I told her I had to hit the toilet quick, but she just laughed and said we’d kick ass after. Literally. I had my hand on the bathroom door when she called out, “You have hair like a Friesian horse. ”
I stopped.
“Like a what? ”
“Friesian horses. The giant black ones. ”
I laughed because it was true, and it made me think of something else.
Apparently NMP used to have a black stallion too. That’s why I’d told my friend she should hang out with him. He has a black stallion, I’d said. But then I heard he didn’t have it anymore.
When I asked if he sold it because of the divorce, someone said he probably did. You win some, you lose some. Someone was still in the toilet, so I waited, bouncing on my heels, ready to get back to the mats. We were going to stretch after this, then do a couple of kick-butt dances or something.
Anything to get the blood moving. The door finally opened and I slipped in, but the whole place smelled like dog pee. I made a face and said it out loud. My friend laughed and told me I could rip the whole thing out if I wanted.
Meanwhile, the livestream chat was popping off. Someone had called me a talking belly button. I played along, introducing myself as Belly Conda, happy to be fed. It was ridiculous, but the chat loved it.
I walked back out and someone yelled, “Luke, I am your father. ” I shrugged and said it wasn’t me. There’d been someone in the female bathroom doing who knows what, so I waited forever, then used the men’s room instead. Of course I got blamed for the smell.
A minute after I knocked, another girl told me, “One second. ” It was three minutes. Good freaking lord. Back on the floor, we stretched out.
My mom cuts hair, not me, but that’s a different story. Lactic acid builds up fast if you skip the stretch, so I took my time. The girl from the toilet finally came out after ten minutes, and I just shook my head. We’ve all been there.
I hit the bag. The drill was simple: one-two, one-two, hop, one-two. I kept losing track of my steps, but it felt right. The problem is I knew I had to head back to class eventually, but every time I tried to leave, I’d get pulled into another round.
The kicks weren’t standard Taekwondo ones. These were meant to push an assailant away so you can get to their arm, their face. Proper boxing kicks make you vulnerable, easier to knock over. But after a solid workout, my kicks felt stronger.
I tried a sidekick, using the momentum from turning. Then the other side, which is less common. That one’s a little iffy. I remember it from Resident Evil and our expansion, but I’m not sure I got the form right.
One of them, I think it’s a twist sidekick. The other is a roundhouse. Then there’s one I had to be careful with because the last time I tried it, I fell flat on my butt. So I tied my shoes tighter.
Flying kick. One time I did that at a school assembly and my shoe flew off into the audience. I literally gave people a free foot. So embarrassing.
Never doing that again. Someone had left a big mess in the gym, but the male bathroom was actually clean. First time I’d ever been in there. The running shoes I was wearing didn’t have as much grip as my usual gym shoes, so I was cautious about the kicks.
I kept my water nearby and took a sip between rounds. I started talking about horses again, joking that once they banned them from the Olympics, I’d freak out. I remembered the vegans watching me do the vegan kick back in the day. They said it was from Europe somewhere.
I wasn’t sure, but it was definitely a thing. The mechanics were simple. You don’t punch halfway; you punch through. You don’t kick halfway either.
You kick through, follow through. I didn’t want to hurt my ankle, so I was careful. My left leg is noticeably weaker. There’s a jumping version of one of the kicks, but I couldn’t remember it and my back was hurting, so I skipped it.
“Jump up and kick,” I said, trying to remember the sequence. “Don’t follow my ass. Don’t follow my ass. ”
I asked for tips.
“Or do you want to hold your hand up? ” I told them I’d hit it, but not hard. We tried it. Missed it.
Tried the other hand. Missed again. I laughed and said, whenever I get angry, it’s like I’m happy, everything’s sunshine and rainbows, just like Miss Congeniality. I turned to the heavy bag and patted it.
“I love you, bag. I’m sorry about this toxic relationship. I’ll make it up to you. I’ll take you out for dinner.
”
I tried the jump kick again. My back said no. I tried once more and laughed. “I can’t.
Mama. ”
The Taekwondo coach is going to come for me if I keep messing up the form. So I told myself to run-start it, just to get the momentum. My left side needs work.
I hit it a few times, then bent over to stretch my back, already knowing I’d be sore tomorrow. “I like to move it, move it,” I sang out loud. “Physically fit, physically fit. ” I love Madagascar, what can I say.
Someone yelled from across the room, “You missed the bag, bro. ” I laughed. “Beat him up. You got this.
” I thanked them and called myself a cage fighter, joking that I was about to fight someone. It’s funny, people always say I’m so nice, so I must not be able to defend myself. I appreciate that, actually. It’s a compliment, in a weird way.
But yeah, I can throw a kick. My mom used to do Tae Bo back in the day, but she was a ballerina first. Swings between the two, I guess. I kept working the high kicks, then moved to the side.
Double kick too. The bag was steady. “Don’t miss the bag,” someone said again. Side.
Kia. Other side. Kia. I admitted I might actually hit this one.
You always hit with the front, but Taekwondo is probably why my ankles are so messed up. If someone’s six-foot-six or six-foot-seven, I can still kick them. I just can’t do it too many times in a row. “Good,” I said, stepping back.
“I’m down to stretch now. ”
I put the equipment back, letting it get cleaned, and moved to the stretching area. The inner girl is dangerous, I told them. Then I added, oh, and self-defense.
A friend spotted me and called out. She was checking on my back, on the alignment. She asked if it lined up properly. I told her, “The hinge is supposed to line up with the, wait, am I doing it right?
”
She said it was all right. I told her I hadn’t actually seen my doctor in a while. My dad got diagnosed with brain cancer, GBM, so I never had time to follow up. She didn’t push it.
She just helped me adjust, told me it looked better. I thanked her, called her senpai. “How’s it feeling now? ” she asked.
I took a breath and shifted my weight. “It actually feels stronger. I try not to mess with it too much. ”
She nodded, and I stayed there a moment longer, letting my back settle, knowing I’d done enough for the day.
The bag was still, the chat was still going, and somewhere out there, my dad was fighting the hardest fight of his life. But right now, I was standing, I was stretching, and I was okay.
