Chapter 1: Counting Seconds On The Green Puzzle Mats
The fluorescent overhead lights of the dojo hummed a steady, high-pitched note that blended with the damp smell of disinfectant, rubber, and unwashed canvas. Around the perimeter of the room, several teenage spectators in blue and black gis sat with their backs pressed against the stark white walls, their knees pulled up or legs stretched out across the folding chairs. They were watching us with an easy, idle amusement, waiting for the predictable conclusion of a mismatch.
I stood centered on the bright green puzzle mats, my bare feet gripping the textured foam. My white cotton gi felt stiff and heavy against my skin, the cotton lapels crisp from the wash. Tied securely around my waist was my white belt, the clean fabric hanging down like a quiet mark of my beginner status. Across from me, Marcus stood with the effortless posture of someone who owned the room. His blue Brazilian Jiu-Jitsu gi was fitted cleanly, and the black belt knotted tightly at his waist proclaimed his years of rank, authority, and unbroken dominance on these mats.
Marcus stepped forward, his weight shifting easily from heel to toe. He pointed a finger tauntingly straight at my chest, his expression a mix of condescension and casual boredom.
"You're too small. You won't last ten seconds," Marcus said.
The spectators along the wall snickered, nudging each other's shoulders as the upbeat joking banter rippled through the air, carried by the echo of footsteps on the mats. I didn't blink, keeping my gaze locked on his shoulders rather than his eyes. I kept my breathing slow and deliberate, letting the noise of the room fade into a dull hum.
"Then start counting," I replied.
I dropped my center of gravity, shifting my stance on the green mat, sliding my left foot back an inch and bringing my hands up into a tight, defensive guard. The white belt shifted across my waist with the movement.
Marcus grinned wider, the confidence in his face hardening into something sharp and predatory. He didn't like being answered back, especially not by a white belt half his size. He dropped his hand, bouncing once on his toes before he exploded forward across the mat, his stride eating up the distance between us with terrifying speed.
"Don't cry when you hit the mat!" Marcus yelled.
He lunged directly toward me, his hands reaching out to grab my collar, his momentum carrying the weight of an aggressive takedown designed to end things before they could really begin. I held my ground calmly, waiting for the exact fraction of a second where his center of mass shifted forward, committing fully to his rush. As he closed the final distance, air rushing from his lungs, I murmured the words right as he breached my personal space.
May you like
"You're too close."
Marcus froze mid-motion, his fingers hovering inches from my lapel, his forward momentum arrested by the sudden realization of how wide open he had left himself, suspended right before impact on the green puzzle mats.
