Chapter 5

George shoveled another mouthful of salad into his mouth. It was loaded with dark green leaves, fresh strawberries, blueberries, and homemade dressing. He’d never before had a salad that tasted so close to dessert.

            “Make room for the main course, George,” said Mrs. Gracia. She was lean and tall with long black hair and wrinkles at the corners of her eyes that made her look like she was constantly smiling.

            “Sorry,” George apologized through a mouthful of salad. He was going to say, “This is just so good,” but he shoved another fork full of strawberries into his mouth instead.

            George came to have dinner with Ricardo’s family six times in the last three weeks. He’d met Ricardo’s kindly wife, who’d fretted that George hadn’t a mom to cook proper meals for him, and Ricardo’s sons, who were grown and had young families of their own. The one he saw most frequently was Pablo, who was a chiropractor in nearby Vallejo. Pablo also came to Ricardo’s Jiu-jitsu classes a few times a week. George was glad to be familiar with someone, because he’d been bored without any friends or anything to do besides Jiu-jitsu.

            Soon Mrs. Gracia had taken away the salad and replaced it with a plate of grilled steaks and a bowl of something blue and steaming. George had no idea what it was, so he asked.

            “It’s Quinoa,” Mrs. Gracia said. “You eat it like rice. It’s good for you Jiu-jitsu fighters.”

            George tried a bite. It had a nutty flavor, but otherwise it did remind him of rice, so he heaped some on his plate with a thick steak. “Don’t you do Jiu-jitsu, too?” he asked Mrs. Gracia. She smiled.

            “So you think just because my husband is this world-famous fighter that I’m going to be a fighter too?” George paused mid-chew, not sure of what to answer. “Well, you’d be right,” she laughed. “I got my black belt years ago, though I haven’t really done it since. I guess I like to take care of fighters more than anything else.”

            “That’s because you feel bad for all those years of collecting the arms of your enemies!” blurted Pablo.

            “It’s true,” confirmed Ricardo, “the kind, motherly woman you see before you is a former Judo world champion. When we got married, she was still competing in the Japanese martial arts tournaments. Each of her five professional fights ended in a first round armlock. In the last fight, the other girl wouldn’t tap out, so she broke her arm. One of the most horrific arm breaks I’ve ever seen in professional MMA.”

            “Only five fights?” asked George.

            “Yes, well, I felt like it was time to stop showboating around Japan and time to start a family. Besides, as a family, we really don’t compete much anymore. It was different back then than it is now.” George saw that Ricardo was nodding in agreement.

            George stared at this little woman, having trouble believing what her husband and son said about her was true. “Were you really a professional fighter?” he asked.

            She put down a plate she was holding and leaned forward, resting her fists on the dinner table. George could see now that she wasn’t just lean; she was muscular. “I can fight you if you want,” she growled.

            Pablo pointed at George and snickered. “Look at him, he’s shaking!” Ricardo laughed, too.

            It was true. Mrs. Gracia’s sudden aggression hat startled George, and confused him. But soon he realized that she’d only been teasing him, and he laughed at himself, too.

            After they stopped laughing they started eating again, but George suddenly had a question on his mind. He’d been staring at his plate when its shape reminded him of the symbol of the academy. The snake curled into a circle eating its own tail.

            “Ricardo, what’s with the creepy snake symbol at the academy? What’s it supposed to mean?” he said with his mouth full of blue quinoa.

            “That,” Ricardo answered between mouthfuls, “is the Ouroboros. The serpent that forever eats itself. It’s not meant to be creepy, though it is to some people. They think it looks like something from witchcraft. But it’s actually an ancient symbol for self-renewal and introspection. It reminds people to refine themselves, to constantly improve. It’s something I expect of all of my students. Even you.”

            George was quickly losing interest. He had no idea that his question would have such a mind-numbing answer, so he stuffed his mouth with more quinoa and waited for Ricardo to change the subject. What did self-improvement have to do with Jiu-jitsu anyway?

           

Hector heard the bell ring. His fist was already in the air, an overhand punch that he imagined would collide with the bridge of the other boy’s nose. It didn’t. It bounced harmlessly off his shoulder, which he’d hunched to the side of his head when he saw the punch coming. Hector was furious. He might’ve tried to hit him again if the referee hadn’t stepped between them.

            “Round’s over. Go to your corner,” the referee commanded. Hector did as he was told.

            Red corner, which was not really a corner at all since the cage was round, was occupied by only Hector himself. The opposite side of the cage was blue corner, where his opponent was being tended to by three coaches who were prepping him for the third round. George ground his teeth into his soft mouth guard. He didn’t need water, or to sit, or to be coached. He was winning. His opponent, a freckle-faced red-headed kid two years older than he, needed all that. He was losing. Hector knew it.

            But one thing frustrated him about the fight, despite his confidence: he hadn’t yet taken the redhead down to the floor. He’d tried shooting for his legs maybe a dozen times in the past two rounds, but the redhead stuffed him every time. It frustrated Hector. Infuriated him. He just couldn’t close the distance fast enough before the redhead sprawled or spun away. Hector had done better than him standing up, anyway. He’d landed hard jabs, hooks, and leg kicks. Many more than redhead landed on him. But he hadn’t knocked him out. Not even close. And it wasn’t likely he would knock him out in the last round, either. Hector could feel the numbing stiffness in his arms that told him his punches would not have the power they had in the previous two rounds. If Hector was going to stop this fight, he was going to have to submit him.

            “No problem,” Hector said to himself. He was a brown belt under Ricardo Gracia himself, wasn’t he? He could give this redhead a lesson in submissions he’d never forget. If only he could close that distance and take the fight to the floor…

            “Fighter are you ready?” the referee asked Hector. He nodded. The referee repeated the question to the redhead. Then the third round began.

            “Just focus on one thing at a time,” Hector thought to himself. “Uchi Mata. Close the distance and nail him with an Uchi Mata.”

            The redhead threw a stiff jab, but Hector swatted it aside and lunged forward with the retreating fist. His arms wrapped around the other fighter like vines and his leading leg scooped up like a hook between the redhead’s thighs to throw him off balance, but the readhead slipped free of the hold and he pushed away from Hector unscathed.

            Hector swore to himself. He hated it when the sweat made both fighters so slippery that any firm hold was nearly impossible to keep. He bit down on his mouth guard and tried to focus again.

            “A single leg,” he chanted in his mind. “Shoot for the lead leg next time he throws the jab. Get the single.”

            But it was some time before Hector would get the chance. The redhead was getting tired, and more timid. He seemed to refuse to move forward or to commit his hands to any punches. Hector huffed and snorted with disgust as he stalked his opponent around the ring, but every time he lunged forward with punches of his own, the redhead would lazily swat them away and circle away from him.

            The crowd was beginning to get annoyed with the redhead’s non-commitment as well. Many impatient spectators were standing and booing or shouting for action, but the redhead seemed not to hear them or not to care. It wasn’t until the final minute that Hector got his chance.

            Whether he was egged on by his coaches shouting in the corner, or by the displeased audience, the redhead finally stepped forward to throw a jab. Hector saw it coming and immediately ducked his head and sprang forward. He felt his shoulder slam into his opponent’s leg, and his arms wrapped around it to hold it fast. Hector was hugging the lower leg to his chest, trying to get his own feet under him, when he saw the fist coming out of the corner of his eye.

            Hector saw a flash of colors and blotches of dull red light in the eye where the uppercut connected. He knew he wasn’t hurt bad, but he was mad anyway. With a final grunt of effort he lifted the leg trapped in his arms and spun away. Redhead toppled over on to his side, where Hector leapt on him and began pounding.

            He was numb to all feeling and hearing, now. He no longer felt the stiff, tingling muscles in his shoulders and arms, nor could he hear the crowd or the referee or Redhead’s coaches screaming instructions. He could only taste and smell sweat, and he could see his opponent covering his face with his forearms, his skin discolored by the red splotches that blurred the vision in Hector’s left eye.

            All of a sudden, the referee was pulling Hector away from Redhead. Hector resisted at first, unsure of what was happening, and then he realized that this meant the fight was over. At first he was confused, because he didn’t understand why. He hadn’t knocked out his opponent, and Redhead was still defending himself well enough for the fight to continue. Then it occurred to him, and Hector was furious.

            “The round’s over. Break up.”

            Hector ran out of time. He hadn’t knocked Redhead out, nor had he submitted him. The fight was now in the hands of the judges. To Hector, this felt like a monumental failure.

            The referee raised Hector’s hand as they announced him the winner, and a ring card girl fastened a championship belt around his waist. Hector smiled bitterly to the photographers. When Redhead came to shake his hand, Hector ignored it. He left the cage alone.

 

            George was gasping for breath as his opponent reached a hand into the lapel of his gi and gripped the fabric. His opponent was Scott Brown, the man who’d picked him up from the airport. Scott was mounted on top of George’s chest, and George new that a choke was coming soon.

            “Think, George. What does he need to finish that choke? Think.” Ricardo stood watching the match and gave words of encouragement and instruction to George, who sorely needed both. “Think. He needs his hand in that other collar, right? So turn it away from him. Take away his angle of attack.”

            George grunted as he bridged his hips into the air and turned onto his side. Now that his free lapel was turned away from Scott, he couldn’t grab it to complete his submission. George took a deep breath. Now that he was safe from the choke, he could focus on escaping his terrible, exhausting position.

            Suddenly Scott let go of the lapel and trapped George’s exposed arm. It was no mystery what was coming next. George fought the slowly tightening armbar for a full thirty-five seconds before the familiar twinge came, and he was forced to tap out.

            “Good,” Ricardo said. “That was the best submission defense I’ve seen you do yet.”

            “What do you mean?” George gasped. He painstakingly peeled off his gi top, immediately grateful for the cool air on his skin. Scott seemed like he’d been doing nothing more strenuous than peeling an orange.

            “You made me switch my plans, and that’s something,” he said. “I mean, jeez, when I’m rolling with Ricardo, all I can do is hope to make him attempt five or six submissions before he succeeds. I’d say making a more skilled opponent work harder to finish you is definitely a win.”

            George stumbled and wove past pairs of rolling Jiu-jitsu students to his pile of gear in the corner of the room. He grabbed a bottle of water from his bag and tried not to inhale the water as he drank. “It sure doesn’t feel like winning,” he said to himself.

            Ricardo soon ended the class, and the thirty-something students began to pack their things and head out into the warm summer rain. George watched as they all laughed, traded jokes and words of encouragement, and talked about things outside of the academy as they left. Eventually Ricardo and Pablo were leaving as well, since it was getting late, and they told George he’d be eating with them at their home again tomorrow. He said goodbye, and they left, too. Then George was alone.

            George had little reason to move from the spot where he was. There was little more for him to do in his upstairs apartment than there was down below on the mats. He could watch movies on his laptop, as he usually did, but after a month of living by himself it was becoming unbearable. Besides, his limbs were stiff and tired from class that night, so George sat alone on the mats and did nothing but stare at the wall décor and listen to the rain.

            He suddenly remembered a conversation he had with his father a few days ago. “Have you got a job yet?” his father asked. George was stunned by the question. Hadn’t he explained to his father that he intended on getting a job in the fall? Why then was his dad surprised to hear he hadn’t? But George suddenly found himself weighing the merits of having one, if only to have some place to go away from the academy and to have a little cash to do things every once in a while. When George’s dad told him to get a job a few days ago, George felt like he was risking missing out on his summer if he did. Now that he was lying alone on the Jiu-jitsu mats with nothing to do, he realized his summer would not go the way he planned, no matter how long he waited. Besides, it was almost fall, with August only a few days away.

            There was a knock at the glass door of the Academy.

            George looked up from his reflections on the mat, surprised to see a hooded figure outside in the rain. He never received visitors at night, and he wondered who it might be. It never occurred to him it might be someone dangerous. What was there to steal in this place anyway?

            George wasn’t able to see the face under the jacket hood until he’d come all the way to the door. Immediately he unlocked it.

            “Hector, hey man! Come on in.” Hector normally attended classes twice a week or more, but George hadn’t seen him in two weeks. “Where have you been, man?”

            “Just busy, you know,” he answered. “I’d heard you were staying here, so I thought I’d come talk a bit.”

            George was taken aback. Besides Ricardo, Hector was his first visitor he’d had since moving into his new home above the academy. “Well, come on in. Mi casa is your casa.”

            Hector smiled. “So, is it true your dad sent you here to keep you out of trouble?”

            George’s face fell. He hadn’t thought much about it that way, and he didn’t know other people knew or talked about it. The thought of it gave him a sick feeling in the pit of his stomach. “I don’t know. I just kinda came to keep up with my grappling, I think.”

            Hector walked past George into the academy. “Well, I just hope Ricardo isn’t babysitting you too much, you know? I think it would be too much for me.”

            George wanted to change the subject all of a sudden. “What happened to your eye?” he asked.

            Hector’s left eye sported a bruise beneath it the color of a faded red plum. Hector just shrugged. “I got punched in the eye.”

            George’s eyes widened in surprise and interest. “You got in a fight?” he asked. Truthfully, he had been quite curious how Jiu-jitsu fighters performed in real fights, especially ones as experienced as Hector or Scott. “Did you win?”

            Hector nodded and gave a flat smile. “I sure did,” he answered.

            George locked the door behind Hector and they walked further into the training room. George leaned against Enemigo, the life-like rubber training torso. “Did you submit the guy? Like choke him out or something? How did this fight start anyway?”

            Hector kept his hands in his pockets and looked around the room, taking care to peer into dark doorways and corners. “Are you alone here?” George nodded. “Actually, I was competing in a local MMA fight.”

            “Wow,” George commented, “I thought Ricardo didn’t want us to compete.” Hadn’t he just heard him say that at dinner the other night?

            “He doesn’t, which is why I haven’t been coming to class. I didn’t want him to see my eye and think I’d been misrepresenting the school in fights, you know? But I haven’t.  I’ve been listing myself as an independent fighter. No one knows I train here.”

            George nodded. That sounded fine to him. “Wait,” he interrupted, “you’ve fought more than once?”

            “Yeah, a few times. Actually, I’m currently the middleweight champion for Fight Night, this local promoter over in Fairfield. I just won the belt a week ago.”

            “Cool,” George said. “So, are you going to keep fighting?”

            “Yeah,” Hector answered, removing his hood and taking a seat on the mat. “That’s actually what I wanted to talk to you about. I want to keep moving up and up with this thing, you know? I think I could go places with this, but if I want to do well I’m going to need some specific training to help me get ready. And I have to defend my title in two months. Thing is, I can’t ask Ricardo to help, ‘cause you know how he is about competing. But if I don’t train, I’m not going to make it very far. So I wanted to ask you if you’d be willing to help me and, you know, not tell anyone.”

            George was astounded that Hector, who’d been training Jiu-jitsu for six years, would ask him for help. He couldn’t imagine what he could possibly know that would help him. Still, he relished the thought of having such a project to work on. Preparing a fighter for a cage match resonated in his imagination and made the hairs on the back of his neck stand at attention.

            “Sure,” he said, “but I still don’t know what I could do for you.”

            “You were a wrestler, right?” asked Hector.

            “Yeah, for two seasons. I wasn’t bad, but you’ve been doing Jiu-jitsu longer. I don’t think I could show you anything you don’t know.”

            Hector was staring at the wall. There was a huge mural of the snake there, the Ouroboros, and it was surrounded by framed photos of various Jiu-jitsu masters and famous fighters. Among them was a photo of Ricardo with who George assumed was his father.

            “Didn’t Ricardo tell you? Wrestling is way different from Jiu-jitsu,” he said.

            George shrugged. “He said it was like wrestling, but yeah, I noticed it was pretty different.”

            “Jiu-jitsu is awesome, man, but there are some thing wrestling does better. Like takedowns. Wrestlers compete in MMA all the time, and they win.” Hector stood on his feet and looked at George. “I’ve never wrestled. But you have. I need you to teach me every drill you know to get me ready for my next fight, ‘cause if I can’t get close enough or take down the other guy, I won’t be able to make my Jiu-jitsu work.”

            George nodded. “Sure, Hector, whatever you need me to do.” He couldn’t stifle his grin. “Man, this is going to be awesome.”

            Hector pulled a DVD case from his jacket pocket and handed it to George. “Here are some recent EFC fights that feature some really good wrestlers. I figure seeing them would give you an idea of how wrestling ties into the whole thing. Also, try to get familiar with the rules and stuff. Since you’re almost exactly my size, we should make pretty good training partners.”

            They chatted a little more about training and plans. George suggested he come by a few times a week at night when everyone else will have gone home. They would start the day after tomorrow.

            “Remember,” hector said as he began to leave, “Ricardo may not understand. So don’t tell him. Or anyone.”

            George couldn’t see how their training plans could possibly be a bad thing. If Hector wasn’t misrepresenting the academy then he wasn’t doing anything wrong, right?

            “Don’t worry. I won’t say anything,” George reassured him.

            “Cool. I’ll see you later.” Then, as he was walking out into the night, “I’m glad you’re here, George.”

            For maybe the first time since moving to California, George agreed with him.