Chapter 13

George sat on his bed, the sweat on his face and neck finally drying. His gi top was pulled open so the skin of his chest could breath. His fingers were running along the fabric of the purple belt around his waist, feeling its texture. He could scarcely believe he had it.

“You definitely earned that today,” Ricardo said. It was getting late, and everyone except the two of them had long vacated the academy. “You did very well. You should be proud.”

George remembered how terrified he’d felt when the match first started and he saw that stocky Asian man jump into the air. It was like something out of the movies. The challenger had hit him on his shoulder with a flying kick, and George felt as though he’d been hit by a hammer. He struggled to stay upright as the man struck him from nearly every conceivable angle, giving George a beating he’d never received in any of his previous challenge matches. Somehow George lasted a full five minutes, finally achieving a takedown and finishing the match with a choke that required him to wrap his own gi around his opponent’s unguarded neck. When it was over, Ricardo promptly tied the belt around his waist.

George grinned, remembering the feeling of that belt on him for the first time. “I know belts aren’t supposed to mean much,” he said.

Ricardo shook his head. “That’s not true. I know a lot of martial artists say the belt doesn’t matter, but it does. Mine do to me.”

George pulled his legs up onto his bed and sat cross-legged. “So what do they mean?” he asked.

Ricardo looked at the belt around his own waist. “It doesn’t mean I’m a better fighter than everyone else, which is an idea a lot of martial arts schools have. But this belt does mean something. It was given to me from my father. He taught me Jiu-jitsu ever since I was a little boy. His Jiu-jitsu. You see, my father wasn’t a wealthy man when I was little. In fact, we had very little. And my father was always sensitive about that. He wasn’t a great scholar or business man or even a good manual laborer. He felt like there was very little that he could actually give me and my brothers and sisters. But his Jiu-jitsu was great. It was the greatest thing he had, and so he gave it to us.”

George had never heard this from Ricardo before. He wondered how many of his students had. He imagined this was something only family and close friends heard from him.

“This belt meant I’d finally received his gift to me. It meant everything he thought was great about himself he’d successfully passed on to me. It meant he trusted me. Just like I trust you.”

George cringed when he heard that. With all the sneaking around with Hector behind Ricardo’s back, George wondered how much of Ricardo’s trust he really deserved.

“George, there’s no need to look so guilty,” Ricardo laughed. “I know you’re not perfect. I know there’s still more of my trust you could earn. And I think you will, in time. Just like I know there’s more Jiu-jitsu for you to learn.”

“Thanks,” said George. He felt a little better. So Ricardo knew he made mistakes, but chose to trust him anyway. That came as an incredible comfort to George, who’d begun to think there was a growing gap between himself and Ricardo.

“Just do me one favor,” Ricardo said. “I want you to put the idea for competition out of your head for now.”

“But the challenge matches,” George began, but Ricardo put up a hand to stop him.

“The challenge matches will continue,” he said. “But I will decide how often and when they are. It’ll be for the good of the school, and for the good of the art. You were right. We do need to continuously test our Jiu-jitsu, but we shouldn’t overdo it. The matches are to help our Jiu-jitsu, not the other way around. You understand?”

George nodded. “Okay,” he agreed. For the first time, he felt somewhat satisfied with that answer. But something still bothered him, and suddenly he remembered the DVD set Summer had given him for his birthday. George remembered hearing from Hector about the infamous Elite match where Ricardo had finally been beaten. It would be on the DVD. Should he bring it up? Ask Ricardo if that loss had anything to do with his policy on competing?

No, George decided. It had been a good day, and he didn’t want to spoil the moment. He wanted to believe he was becoming part of something special, something more than just a combat sport. There was no need to dispel those feelings with someone’s complicated history, right? For some reason it reminded George of when he’d heard that Thomas Jefferson and Benjamin Franklin had both done unsavory things in their lives. He hated that. Sometimes, he thought, it was better to let heroes be heroes, the past be damned.

He and Ricardo continued talking and laughing until almost midnight. It had been the best birthday of his life.

 

It was two weeks after the Gracia Family Challenge matches when George finally heard from Hector. George, at the time, was laying on his bed. It was the late afternoon on a weekend. He had no work, and he’d already trained. Summer was working, and wouldn’t be off for some hours. He was absent-mindedly watching the DVD set she gave him. He was on the fourth Elite event, one which he never watched all the way to the end.

George’s cell phone rang. It was Hector.

“Hey, you home?” he asked.

“Yeah! Dude, where have you been?” George asked, excited. “I’ve been so bored for the past few weeks. I’ve been trying to get a hold of you but you don’t return my calls. What’s with that? Are you breaking up with me?”

George was laughing, but soon realized Hector wasn’t.

“I’m coming over,” he said without answering George’s questions. “I need to get ready for my next fight. I’ll see you in fifteen minutes.”

“Sure, man. See you soon.” George hung up and wondered what was eating at his friend. He’d find out soon enough, he guessed.

He turned the volume up on the television. He saw a much younger Ricardo pull off yet another victory against a noticeably bigger fighter by choking him into unconsciousness. George noticed the Elite fighters seemed to be getting more and more savvy to Ricardo’s Jiu-jitsu, though Ricardo seemed to be simply to advanced a grappler for the others to deal with. The camera zoomed in on Ricardo’s face, which was drenched in sweat, tired, and focused.

Then the announcer called in the fighters for the final match of the tournament. The competition, George noticed, had long since changed from the single-elimination format Ricardo and his family members originally established. Nowadays Elite events were more like boxing matches; each fighter only fought once in a night. George thought this was a pity. He enjoyed the drama of watching a fighter and hoping he’d make it all the way to the end. It gave him something to cheer for through the whole program.

But as the fighters entered the cage, George felt a tight ball form in his stomach. He saw Ricardo, clearly tired from fighting the most difficult batch of challengers yet, and Petr Gashimov, a giant of a Russian. Gashimov looked fresh, and was in the kind of shape George was used to seeing in modern MMA fighters. This was the finals of the fourth Elite championship, in which Hector had told him Ricardo would lose.

George turned off the TV. Yet again, he simply couldn’t bring himself to watch. He got off of his bed and gathered his training gear. Hector would be there soon.

 

George recognized the sulking form waiting for him to open the door. When Hector quietly walked inside the academy, George thought he could feel the temperature of the room drop.

“Hey, Hector,” said George, trying to brighten up the dreary meeting. “Long time, no see. Why haven’t you been in class?”

Hector shrugged. “My Jiu-jitsu is fine. I don’t need to work on it so much as I do my striking.” He dropped a large gym bag from his shoulder and unzipped it. He pulled out light gloves, the sort used for working on a punching bag, and target mitts, which he handed to George. “I need faster hands,” he said.

George held up the mitts and offered targets as Hector called for them. He wondered, as his friend began calling out simple combinations, if Hector was upset at him. For the life of him, he couldn’t figure out what he might have done to upset him. He hated training with him like this, with Hector quiet and angry, and himself the target for strikes. George desperately tried to think of some good news or cheerful subject to talk about that would be of interest to his friend.

“I got my purple belt,” he said.

Hector seemed to put everything into the next strike, a hard right hook that slammed into the target mitt so hard it caused George’s hand to snap back at an angle that tweaked his right shoulder.

“Aah!” George cried out, throwing off the opposite mitt to touch his hurt shoulder. “Holy cow, where did that come from?”

Hector seemed to not notice his friend massaging his shoulder. He stepped forward until he was inches from George’s face and glared at him. “What, are you buddy-buddy with Ricardo now?” he accused. “You’re hanging out with someone who doesn’t respect us and thinks just because he can’t do something we can’t either?”

George backed away from him, confused. He had known for a while that Hector seemed to not get along well with Ricardo, despite being one of his best students. He hadn’t known the dislike had been so severe. In fact, he was sure it hadn’t been when he’d first arrived. Hector had always struck him as someone who didn’t like being told what to do. But it seemed that Hector’s personal grudge against Ricardo seemed to grow over time. Maybe even as he competed in each consecutive fight.

“Hector, what the…what’s gotten into you?” George stammered, frustrated and nervous. “Why are you in here after not showing your face for weeks, punching at me like you’ve lost your freaking mind?”

Hector seemed to come to himself for a moment, and George could see his eyes rest on George’s hurt shoulder, which he was still holding with his other hand. It was like Hector was seeing it for the first time.

“I just…” Hector started. His arms were hanging limp by his sides. His expression was unreadable. “You’ve been spending a lot of time with Ricardo lately,” he said finally. “You’ve been getting closer to him. That’s hard for me because I can’t stand him.”

“Why not?” George asked. He let go of his shoulder, which had stopped hurting so much, and tried rotating it, loosening it. It felt like it would be fine.

“Because he’s a hypocrite. Because he tells people what to do or not do with their lives, and pretends like it’s the will of his almighty father. Where was the no competition rule nineteen years ago, when he was competing? Or before that, when his family started the challenge matches? I’ve got plans for my life, and I don’t appreciate someone sticking a finger in my face and looking down on me because they’re afraid I might be better than them.”

George said nothing. He had no idea what to say to that. He could understand that Hector didn’t like authority. Hector had grown up pretty much on his own. He lived alone. In all his time there, George had never once seen any relatives come to visit him, or even heard him talk about his family. He’d never given it much thought. But now it seemed strange.

And where did all this anger at Ricardo come from? Did Hector see a different side to Ricardo that George didn’t? Or was there something that happened between the two of them he’d never heard about? George had no idea, and he didn’t want to be caught in the middle of all this anymore.

“Hector, I’m tired of being in the middle of all this. You’re my friend, and he’s my family. I don’t know why you’re so mad at him. He never talks about you. But I don’t want to hear this crap anymore. I’m sick of it. You want to hang out? Fine. You want to train? Fine. But don’t come around here all ticked off and screaming at me for something I’m not even a part of!”

George realized that he was now in Hector’s face. His hands were balled into fists.

“Sorry,” George said, backing off. “I just hate being in the middle of things like that.”

Hector’s face was a stone mask for a moment, and then it cracked into a smile, and then it erupted into laughter.

“Dude, don’t apologize. It’s cool to actually see you get angry for once.” Hector rubbed his eyes, as though he hadn’t had enough sleep. “Look, I don’t mean to cause problems for you. And I don’t want there to be trouble between you and Ricardo like there is between us.”

“Then I can’t do any more challenge matches with you,” George said. He waited for Hector’s reaction.

“Cool. Whatever.” Hector shrugged, like it was no big deal. George relaxed a little. “It’s not a big deal. But I have another fight coming in a month. Can I ask you to corner for me?”

George smiled. He said he would.

Hector and George talked for a while, planning training sessions and travel plans. This event, Hector said, would be all the way in Reno. He suggested they find cheap flights.

Soon the two of them were smiling and saying goodbye as George saw Hector out the door. Hector took a few steps into the dark and turned.

“Oh, I almost forgot. Congrats on your belt, George. That’s a pretty big deal.”

George smiled. “Thanks, man.”

Hector grinned and George thought he could see some sort of mischief in his eye. “It makes me wonder,” Hector said as he turned away into the night, “if you and I were to fight, what would happen? Goodnight.”

George for some reason felt uneasy about this, and shut the door.

 

The flight to Reno from Oakland was short, George was happy to see. He hadn’t been on a plane since he’d first arrived in California, which seemed to him years ago. He was beginning to feel like he’d always been in California. In fact, it was the end of April, only a little more than ten months from when he’d first arrived. He wondered, as the plane crossed into Nevada, if he would ever go back to the east coast. He supposed he would if he had a reason to go back. Then again, what reason did he have to stay?

He thought of the purple belt in his bag in the compartment above his head. He thought of how much it meant to him to get it. And how much it would mean to get his black belt. So he had a reason to stay. He had something to work for. But after that?

Honestly, he was starting to see what his father had been talking about. He was bored of working as a janitor. He loved training, and still did it twice a day whenever he could, but he’d been doing it at that break-neck pace for almost a year. He’d begun to realize over the past three months that he wasn’t going anywhere, and he wasn’t doing anything new. Even Summer was starting to get a little bored with his life, and she’d been encouraging him to enroll in school somewhere and start thinking about a career. But what? And why?

Something had occurred to him while he’d been training with Hector the week before. The two of them had been running along a path, and George noticed for the first time the many markers that told hikers and runners how far they’d gone and where they were. George realized his own life had been devoid of such things for a while. They were there when he was in school. He had grades to achieve and tests to pass and ultimately a graduation. He thought he would be happy when it was all gone, but now it was and he felt like he might be starting to go crazy. Maybe that was why he liked Jiu-jitsu so much. It gave him goals, as well as ways to mark his progress. But it didn’t feel like enough. So what else did he want?

No answers dawned on him as the plane touched down in Reno, nor as he and Hector unpacked their things in the hotel. He did, however, get a new idea for a cool new look for the circular snake symbol of the academy. George spent the evening trying to crystallize his idea into his sketchbook while he and Hector talked about strategies.

The night of the fight had a different feel to it than George remembered there being in the first professional fight he and Hector had gone to in San Diego. Though many, many things were similar, like the locker room, the noise of the arena, and the walkout music, something was ominously different. Sickeningly different. It was Hector.

Hector was quiet and aggressive, which normally would not have concerned George. He knew from experience that it was Hector’s way. But before it had seemed to George that Hector’s rage was just something that happened and got spent in the cage. It was just there for no particular reason. Now, however, Hector seemed focused. Like he had an agenda. And that, George thought, was scary. He just hoped whatever Hector was planning wasn’t going to be against him.

A low roar greeted Hector as the two of them walked into the large arena and towards the cage. Many of the fans, it seemed had seen or heard of Hector’s debut fight and anticipated a good show from him. Some of them even reached over the barriers separating the spectators from the walkway to pat him on the back or shake his hand.

George looked at the giant screens hanging like a multimedia chandelier above the cage and saw highlights of Hector’s previous fight. With the footage of Hector’s most brutal shots put back-to-back like that, George could understand why the crowd was impressed.

Hector was the second to enter the cage, and as soon as he did the fight announcer raised the microphone to his lips.

“Welcome to Grand Sierra Resort and Casino, and to Prodigy MMA!” the announcer cried. The audience whooped with anticipation.

“This will be our first match of the evening. In the red corner, this man is a mixed martial artist. Representing Throw Down MMA in Salt Lake City, Utah: Ryan Gregorio!”

George watched as the camera men adjusted to focus on Gregorio’s face. Gregorio had his beginnings in Jiu-jitsu as well, George and Hector had learned two months ago. Gregorio actually performed well in Jiu-jitsu competitions before he’d switched over to competing in mixed martial arts. George wondered how his competition-style Jiu-jitsu training would translate over to MMA, where there was no gi to grab and opponents could strike you.

“In the blue corner, he is a Jiu-jitsu fighter. Representing the Brotherhood Jiu-jitsu Academy: Hector Vargas!”

George froze, wondering if he’d just heard the announcer right. The spectators buzzed with excitement and he could hear some of them nearby talking about what he was afraid he’d heard. Hector had registered himself in a professional fight as a representative of Brotherhood Jiu-jitsu. He covered his mouth in shock as he saw the excited camera men zooming in to capture Hector’s face. One was looking at George as well, who was wearing a white gi and standing in Hector’s corner.

Realization dawned on him as he looked into Hectors smirking face. His friend had just blown their secret to the world. He’d just advertised that Brotherhood Jiu-jitsu was competing in professional MMA again. George knew this fight was being broadcast on Showtime, and knew Ricardo would probably know about their betrayal before their plane ever touched down in California.

 

“Don’t worry about it,” said Hector as they walked towards baggage claim. “Ricardo will understand.”

“You know he won’t,” George snapped. He’d been quiet ever since Hector had walked out of the ring, once again victorious.

Hector shrugged, apparently unbothered by his friend’s attitude towards him. “What, you think he’s going to kick us out?”

George stepped in front of Hector and faced him. “You did this on purpose, Hector. You did this because you knew he’d be angry. You know he might kick us out. Maybe you want that, but I don’t!”

Hector pushed past him, still smiling. “I think you’re about to see what Ricardo’s really like,” he said.

“What’s wrong with you?” George demanded. Then he wished he’d said it in a lower voice. He noticed people were starting to stare at him, and even worse, some were trying not to.

The drive home felt like an eternity, especially since George didn’t talk. The gorgeous weather did nothing to cheer him up. He was sure he wouldn’t be around long enough to enjoy it. After all, if he were to be kicked out of the academy, where else could he go but home? He had no real job here, no family that would take him in after this.

“You know, you could always stay with me,” Hector said, as though he were reading his thoughts. “Like I told you before: we could make it in MMA. I already have. You could, too. And we wouldn’t need anybody over us, telling us what to do. Because we could have our own place.”

George said nothing. He was angry. He was angry at Hector for his selfish, spiteful stunt. He was angry that he would make that kind of offer to him after ensuring he had few other choices. And he was angry at himself because, even now, the offer was still attractive. After all, if Ricardo dismissed him from the academy, where else could he go to learn the family Jiu-jitsu? He knew it wasn’t right, but Hector was his friend, and he still liked the idea of running an academy of his own. Of being able to do Jiu-jitsu forever. But it wouldn’t be the same. The belts wouldn’t mean the same thing to him.

George was surprised to see lights on in the Academy as they pulled their car into the parking lot. Not all of the lights were on, as though the floor was open for classes, but the office and hallway lights, like someone was there working. George realized he knew exactly what was waiting for him inside.

“You need to go inside,” said a voice that was suddenly by George’s window. It was Scott. His face was unreadable, and his voice was as casual as though he were simply asking George to come roll with him. “Hector, you too. Let’s go guys. Ricardo would like a word.”

George thought Hector might blow him off and leave as soon as George was out of the car, but to his surprise, Hector simply pulled his keys out of the ignition and opened his door. There was a smirk on his face, and it bothered George. It meant he knew this would happen. Probably even wanted it.

“Damn you, Hector,” George said under his breath.

George and Hector walked side by side into the academy with Scott behind them. Although Scott’s posture was as relaxed and casual as ever, George could not help but feel like he and Hector were being escorted to the office. Perhaps it was because George knew Scott’s military history, and could easily imagine him with the same expression on his face while he walked a terror suspect into a holding cell.

Ricardo was in his office at his desk, the same old picture frame in his hands. When George walked in it was as though Ricardo were coming out of some deep thought or memory.

“Have a seat, you two,” he said. It was not negotiable.

George slumped into one of the cushioned chairs obviously set out for the two of them. He wondered how on earth he was going to explain things to Ricardo. He saw that Hector, infuriatingly, refused to take the seat. He just stood there with his hands in his pockets, smug as George had ever seen him. George put his face in his hands. He knew Hector was going to make this worse.

“What did the two of you think you were doing?” he asked. George had never heard him be this angry before.

“It’s none of your business,” replied Hector before George could say anything.

Ricardo looked as though he’d been slapped, and then the lines on his forehead and by his eyes deepened and multiplied as he scowled. George was instantly reminded of the oni mask he’d designed for his and Hector’s challenge match gis.

“You’re wrong about that,” he growled. “Brotherhood Jiu-jitsu is my business. It was my father’s business. It carries our names and our reputations. My phone rang last night and some old friends were frantic to know when I’d decided to start competing. MMA Weekly called after that asking the same thing. I told them I hadn’t. They told me one of my fighters had just won their second consecutive victory in Prodigy. Only then, when I asked who it was, did they mention the name Hector Vargas. So you see, it is my business. It isn’t yours. You do not have my permission to throw that name around to further your MMA career. You know I don’t approve of my students competing. And you know I won’t allow you to train here if you do.”

George agreed. Hector knew. He knew perfectly well what he was doing. And he still knew.

“I don’t care anymore,” Hector said. “I really don’t. I don’t need you to train me. I don’t need your Jiu-jitsu. Nobody does. That’s why you don’t compete anymore. Because you’ve been figured out. Maybe not by all the second-rate dojos that train little kids to break boards and wear belts, but every serious MMA fight has you figured out.”

“Get out of my academy. And don’t ever come back.” Ricardo waved his hand like he was shooing him away.

George sat motionless, staring at the carpet on the office floor and listening as Hector turned to leave. And just for a moment he was sure he could feel his friend’s eyes on him.

“I knew you wouldn’t leave,” George heard him say. And just like that, they weren’t friends anymore. With just those few words it was done. And like Humpty Dumpty, it could never ever be put together again. It was just the way Hector was. He was done with George.

But he wasn’t done with Ricardo it seemed. As Hector walked through the training room across the blue mats that smelled like sweat and disinfectant, he blurted out what he thought would be a final insult to his former teacher.

“That’s why you lost all those years ago, Ricardo. You should’ve quit while you were still undefeated. Then people might have still believed you were ever any good.”

Ricardo stormed out of the room after him, leaving George in the room alone, but he couldn’t stay in his seat anymore, and went to the doorway of the office so he could see into the training room. He crossed his arms over his chest as he saw Ricardo and Hector in the middle of the floor staring each other down. He wanted to hear what Ricardo had to say about the subject, and was afraid it might never come up again.

“Is that what this is about Hector? You think I lost?” Ricardo demanded. George could hear the frustration in his voice. “Elite Championship 4. You think my tie was a loss?”

George felt like the whole world had stopped turning. Not for the first time that day, he wondered if he was hearing things right. Ricardo’s last match ended in a tie?

“Gashimov had you, and you know it,” Hector sneered. “You couldn’t beat him. He had your Jiu-jitsu beat.”

George felt as though he were seeing Ricardo for the first time. His teacher, whom he had always thought since his first day of training was a washed out MMA fighter who quit when he first began to lose, had never actually lost?

“I didn’t have to beat him, Hector. I was four inches shorter and sixty pounds lighter than him. I was already a champion. He was there to challenge me. And he couldn’t beat me. He began studying me and my strategies during the first Elite event, trying to figure out how to beat my father’s Jiu-jitsu. Yet, no matter how much bigger he was than me or how much stronger he was than me, he couldn’t pull it off. But you’re like all those other skeptics who couldn’t wait to see my father’s art beaten. When you didn’t get what you wanted from Gashimov, you spun it to sound as though you had.

“But this isn’t about that, is it, Hector? You’re not mad at me for tying with Gashimov. You’re mad about something else. Is this about Frank, Hector? Is that why you’re mad at me?”

Even from all the way from the office door, George could see Hector’s face flush. Who was Frank? He obviously meant something to Hector.

“How did you find out, Hector?” Ricardo continued. “I have a lot of photos around here. Did you find one with him in it?”

Hector practically spat his next words. “What do you know about it? What do you care?”

“Did he choke you, Hector?” Ricardo asked, his tone now soft and full of what sounded like pity. “Did he do joint locks on you?”

Hector seemed to explode. “What, you talk all night about staying out of other people’s business but it’s okay if you don’t stay out of mine? Yeah, he did those things! He stabbed me too! Is that what you want to hear? That the piece of crap stabbed me? I could even show you how he did it! And I bet it would look really familiar to you, too! Maybe like a drill you make us do! Is that what you want to hear? Well, don’t worry about it, because I’ve been training, and there isn’t anybody alive that can hurt me like that anymore! Not even you! And not anybody trained by you!”

When Hector started screaming, George noticed a movement in the corner of the room. It was Scott, who’d been sitting there practically invisible the whole time until Hector started blowing his top. But Ricardo had put up a hand to stop him, and so Scott had stood there quietly, listening, like George.

Ricardo said, again in his soft, calming tone, “Hector, you don’t have to fight me. I’m not your father.”

It was Hector’s turn to look slapped in the face. For a moment he just stared at Ricardo with an expression that didn’t quite look calm so much as defeated. His jaw was slack and his eyes were a glassy stare. And he wasn’t just staring at Ricardo so much as through him. Like he was seeing someone else in the room George couldn’t see and deciding if he were real.

George wanted at that moment, more than anything, for Hector to say he was sorry. After all, what had he done that he couldn’t be forgiven of? He hadn’t broken any laws or hurt anyone (outside of the cage), so he’d done nothing so irreversibly evil that it couldn’t be undone. He was just angry. And if he said he was sorry, it could all be undone. George wanted him to say it so badly he almost asked out loud.

But he didn’t because he knew Hector, and Hector never said he was sorry. Not ever. It was his way.

“To hell with this place,” said Hector as he turned and stormed out the glass doors and into the night.