how karate commands went.
“Sir, I am accustomed to hearing the commands in Japanese.”
“Well, you’re going to have to change that.”
“Yes, sir!”
And so it went. I considered having him wax my ’76 Eldorado with the whole “wax on, wax off” deal, but that would mean the kid would probably be in my hair for another six hours. That, and I wasn’t confident the burnt orange finish could handle a waxing. The whole car could disintegrate from shock or something.
I gave the kid a half an hour of training, such as it was. He wasn’t very good, but what he lacked in power and grace he certainly made up for with excitement. When the half hour was through, I bowed him out and congratulated him on good workout.
“Sir, when will I train again?”
“I have to go away for the weekend, kid. I’ve got a fight.”
“A fight?
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