“Put it on this,” she says, “and then around your neck.” Then Tom leads me over to another table with a man in puffy shorts who checks my name off on another list.
“You’re up at ten-fifteen,” he says. “The chart’s over there”—he points to a green-and-yellow-striped tent.
The chart is made of big pieces of cardboard taped together, with lines for names like a genealogy chart, only mostly blank. Only the left-hand set of lines has been filled in. I find my name and the name of my first opponent.
“It’s nine-thirty now,” Tom says. “Let’s take a look at the field and then find you a place to warm up.”
When it is my turn and I step into the marked area, my heart is pounding and my hands are shaking. I do not know what I am doing here. I should not be here: I do not know the pattern. Then my opponent attacks and I parry. It is not a good parry—I was slow—but he did not touch me. I take a deep breath and concentrate on his movement, on his patterns.
My opponent does not seem to notice when I make touches. I am surprised, but Tom told me that some people do not call shots against them. Some of them, he said, may be too excited to feel a light or even medium touch, especially if it is their first match. It could happen to you, too, he said. This is why he has been telling me to make firmer touches. I try again, and this time the other man is rushing forward just as I thrust and I hit him too hard. He is upset and speaks to the referee, but the referee says it is his fault for rushing.
In the end, I win the bout. I am breathless, not just from the fight. It feels so different, and I do not know what the difference is. I feel lighter, as if gravity had changed, but it is not the same lightness I feel when I am near Marjory. Is it from fighting someone I did not know or from winning?
Tom shakes my hand. His face is shiny; his voice is excited. “You did it, Lou. You did a great job—”
“Yeah, you did fine,” Don interrupts. “And you were a bit lucky, too. You want to watch your parries in three, Lou; I’ve noticed before that you don’t use that often enough and when you do you really telegraph what you’re going to do next—”
“Don…” Tom says, but Don goes on talking.
“—and when somebody charges you like that, you shouldn’t be caught off-guard—”
“Don, he won . He did fine. Let up.” Tom’s eyebrows have come down.
“Yeah, yeah, I know he won, he got lucky in his first bout, but if he wants to go on winning—”
“Don, go get us something to drink.” Tom sounds upset now.
Don blinks, startled. He takes the money Tom hands him. “Oh—all right. Be right back.”
I do not feel lighter anymore. I feel heavier. I made too many mistakes.
Tom turns to me; he is smiling. “Lou, that’s one of the best first bouts I’ve seen,” Tom says. I think he wants me to forget what Don said, but I cannot. Don is my friend; he is trying to help me.
“I… I did not do what you said to do. You said attack first—”
“What you did worked. That’s the meter-stick here. I realized after you went up that it could have been bad advice.” Tom’s brow is furrowed. I do not know why.
“Yes, but if I had done what you said to do he might not have gotten the first point.”
“Lou—listen to me. You did very, very well. He got the first point, but you did not fall apart. You recovered. And you won. If he had called shots fairly, you would have won sooner.”
“But Don said—”
Tom shakes his head hard, as if something hurt. “Forget what Don said,” he says. “In Don’s first tournament, he fell apart at the first match. Completely. Then he was so upset by losing that he blew off the rest of the tournament, didn’t even fight in the losers’ round-robin—”
“Well, thank you,” Don says. He is back, holding three cans of soda; he drops two of them on the ground. “I thought you were so hot on caring about people’s feelings—” He stalks off with one of the cans. I can tell he is angry.
Tom sighs. “Well… it’s true. Don’t let it worry you,