2010 Retrospective - Black & Blue

There I sit, cross legged on the hard floor. The other blue-belts sit in a line on either side of me. There’s not too many of us grading this year, only four, and I wonder how many of us will pass. We’ve already done our forms and kicking drills, and the impassive faces of the instructors give nothing away. We’re up to the sparring now, the black belts are just giving us a demo. Damn if they’re not fast, and precise too. Feet and fists are flying everywhere, and they’re not even using protective gear. That song about Kung Fu fighting springs to mind. Somehow though, I don’t think anyone would appreciate it if I started singing. Not only are we supposed to be silent and attentive, but this is Tae Kwon Do after all.  “Goman!” The blacks still, instantly neutral again. They bow, and move out of the ring. “P. Bennet.” The first of us blues are called up. He runs into the ring and faces his opponent, a black belt. They bow at the command of the instructors, then begin. Bennet isn’t fighting with anywhere near the expertise of the blacks, but they seem evenly matched. It’s obvious that the black-belt is holding back. One of the instructors ends the match, and the combatants face each other and bow. The head instructor rises, a 6^th Dan black-belt, and with a single word delivers the verdict. “Pass.”

Bennet sits down, happily relieved. The next name is called. “D. Anderson.” That’s me. I shout out to make sure they know I’m here, and jump to my feet. I’m still hot from the kicking, and my short black hair is plastered to my head. Settling my chest-pad, I run to the centre of the ring. My black-belt opponent steps forward. It’s Michael Donovan. Great. The guy hates me, and he’s never afraid to show it. He takes his place opposite me, glaring all the while.

“Cha-Riot!” We snap to attention, feet together, clenched fists at our sides.

“Kyong-Ne.” We bow from the waist, and I can feel his heated stare boring into the top of my head.

“Sparring stance… Junbi!” Simultaneously we drop, left legs sliding back, hands up to protect our face as we both shout a deafening ‘Yut!’ Mine is embarrassingly shrill.

“Shi-jak!” So it begins. Instinctively I jump backwards, and his foot whistles past my face. I scuttle back again, putting some distance between us. We circle each other, feinting and weaving, sounding out each other’s defenses.  A roundhouse here, a jumping front kick there. Try as I might, I can hardly touch him, but my chest is aching from all the hits he’s scored on me. I throw myself into a slipping front kick, but he’s too fast. He’s already gone as my foot cleaves the air, launching an attack of his own. He spins into an inside kick, and I can’t get out of the way in time. The impact of his foot deadens my arm as I throw it up to block him. He snarls as I drive my other fist into his chest pad. I jump back again, but I can barely lift my arm to protect my head. Sweat drips down my entire body, stinging my eyes and making my feet slip on the polished floor. He rushes towards me, and I seize my only opportunity. I step to the side, and in one fluid motion my knee comes up as my body turns over and- THWACK! A stinging blow to his rump, my face creasing in savage glee. His face contorts in rage and… What? Sorrow? He drops back into sparring stance, his face composed.

But I heard it, just before his calm veneer snapped back into place, a tortured whisper: “I loved you…”

What…the… f- The air rushes out of me as his foot slips through my slackened defenses and slams into my chest, hard enough to lift me into the air. I land flat on my back, gasping for air, my chest throbbing. The voice of the head instructor cuts through the air like a whip. “GOMAN!” I manage to stagger to my feet and shuffle back to the starting position. I’m already hurting all over.

Here we stand, opposite each other again. A blue and a black. Black and blue. He looks tired, and a little sad. I just feel tired. My chest aches from where he kicked me, and my arm is numb. I doubt that I got more than three good hits on him, no way that I’ve won. Still, his butt’s probably smarting something fierce. The face he’s wearing, almost a pout by now, is achingly familiar. Now, where have I seen that before? I’m wracking my brains, but my reverie is broken. The head instructor has stood, and is talking to us.

“Michael Donovan, you are a 2^nd Dan black belt, you know the tenets of Tae Kwon Do. Yet this match showed a disappointing lack of restraint. Nevertheless; this,” he points to me. “…1^st blue belt, managed to hold out against you, far longer than we would have expected. Thus,” and now he addresses me directly. “Donna Anderson, you have passed. Congratulations.”

The parents sitting at the back of the hall burst into applause. My legs feel weak, but that might just be from exhaustion. Michael storms off, and I finally remember why that expression is so familiar. It’s a spitting image of the one he wore when I broke up with him. Way to hold a grudge, man. That was so long ago. Oh well. I guess some guys just can’t handle rejection.