Everything froze.
Jake's eyes widened.
I could hear his breathing.
The entire plaza had gone silent.
I asked:
“You done?”
His jaw tightened.
Then he nodded once.
I released immediately.
Stood slowly.
My left hip screamed.
I tried not to limp too obviously.
Jake got to his feet.
His face was bright red.
Nobody laughed at him.
That surprised him.
He looked around.
Maybe he expected humiliation.
Instead, people were simply staring at me.
Daniel stepped onto the mat.
He looked at my posture.
Then shook his head.
“You still lead with the same shoulder.”
I smiled.
“Bad habit.”
“Forty years and you didn't fix it?”
“Never bothered me enough.”
Jake looked between us.
“Who is this guy?”
Daniel looked at him.
“You really don't know?”
“No.”
One of the older instructors at the edge of the mat spoke.
“I do.”
His name was Raymond Ellis.
Seventy.
Retired boxing coach.
He walked closer.
“I saw him fight in Detroit in 1978.”
Jake frowned.
“Fight what?”
Raymond laughed.
Daniel looked toward the crowd.
Then back at me.
“Can I?”
I sighed.
“You're going to anyway.”
Daniel smiled.
Then he turned toward Jake.
“His name is Henry Carter.”
“I know his name.”
“No.”
Daniel shook his head.
“You know the name on his maintenance badge.”
Silence.
“In 1976, Henry Carter won the National Open Karate Championship.”
Several spectators reacted.
Jake stared.
Daniel continued.
“Back when those tournaments looked nothing like the point competitions you're used to.”
I looked at him.
“You're making me sound prehistoric.”
“You practically are.”
A few people laughed.
Daniel continued.
“He fought internationally for almost fifteen years.”
“Karate.”
“Kickboxing.”
“Full-contact events in Japan, Europe, and the United States.”
Jake looked at me again.
His face had changed.
Daniel pointed toward my stance.
“That position you mocked?”
“He learned it from Masaru Tanaka.”
That name meant something to several instructors.
Jake still looked confused.
Daniel explained.
“Tanaka was one of the people who brought that system to the United States in the early seventies.”
I looked toward the bench.
“My cane.”
One of the children ran over, picked it up carefully, and brought it to me.
“Thank you.”
He smiled.
I leaned on it.
Instantly, I looked seventy-two again.
That seemed to confuse everyone.
Jake stared.
“You were a champion?”
“For a while.”
“How many fights?”
“I don't remember.”
Daniel laughed.
“He remembers.”
I glared at him.
“Don't.”
Daniel looked at Jake.
“More than eighty documented full-contact bouts.”
Jake's expression went blank.
“Eighty?”
“Probably more.”
Daniel looked toward me.
“He stopped keeping records.”
I said:
“Records don't make the hip hurt less.”
The crowd laughed.
Jake did not.
Then he asked:
“If you were all that, why are you working maintenance?”
That question changed the mood.
Not because it offended me.
Because of how naturally he said it.
As though one thing could not exist beside another.