The Long Way Home Read Online Free PDF Page B

outfit—and you use your bare hands and feet with your head and body unprotected.
    So, of course, with kumite, you have to be extra careful. You strike with the open hand and not the fist, and you make sure to pull all your strikes and kicks so no one gets hurt. It’s an exercise meant to teach you control—and also to teach you not to be afraid of getting hit from time to time.
    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