Dragon-San

I see the opponent in front of me. Unmoving. Uncaring. Waiting for me. Provoking me by not showing any emotion.

The Opponent is black. In every sense of the word. I cannot determine it’s sex. It’s body is well padded. The face is covered. I take a step towards it. And freeze in Neko-ashi-Dachi - the Cat stance. Every part of me alert. There is nobody else around. Just the two of us. Sizing each other up. I can feel a trickle of sweat run down the back of my neck. The breeze makes it feel suddenly cold. Involuntarily, a shiver runs down my spine. I try not to move. I try to relax. Deep breathing - that’s what I was taught, years ago. My eyes close for a second. It clicks in my mind. This is my fight.

I spring out of the Cat-stance and lash out at the Opponent. My left foot makes perfect contact with it’s midriff while I’m in the air, and it goes back two feet with a muffled thump. Before it can react, I move up to it, and snap my right arm forward, aiming for the solar plexus. My mind is doing a mental count - ichi - first blood is drawn. Ni - my left hand lands a chop on the neck. I push the opponent back, losing my focus for a second. Then I charge again - bulls on parade.

San - the left knee smashes the groin in. The opponent doesn’t seem to feel anything. Rage takes over my mind. Shi, Go, Roku, shichi, hachi - a series of roundhouse kicks reduce the opponent to a shapeless mass, still refusing to concede defeat. I’m breathing heavily now. Maybe the smoking wasn’t such a good idea. But I do not give up. Not now. Not after blood has been drawn. We thrive on blood.

The snarl that I hear surprises me, then I realise it comes from me. I’m moving without thinking. The steps are coming back to me naturally. It’s like I never stopped Shito-Ryu. I grab the ears and ram my knee into the Opponent’s nose. There is Pain. Sharp Pain. My knee feels as though a forty pound hammer has come down on it, shattering it completely. I imagine the insides of my knee joint, reduced to a pulp, with the tendons hanging loosely about. I grit my teeth hard to stop myself from screamiing. I remain standing only by holding on to the Opponent. I see the blood stains on it’s clothes and smile. Satisfied. I hobble a step back, contemplating asking it to concede defeat. My eyes travel down to my right hand, which is throbbing.. I see two knuckles have been split. Not a good sign. On impulse I move forward and poke the Opponent in the chest, on the bloodied area. No response. It is my own. I move away from it, and bow, conceding defeat.

My first meeting with my punching bag..