Side Control (The Dojo) Read online

  “Take him down, Jackson!” Mr. Matsuda repeats.

  Banging his gloves together, Jackson rushes toward Marcus and starts throwing kicks. Marcus responds in kind. When Jackson sees Marcus’s left leg land awkwardly after a blocked kick, he takes Marcus down with a hip throw and mounts him on the mat.

  Mr. Matsuda blows his whistle and rushes into the cage. “What was that, Jackson?”

  Jackson is stunned. Why is Mr. Matsuda angry? Jackson did what he’d said. “A takedown.”

  “When you use that hip throw, you’ve got to sweep your leg out. That will knock his leg out from under him,” Mr. Matsuda explains. “Marcus, you’re excused. Jackson, stay here.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Pick one of the new fish to help you with this drill.”

  Jackson doesn’t even fake taking time to think. “Tyresha.”

  “Tyresha, new fish, get in here,” Mr. Matsuda says. “Let him take you down.”

  Tyresha does as she’s told. This time Jackson executes the sweeping hip throw perfectly. She crashes hard to the mat in a way that not only gets Jackson position but would impress judges. He wants to ask her if she’s all right, but Mr. Matsuda’s staring at them both.

  “Again!”

  “Yes, sir!” They get up, and again, Jackson executes the move. But Mr. Matsuda keeps making Jackson repeat it over and over. Ten times, Tyresha crashes to the mat.

  “When’s my turn?” Tyresha finally asks and then laughs.

  Mr. Matsuda scowls. “Not until I say it is, new fish,” he answers. “Do ten more, Jackson.”

  Another ten times, Jackson takes Tyresha down with a perfect sweeping hip throw, but on the last time, Mr. Matsuda doesn’t blow the whistle. “Submit her, Jackson, do it now!”

  Tyresha reacts quicker than Jackson and gets closed guard, hooking her feet behind Jackson’s legs. Jackson tries to grab an arm, but for a new fighter, Tyresha’s learned fast to get guard. She keeps moving, making Jackson work. Jackson powers up, breaks guard, and stands.

  Tyresha stands and they return to their fighting stance. “What was that?” Mr. Matsuda asks.

  “I couldn’t get position,” Jackson explains.

  “You don’t get position, Jackson; you take it!”

  Jackson hangs his head. “Yes, sir.”

  “Now, Tyresha, it’s your turn. I want to see ten perfect sweeping hip throws.” Like a tackling dummy in football, Jackson takes the punishment. After the last throw, Mr. Matsuda doesn’t blow the whistle and lets them continue. “I want to see someone tap. No striking.”

  Before Tyresha can control him, Jackson pops his hips and escapes. But rather than going to his feet, he gets side control again. Tyresha’s tilted away from him when Jackson gives a final thrust with his knees to get under her on his back. Tyresha tucks her chin, but Jackson bullies his hands underneath her defense. “Sorry,” he whispers and he gets the hold.

  “Right arm top!” Mr. Matsuda yells, and Jackson complies until he has the rear naked choke locked in tight. Mr. Matsuda blows the whistle. “Now, let me show you how to escape.”

  Mr. Matsuda motions for Tyresha to get up, and he takes her place. “Go ahead!”

  Jackson takes up where he left off and wraps the choke on Mr. Matsuda, but the skilled teacher almost immediately drives his right arm under Jackson’s to create distance and relieve the pressure. Jackson keeps trying to work back the choke, but Mr. Matsuda’s not letting him lock it in. He’s fighting with his feet, not allowing Jackson to lock his legs. Jackson knows he can’t submit Mr. Matsuda this way, so he starts to move back into side control. When he takes his left arm off Mr. Matsuda’s neck, in an instant, Mr. Matsuda grabs the arm, pops out from the hold, and locks Jackson’s arm in a Kimura. Jackson taps.

  “How did you do that?” Jackson asks.

  “You make one mistake and it’s over,” he says. “There are no second chances in the cage.”

  “Well done, Jackson,” Mr. Hodge says, approaching. “Takedowns are not about strength. They’re about leverage and balance. You forget that sometimes because you’re so powerful. Good job.”

  “You’ve proven you can take a new fish down,” Mr. Matsuda says, putting a hand on Jackson’s shoulder, “so let’s see how you can do with others.” He and Mr. Hodge smile, and Jackson hears laughter behind him. He turns around. Standing outside of the ring in single file is every student, male and female, in the dojo. They’re in order by size, from the biggest to the smallest. Marcus is at the back of the line waiting for another shot. “Let’s go!” Mr. Matsuda slaps Jackson’s back.

  Jackson smacks his gloves together as he looks over the mob waiting for him. He’s got the firepower, but they’ve got the odds. Kind of like his dad the day he died in Afghanistan.

  “Jackson, I need you to make dinner tonight,” Jackson’s mom says when she calls him after school. “I have to work late.”

  Jackson sighs. She works late a lot—but then again, so does he. Despite having a lot of schoolwork, Jackson is going to the dojo on weeknights for the teen workouts and weekends with the adults to get ready for his fight. And, he admits to himself, to see Tyresha.

  “Is Joseph home from school yet?” Jackson’s mom asks.

  Jackson pauses. Joseph’s nowhere to be seen, but does he tell his mom that?

  “Jackson?” Jackson moves the phone away from his ear.

  Jackson thinks how Joseph is probably headed for trouble with Hakeem and should be stopped. But he still can’t break it to his mom.

  His mom sighs. “I told him to be home after school or else.”

  “He called and said he was going to the library to study,” Jackson lies.

  “About time he did that,” his mom says. “You should get some studying done yourself.”

  Another pause. Jackson has never lied to his mom about having Tyresha tutor him, but he’s also never told her about it. Maybe she hasn’t asked because she doesn’t want to know.

  “If you don’t pull up your grades, then the Special Forces won’t take you.”

  “I know,” Jackson says. He glares at his math textbook like it’s his opponent.

  “I should be home around 8:30. Will you still be there?”

  In his mind, Jackson’s dialing Tyresha’s number. “I’ll be at the dojo or studying with friends.” It’s not a lie—he knows that a friend is all Tyresha can be, according to the rules.

  On his way to Tyresha’s, Jackson takes a detour into hostile enemy territory.

  “Is Hakeem home?” Jackson asks when Hakeem’s mom answers the door.

  “Maybe,” she answers and then pulls in a drag from her cigarette. Jackson is clouded in secondhand smoke. “Hakeem! Hakeem!”

  Jackson stands awkwardly on the porch waiting, feeling vulnerable.

  “If he ain’t here, he’s probably down at the park. Why do you care, snitch?” Hakeem’s mom shakes her head dismissively as she shuts the door in Jackson’s face. He takes the insult like a punch and shakes it off.

  Jackson pulls his hoodie tight around him. His mom must have washed his army jacket, because it was nowhere to be found this morning.

  Sure enough, he sees Hakeem, Deshon, and Joseph sitting around a table at Northside Park. There’s a brown paper bag in the center of the table and piles of candy, chips, and smokes. They’re like pirates who cracked open a convenience store treasure chest.

  “What do you want, Jackson?” Hakeem snaps as Jackson moves to the table.

  “Yeah, what do you want?” Joseph parrots.

  Jackson breathes deeply and exhales the cold Missouri air out his nostrils like a dragon. He glares at Hakeem fiercely. “I want you to leave my little brother alone.”

  “Don’t be telling me what to do,” Hakeem says. Joseph looks entertained.

  “And you, Joseph, I want you to stop hanging around with Hakeem, or else.”

  “Or else what?” Hakeem doesn’t raise his hands to fight. Instead, Hakeem opens his hoodie so that Jackson can see the butt of
the gun in the waistband. “See, not so tough after all.”

  Jackson takes a step back and shakes his head. “Why don’t you fight me like a man?”

  Hakeem answers with a smirk on his face. “You ain’t no man. You’re just a rat.” Joseph and Deshon laugh. Jackson stares harder and colder. He turns to his brother.

  “Hey, Joseph, I covered for you with Mom. I told her you were studying.”

  “I am!” Joseph bumps fists with Hakeem and then takes a swig from the bottle in the bag.

  “Well, I want something from you in return,” Jackson says.

  “What?”

  Jackson grabs the sleeve of the army coat Joseph is now wearing, pulls him up, and drops him back down on the bench before walking away. “I want my jacket back.”

  “You’re late,” Tyresha says as they meet on the library steps.

  “Sorry,” Jackson says.

  “What’s wrong?”

  Jackson doesn’t answer, just turns and walks into the library.

  “Jackson, come on, talk to me.” Tyresha follows behind and places her hand on his shoulder, giving him goose bumps.

  “Do you really want to know?”

  She nods, but they don’t sit. They keep moving.

  “It’s about my brother,” Jackson starts. Quietly, he tells Tyresha everything. She listens, nods and, every now and then, touches Jackson’s hand. He pours out his fears about his brother getting into serious trouble. Not just what that would mean for Joseph but also how it would hurt his mom. More than that, what it would mean to the memory of his father. His dad had died protecting people he didn’t even know. “What am I willing to risk to protect my own flesh and blood from making bad mistakes? This is all so hard—you know what I’m saying?”

  “Well, there’s an answer for that, Jackson,” Tyresha whispers. “You need something soft.”

  “Like what?” He turns to face Tyresha, who pulls him in and kisses him.

  “Jackson James from Missouri MMA vs. Andrew Brown from MMA Academy! You’re up!” The guy running the show shouts at Jackson and Mr. Hodge.

  Jackson grunts acknowledgment of the announcement as he keeps smacking the pads that Marcus is wearing. Jackson is still angry that he wasn’t able to take Marcus down, a fighter weighing less than a hundred pounds. He got everybody to the ground in the gauntlet except Marcus. But he’s angrier at himself for breaking the dojo rule with Tyresha. Will she be watching him fight? Will she be cheering for him? Or will she still be angry that after their kiss, Jackson gently pushed her away?

  “Remember the plan?” Mr. Hodge asks. Jackson nods. “Once you get him to the ground, you can control him. Look for your shot, take it, and then take him out. Okay?”

  Another nod, another grunt. Jackson bangs his gloves together. He’s ready.

  Mr. Hodge and Marcus go to the ring with Jackson. Mr. Matsudo stays off to the side to warm up Meghan. Hector and others sit in chairs in the dojo, and Tyresha stands in back.

  Jackson stares across the ring at his opponent. Like Jackson, Andrew Brown is tall, muscled, and black. At the weigh-in, Brown smirked at him. Jackson scowled back like a master. In Brown’s sarcastic expression, Jackson saw Hakeem’s face taunting him.

  The ref gives instructions, but Jackson is barely listening. “You’ll be fighting three two-minute rounds. If there is no clear winner, I will act as the judge to decide one. Obey my instructions at all times. Protect yourself and have a good fight. Let’s make this happen.”

  The fighters circle in the center of the ring, looking for a chance. Jackson strikes first with a low kick and a left hook, but Brown rushes forward and tees off with a flurry. Jackson’s stunned but tries not to show it. Brown lands a straight right, then a left hook. He’s got Jackson’s heavy hands and Hector’s speed—a powerful combination. Jackson fakes a takedown and then lands a solid left, but Brown answers with another right. When Jackson plants his foot to try the hip throw, Brown kicks it hard. Both his legs are hurting now. Jackson keeps moving, but most of his punches don’t connect and Brown has stopped every takedown. As the whistle blows, Jackson bangs his gloves together hard. He knows he’s lost the round.

  “Watch his right and those kicks,” Mr. Hodge says as Jackson retreats to the corner. “Sweep the leg, sweep it, okay?”

  Jackson nods. For the full thirty seconds of the round break, Mr. Hodge reminds Jackson of what he needs to do to win. Sweat drips from his forehead, but he’s not breathing hard. He’s ready to rumble.

  Jackson runs toward the center of the ring when the next whistle blows. Before Brown can strike, Jackson throws wild punches. Most don’t connect, but Brown can’t punch back when he’s defending. On the offensive, Jackson throws two hard kicks to Brown’s body. Brown tries a kick of his own, and Jackson goes for the sweep. Brown defends but leaves himself open. Jackson crushes Brown just over the left eye. If Brown didn’t have on a helmet, Jackson thinks, he wouldn’t have a head. Brown staggers but stays on his feet and throws a high knee.

  “Take him down, Jackson, take him down!” Mr. Hodge yells, but Jackson’s not listening to anything outside the ring. His senses kick into overdrive at the sight of the smirk on Brown’s now bloody face.

  Jackson presses the action with rights and lefts. After another leg kick, Brown starts firing back. Like some out-of-control machine, the two exchange a flurry of punches and kicks, their arms and legs flying wildly. Brown tags Jackson twice with leg kicks and takes him down.

  “Ten seconds!”

  Before Brown can get a mount, Jackson is back on his feet. He’s throwing hands when the whistle blows. In the corner between rounds, Mr. Hodge shouts instructions. “You’re fighting his fight. He’s controlling the action. You need to take him down and work a submission, understand?”

  Jackson’s face tells that he does: his eyes stare across the ring in steely determination, while his mouth sets in a scowl. He stands still waiting for the ref to start the round, but inside he’s pacing like a caged tiger.

  The fighters touch gloves and assume the fighting stance. Brown again pushes the action, side-stepping a hard right and getting a double leg. Even as he’s falling to the mat, Jackson keeps throwing punches. One lands squarely on Brown’s temple, and he releases Jackson before gaining control. Back on his feet, Jackson starts headhunting. No kicks, no body shots. Nothing but right hands aimed at Brown’s smirking face. Brown fakes a single leg, then hits a hard spinning backfist that knocks Jackson backward. As Jackson reaches to clinch and close the distance, Brown uses Jackson’s forward momentum to slam him to the mat.

  “Ten seconds!”

  On the mat, Brown tries to mount Jackson, but Jackson sweeps from underneath and catches Brown in side control. Jackson pushes hard with his knees to turn Brown over, but Brown’s fighting it off. A quick hammer fist splats Brown’s nose as the whistle stops the fight.

  The fighters touch gloves. “Good fight,” Brown says.

  Jackson nods. “Nice spinning backfist.” He stands next to Brown, head down.

  Mr. Hodge checks to see if Jackson’s hurt, but Jackson shakes him off. His face is fine; his confidence is destroyed. He doesn’t need to wait for the decision. He knows he lost the fight.

  After the announcement, which gives two of the three rounds to Brown, and after another exchange of respect, the fighters head into the locker rooms. Jackson starts to sit down on a bench, but Mr. Hodge, who followed him in, makes him stand up. “Jackson, what is wrong with you?”

  Jackson spits out his mouthpiece. “I’m sorry, I lost.” Mr. Hodge crosses his arms.

  “That’s right. He didn’t win, you lost. You decided to slug it out when you should have taken it to the ground like I told you. You looked like the untrained kid who walked into my dojo two years ago, not the athlete I know you are. You fought angry, not aggressive.”

  “I don’t know what to say.”

  “You don’t have to say anything. Just learn from your mistakes. Can you do that?”

  Ja
ckson gazes into the filthy locker room mirror and asks himself the very same thing.

  “These are for you.” Jackson hands two tickets to Corporal Richards. “Do you think you could give one to Corporal Davis? I’d like him to see my first amateur fight.”

  “Might be tough, Jackson. He’s in country.”

  Jackson shakes his head at that odd army phrase. In country means “out of this country.” In country often ends with in coffin. Everything in the army seems backward, but Jackson still looks forward to joining, doing his part, and making his family proud.

  “Well, I want you to see me fight.”

  “You know being in Special Forces is more than being tough and in good condition. You have to learn to take orders. Can you do that?” Corporal Richards says.

  “Yes, sir!”

  “Okay, then tell me about this arrest that got you kicked off your football team.”

  Jackson shifts in the hard chair. It reminds him, strangely, of the hard chairs at the St. Louis Juvenile Detention Center. “Like I said, I was running with the wrong crowd.”

  “Details, Jackson, details.”

  Jackson recounts his past: hanging with Hakeem, mobbing stores, and stealing liquor. He doesn’t mention dishonoring his father’s memory. He remembers it like it was yesterday: his mother confronting him, calling him a coward and follower when his father had been a hero and a leader.

  Jackson’s learned at the dojo how to read body language to guess a foe’s next move, but he can’t read Corporal Richards’s face.

  “So what did you learn from this experience?” Richards asks in almost a sing-song voice.

  “That the food at JDC sucks, and that I should stay away from Hakeem.”

  “He sounds like trouble, am I right?”

  Jackson puts his hand in his pocket to cover his phone with two recent texts from Hakeem. He keeps telling him not to text. Now Hakeem’s taunting him.

  “You need to learn to stand up for yourself and not follow the wrong people,” Richards advises.