Chapter 17

It was a Wednesday afternoon, and George was stretched out on the mat on his stomach as he sketched into the book Pablo gave him for Christmas. School had already let out several weeks before, so George had very little work to do nowadays. He only went in a couple times a week to clean up after sports or other activities, and that day he had nothing at all. Normally he would have filled this sort of time with either Summer or Hector, but now that Summer was gone to school, he had neither. So he spent the time between training sessions watching TV, sleeping, or drawing.

The sketchbook was over halfway full of drawings, many of them having something to do with Jiu-jitsu. The item he was carefully scratching out line-by-line was his own spin on something he’d seen online a few days ago and thought would make a nice patch for his gi.

Ricardo appeared above him. George had been so absorbed in his drawing he hadn’t even noticed when Ricardo came in.

“What are you working on?” he asked, startling the boy.

“Oh, just something I thought would make a cool patch,” he answered. He turned the book so Ricardo could see it. “I found all these images online of that symbol of the snake eating its own tail.”

“The Ouroboros,” Ricardo clarified.

“Yeah. Well, I found this one that was kind of a mayan version of that. So I’m sketching my own version of it, I guess.”

Ricardo picked up the book from the floor and looked at it more closely. “That’s really good. I was actually thinking of redesigning the logo of our academy. Would you mind if I had you do it?”

George shrugged, and then he grinned. “Sure, he said.”

Ricardo flipped through a few more of George’s drawings in the book. “You’re actually a pretty good artist. Did you know you could get a job designing company logos and websites and such?”

George looked at him curiously. “Really?”

“Really,” confirmed Ricardo. “You might have to study graphic design first. But a lot of companies pay for this sort of work.”

“Wow,” said George. And then it seemed to Ricardo that the boy was getting an idea.

Before George could speak his mind the front door to the academy opened and Ignacio Peligro walked through carrying a gym bag on his shoulder. Scott walked in behind him.

“Dad!” George shouted, climbing to his feet.

“Son, I heard you’re having some trouble with your hands. Daddy’s here to fix that.”

 

If George had any ideas that training with his father would be a break from Ricardo’s exhausting routine, they were quickly put to rest. Ignacio, as it turned out, was perhaps a more grueling task master than his cousin, making George and whoever else from the team who wanted to improve their boxing perform soul-crushing upper body exercises and drills. Ignacio made use of every available piece of training equipment as well, from medicine balls to kettle bells.

George suffered for nearly two days through excruciating conditioning before his father finally let him strap on a pair of gloves.

“Remember, punching is only part of boxing,” he told his son. “Another very large part is your footwork, your mobility. I think this has been your problem. Lots of boxers get away with having their hands low and things like that if they have good footwork. Without the footwork, even the strongest punchers can be beaten.”

As the two of them sparred, George was immediately shocked at how hard it was to actually land a punch against his father. Ignacio was extremely light on his feet, and seemed to bob and weave through George’s offense as though it were all in slow motion.

“You gotta move, son,” he said as another punch thudded against George’s head. “Make yourself a moving target.”

“I’m trying,” George growled. He was hardly able to keep his arms up. How was he supposed to protect himself?

“Stop trying to let your arms do all the work. If you don’t want me to hit you, step out of the way.”

George took a breath and relaxed his shoulders a bit.

“That’s it. Just chill.”

George ducked and stepped away from an incoming hook, which blew over him like a low-flying bird. As he came up, he grinned. Another punch collided with the other side of his face.

“Focus,” his dad warned him.

 

Ignacio’s week-long stay seemed to both fly and crawl at the same time. George’s training was hard and almost totally focused on striking and footwork. George gritted his teeth through the exhausting punching drills, hours of jump roping, and frustrating experience with a speed bag. Weight lifting and conditioning exercises made seconds feel like hours. But the time passed, as it always had, and it was soon time for Ignacio to leave his son again.

“Ricardo will continue a lot of these drills with you, but I think your boxing is now passable. So my trip here has been a success,” he told his son. Ignacio was in George’s room packing his bags. He’d stayed the week in his son’s apartment sleeping on a blow up mattress.

“So, Dad, do you really think I could be a graphic designer?” George asked. He’d told his father soon after he’d arrived that he wanted to work in a place where he would be paid to continue drawing. The two of them had spent time between training talking about it and looking up colleges online.

“Absolutely,” Ignacio reassured his son. “I think you have a great eye for design. Take that logo you did for Ricardo. It’s incredible. He really wants to use that.” He stuffed a stack of folded shirts into his bag.

“That’s not what I mean,” George said. “I’ve never been good at working or having a job or anything like that. You know some of my friends got into making money and stuff when they were still in high school. I never did. I still haven’t. I’m just kinda living above my uncle’s business spending most of my time learning how to fight. I don’t know anything about making money.”

Ignacio paused in his packing and sat with his son on the bed. “There’s more to life than making money. I never wanted that to be the most important thing in your life.”

“But you said you wanted me to get a career,” said George, confused. “I thought the whole reason you sent me out here in the first place was to get my head clear, keep me out of trouble, and to decide on what kind of job I wanted.”

“No, I wanted you to choose what you were going to do with your life,” he corrected him. “I wanted you to be useful. To be able to offer some kind of service to other people. There will always be enough money for people who can do such things, and much besides. I want you to have a life. For example: who would have benefited from you being in that fight club with your friend, Marco?”

George shrugged. “Nobody. Maybe me.”

“Maybe,” Ignacio agreed. “And all you would have got out of it are a few cheap thrills and possibly an injury. But fighting for Ricardo? Who benefits?”

“The whole family,” George answered.

Ignacio smiled and kissed his son on the top of his head. “I’ve never doubted your abilities to do things,” he told him. “I think you’ll go to school and get a degree in graphic design and get a job and make money and raise a family, no problem. I just wanted you to have a purpose. A direction. And one that would help you improve yourself and the world around you.” He kissed his son again.

“I’m very proud of you,” he finished.

George smiled and thanked him and rode with him and Ricardo to take his father to the airport. Then he and Ricardo got back to work.