Several plastic cups tipped over.
The boys laughed harder.
A woman nearby frowned.
“Hey!”
Jake held the cane above his head.
“Relax. I’m messing with him.”
I straightened slowly.
My hip burned.
“Give it back.”
Jake inspected the wood.
“Real nice.”
“My wife gave it to me.”
Something in my voice should have ended the joke.
It didn't.
He spun the cane clumsily like a staff.
“Maybe you should upgrade to one of those walkers with tennis balls.”
His friends nearly folded over laughing.
I looked at him.
“Son.”
“What?”
“Put the cane down.”
His smile changed.
Not much.
Enough.
He had expected embarrassment.
Maybe anger.
What he got was instruction.
Young men with too much ego often hear instruction as disrespect.
Jake stepped closer.
“What are you gonna do if I don't?”
I glanced toward the mat.
People were beginning to notice.
That made Jake worse.
An audience had arrived.
He tossed my cane onto a wooden bench near the edge of the plaza.
It bounced once and nearly fell to the pavement.
My jaw tightened.
Then Jake stepped backward onto the demonstration mat.
He spread both arms.
“Come on.”
I stared.
“You serious?”
“What?”
“You looked at me like you wanted to do something.”
“No.”
“You sure?”
“I want my cane.”
“Then take it.”
One of his friends called:
“Careful, Jake. Old man's dangerous.”
More laughter.
Then Jake made the mistake that changed the afternoon.
He lifted his fists.
Not seriously.
Mockingly.
A parody of a boxing stance.
“Come on, Grandpa.”
He bounced side to side.
“Show me what you got.”
I looked at the cane.
Then at him.
“You sure about that, son?”
His friends howled.
Jake pointed toward me.
“What, you actually think you can fight me?”
I set my toolbox down.
“No.”
He grinned.
Then I rolled my sleeves higher.
“I think you asked for a round.”
The laughter became louder.
People near the food stands started turning around.
Several children ran closer.
A woman lifted her phone.
I stepped onto the mat.
Slowly.
My left leg still hurt.
Jake shook his head.
“This is gonna be great.”
Maybe twenty yards away, an older martial arts instructor named Daniel Kim had been drinking iced tea beside the judges' table.
He was sixty-four.
Korean American.
Seventh-degree black belt.
Owner of Riverdale Traditional Martial Arts.
Jake occasionally trained at his academy.
Daniel had been smiling at the foolishness like everyone else.
Then I straightened my back.
My shoulders settled.
I moved my left foot behind me.
Not straight.
Forty-five degrees outward.
My front knee softened.
Right fist rose beside my cheek.
Left hand remained open near the center of my chest.
Weight slightly rearward.
Nothing dramatic.
Just an old position.
One I had not taken seriously in years.
Daniel Kim stood up so fast his chair tipped backward.
The people beside him looked over.
“What?”