He’s an artist with his feet. He’s gonna put a tattoo on your sorry butt if you don’t show him some love.
He’s the reincarnation of Ali. You know, that guy once called Clay, but that name couldn’t stick because clay is slow and bees strike quickly.
He’s the calm, cool soldier executing his superior’s instructions, obedient to the max, performing to near perfection.
He breaks his concentration during the exam for a micromoment to look over at me with ten-year old eyes of steel. I’m his old man. He’ll show me what he’s made of. And one day, one day, I’d better beware.
He’ll show me.
I’m in the front row, sitting next to the little killer’s mom. The little ninja drives me batty! I can’t get him to follow my lead with nearly the vigor, the devotion, the consistency I see demonstrated here, in the dojo. Maybe it’s because my relationship with him is a little more complicated than all this dangerous dancing on display. He’s theirs for a few hours a week. He’s mine for as long as it takes. They teach him to keep his body in balance, I teach him to develop his soul. They’re supposed to teach him to break boards and pull punches. I’m supposed to teach him how to break his own limitations, real and perceived, and not to pull any nonsense with his mom.
They have get him ready to wear the next belt. I have to get him to eat his vegetables!
So he’s hit another milestone, gains another little triumph. One more victory down. A hundred jillion to go. Pace yourself, little man. And oh by the way, congratulations.