The way of the foot and the fist

Chapter 5 (1/2) Leila

After my initiation into taekwondo during the holidays, I was over the moon; I had finally found my calling. So, once back in France, I relentlessly badgered my father to enroll me in the martial arts club in our city. We lived in the same neighborhood as the dojang, and every time we passed by, I couldn't help but give him a gentle reminder, just to ensure he didn't forget our little agreement.

But how could he forget? Each of my actions was aimed at reminding him. My dobok had become my pajamas, and I paraded around the house in it. I attempted even less subtle approaches. Often, I positioned myself in the middle of the living room, preferably in front of the TV, ensuring I had his full attention. Then, I tried to execute some kicks and defense techniques straight from my imagination. It looked more like a series of completely disordered gestures. I had an imaginary opponent, materialized by the chair where my mother liked to recline. My mother surely couldn't stand my little show anymore and despaired of ever being able to take her naps in her favorite chair again. My father got into the game and even took out his camera to film me tormenting my mother.

One Saturday afternoon, deeply immersed in my role as the mayor of Petshopville, deciding the fate of the village festival organized by Meubi, the cooler needing a larger truck to accommodate her customers, I had successfully negotiated a deal with Faycal who agreed to lend me his collection of Playmobil. Since my return from Tunisia, I had executed a grand urbanization plan between my desk and my bed, which had experienced uncontrolled urban sprawl on my part. My room was littered with colorful plastic figurines, each with its designated place.

My father knocked on the door of my room. He didn't bother to enter and stayed on the doorstep, as he usually did when venturing into that part of the apartment. My plastic village wouldn't withstand the devastating effect of a magnitude six earthquake caused by the tiptoeing of my father's size forty-four slippers. He announced without warning in a knowing tone, "Pack your things today; I'm taking you to taekwondo! Let your brother know; he's coming with us too." I didn't wait for the end of his sentence before jumping on him and covering him with kisses on the forehead. He struggled to get rid of me, a true leech! And when I finally finished expressing my gratitude and ran to my mother to inflict the same treatment on her, I heard him mutter under his breath while wiping his face, "She always has to do things in exaggeration, it's crazy." Despite what he let transpire, I knew deep down that my father was touched.

We loaded my father, my brother as the co-pilot, and me, excited as a flea, into the car's back seat. Fortunately, the seatbelt restrained my movements; if it were up to me, I would have already squeezed between the two seats to be in the front row and keep an eye on things. "Dad, what are you doing? This isn't the way to the martial arts club. You were supposed to turn at the corner after the pharmacy," I exclaimed. He shot me a glance through the rearview mirror and focused his gaze back on the road. Still without saying anything, he pointed a hand at the dashboard. I wasn't any wiser; facing my puzzled look, Faycal explained, "In case you haven't noticed, we're going to Illzach; we've been trying to fix the GPS for ten minutes now. Because we're following the GPS now? That's how we almost missed our boat this summer. This time we'll follow it, well, if it decides to work," he added, annoyed at the frozen screen that couldn't show us the route. "But what are we going to do in Illzach? I'm lost." "We're on our way to enroll you at Olympic Illzach; it's the biggest club in the region. They specialize in taekwondo. You'll see; it's the best place to train; you'll improve a lot," my father explained.

My father was the mastermind behind my success. Listening to my ambitions, he had chosen a structure that matched my aspirations, Olympic Illzach. The evocative name of the club appealed to me immediately. Arriving in front of the building after a half-hour drive, still nauseous from the car ride, I gazed at the modern facade of the sports complex. The dojang stood there before us, brand new, while my great-uncle's seemed like a simple training room. Gallantly, my brother let me have the honor of pushing open the heavy dojang doors. A new world awaited me. My father seemed tense, holding my brother and me firmly by the shoulders in a protective gesture.

The hall was a long corridor with an array of various trophies, medals, diplomas, and newspaper clippings, group photos. I instantly wanted to be part of it, to leave my mark behind these glass cabinets as well. A man in his thirties with a shaved head, wearing a white dobok with a black collar and belt embroidered with his name, Sébastien Wagner, accompanied by the mention of third dan, and holding a racket, was the coach. My father introduced himself and pointed at me, placing his hand on my head. The coach's face lit up, and he welcomed me with the words, "I was expecting you, welcome to our home."

I didn't pay much attention, too focused on what was to come. The coach signaled for me to join the other students patiently waiting for the start of the session, sitting cross-legged on the tatami. I signaled for Faycal to follow me, but the coach stopped him abruptly and led him into an adjoining room with my father. I was left in the care of Ri-jin, the coach's assistant, who was in charge of the group of juniors and cadets. With jet-black hair tied in a straight ponytail, a slender figure, and, most importantly, a triple champion of Korea and vice-champion of the Asian Games in the lightweight category: the club's showcase. She didn't boast about it; her modesty spoke for her, or rather the dozens of newspaper clippings and posters plastered in the hall.

The coach seemed absolutely unaware of my arrival, let alone expecting me. So, I took the initiative to introduce myself. "My name is Leila, and one day I will participate in the Olympics," I declared with a big smile. The coach and the other students' reactions were priceless; they opened their eyes wide in amazement. She burst into genuine laughter and replied, "I look forward to seeing that!"

"Hunryeon sijak! The class is about to begin." She clapped her hands, and the twenty or so students lined up respectfully in front of her. I got the last place in the file implicitly assigned to me, without complaint. I was too grateful to be attending the class to worry about my novice status. I couldn't suppress a smile of pure joy. I was truly in a dojang whose shelves were overflowing with various trophies and medals, my enrollment being finalized in the adjacent office, and me warming up in the midst of twenty little white soldiers with my white belt that clashed with the black collar of my dobok.

So, I proudly wore my dobok, which seemed to be one of a kind amidst this sea of immaculate doboks, bought at the sports store in the commercial area of my city or adorned with three black stripes for the more affluent. Yet, the model I wore was a hit in Tunisia. It had a vibrant back, embroidered with calligraphic hanja, and a black collar, not approved for the little white belt that I was. Just like during my sessions in Tunisia, Ri-Jin lined us up one after the other, and each took turns striking a blow in the pad. The coach had decided to make us work on our dwitt tchagui. While some were there to improve their execution speed or strength, I tried my best to aim at my target. Turning your back to the pad and swinging your foot blindly in the air didn't work. I now understood why my father preferred the rearview mirror to scold us in the car rather than getting a stiff neck by turning his head towards us. After about ten passes and causing as many traffic jams, Ri-Jin put an end to the carnage by asking me to hold the pad. I experienced it as a punishment, but it was far from it. She handed me the pad, which was a square of foam covered in leather. It was still new and not very flexible, whipping the foot at the moment of impact and bulging the arm of the bearer. Ri-jin showed me the correct way to hold it by passing my arm through the straps. It seemed enormous, of an oversized size compared to my torso. It reached up to my chin and ended in the middle of my thigh, just above the knee.

A shield but above all a target. A somewhat petty game involved hitting the pad as hard as possible. To make the other fall backward with the impact's shock. I couldn't escape it. Olivia led the pack, not hesitating to use all her strength. At first, she caught me off guard, determined not to yield; I tightened my abdomen and rooted myself well in the ground. I wouldn't let them enjoy seeing me retreat from the force of her impact. Among twenty students, no one held back. At the end of the rotation, I was exhausted and probably covered in a few bruises from hitting the same spot, ten, twenty times, fifty times, not to mention the misses that ended up in thighs.