“His head! Keep trying!” I can hear my father’s voice from behind the dojo’s glass.
I dance around Victor, switching my stance. I am his mirror; whatever he does, I will do as well. I refuse to leave my chest piece vulnerable. This samurai mentality, however, is met with some resistance by my not-so-samurai twelve-year-old body. My hamstrings protest from the strain. I’m frustrated. Why can’t I get my leg up to Victor’s head? I’ve done it before, and now my foot is caught in his neck. Feeling his sweat, I’m glad. At least he’s nervous.
As soon as I drop my leg, though, I lose my balance. Taekwondo does that to me. I’m bouncing frantically now, almost falling. I can feel drops of sweat tracing a path down my back, sticky and uncomfortable. Victor kicks more with his right leg so I adjust myself accordingly, but now my knees are weak and jolting—too much bouncing. A headshot would give me the points to win the sparring match, but I just can’t bring my body forward. I feel my baby hairs, soft and subtle, flirting with my eyelashes. Itchy. I don’t need this right now. My stomach clenches as I lurch forward in an attempt to fake Victor out. Ouch. His defense blow reopens a cut—one that was nearly healed this morning.
The black emblem on his headpiece, the emblem of Won’s Taekwondo Academy, is all I can see. I breathe in. Damp. Humid. Alive. Like a slow reenactment on CSI, I see my father in slow motion, excited and urging. Kick, mijita. My leg flies up and I feel the clap of the perfect, satisfying, roundhouse kick; it reaches the center of the chest. I haven’t gotten Victor’s head yet but I keep kicking. I keep my leg up, even when my muscles pull in pain and I cannot feel anything. I keep kicking on either side, striking the side targets, relishing the sound and the feeling of my foot on the chest piece.
Stumbling back, Victor pauses and charges with an aggressive sidekick. He misses my chest but not my back, where my chest piece doesn’t cover. I hear my master’s voice above my breathing. Persevere. Finish what you started. The classic tenets of taekwondo now put into practice, I gather up what I’ve been saving. Clap. My foot reaches the goal, the endpoint, and the black emblem of Won’s Taekwondo Academy.
I am content.
My short braid spills out of my headgear as I lean down to shake Victor’s hand. My breathing is now level.
With this match over, I stare at my hands. They are small but persistent, delicate but coarse. I remove my arm guards and exhale. I’ve won this match, but have many more ahead of me. Knowing that, I will always persevere, to finish what I started, Sir.
I dance around Victor, switching my stance. I am his mirror; whatever he does, I will do as well. I refuse to leave my chest piece vulnerable. This samurai mentality, however, is met with some resistance by my not-so-samurai twelve-year-old body. My hamstrings protest from the strain. I’m frustrated. Why can’t I get my leg up to Victor’s head? I’ve done it before, and now my foot is caught in his neck. Feeling his sweat, I’m glad. At least he’s nervous.
As soon as I drop my leg, though, I lose my balance. Taekwondo does that to me. I’m bouncing frantically now, almost falling. I can feel drops of sweat tracing a path down my back, sticky and uncomfortable. Victor kicks more with his right leg so I adjust myself accordingly, but now my knees are weak and jolting—too much bouncing. A headshot would give me the points to win the sparring match, but I just can’t bring my body forward. I feel my baby hairs, soft and subtle, flirting with my eyelashes. Itchy. I don’t need this right now. My stomach clenches as I lurch forward in an attempt to fake Victor out. Ouch. His defense blow reopens a cut—one that was nearly healed this morning.
The black emblem on his headpiece, the emblem of Won’s Taekwondo Academy, is all I can see. I breathe in. Damp. Humid. Alive. Like a slow reenactment on CSI, I see my father in slow motion, excited and urging. Kick, mijita. My leg flies up and I feel the clap of the perfect, satisfying, roundhouse kick; it reaches the center of the chest. I haven’t gotten Victor’s head yet but I keep kicking. I keep my leg up, even when my muscles pull in pain and I cannot feel anything. I keep kicking on either side, striking the side targets, relishing the sound and the feeling of my foot on the chest piece.
Stumbling back, Victor pauses and charges with an aggressive sidekick. He misses my chest but not my back, where my chest piece doesn’t cover. I hear my master’s voice above my breathing. Persevere. Finish what you started. The classic tenets of taekwondo now put into practice, I gather up what I’ve been saving. Clap. My foot reaches the goal, the endpoint, and the black emblem of Won’s Taekwondo Academy.
I am content.
My short braid spills out of my headgear as I lean down to shake Victor’s hand. My breathing is now level.
With this match over, I stare at my hands. They are small but persistent, delicate but coarse. I remove my arm guards and exhale. I’ve won this match, but have many more ahead of me. Knowing that, I will always persevere, to finish what I started, Sir.
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