The way of the foot and the fist

Chapter 5 (2/2) Leila

My father met my cheerful gaze as he exited the office, signaling that everything was settled. He raised both thumbs in encouragement. Throughout the session, I frequently sought his gaze, making sure he didn't miss any detail of my performance from his wooden bench. The long mirror stretching across one side of the room provided an overview of the tatami where we trained, facing me, and its reflection intimidated me. I dared only to sneak a few glances to see if my father was still watching me. To my surprise, he wasn't the only one with eyes fixed on me; a yellow-belted girl with two pigtails scowled at me. She eventually approached armed with a pad and racket, a warrior in armor ready for battle, wielding her sword protected by her shield. She charged towards me; it was a fight to the death. I assumed a defensive position, shifting my weight backward, one leg behind the other, ready to counter-attack. The sword transformed into an arrow launched straight at my heart. I caught it in mid-air. Without preamble, she scolded me:

"Ri-jin told me to pair up with you. I'll start, and you hold the racket."

Too stunned to respond, I let her proceed. She stood there for a moment, surveying the room, looking lost. Strangely, I was no longer the sole focus of her attention.

"What's your name again? I'm Olivia."

I gave her my name, knowing she already had the answer. I felt she was trying to buy time. We stared into each other's eyes for a while, unsure of what to do. I finally asked her:

"Did you listen to the instructions? Do you know what to do?"

"I didn't listen; I wasn't very focused," she admitted sheepishly.

There was a moment of hesitation. Neither of us dared to ask Ri-Jin for an explanation again. Each of us tried to discreetly analyze the movements of the pairs around us. I felt less concerned, thinking I had plenty of time to observe Olivia. Unfortunately, I quickly realized that being the holder of the racket was not a passive role. I had to put in effort; Ri-Jin had thought of everything. The sequence involved an attack from me, taking a step forward, forcing Olivia to retreat. Then, she had to send a bandal tchagui with her rear leg, followed by another kick in quick succession. I had to stop the assault with a punch. She should take advantage of my open guard to sidestep and strike me on the chest, providing a prime target.

It took some time for us to coordinate. Direct and commanding, Olivia didn't hesitate to give me orders, probably to compensate for the initial confusion and re-establish her senior status. I had nothing to say because her remarks were relevant. She seemed to appreciate my receptive attitude. At the end of the allotted time, we moved in synchronized harmony. A dance in two steps, one step forward, one step backward, one step forward, a side step.

Then it was my turn to deliver the blows. I was slower, struggling to combine the retreat and the rear kick without a pause. Half the time, my guard landed me on my left foot, which I found challenging to adjust, leading to a change in stance. However, that was an entirely different exercise. Once the first part of the assault was mastered, I started forgetting to finish with the side bandal tchagui, eager to restart the sequence from the beginning. I had a long way to go.

"Keuman, stop." The exercise was coming to an end. Ri-Jin pointed out two pairs for sparring, including ours.

As I would later discover, Ri-Jin's sessions were essentially the same: warm-up, techniques, sparring, and stretching. Everything revolved around sparring, and I almost regretted it, but if that was the price to pay for competition success, I was ready. I warmed up to perform better when hitting the pads and rackets. I practiced series of ap tchagui to master the perfect technique and gain power and speed in combat. I was far from ready for competition, but I needed to prove myself within the club. Olivia particularly enjoyed sparring with me because she could practice all the combinations seen during the session. She could strike in any way; all her blows found their mark with my tensed, almost useless guard. I barely turned to present the smallest surface to my opponent. I kept my feet firmly planted instead of lifting and hopping slightly to be faster in my attacks. I was a punching bag with human characteristics, and given my speed, the term "moving target" was a bit exaggerated.

During the post-session stretching, still paired with Olivia, she took pleasure in pressing down on my knees with all her weight. She had the upper hand, and I could only endure in silence. When I stopped resisting, and my knees finally touched the ground, she started pulling on my dobok, a disgusted expression on her face.

"Your dobok is so weird. Where did you find it? In a dumpster?"

I forced a strained laugh and, in a futile attempt at justification, replied, "Not at all, it's a gift from my family."

"Do you know it's forbidden to have a black collar?" she continued.

"Oh, really? Everyone wore it in Tunisia, even the coach."

"You have to be a black belt to wear it."

"Someday I'll be one."

"I hope for you because you have to be a black belt to participate in the Olympics."

She had left me speechless, and I had nothing more to say. Anyway, the session was coming to an end. We lined up in front of Ri-jin, as at the beginning of the session. She made us kneel and close our eyes, establishing a moment of meditation to reflect on the session. Breaking the silence, she said, "Tachaliot, Kyongye." We stood at attention, arms by our sides, then bowed to greet her, and in return, she bowed to us.

Intrigued by my case and after observing me throughout the session, Coach Ri-Jin took me aside. "I hope you haven't been too overwhelmed during the session. I've been looking for a training partner for Olivia for some time; she's starting competitions next season. You have a lot to learn from each other. You have an incredible footwork for your age. In a few years, your kicks will be your best weapon. But you lack discipline and rigor, but that's not a problem; we can instill that in you, unlike talent, which you don't seem to lack."

I didn't know how to respond to this ambivalent compliment that bothered me more than anything else. I just offered a humble smile. I quickly saluted her by nodding and headed towards the changing rooms as fast as possible, trying to blend into the wave of students heading there.

When I entered the changing room, the atmosphere had changed, becoming more charged. Smiles froze, and the last notes of conversations faded. Envious glances and whispers started immediately. I locked eyes with Olivia, who seemed to be the instigator of this charade. She surveyed the group of girls, challenging anyone to give me a place on the wooden bench or space to change. I was her target. I stood there with my arms hanging, hoping for a hook to free up to hang my belongings and hopes

of integrating and being accepted within the club. A naive but bitter thought crossed my mind: I had planned to make new friends, but I guessed it would be more challenging than I thought. A spot opened up right next to Sylvia; I wouldn't lose my first battle against her. I walked straight towards her, a proud look in my eyes, my arm raised, ready to drop my burden with a loud crash. I felt her flinch. She expected anything but this. We finished changing in silence, a heavy silence that Sylvia surprisingly broke first. With her, I never knew where I stood; in fact, I never would.

I held back my tears until the end of the class, waiting to be in the safety of the car to report to my father the mean words spoken by the trio about me. It didn't convince my father to buy me a new dobok; on the contrary, he said, "It's time to show some character."

In this context, showing character meant that at the slightest opportunity, I had to give as good as I got. The right moments were plentiful; the entire session consisted of opposition where the goal was to give and take blows, especially of a certain type of surface—preferably mobile and human. He added:

"Why don't you look in the mirror?"

The mirror reflected my awkward, harsh, judgmental image, but I couldn't find the words to express it at that moment.

"I prefer to avoid my reflection; I don't like the image it shows me. I feel like I'm no good."

"It should become your best friend. It allows you to correct yourself instantly and evolve."

"Do you know about feedback?"

"No, it's another one of your physics things."

"Look it up when you get home."

"Do you always do that?" I protested, and he just gave me a self-satisfied look that had the knack of infuriating me.

It was just another way of motivation, my father's preferred means.